Bridesmaid Bethany Chapter 4
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Bridesmaid Bethany--Chapter 1 free porn video
I suppose that in today's constantly evolving society, things would have
been much easier for me had I simply been either a gay man or a
transsexual woman. The stereotype that gay men routinely cross dressed,
perpetrated by pop culture's embrace of the outrageous, campy drag
queen, was rivaled only by the daytime-talk-show-portrayal of the
transsexual as a predatory seducer of straight men.
But for a heterosexual, genetic male like myself, to dress as a woman
not as the result of a dare or a lost bet, but to voluntarily take the
opportunity to dress in soft, pretty, sensual women's clothing for the
sheer pleasure of it--what exactly did that make me, as far as the rest
of the world was concerned?
I thought about this often, in quiet moments, such as the times I found
myself back at Hot Nails with Lisa getting my nails done. I would look
across the salon at the reflection of myself, in my casual blouse, a
cute pair of Capri jeans, and a pair of sandals. I certainly looked
feminine, but did I look female? Passably female? It was hard to say?I
know I felt cute, anyway. Lisa always said that was half of the
illusion--if I felt wonderful, I would be acting naturally to where
nobody would be feeling the need to look at me twice because of any
strange body English--but I supposed I needed reassurance that I looked
pretty, that I looked attractive.
That was where Lisa invariably would step in. No matter how unsure I
would sometimes get about how I was looking or what I was wearing, it
was always her sweet, gentle guidance that would boost me to where it
didn't really matter to me what anybody else thought about me.
Of course, doing feminine things such as going to Hot Nails was another
example of something that a "normal" heterosexual man would just never
do voluntarily--to not only dress as a woman, but to do so sincerely, to
embrace the same grooming techniques that genetic females do in order to
make themselves attractive, and not to do so in order to become some
sort of walking punch line.
But with my long, acrylic nails and my waxed, arched eyebrows, it made
no sense for me to spend my time away from my new job at the club
parading around town on my day off looking like some sort of unshaven
half-female, half-slob.
Shortly after quitting my job delivering pizza, I returned to that store
to collect my last paycheck. Perhaps word had gotten out among my
former co-workers that I was now working as a hostess?a female hostess--
at a private club downtown; perhaps not. Did I want them to know? My
initial reaction was 'not really'. I didn't want to open myself up to
any ridicule or gossip. But when I realized that I would need that
final paycheck from the pizza joint while I awaited my first paycheck
from the club, I also realized that making that one final appearance at
the store was inevitable, and that no, it wasn't worth having my nails
removed for a single, two-minute encounter.
Besides, who were my co-workers going to tell besides each other? I
supposed that they were welcome to call the cops, or write their
congressman. And if they thought I was gay, or going to get a sex
change, well, again, Lisa knew otherwise, and she was all that truly
mattered to me.
It was with that two-minute trip to my old employer in mind, however,
that Lisa picked out a "power suit" for me to wear. While I enjoyed the
frills and exquisite femininity of a southern belle gown, or the regal
elegance of my work clothes, Lisa had a much more modern and
sophisticated look in mind for me that day, and with the help of a
couple of very knowledgeable salespeople, I soon was looking at an all-
new Bethany in the three-way mirror.
My dark skirt reached almost to my knee--short, yet still professional.
The matching jacket was much more stylish than the jacket to my work
suit--tapered in where it buttoned at my cinched waist, yet emphasizing
my "breasts". If I was daring enough, I could have gotten away with a
sexy camisole or a soft, white suiting tee underneath my jacket, but
instead Lisa selected a white, very soft blouse with cute French cuffs
and a classy open collar that was designed to spread over the lapels of
my jacket.
If that wasn't enough, to top the whole outfit off, Lisa selected for me
a, extremely sexy pair of pointy-toed, black patent leather stilettos,
and as I sat in the shoe department and watched the girl slide them onto
my feet, I held my breath in anticipation of what it must be like to
walk in them. Would I look wobbly and, well, male?
Lisa must have sensed my trepidation, for she told me, "It's like riding
a bike, sweetie. Just take a few steps and let the shoes do the work--
and you do understand the effect a pair of shoes like this can have on
people!"
I did. I carefully rose, pushing myself up using the arms of the shoe
department chair, rising at least an inch further in the air than any
pair of heels had ever lifted me before, and feeling my center of
gravity rapidly adjust to being perched on tiny little heels. The
muscles of my calves, thighs and butt intuitively compensated for the
sudden, feminine equilibrium I felt, and as I took my first step
forward, all my reservations vanished. Power suit, indeed!
As I used these new shoes to negotiate the nasty parking lot of my old
employer, I felt, not fear, but freedom. Why should I feel shame to
enter this place of business looking, and feeling, as wonderful as I did
at that moment? Suddenly what I was ashamed of was all the times I had
entered this store wearing a degrading polo shirt, worn khakis, and a
silly, logoed baseball cap. Good lord--what was I thinking?
The girl behind the counter was dressed this way. Her name was Jill,
and of course, she didn't recognize me right away. When she did look up
from her computer monitor and absently asked me if I had already placed
a phone order, I could detect a definite resigned contempt from her, as
she looked me not in the eye, but at my outfit.
"Hi, Jill," I said. "I'm just here to pick up my last paycheck."
