One Night At The Ballet free porn video

The following diary entry is 100% true...well, alright, 90% true. I've changed certain details to protect the innocent...as well as the guilty...and have purposely over embellished certain moments to try and explain what I was experiencing and feeling at the time. Also scattered throughout are assorted random ramblings on observations which may or may not be true. All I can promise is that each and every one of the following events did, indeed, happen to me and each and every one of the following random ramblings are, indeed, random ramblings. I know compared to the other well crafted works here this story will sound confusing and weak. I do apologize, but, this is the first time I'm writing something like this and getting my experiences on paper is harder than it looks. At least I hope this is an entertaining tale for you. Enjoy. One Night At The Ballet By Steele Like most of you, gentle readers, I am a cross dresser. I have been taking baby steps for the last, oh, 1,000 years or so on how to perfect my femininity, my wardrobe, my hair, my makeup, my accessories, in order to make myself passable. From browsing hundreds of tips from women's magazines which offer expert advice on everything from shaving your legs to how to make your hair style hide the shape of your face (not to mention, kick ass tips on how to cook a mean Thanksgiving turkey) I've managed to either conceal or camouflage all my male signs, and learned to advertise and accentuate my feminine signs so that, though I am certainly no Jessica Alba, I am no Patrick Swayze in that Wong Foo movie either. I am somewhere within the 99% of women in between those two extremes. Allow me to repeat that, as many of my sisters seem to overlook this fundamental truth: 99% of women aren't any Jessica Alba either. Women come on all shapes, forms and sizes, with some incredibly beautiful while others look like they took a nose dive off the ugly tree and their face hit every branch on the way down. If you don't like the way your legs look in a dress, guess what- somewhere out there, there's a woman with legs that look exactly like yours, and she's exactly as self conscious about them as you are. It isn't how pretty a woman is, it's all the thousand other signals that women send out that tells society they're women, from mannerisms to posture to personality to, yes, even confidence. I remember once seeing one woman in a video store who, despite her perfect feminine features, was acting suspiciously nervous and self conscious, which made me realize that she was actually a cross dresser, and once I realized THAT, that's when I started to see all the male traits she had concealed up until then. This is when I discovered probably one of the most profound discoveries in cross dressing- It's not the heels or the makeup that makes you into a woman. If you see yourself as a woman, you will carry yourself as a woman, and the people around you will see all the signals that will lead them to think of you as a woman too. However, I admit this was easier said than done. You've all no doubt followed the same path I've taken to force myself out the door into society - dress at home, then drive around at night with a spare set of "drab" clothes in the back seat, then later, without a spare set, all to take those tiny baby girl steps out into the public. Later, I was fortunate enough to encounter a group of CD/TV/TG who met once a month, and once I forced myself to walk through that door the first time en femme, my confidence grew. It grew even more during those times when some of them brought their supportive wives and girlfriends along. It allowed me to talk to them and learn how a woman talks with another woman, and soon, the wives there treated me like they would do other woman. I don't know if you've ever had the opportunity, but talking about shoes, perfume, and handbags with a woman in a skirt and heels when you're in a skirt and heels yourself does wonders for fanning that tiny ember of feminine feelings that all CD/TV/TG's aspire to have. I kept getting more and more complements on my appearance, and more than one person there said that I pass extremely well. One CD said she thought I was actually a woman that showed up to the meeting, and even one CD admirer that crashed the organization said I looked gorgeous...although that was about five seconds before he hinted that he wanted me to sleep with him. As if! The first time that I received a truly outside appraisal was when I was leaving one of my CD/TV/TG meetings, and a little ways down the sidewalk in the other direction, 50 feet or so, there was a bar, with a patron just coming out after visiting his friend Jack Daniels. As I walked to my car, and turned around to get in, I looked up and noticed he was standing by his truck checking me out. My high heels, my shapely, pantyhose clad legs, and my black skirt dancing across my legs as I walked down the sidewalk, had all caught his eye. I was too far away to be read even if I did look like Patrick Swayze in "Wong Foo", and I knew that he was seeing the world through liquor colored glasses so he was seeing nothing but a feminine, well dressed woman. Even Patrick Swayze in "Wong Foo" will begin to look like Jessica Alba after a few shots. Still, it made me wonder- Holy smoke, have I done such a good job on my appearance that I can *really* pass? The first time I tested the "holy smoke do I *really* pass" theory was by simply going out in public to see what people's reactions were. From having worked there a number of years ago I knew where there was a park in the city with a water fountain and benches, where everyone from men in ties to women in skirts to street people with their never ending procession of purloined shopping carts came to visit, and it was in a business section where most people left after work and over the weekend, making it an ideal spot to visit. I chose to dress up like a professional businesswoman, first because I really like the polished look of a skirt suit, and second this type of outfit was universally common for this location and would make me blend in with the environment. Many times I had seen a CD attempting to pass in public who positively screamed LOOK AT ME from dressing up in unbelievably goofy outfits- short skirts in the middle of winter, older CDs wearing fashions clearly meant for a teenager, and even one case where someone wore vinyl knee boots with six inch heels in public. If that's what turns them on, well bless their hearts, but they are going to be noticed and they are going to be read. I knew that if I wanted to pass as a woman, I needed to follow the social rules that women had to follow, meaning I had to dress the way everyone else dressed in order to blend in. For this trip I wore- slate blue suit jacket, light pink mock turtleneck blouse, royal blue knee length skirt with white flowers, and black three inch heels. Underneath I wore matching pink bra and panties, silky nude pantyhose, and since the skirt and blouse were summer clothes with thin material I had to wear a cream camisole and half-slip underneath so my skirt wouldn't cling to my legs. I put on my brunette wig, women's glasses (I had my prescription filled in a pair of oval shaped women's frames the previous year, to break up the male silhouette of my face and give it some camouflage) and suitable makeup. I wore three silver necklaces, one short, one medium, and one long, over my blouse to give my jewelry a feminine layered pattern, as well as my favorite silver hoop earrings. With a quick spray of my favorite perfume ("Prada", in case you wanted to know. I discovered it from a perfume sample in a woman's magazine), got into my car, and drove to the city. I got there at night, too late for the work crowds, and too early for the night owls and party animals. I parked my car along the street, next to the entrance to the park. The sun had gone down so it was becoming dark- excellent camouflage environment.