The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 9 The Knight s Passion
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One Strange Night On The Town free porn video
Forgive me, one and all, dear friends, for my lapse in attendance. I
had thought Fictionmania was extinct, and didn't know it had been
resurrected until now. Anyway, the following is 95% true, as I've
changed certain details to protect the innocent, to soothe bruised egos,
to rescue stranded kittens in trees, and to teach little girls not to
dress their Barbie dolls like hookers. In short, it contains the
occasional random babblings as before.
One Strange Night on the Town
By Kool Karen
As you see me writing this, it should be apparent that I had lied in my
last diary entry ("One night at the ballet") in that my cross dressing
urges most definitely did NOT entirely go away. Rather, it was akin to
someone eating a giant six foot hero sandwich...or to put it in female-
speak, a giant tub of rocky road ice cream: so many feminine feelings
left me full to bursting for a while, but the hunger will eventually
return. Thus, as a few of you predicted, I eventually found myself back
in nylons and heels, and I thought I'd give a short diary entry on one
of the stranger experiences in my search for feminization enlightenment.
I am a member of a group of CD/TV/TG who, bless their hearts, helped me
get out of the house and go somewhere to be more relaxed and comfortable
with my (ahem) hobby, which meets once a month. They were the ones who
convinced me that I am in fact very passable, which is what pushed me
out the door in tiny baby girl steps to attend the ballet to begin with.
New members breezed in and out with the same frequency that Tiger Woods
goes through celibacy pacts so I never know what to expect from meeting
to meeting. At one meeting, I was kneeling on the floor along with a
supportive wife of a TV trying to figure out how to get the stereo to
play a CD (she was teasing me over how great it was for her to be
wearing pants...hmmmph!). Another instance I was feeling refined,
elegant and sexy in my matching royal blue velvet skirt and vest
ensemble and fishnets, right before feeling like a ditzy chick after
opening a bag of Cheetos from the wrong end and spilling them all over
the floor. Yet another time I was by myself with two CD admirers
watching Japanese cartoons with the lights lowered. One complete
stranger there even invited me to spend a weekend in the Poconos with
him...which I'll do right after I pull out all my teeth. I thought I
had seen it all...famous last words!
For that month's meeting, I had put on what had become my favorite
outfit, the one that I had worn at the ballet where the world had fully
accepted me as a woman and fully expected me to be a proper woman in:
matching Victoria's Secret bra and panty set in burgundy satin (when
they're satin they make a girl feel soft, feminine, and sexy, and when
they're matching, they make a girl feel like an elegant lady. For those
of you with wives or girlfriends, go ahead and buy them matching satin
undies, and you'll see the difference it makes in their rapport after
wearing boring ol' cotton). Purple satin camisole with black lace and
spaghetti straps that give me "Hooters girl" breasts when I wear it over
my bra and mastectomy breast forms (this is another "I didn't realize
this until I became a girl" moment: camisoles are wonderful for hiding
the bra so that it can't peek out from in between blouse buttons).
Silky sheer JC Penney, "Sheer Caress" pantyhose in off black (whenever
I'm in "drab" my eyes still zero in on a pretty woman's legs in nylons,
but ever since the ballet, whenever Karen comes out to play it's like
she flips the switch in my head and pantyhose stops being a fetish and
instead become clothing I'm required to wear on my legs to look nice and
to be a proper lady. I really can't explain how the mind works like
that). Over my lingerie I wore: black velvet skirt, with the hem right
above my knees, purple silk blouse with French cuffs, black leather belt
with pewter ring buckle to give me an hourglass figure, and over my
blouse, I wore a black silk scarf with grey flowers painted on the ends
tied loosely around my neck like a sailor's tie. And of course, my
brunette wig (pulling my hair back in a "Fergie" hair style with a black
velvet barrette), women's glasses, and tasteful makeup that made my skin
look as smooth as glass. Fergie-on-the-cover-of-her-album-but-with-
glasses had come back! She was wearing the same outfit she wore to the
ballet, but as more than one women's magazine have ruled, repeating the
same outfit to two events is okay if no one from either event knows.