Her eyes grew wide, and I felt myself blushing. "Oh my God," she said,
recognizing me. "What did you do?"
"I got a new job," I said.
"Doing what?"
"I'm a hostess."
"Does Lisa know?" she whispered.
"I'm working with Lisa," I told her.
"Hang on," she said, scurrying around the cut-table and back into the
office. I adjusted my purse strap and glanced down at my pointy toed
shoes as I heard a concerned murmuring coming from the back of the
store. It was mid-afternoon, a slow period for incoming orders, and I
hoped I wouldn't have to wait too long.
I was absently tapping the counter with my French-tipped nails when Jill
eventually came back out from the office with my paycheck, and I pulled
a pen from my purse to sign for it. I saw two of my male co-workers
peeking out at me, but they stayed in the office, looking slightly agog.
What, were they afraid to come out here and talk to me?
"That's a beautiful suit," Jill said, as I signed my male name on the
payroll sheet.
"Why thank you," I told her. "Lisa picked it out for me."
"Well, I'm amazed," she said. "You look better than me."
I smiled sadly at her. Her uniform shirt and pants were pilled and
stained, her hair was pulled back tightly underneath her cap. She wore
no makeup, and the greasy, high-calorie diet of a fast food employee was
not helping her to look much healthier, let alone prettier. "Thank you,
Jill," I told her, folding the check and tucking it into my purse.
I turned and pushed my way out the front door, aware of my two male co-
workers and their propensity to check out the backside of any and all
females passing in the street; I knew my backside was packed tightly
into my dark skirt and was undoubtedly wiggling interestingly as I
stepped off of the curb and onto my four inch heels. I opened my car
door and slid behind the wheel in what looked (and felt) like an
effortlessly feminine manner, although it had only been perfected after
several tries.
At first it had seemed as though there were so many of these things that
Lisa was able to seemingly do almost unconsciously, things that I had to
teach myself, and yet there were always more new things to learn?
***
It didn't take me very long to settle in to my new job as a hostess.
Working in a private club downtown alongside my fianc?e, Lisa was so
enjoyable, it was hard to believe I was actually getting paid to do it.
My first few weeks were spent mostly learning how to use the club's
computer system and member database (and learning to type with long
French nails). Although there was the occasional awkward moment with a
delivery person or other stranger with whom I would feel very vulnerable
and uncomfortable, Lisa assured me that that probably had more to do
with the job than the fact that I was a man.
My co-workers were all wonderful, however, accepting me as a hostess and
a sister, especially when they realized all of the work I was now saving
them. As a result, they tended to look out for me as well, whether
running interference when needed from an over inquisitive stranger, or
pulling me aside when my hair or makeup needed a quick tweaking of some
sort.
In the meantime, my instinct for such feminine needs, as well as my
confidence, became greater by the day. One evening in particular, after
grabbing my purse from the hostess room, I was riding the elevator down
to the first floor alone when I caught my full-length reflection in the
elevator doors and realized that I had functioned in a blouse, skirt,
hose and heels (not to mention my French-tipped nails, my waxed
eyebrows, and earrings) for the past several hours without even thinking
about it.
I had been shaving my legs smooth for quite some time now, and it
finally seemed normal for them to not have any hair on them. Indeed,
the uniform skirt suit and high-necked blouse that I'd admired on Lisa
so often were now my everyday wear as well, and while the other girls
occasionally complained about them, I only luxuriated in their overall
elegance. Being buttoned up the back and into such a soft luxurious
blouse on a daily basis was a treat as far as I was concerned.
I pushed the pearl-buttoned cuff of my blouse away from the small-faced
watch on my wrist. As the door opened into the parking garage, the
satin lining of my skirt swished against my nylon-covered upper thighs
as I carefully stepped over the elevator crack and proceeded out towards
my car, my heels making a dainty, click-clacking on the concrete that
echoed throughout the parking garage as I walked.
After removing my uniform jacket and digging through my purse for my
keys (I really needed to clean it out soon) I unlocked my car, smoothed
my skirt, and slid behind the wheel, depositing my purse and jacket in
the passenger seat. After starting the engine, the automatic shoulder
belt slid back and rested gently across my "breasts", and looking down
at myself, I admired the sting of pearls that Lisa had let me borrow
that day--they had been her grandmothers. I sighed, and watched as my
breast forms, nestled inside a bra that could be glimpsed through my
sheer blouse, heaved in quite a feminine manner. Then I carefully
planted one high-heeled foot on the gas, backed out of the parking spot,
and headed up for the street.
Audrey, the woman who worked in the little parking booth by the exit,
asked me, "All through with work tonight, Bethany?"
"Yes, indeed!" I said in my much-practiced feminine register. I found
myself making such girlish statements quite often while dressed like
this. I smiled and held up my parking card.
"Is Lisa working tonight?" Audrey asked.
I shook my head, feeling my long hair rearranging itself on my
shoulders, the high collar of my blouse soft and silky against my neck.
"She's off today," I told Audrey, "and she had promised to have dinner
ready for me when I got home."
"You're a lucky girl," Audrey told me, smiling.
I smiled back. "Have a wonderful night, Audrey."
"You too, Bethany." She was a very sweet lady. This job was such a
sharp contrast to my last job, delivering pizza. Women, especially,
were so much nicer to me when I was all dressed up.
Mara
- 06.06.2022
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