- and I got up enough nerve to get out of my car. My heart was in my mouth as cars were driving by me as I walked down the sidewalk, with my heels making that distinctive feminine scraping-clicking sound that high heels make while walking on pavement, all the way there. The park lights were turned on, but not bright enough so that it became a distraction. I entered the park (thankfully empty), turned left down the pathway, and sat down on one of the park benches facing the water fountain. For the next five minutes, I sat there watching the fountain, with my legs crossed and my skirt and slip laying across my thigh, with my purse sitting patiently next to me in case I needed a lipstick refresh. The cool evening breeze was blowing on my silky legs, and the fountain which was still shooting out soothing babbling water was absolutely peaceful and beautiful. There were a few passers-by- a man walking his dog and a college girl in an army surplus jacket (I didn't know they really still did that) but they all simply glanced at me a moment before going on their way. Oh, and the stars in the night sky were gorgeous. No wonder this place was so popular with people. I could have stayed there all night if I could have. THEN, I got the scare of my life when out of nowhere a guy walked by not three feet away from where I was sitting, looked directly at me, smiled, and said "hello" in a pleasant voice. He then went over and sat down on the bench directly next to mine. I admit that I panicked, since this was a 100% first for me. There were dozens of park benches around the fountain so when he sat down at the one three feet next to me it was clear that whatever his intentions were, it involved me. Did he think I was a woman? If he did, I knew if I opened my mouth with my distinctively non-female voice, the cross dressing cat would definitely have been out of the bag. Did he see me as a cross dresser and thought that I was a prostitute looking for tricks in the park? The "prostitute" thought horrified me and hit me like a ton of bricks, and fearing that I was going to be raped or arrested for prostitution at any moment (hey, when paranoia runs rampant, it really runs rampant) I simply said nothing, stood up, slung my purse over my shoulder, and walked back toward my car. On the way back, GOOD GRIEF someone else was walking down the sidewalk and coming directly toward me. What the heck, was everyone zeroing in on my location to come take a look at the cross dresser, or something?? I tried to avoid him by walking slowly at first to see which one of the two paths he would take so I could then take the other one, but WHAT THE [CENSORED] he changed his OWN direction and deliberately went over to the path I had changed to. He was blatantly trying to intercept me! I now had no choice but to pass him to get back to my car so I kept walking while looking straight ahead. I was thinking in that weird panicked state of mind that always sounds foolish later that if I didn't see him, he wouldn't see me. The clicking-scraping of my heels and my skirt were making me feel so vulnerable as we approached each other on the sidewalk. What would his reaction be? His reaction, however, was the very exact opposite reaction that I would ever have anticipated. He walked by me, looked at me with a smile, and said, "hello" in a very pleasant voice. Holy smoke, this guy, too?!? I didn't know, and I didn't care, since my mind was still in a panic so I continued to look straight ahead and kept walking back to my car. On the drive home, I calmed down and replayed the episode in my mind again and again. I found it scary but at the same time it felt wonderful that I appeared feminine enough to TWO complete strangers to make them want to hit on me. I suppose it should have come as no surprise, since the women around me were dressed like slobs while I was in a skirt and heels looking like a woman that enjoyed being a woman, so any would-be Romeos happening by would have been on me like Rosie O'Donnell on a chocolate cake. Still, I knew hooking up with a complete stranger I meet in a park at night even if he was supportive makes about as much sense as my wanting to drill a hole in my head. With some reflection, I had realized that such an encounter had to be inevitable. I had entered the world of women, not only in clothing but in my thoughts, feelings, and signals, and it's an unavoidable fact of life than in the world of women, men are the hunters and women are the prey. Thus, I had reached a major milestone in the world of women- having guys hit on me. Even my reaction of feeling extra vulnerable from being in a skirt and heels while exposed to a perceived danger was 100% a female instinct. I admit that a tiny bit of me felt it would have been nice to go out on a date with a man and put my foot up his pant leg underneath a restaurant table, but the reality is that I could very well find myself drugged in someone's bedroom with icky things being forced into my mouth, too. After this occurred, I stopped dressing up for a while out of fear of where I would wind up going with this...but of course, like everyone knows, fears eventually dwindle away but the curiosity and desires remain, so I decided to go out again. This time, I tested this "holy smoke do I *really* pass" theory again by doing something *really* adventurous. Namely, go to a supermarket and do some light grocery shopping as a "professional businesswoman leaving work" to see what would happen. I dressed in a charcoal gray knee length skirt suit, royal blue short sleeve silk blouse that buttoned behind the neck, and black three inch sling back heels, and underneath, because I was feeling mischievous, a matching zebra stripe satin bra and thong panty set, and off black pantyhose. And of course, tasteful jewelry, my wig, glasses, and makeup. I wore a pretty blue and pink striped silk scarf which I tied loosely around my neck, sort of like a woman's bow tie. Hopefully anyone seeing me up close would not look at my face as much as they would look at my colorful scarf standing out on an otherwise boring mono-colored outfit. I got that tip from the women's magazines- if there are features you don't want people to notice, wear something to distract people from noticing them. You know, women really ought to write books for the army on how to disguise tanks. Like most of you, I have a tiny "chicken" voice in the back of my head that told me to be cautious, so I decided to go at night, when there would be fewer people in the store. On the ride there I put myself into the mood by playing Shania Twain's "Man, I feel like a woman" over and over, which is about the best theme song there is for a cross dresser on a mission to go out in public. The lyrics kept being repeated in my head like a mantra... The best thing about being a woman Is the prerogative to have a little fun (fun, fun) Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel Man! I feel like a woman! I get totally crazy Can you feel it Come, come, come on baby I feel like a woman When I got there, I tell you, my forcing myself to get out of the car was probably one of the bravest things I've done up until that time. The "chicken" voice in me kept telling me to turn the engine back on and go home, but the adventurer in me said that I'd regret passing up this opportunity for the rest of my life. My adventurer side won, and I got out and went in. Instantly, as I entered the store, my heels began making that all too familiar CLICK CLICK CLICK sound that heels always make on linoleum. I might as well have worn a cow bell around my neck. I keep a small notebook in my purse where I wrote a shopping list of things to get so that I wouldn't forget what I needed in my (ahem) distracted state, so took it out, and looked at the first item- LIPSTICK. I looked around, deciding on which direction to go. Left was where the makeup counter was, which was where I needed to go to, but in reality right was