As I stood there in front of the mirror applying my lipstick (which
looked and felt 100% natural and normal as I saw a woman's face in the
mirror applying it to her lips), I could feel my male self being hung
up on a hanger and being put away and my inner girl was coming out to
play. I don't know about anyone else, but when I put on my makeup I wear
socks instead of my shoes (the same "world's softest socks" from Hanes,
which I still highly recommend to everyone), as it protects my nylons
from runs and makes putting on my makeup more comfortable from not
having to stand for any length of time in heels. Plus, it gives me one
final surge of feminine feelings as I sit down, take off my women's
socks, and slip my feet into my black suede tall boots with a 3"
stiletto heel into my feet and zip them up my calves. In one moment,
I'll have boring looking feet and legs, while an instant later I'll
suddenly have shapely, sexy legs from their being molded by high heels
that only a woman would ever be wearing, and the transformation makes me
feel like Cinderella. Well, okay, I know Cinderella wore glass
slippers, not boots. Work with me, here.
After putting on my tasteful silver hoop earrings, silver necklace, and
woman's watch, I reached for my new possession. I call it my "slave"
ring. It's a sterling silver ring with a large baby blue stone in a
tall setting, which I slipped onto my ring finger. I call it a "slave"
ring because, for one, it looks like a wedding ring so it constantly
makes me look and feel like there was a man somewhere legally making me
his wife (and besides, I have seen for myself where single women will
wear a wedding ring so that men will leave them alone), and for another,
I don't understand the physics of what makes it happen, but the ring is
easy to slip on but it does NOT come back off the knuckle of my ring
finger without a lot of tugging, squeezing, and swearing. The ring
simply wants to stay on my ring finger and insists on continuing to make
me think I'm a female. Maybe it's one of those magic forced
feminization rings I keep hearing about on Fictionmania...?
After giving myself a light spray of perfume (note to my gentle readers-
if you ever go to a CD/TV/TG meeting, be very sparing on the perfume. I
guarantee that everyone else there will have practically bathed in
perfume, and the myriad different perfumes along with yours will make
the room smell like poison gas is being manufactured there), I slung my
purse over my shoulder and drove the twenty minutes or so to the meeting
room. By now, I have become a complete expert in driving in
heels...which, after all, is something that only a woman would ever say.
The meeting hall is actually a club house to a gay and lesbian support
center which the group rents out once a month, and is on the upstairs
level. As I walk to the door from the parking lot I am welcomed once
again by my friend, the feminine "click click click" sound that my heels
made on the pavement and sidewalk (In the movie, "The Devil Wears Prada"
the women who make this sound as they walk are called, "clackers", so
according to Anne Hathaway I'm now a clacker). I go in and walk past
the lower entrance of, well, to be honest, I have no idea what the heck
is downstairs, but when I look through the glass of the front door I see
a lot of children dancing. They weren't wearing costumes or formal
wear, they were simply dancing. Some of them glance out the window
momentarily at me as I walk by before going back to what they were
doing. I love those moments, as it tells me society is seeing a woman
walk by, and that I am fully accepted as a woman.
We are, after all, social animals, and we pick up our social rules and
regulations for how to act and behave from our social interactions.
This is how women in Africa get the idea that it is proper and normal to
wear plates in their lips (no, it's not a stereotype, some tribes
actually do that), and people in football stadiums get the idea that it
is proper and normal to paint their faces in zebra stripes like Mel
Gibson in, "Lionheart" with blues, reds, oranges, or whatever their team
colors are- their society is telling them it is proper and normal, and
when they follow the rules and regulations of society, society rewards
them with acceptance, and acceptance from society is the ultimate prize
every social animal in creation seeks.
If there are aliens out there in space, they will be wearing silver jump
suits and have boxes with blinking lights on their chest like Darth
Vader because their society is telling them to. Conforming to social
norms is regrettably the reason why men can NOT wear bras, lipstick, and
skirts in public, even though they're just the same cloth they normally
wear that has been sewn into different shapes. Society, however, was
telling me it was proper and normal for ME to be in a bra, lipstick, and
a skirt in public. I wasn't wearing female clothes, an in they belonged
to be on another person. I was wearing MY clothes, an in they belonged
to be on ME. It gave me a much welcomed ego boost as I stepped into the
elevator with my purse hanging off my shoulder, pushed the button for
the second floor with my dark red fingernails, stepped out onto my high
heels to open the door to the meeting room...