where there were lots and lots of people at the produce counter and to the left there was nobody at all. So, I went left. As I stood in front of the lipstick display gazing mesmerized at the five zillion different shades of red and wondering which one best suited my complexion, I was somewhat startled by a very short man walking down my aisle. Courteously I backed away to make room and he walked past, looking ahead. I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through his head, whether he read me and was ignoring me, saw me as a woman and was ignoring me, had too many things preoccupying his mind to notice one way or another, or stared ahead in embarrassment because I was taller than he was. A moment later, it occurred to me that cross dresser or not I *was* taller than he was, and he certainly wasn't going to be dancing for joy over the fact that he was short one way or the other. This made me realize something really, really profound- despite my obvious secret and my angst over my obvious secret, people are still people and everyone has their own angst over something or another- money problems, health problems, relationship problems, being too short, wearing the clothes of the opposite gender, etc- and they really don't care what anyone else's angst is. I was for the most part, making more out of the situation than it warranted, and this gave me a lot more confidence and helped me relax into my female social role much more easily. Oh, and I had no idea this was going to happen, until it happened- in my thong panties, the silky polyester lining of my skirt was sliding back and forth against my panty part of my pantyhose and it felt like the hands of some invisible pervert were reaching up my skirt and feeling up my butt as I walked down the aisles. I'm sorry, but there was no flipping way this could be accidental. Someone actually had to have sat down and deliberately design women's clothing to caress/grope her body with soft, silky fabrics, to make sure she would never forget she was a woman, and it was obvious that there were women out there who genuinely enjoyed the experience or else no one would buy them. Victoria never said anything about THAT secret. After putting a few bottles of nail polish, lipstick, and a few other things into my basket (did you know they make Dr. Scholls pads specifically for women wearing high heels? I didn't!) I forced myself to go down to the main aisle and walked across to get more items on my list- batteries, a bag of sugar, some frozen dinners. Of course, with my heels CLICK CLICK CLICKing all the way. I walked past quite a number of other shoppers and store employees, and incredibly, except for that invisible pervert feeling up my butt, no one paid any attention to me whatsoever. Even when I went to the frozen foods section to get several boxes of Lean Cuisine (if there was ever such a thing as "Women's food", Lean Cuisines is it. They're actually not bad, though most of them need salt) the other shoppers didn't even look at me once, not even the elderly man standing right next to me looking at the frozen pizzas in the next freezer over. I wasn't sure whether I was passing or whether it may simply be because they were in their own little world, and as you already know, when you're in your own little world you could walk right by a giraffe juggling burning machetes without noticing it. The next thing on my list- SUGAR. I had to walk further down the main aisle and past even more people who didn't look twice at me to where the sugar was. Getting the sugar was less stressful since no one was in that aisle, but instead of bending down, being in a skirt I was forced to use my knees to squat down to get sugar off the bottom shelf, like a girl. As I did so my knees were up close to my face, reminding me once again that I was displaying my nylon clad legs to the public, like a girl. That reminded me of something else, namely, what's a girl like me to do in a grocery store but visit the hosiery section, which was the last item on my list anyway. I had to go hunt for where it was hidden since these days women don't wear pantyhose that much anymore so the hosiery section has shrunk down to about the size of the shelf where Paris Hilton keeps her Oscar awards. As I searched for it, what should I see but ANOTHER woman dressed in a skirt suit, but in a darker gray, almost black, walking in front of me. Yes, she was a real woman, since I heard her talk to someone as she walked by them. As I walked behind her for a short distance before she turned down a side aisle, watching her skirt swaying over her nylon clad legs and her heels clicking on the linoleum floor, and I wondered if this was how I myself must have looked to the people walking behind me. At any rate, I was glad that she was around because it meant that I would be accepted that much more readily with my own outfit. Once I found where the hosiery section was nestled off in a tiny area by itself, I browsed through the different styles. Now, I'm sure you've all seen this scene at least once in your lives- the woman standing at the hosiery section in the store in her skirt, nylons and heels, looking through the different packages of pantyhose wondering what brand to buy, picking one up, putting it back, and so on, with scores of other shoppers walking by her in complete acceptance and approval because she is a woman and they know that women need pantyhose. For about five minutes, that was me. As I stood there browsing the hosiery section, picking packages of pantyhose up, putting them back, looking at the different sizes and colors and wondering how they would look and feel on my legs compared to the ones I was wearing, a woman talking with her husband walked by me in one direction, a mother with her two young boys walked by me in the other direction, and I think an elderly couple went by wheeling a cart too. All of them were completely oblivious to me and didn't look at me once. One interesting thing I discovered about the episode- as I looked at the model's legs on the packages, rather than being aroused by seeing shapely, sexy female legs, as a male certainly would, I could definitely feel my inner female starting to come out since I was distinctly able to feel the subliminal advertising message that only a female would feel- it was inviting me to slip them on my legs so that they will look as wonderful as the model's legs did, which on a rational level I knew was absurd since I didn't have the benefit of an advertiser's airbrush. Come on now, no one's legs look like that. The marketing people really know how to push their target audience's psychological buttons to get them to buy their stuff, these days. I finally selected two pair, one black, one nude, put them in my basket, and because I was finished, I went to the checkout lanes. I had a choice between the lanes that had live cashiers, and the automated lanes where it's controlled by a touch screen. Guess which one I picked? I stood in the line at the automated teller behind a woman waiting for her to finish checking out her GIGANTIC bag of candy, while in the next automated teller over a woman was trying to find the price of lettuce on the automated screen. They each pulled their shopper's cards and ATM cards out of their purses, checked out, and slung their purses over their shoulders before leaving. As I took my own shopping cards, then my own ATM card out of my purse to scan into the machine, it struck me at that point my own purse wasn't some decoration or pretend plaything used in my dressing up. It was a fully working component for a completely feminine lifestyle, and I *was* living a completely feminine lifestyle right down to the wall paper I was using on my cell phone. Everyone either saw me as a woman, or, they completely ignored me and allowed me be a woman, which is pretty much the same thing. How do I know this? Well, I don't know whether the mischief gods had it in for me, whether I insulted some machine out there that happened to be the automatic cashier's cousin, or what, but of course on THE VERY LAST ITEM I SCANNED the automatic cashier jammed for some reason. It apparently thought I had too many items on the scanner and it came to a complete halt, causing the "Hey, somebody come over here and laugh at me" light to go off at my station. Almost instantly, a clerk came over, and while standing not two feet away from me, typed in his override code, and LOOKING RIGHT AT ME and without even blinking, told me I was all set to continue, and then walked away. No smirks, no double takes, not even an eyebrow raised. I was as unremarkable a sight to him as any other shopper was. Great Googly Moogly, maybe I *do* pass! It gave me a great sense of confidence as I carried my groceries back to my car...as well as filling me with more curiosity. Alright, I told myself a day or two later, that went pretty well. I just reenacted the plot from about 100 Fictionmania stories for real, but as the Japanese say, "only a brave man will climb Mt. Fuji, but only a fool will climb it twice", essentially meaning, "okay you did it. Go do something else to top it, because doing the same thing again is boring." I decided that I was going to go all out, once and for all and do something really big. For a while I wasn't sure what "really big" would be, but THEN, I happened to see an advertisement for the local theater that was performing the ballet "Romeo and Juliet", and so it hit me- I'd go to the Ballet! Have you ever seen the movie, "Pretty Woman"? There was one scene where Julia Roberts dressed up completely to the nines and was taken to the Opera, in order to make her forget that she was a slut for a little while and make her feel more like a classy and elegant lady. This would give me my own chance to dress up nicely and make myself feel like a classy and elegant lady too. I also saw that the month immediately before Romeo and Juliet, the musical "Rent" was playing at that theater, so if there was any place that would be tolerant of cross dressers, it would be there. Besides, let's be honest, few things will make you start growing a vagina as going to the ballet. I went online and checked out their prices. HOO BOY they're not giving these things away. I looked through their seating plans wondering where to sit, and then I saw the balcony boxes, which in this theater was a box of four seats, and they were arranged in boxes of three along the wall above the general audience below. I purchased two of the seats for myself, the two furthest to the rear of these balconies, to cut down on being crowded in the box as well as being seated so that everyone in the balcony boxes were facing their backs to me. Despite the astronomical price I would have purchased all four seats in the box I was to sit in if I could, but two people had beaten me to them. This mean that there were going to be two complete strangers I was going to share the balcony with, and having never been to the ballet I could only imagine who it would be. A girl being taken there on a date? An elderly woman and her husband? Two gay men? College kids attending the show for some course? I was about to step off into a real hard core unknown as much as an unknown could get. I knew that being a ballet meant that no intolerant troublemaker would never step foot into the place, so I knew I had that going for me, and from my foray into the supermarket and the park I knew I was putting out a lot of feminine signals which gave me plenty of camouflage. After all the other baby steps I already took this step by comparison was going to be one giant step for mankind. Or is it womankind? Whatever. The weeks passed, and when the day arrived I took a week off from work. The show was on a Thursday and I wanted to take my time getting everything ready. First, to get me in the proper frame of mind, I was going to spend the entire week as a woman. As soon as midnight the preceding Friday hit, I was going to be a woman, period! All my male clothes were tossed into the spare closet and the door locked, so that the only things in my dresser were bras, panties, and nylons, and every stitch of clothing in my closet was a skirt, blouse, dress, or woman's shoes, for a solid week. That Friday evening I had sat at my dresser in my satin nightgown and matching robe, and painted my nails with three layers of a subdued dark red color (using the new nail polish I purchased at the supermarket), plus clear coat. Nails take FOREVER to do and one tiny teeny tiny bump and you ruin the entire nail. Once you finish they take FOREVER to fully dry properly and you have to be care against touching anything...but once they did dry, my nails gleamed in a beautiful dark red color and my hands looked like the hands of a woman. Nail polish is one of those rare pieces of feminine accessories that you don't have to actually touch to know you're wearing it. They make your nails feel thicker and heavier. It was one of among a dozen feminine signals I was hoping to show off that evening, and by the time of the event I had spent almost a full week getting used to seeing and feeling my nails in pretty red polish. At the risk of admitting I had gone way overboard with this, I have several collector's editions of Barbie dolls on display stands which I placed on my dresser. To those who might not understand why, remember that clothes are a major preoccupation for women, and it's perfectly natural for women to enjoy displaying a toy evening gown on Barbie for the same reason a guy would enjoy displaying a model of a race car of a famous driver. The end result was that there was no way in denying this was the bedroom of a woman because only a woman would possess such a thing. They certainly did put me in a proper state of mind as I was doing my nails while looking over how cute their outfits were. On the day of the performance, to start getting ready, I took a long, HOT shower. It's amazing just how much writing there are out there by women for women, explaining how to be a woman, and one article I read recommended to take a hot shower before shaving your legs because it will open the pores and, along with lotion, it will eliminate the razor burns when you shave. In this manner I shaved my legs, chest, face (THREE TIMES) hands and wrists, so that no offending hair would peek out from, well, anywhere. After using some moisturizer on my legs, my skin was SMOOOTH, like soft velvet (thank you for that tip, women's magazines!). Then, I started to get dressed. I wanted something feminine and classy, but not flashy...BUT yet like all women know, what we wear underneath our clothes is our own little naughty secret. So, I chose a pair of Victoria's Secrets "Second Satin" panties in burgundy red, tucking my you-know-what down flat so that it wouldn't show. Then, I slipped my arms into the straps of a matching Victoria's Secret satin bra and hooked it behind me. I have a pair of mastectomy breast forms, which I prefer over cross dresser falsies because they are made by women for women, so they seem more legitimately feminine to me. I slipped them into the cups of my bra, and after adjusting them, I swear, it looked like I had real breasts! They were certainly soft and supple like real breasts, and it felt amazingly comfortable. Moreover, it may just be me, but putting on a bra and panties has the effect of chaining up my masculinity and forcing it into a box in the back of my mind so that it can't interact with me anymore, giving my inner girl the freedom to come out and play. I then slipped my smooth legs into a pair of pantyhose fresh out of the package, (Sheer Caress from JC Penney- durable silky leg- sheer toe-, in off black, in case anyone cares). I read somewhere that Marilyn Monroe always wore brand new pantyhose out of the package and discarded them after wearing them only once, because she and I both knew the same thing- brand new hose feels much more wonderfully snug and silky right out of