...where I found that the room was dark and the door was locked..? What
the...?
I checked my delicate little women's watch and it said 7:30- it should
have been open a half hour ago. I took the cell phone out of my purse
(with the very feminine wallpaper of a beautiful nymph kneeling over a
curious looking baby dragon and smiling) and checked the date- yes, the
third Saturday of the month, the day the group always reserves the room.
Not only were all my electronics telling me I was a girl, they were
telling me it was the right day and time to be there. Not being sure
what to do, I decided to wait a few minutes, to see if anyone showed up.
After all, I had my refection in the mirror in the hallway to keep me
entertained.
I was listening to the radio the other day when a psychologist referred
to cross dressers as people who had, "Venus Envy", meaning they were
envious of the attractiveness that women have, and the power they know
their attractiveness gives them. A woman could get a man to lick the
floors of the bathroom stalls of Grand Central Station if she knows how
to play her femininity right, and I've seen for myself how a woman can
play a man to say, "stand aside, little lady, and let a real man lift
this heavy thing for you" and get him to think it was his idea for him
to lift that heavy thing, when it was really hers.. Posing in front of a
different mirror gave me a chance to live out my own Venus Envy and
pretend I was a supermodel and practice my runway walk (don't tell me
you haven't done it yourself!) By the way, did you know that the symbol
for "female", the circle with the cross beneath it, is supposed to
represent a hand mirror? It's true!
After a few minutes, someone did show up, a new member I hadn't seen
before. I can only describe him as someone who means well on his path
to cross-dressing: a man in a regular man's sweater and jeans, but with
a woman's wig poorly placed on his head and high heels, and carrying a
bucket of KFC chicken. Oh yeah, he had what looked like a triple D bust
line. Apparently he missed my last diary entry recommending to look and
dress like how all the other women do in order to blend in. I hope I
don't come off as sounding like a snob, as I do know we're all searching
for different things. Some people in this (ahem) hobby simply have a
fetish for wearing heels, others get off on having anatomically
improbable breasts, while still others love feeling feminine and enjoy
the sensation that their minds, bodies, and gender roles are completely
being changed into a woman's. I'll let you decide which person is which
in this story.
We introduced ourselves (I didn't bother trying to pretend I was
female), and like myself, he (can I call my compatriot a "he" or a "she"
in this instance? I genuinely don't know) was puzzled why the room was
closed. We chatted a bit and tried calling the organizers of the event
(no answer) and after a few minutes of waiting, he beckoning me to join
him on the sofa down the hall to wait a few minutes longer just in case
the one with the keys was simply late. I didn't care to go home just
yet, and this person was a friendly sort so I sat down on the chair
across from him, placing my purse over the back of the chair and sitting
with my legs crossed like a proper lady.
It didn't take long for me to realize why he was being so nice and
friendly- despite my being openly a CD, apparently I was entirely
feminine enough that he didn't care, and he began treating me like I was
female...and to the readers who have experienced this themselves, you
KNOW when you're being treated like a female. He was complimenting me
on how nice I looked dressed up, he said my voice was very feminine and
sounded like Cher (which was a COMPLETE shock to me, as I always thought
my voice was a dead giveaway. I guess speaking in the sing-song way
that a woman always changes her pitch did more for me than I thought)
and he was even checking out my legs from time to time. I suppose it
didn't help at all that this was the velvet skirt with the silky lining,
and with my legs being in nylons it made the skirt slide up like silk
upon ice and made me show off more leg than I wanted to. All the while,
he spoke to me so energetically, like the way a man does when he's
trying to impress a woman.
A word about that. Women won't know this as they never get to see it
from the opposite gender side, but when a woman is beautiful, she can be
a complete lunatic and be saying the most mind numbingly stupid
things...and yet men won't care. They will still treat her with
gentleness and kindness and she will feel like the entire world loves
her, when in actuality the men just want to get into her skirt. I once
saw a television show that documented the world of the supermodel, and
there was this one beautiful woman who was lamenting to her male
assistant how hard it is to be a model, and he agreed enthusiastically
like she just explained the meaning of life to him. Are you flipping
kidding me?!? All they do is walk down the runway and starve
themselves. How is that hard compared to, say, someone digging up rocks
on a road crew, or our soldiers walking through a bunch of slums waiting
to be ambushed by religious zealots who demand their women be dressed up
like mummies? Am I not seeing something, here?