the package, and they never let you forget you're wearing them. It's too bad pantyhose is going out of style because they're specifically meant to do wonderful things for a woman's legs, and they were certainly doing wonderful things for mine. The off-black color accentuated my figure, giving my freshly shaven legs a nice outline and made them look thinner than they were (FYI the exact opposite is true with white or ivory nylons- they make skinny legs look more full and rounded. I read that in one of my women's magazines) and if my panties didn't make my you-know-what look flat enough before, the snug panty section of the hose made my you-know-what REALLY look flat. There would be no tell-tale bulges whatsoever. Next step- my camisole. I was going to be wearing a blouse with buttons so I didn't want to have my bra peeking through, so I chose a purple satin spaghetti strap camisole with black lace along the top of the cups and on the hem, slipping it over my head and over my bra. It was brand new, and I didn't realize it until I took it out of the package but, holy smoke, this camisole felt as soft as butter and fit me snugly, making my breasts bulge out invitingly. If you've ever gone to Hooters restaurant and seen how snug their tank tops fit them, you'll have an idea how my camisole looked on me...and it pretty much did the same thing for my rack as their tops do for theirs. The spaghetti straps of the camisole even color coordinated nicely with the thin straps of my bra. Elegant, feminine, and sexy. Next step- my skirt. I stepped into a black velvet (REAL velvet, not that "fake" velvet they sell in WalMart) skirt with the hem coming down just above my knees, and I slipped it up my legs. This skirt has a polyester lining so it slid up my silky legs very easily. After tucking the hem of my camisole down into the waistband of the skirt, I reached behind me, latched the hook, zipped it up, and buttoned it closed. I tell you, there is something magical during that moment when you zip yourself into a skirt.? Notice the next time you wear a skirt and how all of a sudden your walk starts to change along with the way you carry yourself, and it makes you behave more demure and ladylike. Skirts always seem to say, "There now, don't you just love how it makes you look and feel so girly, you girl, you". I suspect this feeling isn't too far off the mark for others, as I know a number of rough and tumble tomboy-esque women, and they thoroughly loathe dresses and skirts. NEXT, I slipped on a purple silk long sleeve blouse. It had long sleeves with French cuffs, and when the top button on the blouse isn't buttoned it left a playful opening almost down to my cleavage. It has integral belt loops meant for a matching belt, but instead I put on a black patent belt with a pewter ring buckle, giving my top a draped, peasant blouse effect. Under my lapels and down the front of my blouse I put on a long silk scarf, jet black with hand painted gray flowers along the bottom hem. I tied it into a loose feminine knot, sort of like a sailor's tie. After pulling the toes of my nylons out so that my toes wouldn't become squished in them (thank you again, women's magazines), I slipped my feet into a pair of tall knee length suede black boots, sort of like those tall boots Yeoman Rand wore in the original Star Trek series (what was her name, Grace Lee Whitney, was it? Whatever) but with three inch stiletto heels, and zipped them up. There's something really sexy and yet classy and chic about a woman in a skirt and boots, with only a glimpse of nyloned knee peeking out from in between. Feminine without looking cheap, exactly the image I wanted to portray. Besides, it was approaching winter, and it was getting chilly out. Of course I had to check myself out in a full length mirror- set up at an angle so that I could only see myself from the neck down and not skew the image- and what I saw took my breath away. From the neck down I not only looked like a woman, but an elegant woman, a woman that dressed like she enjoyed being a woman. I regret that I didn't take any pictures, but if you've ever seen the first movie, "Batman", watch for the scene where Kim Basinger first goes on a date with Bruce Wayne at his mansion. Imagine her blouse to be purple instead of pink and that she's wearing suede Star Trek boots instead of pumps, and that would be my outfit, almost exactly. Marilyn Monroe once said that she didn't know who invented the high heel, but all women owe him a lot. She was right- the three inch heels forced my legs into an unmistakable feminine silhouette that was visible even through my boots. At that moment, my confidence actually started to grow- maybe I can actually get away with this. Now for my face. After watching a number of women's television programs, I picked up a number of sweet thirty second tips to make my hair look more feminine than simply wearing it long, SO, I put on a shoulder length brunette wig that had long bangs almost to my eyebrows, to conceal and soften my face as much as possible, using about five million pins to make sure it stayed in place. I left a tendril of hair dangling down each cheek to give the illusion of a slimmer face, gathered the rest of the hair on either side of my head, pulled each side back and over the hair behind my head which hung down loosely, and held them together and in place with a tortoise shell clip. The singer "Fergie" wore her hair in this exact style on the cover of her "Dutchess" album, except that my hair was brunette. I had just gotten a haircut the previous week and I asked them to cut it on the short side, especially for this moment. None of my natural colored hair showed from beneath the wig, and in fact couldn't feel my real hair at all. As far as the world could tell my hair was now brunette. Then, my makeover- I colored my eyebrows to be the same color as the wig, obviously so that it wouldn't stand out that my wig wasn't my natural hair color, but also to give the illusion they had a more feminine arch than they really have. It also throws people off track in the unlikely but still horrifying event I bump into someone there I might recognize, so that they won't recognize me. I'll spare you most of the boring details on my cosmetics, but afterwards came a layer of primer on my face, then a layer of foundation, and then a layer of powder, flicking off the excess with a makeup brush powder. It made my skin look as smooth as glass. A little blush to make my cheekbones look higher, three layers of mascara to give my eyes a feminine appearance and a shade of lipstick to match my nail polish and framed with lip liner to make my lips look fuller. It was Joan Rivers who said that a woman's lipstick color should always match her nail color. Not sure whether I should be following beauty tips from someone who had so much plastic surgery that she looks like a monster from outer space, though. I put on my pair of glasses made with my prescription in oval shaped women's frames the year before, and between them and the tendrils of hair down each cheek they immediately broke up the silhouette of my face giving me a much more feminine outline. When I put on my favorite silver clip on hoop earrings they broke up the silhouette of my face even more. I just needed to put on the rest of my jewelry- black and silver bangle with a matching ring on one hand with a women's gold and silver dress watch and matching gold and silver ring on the other, and a silver necklace- and I was all set. I looked at my reflection in the mirror again. First, I looked for, and I was relieved that I couldn't see, any of my identifying features. If I was read, no one would have an inkling of what I actually looked like or who I was. As for being able to pass, well, I personally didn't see it, but then again I've been looking at my face for years and knew where all the "male" features were. Hopefully, the public wouldn't. I have to admit that I did look a little like a brunette Fergie with glasses, and I noticed I looked a LOT like some of the photos of my mother that were taken when she was my age, just with a different hair color hairstyle. I guess that settles the possibility of whether or not I had been adopted... A word on purses. Ever since my trip to the supermarket I've always felt there was something uniquely feminine and polished about the look and feel of carrying a purse over your shoulder. They complement and accessorize an outfit just as much as a belt or pair of earrings do. Purses are so utilitarian, too- one section held my cell phone, car keys, hairbrush, writing pad and pen, and a smaller clutch that doubled as a wallet that contained my money, ID, credit cards, receipts, and the like. The other section held my mascara, lipstick, perfume, a smaller pocket which held my cell phone and keys, and a book to read during intermission ("Memoirs of a Geisha", it was, a very good book and very appropriate- it's a story of the life of a woman that really was written by a man).. In the zip up pocket in between I had a spare package of pantyhose in case I got a run. They were the "female" pantyhose I got during my trip at the supermarket, not the "cross dresser" pantyhose I buy online anonymously, which I was carrying as kind of like a talisman. Oh yes, in my clutch I also had a brand new $50 dollar bill, to hopefully bribe/tip/coax one of the female ushers in the event I had to use the bathroom, so that she would spot check the women's bathroom and watch the door while I was using it so there wouldn't be any outrage or misunderstandings from the female patrons. Ulysses S. Grant has the ability to resolve complex problems today just like he did back in the Civil War. It turns out I didn't need it, but it would have been worth every penny if I did. One more thing to do, and then I would be off- I took a ivory colored satin nightgown off the hanger and laid it on my bed. This nightgown had beautiful white lace around the cups around the bust line, spaghetti straps, and two spaghetti straps that reached around behind to be tied in a feminine bow. I would know during the entire evening that there was a nightgown waiting for me on my bedspread looking as if a woman was about to get ready for bed, and that my feminization wouldn't end when I got home. SO, I put on my coat (sort of like a woman's trench coat but in dark gray wool), matching suede gloves, and grey spotted scarf, wrapping myself in soft feminine wool and concealing my outfit entirely. I slung my purse over my shoulder, got into my car and drove the half hour to the theater. From scoping out the location a week earlier I knew there was a parking garage right next door to the theater so I got there early to get a good parking spot. I drove in, met the parking lot attendant in the booth, and she gave me a garage ticket without looking at me twice. So far so good. I popped the ticket into my clutch and entered into the parking garage, and fortunately I found a spot almost directly next to the elevators on the third level. I didn't want to have to walk among other people too far. I got there about a half hour before the doors to the theater opened to the audience, to make sure I got there on time...but as I sat there in my car waiting for the theater doors to open, the same old anxiety and fear that I'm sure that anyone reading my story knows all too well came out. I was dressed like a woman! I am about to go out in public, I mean REAL public, not after-hours city parks or supermarkets at night. There was a moment that the "chicken" voice in me was beginning to win, but the "adventurer" voice jumped out and told me that if I backed out now, I would regret this moment for the rest of my life because I'd be constantly wondering, "what if". The two voices bickered back and forth in my head, but then, a third voice jumped in which broke the tie vote. I'll call it the "rebel" voice. It told me that if I wanted to dress up in a skirt I wasn't hurting anyone and it was my right, and if anyone didn't like it they can go [censored] themselves. Now that voice I liked a lot, and it was the voice that, when it was time that the front doors to the theater opened, had pushed me out of the car, across the parking level to the elevator, down the elevator, and onto the sidewalk. When I hit the sidewalk I found out to my horror that it was C...O...L...D... from the winter winds, so I bundled up more, which certainly helped since to the people on the sidewalk with me, they didn't see my face. All they could see was a pair of legs in heels sticking out from the bottom of a big blur of wool as I continued to walk with the crowds trickling out from the parking garage for the two blocks into the theater. One of the male ushers opened the door for me, like he would do for a lady. Immediately inside I was greeted quite professionally by the ticket girl, and I produced my ticket to her. She quite professionally looked at it and quite professionally told me my seat was up the stairs and to enjoy the show. Not even an eyeblink. As I climbed up the stairs, not just any stairs either, but elegant stairs with oak banisters and plush red carpeting, very elegantly dressed and in the company of a sea of women likewise elegantly dressed, it felt as if I was really being given the royal treatment by this place, and I started to feel like a queen (insert groaning here). I'll refrain from boring you to tears with the details concerning a slight mix up in being directed to the wrong seating several times (entirely due to my not wanting to talk to the ushers in my very non female voice and ruin the image I was presenting, but otherwise every single one of them was courteous, friendly, and professional), but eventually after presenting my ticket to enough ushers, one of them directed me to my correct seat. SO, I stepped through the partition curtain into the balcony box, and, steeling myself for this moment, I removed my coat, exposing my outfit to the entire building. I put my coat and scarf on what I knew to be the empty chair next to me, slung my purse across the back of my chair like women do so that it would be protected and was within easy reach, then sat down on the soft red velvet upholstered chairs, crossing my legs to give myself a feminine pose. The two people who I was to share the box with were already there. They were two women in their fifties, in pants suits sitting in the two seats in front of me, and they simply went on talking as if I wasn't even there. I then noticed in the next balcony box forward of us there was a woman and a young girl that I presume to be her teenage daughter, and in the box before that one, there were four women (one of them with crutches...?) that looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties who were there as a group. I was, quite literally, sitting in the women's section! As I sat there waiting for the production to begin, I just had to look down at the crowds in the audience milling around below me. A quick review told me that a good two thirds to three quarters of the people in the entire audience were also female, which didn't surprise me since ballet is certainly a women's event more than it is a men's event. The dominant figure in the ballet is of course the ballerina, and the image of a ballerina is so feminine, graceful, and beautiful: the long legs, the elegance, the essence that they give off, and it's not surprising that deep down women would go to an event where they can fantasize about being ballerinas themselves...or I should say, so I thought at the time. Because it was C...O...L...D... outside most of the women opted for pants, but I'd say a good quarter of them did wear a skirt or a dress. In no particular order I saw- an elderly, overweight woman talking loudly to her husband in some weird foreign language, wearing a ghastly silver sequined dress which I'm sure was fashionable when she bought it years ago but it made her look like a disco ball today; two very young pre-teen girls who were there together, both in black skirts, and who kept running up and down the aisles as if they had eaten too much sugar; a really cute young woman in a yellow top, brown skirt, and brown nylons, standing in the aisle waiting for someone. She looked very elegant, like a beauty queen, standing there waiting patiently for whoever it was. One woman arrived with her husband, wearing a white blouse, dark skirt, and black tights, who made a bunch of people stand up as they took their seats in the middle of the row. One woman wore a black top, black skirt, and black tights, and black heels...AND she had black hair. Good grief, girlfriend, add some color or something, you look like an undertaker. There were a number of women in skirt suits, some of them wearing almost the exact same charcoal gray skirt suit that I had worn to the supermarket, who almost certainly had all come from work to see the performance. There was a woman in a purple top, black scarf and black skirt sitting with two other women. Oh, wait, that was me (smiles). When the lights eventually went down, hiding everyone in darkness and anonymity, it struck me like a lightning bolt-I AM PART OF THE PUBLIC NOW! The management didn't track me down and tell me to leave, far from it- they welcomed me with open arms, gave me a comfortable velvet upholstered chair to sit in, and hoped that I would enjoy the show. None of the other patrons complained nor stared at me like I had a big red nose and was honking a clown horn, far from it- if they glanced at me at all it was but briefly, but everyone accepted my attendance and no one looked at me twice. Society was accepting me as a woman, and being a woman I was deemed properly attired for this event by everyone. I wasn't simply reenacting Julia Robert's dressed-up-like-a-proper-lady scene in "Pretty Woman", I WAS Julia Robert in her dressed-up-like-a- proper-lady scene in "Pretty Woman". I don't know if I'd go so far as to say it was somewhat of a forced feminization feeling, but previously I had mostly dressed at home where I could change at a moment's notice or pop quickly back into my vehicle to leave. HERE, I was in a very real situation where my car was parked out of reach in a garage several blocks away and I was sitting here a long way from home, dressed completely as a woman from the top of my styled brunette wig to the pantyhose seam across my toes at the ballet, and since I was presenting myself as a woman to the public I knew that I didn't dare change an iota of it. The dozen of pins I used to anchor my wig to my head were doing their job as my wig wasn't budging an inch, so I constantly felt my long soft hair brushing and tickling my cheeks and neck. The women around me had the telltale signs of bra straps beneath their tops (particularly the teenage girl and her mother, in the next balcony forward), and all I needed to do was look down my blouse to see I was likewise wearing a satin bra and matching panties beneath my own outfit. Every time I folded my hands in my lap I wound up being caressed by luxurious black velvet, and every time I crossed my arms I wound up grasping soft-as-rose-pedals purple silk and cradling my soft breasts in my arms. Whenever I pursed my sticky/slippery lips I was reminded that I was wearing lipstick just like the two women sitting with me in my balcony box were, and every single woman in those three balconies had their purses slung over the back of their chairs just like mine. And of course, I along with hundreds of women all around me were attending the ballet with half our bodies completely encased from the waist down in pantyhose and were openly displaying our legs to each other. It was almost as if the entire building was telling me, "You do know that you're a woman, too, right"? On top of that, as anyone who's worn high heels for any long period of time will know for themselves, the back of my calves were beginning to ache from being forced into a arched position for hours at a time. My boots with their three inch heels and tall shafts almost up to my knees were securely zipped up so I knew I couldn't slip them off indiscreetly like women usually do, so the only way I found I could relieve the strain was to put my legs in all those feminine, demure poses that women do with their legs while wearing skirts and heels. Pressing them together and tucking them underneath my chair so the weight was on the balls of my feet, crossing them at the knee and laying the bottom leg down at an angle so the weight of my legs were on the back of my knees, and so on. All the while, being in a skirt I was forced to behave like a proper lady and keep my legs together. It's not as if these poses are in some manual of arms that women have to follow and I was simply trying to mimic them. Women pose in those poses specifically because their skirts and their heels are making them do it, and now they were making me do it myself. Not only did I look feminine, I was now also being pushed into behaving feminine as well. I noticed something else interesting happening, a few minutes into the performance. I was beginning to show more and more leg! My skirt was creeping up my thighs for some reason, and every time I readjusted my skirt it kept creeping back up. It was like the hands of that invisible pervert from the supermarket were back and kept pulling up my skirt to show off my legs. Then it dawned on me- my skirt wasn't being pulled up, I was sliding down! The seat I was sitting on was upholstered in red velvet, and the fabric held onto the black velvet fabric of my skirt like Velcro, so my silky nylon clad legs sitting on the smooth lining of my skirt kept sliding forward like silk upon ice. All throughout the performance I had to keep tugging the hem of my skirt back down, just like a girl. This turned out to be merely the first round of the feminization. The second round came when the dancers came out. I thought I had understood the entire connection between women and ballet before, but now the mystery has been solved. One reason, certainly is that it gives women a chance to fantasize being as graceful and feminine as ballerinas the same way guys watch action movies and fantasize about blowing up evil sadistic terrorists and getting in the pants of the sexy female spy at the end, but that's only part of the story. The reason, gentle readers, is because, although, yes, the women dancers in the performance were all graceful and feminine with their ballerina hourglass figures, the men, however, HOO BOY, all wore the most snug and form fitting costumes from the waist down, and I -mean- snug. They wore dancer tights as well, but THEIRS showed off their exceptionally muscular legs and their tight butts from years of training and dancing. They all wore cups which made their packages look, well, "endowed", and I guarantee you that the eyes of every woman there went straight to them and with mine dragged along with theirs. For one female empowering evening, the women sitting in their elegant red velvet seats were the hunters, and the men being put on display for their entertainment, the prey. Until then despite the cross dressing I always considered myself heterosexual, but when THAT moment came along it was the closest moment to flipping the switch in my head right then and there. We are, after all, social animals, and as social animals we instinctively follow the herd. After all the constant feminine feelings from looking like a woman, dressing like a woman, smelling like a woman, behaving like a woman, and now being a member of a group of women that accepted me as a woman, I was now being given the thoughts and emotions of a woman, so when the lead male dancer turned around and showed off his chiseled out of marble legs and butt, in 1/1000 of a second's moment of time I admit every single shred of my former male orientation disappeared, and I had seamlessly become one among the of hundreds of women sitting around me, all pursing our lipstick clad lips and thinking, "Oh yesssss". I would have rubbed my thighs together like that horny woman in Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted Snake" video if I could have gotten away with it, but being in a skirt meant my legs were on open display to the public so I knew I had to behave myself like a proper lady. Fortunately, something saved me from flipping that switch altogether, namely, the ballet itself. If you've never been to the ballet, allow me to explain what it is. I had thought that, like musicals that explained a story in song and dance, ballet likewise explained a story in pure wordless dance. Well, my friends, this is not true. Ballet in fact REENACTS a story in pure wordless dance. It doesn't lift a finger to actually explain what the story is, so unless you already know what the story is beforehand, ballet will simply be a bunch of people hopping around the stage in indecipherable intervals. Yes, everyone was graceful, and yes, all the men had fantastic looking legs, but despite my knowing the story of Romeo and Juliet beforehand, there were still huge gaps where I was wondering, "Is this supposed to be Romeo and Juliet or is the stage floor simply hot"? SO, I sat there, on one hand my mind being reprogrammed by so many feminine "herd" emotions, senses, and feelings, and on the other hand being pulled back to reality and trying to decipher all the meaningless hopping around the stage to see if anything remotely resembled the story of Romeo and Juliet. I was a tad thirsty, but I knew if I got up to get a drink of water I would probably need to go to the ladies room afterwards, and attempting THAT was an adventure I fully succumbed to my "chicken" side to avoid. Besides, I wasn't thirsty enough to spend $50. So, I merely reached down into my purse and sucked up mints nonstop to tide me over (they were sugar free...a girl has to watch her weight). Then the intermission came, and the lights came up. I didn't need to go to the ladies room, and I wouldn't have even if I could because legions of women descended on the bathrooms like the hordes of Genghis Khan, so I merely picked up my book and started to read. Of course, it took me two or three minutes to read, reread, and read for a third time every sentence to get the story across, as I was so emotionally charged I couldn't think straight. It didn't help to look up and watch the crowds either since the hordes of Gengis Khan were milling around in their lipstick, skirts and heels, telling me, "you do know that you're a woman, too, right?" all over again. As I sat there reading...or attempting to read... right about this exact same time, the two women sitting with me in my balcony were talking to each other. They were looking down at the crowds below and were complaining to each other about how they themselves went through the trouble of dressing up nicely for the theater but yet many of the women came dressed like they just came from the hardware store. It's an interesting facet of life than when a woman is talking to a guy, she tends to put her best foot forward and she will usually treat men with smiles and kindness (or at least they do with me), which of course why centuries of literature have been devoted to their character. Sugar and spice and everything nice, and all that. However, when all the men leave and the women are with just other women, Sweet Crispy Walnuts! the gloves come off and the claws come out. The women who I work take great relish in accusing each other behind their backs of sleeping around and/or being lesbians, and once, when I was at the movies, a girl sitting behind me blurted out "her thighs are fat!" when a beautiful actress came out on the screen. I was a member of the female population now so I suppose it was to be expected that I would be exposed to such gossip. Well, bring it on, girlfriend! At least I admit that I stuff MY bra! SO, in a few minutes, intermission was over, everyone took their seats again, the lights went down, and the ballet resumed. At this point, I have to admit that I was getting somewhat annoyed because the ballet...or at least, this particular ballet performance...was thoroughly murdering the story of Romeo and Juliet. When Romeo killed Tybalt in a sword fight, I swear, the dancer portraying Tybalt stumbled around the stage in the same hammy (but silent) way that Jim Carry's character acted out in the movie "The Mask" after the bad guys shot him in the night club. Oh, and the last I looked, dying people just fall to the ground, they don't flutter to the floor like a rose pedal. I was toying with the idea of taking off, BUT my natural "cheapskate" gene, which of course is a unisex gene and knows no gender boundaries, after all, kicked in, and I told myself I paid for two seats for this thing so I might as well sit and watch it. So, I stayed. And watched the male dancers' chiseled out of marble legs and butts some more. Hmmm... After a few more intermissions and a few more attempts at reading the book (an evil geisha had just falsely accused an innocent little girl of stealing her broach and the little girl was being whipped for it. That miserable bitch!), the ballet ended and the cast came out for applause. I applauded too, mostly because everyone else who was applauding would think I'm a shmuck if I didn't. At any rate, it was over and I could go home and take off these [censored] boots. My feet and calves were really beginning to ache from wearing these high heels. There was one episode of "Friends" where Monica had to have Chandler carry her on his back because she had bought expensive boots that were too painful to walk in. When I first saw that I had to laugh...but NOW when I see that episode I cringe and feel sympathetic ghost pains. I've been there, girlfriend. As the audience trickled out, I was hoping that I could wait in my balcony until most of the horde of Genghis Khan cleared out, but the two women in my balcony refused to leave. Apparently they had the same thought I did, and the longer I waited the more it creeped me out waiting with them. Hanging around them by myself made me feel like I was being a stalker, or something, so I got up, put on my wool coat and wrapped my paisley scarf around my neck, burying my feminine outfit with another layer of feminine outfit, and slung my purse over my shoulder to leave the balcony. I think you'll already know whether I bothered to take the program with me, or not. Immediately after leaving the balcony a gaggle of giggling young girls, who due to their eagerness to be somewhere else quickly, shot down the stairway past me. One of them bumped into me accidentally. She muttered "excuse me" very politely, and ran down to meet her friends. I wish I could have done that too, but my feet were KILLING me in these heels so all I could do is take soft steps as I OW OW OW'ed down the stairs which met into the main entrance. There, I must have been surrounded by FIVE HUNDRED people all milling around me, and of course I felt nervous and self conscious so I merely looked straight ahead. Off to the side I could see several people glance my way- or at least I think they were glancing my way- for a second before going back to what they were doing, so again, I don't know if they read me or they simply saw one of several hundred women milling around. I would have liked to believe they thought I was a female and were checking me out but couldn't look for long because they were with their wives (hey, it could happen!). At any rate, no one bothered me, said anything, or stared at me, and besides, it's amazing how little a person will care about their surroundings when their feet are killing them from their heels. I made it outside, and immediately, Jack Frost reached up my skirt and started having his way with me. I had forgotten just how C...O...L...D...it was, so I wrapped my scarf around my face and crossed my arms to keep warm. I know for a fact from that po