Anyway, the reason I brought all that up is because after a while where
he was treating me with gentleness and kindness like I was a woman,
that's when he started steering the conversation to sex. What a big
shock that is to you, I'm sure. I'll admit that, if he came in looking
like a guy I might have entertained the idea of going out with him, but
as it was, my mind was in female mode, and I couldn't go out with
someone that had a bigger rack than I have. Besides, his munching on
the KFC chicken he brought with him as he talked to me was about as
romantic as swinging road kill over your head. SO, I steered the
conversation into the philosophical view of sex, just to derail where
this was going. There is one fascinating scene in the movie, "When
Harry met Sally", where Billy Crystal was explaining to Meg Ryan how men
really can't be friends with women because for men, sexual attraction
always gets in the way. I brought that up, and he was blown away like I
just explained the meaning of life to him. Good grief, how the heck is
it that women aren't mistresses of the world yet?
At about this point, several other people showed up. They were two
black women, carrying huge baskets of food. They were exceptionally
friendly and supportive, which told me they were members of the Gay and
Lesbian organization we rented the place from. We inquired as to where
everybody was, and they explained the hall was reserved for a member's
birthday party (it turns out the organizers of the CD/TV/TG group only
found about the change the day before and word hadn't gone out.)
Feeling rather bummed, we were about to leave when I jokingly made my
pouty face and asked if we were invited too, and to my full surprise
they said yes! I had just passed ANOTHER milestone in my feminization-
crashing a party as a woman! (well, I know it doesn't really count, but
it still made me a party girl and that's the story I'm sticking to).
So, they let us into the room and they started setting the room up. I
asked them if they needed help, since although I'm a party crasher it
doesn't make me a leech, and besides, helping other women set up for a
party is a "chick" thing, but they said they'll take care of everything
and that I can just "relax and make myself look pretty". I must tell
you I instantly fell in love with these women. As they started setting
up (all the while, my suitor was still hitting on me. Dude, you're
crashing someone else's party. Show some respect to your hosts!) other
people started coming in. A quite friendly DJ, two gay men who sat in
the corner by themselves and wouldn't talk to anyone, and a few lesbian
couples who were friends with the DJ, soon came in, all of them black
men and women. It suddenly dawned on me this was an African-American
gay and lesbian party, and I was standing out like a marshmallow in a
cup of cocoa.
Now, I don't even have a microbe of racism in my body, and they were all
great, friendly people who welcomed me (and besides, they were bring in
some really yummy looking food) so I decided to stay and started to
mingle. I regret to say the person I crashed the party with may not
have been as open minded, because he took off shortly thereafter. I'm
sorry, but I can't talk to everybody at once. I started chatting up
with the DJ and the ladies who knew him, and he was a GREAT guy, quite
friendly, although the women were someone shy around me. One of them
did compliment me on my purse, which made me feel accepted as a female
all over again.
Oh, and on a side note: in case I ever happen to bump into you someday
and you see me carrying a black leather purse with a gorgeous gold
colored metal sunburst design attached to it, if you want to know where
I got it, no need to ask- it's a regular black leather with a gold
colored clip for a scarf that I attached to it, making it look like it
was part of the whole design. I think I got the tip from, "Cosmo". It
looks REALLY elegant and REALLY classy, and several wives of CDs have
complimented me on it. Now you know my secret to having a gorgeous bag.
Use it wisely.
Of course, with his being a DJ, we had to talk about music, which was a
trip in itself, seeing he started his turntable up and was blasting the
music loud enough to make the windows of the International Space Station
vibrate. I regret to say I made a social faux pas in mentioning that I
didn't really care for jazz, which either amused or offended him, I
don't know, as he turned to the ladies that were with him and said "Did
you hear that? She doesn't like jazz!" I knew I had forgotten rule
number one in party crashing etiquette- NEVER bring any negativity into
the party, which means NEVER stepping on the toes of your guests in any
way, shape, or form. I quickly recovered by saying that although I
didn't care for jazz, I do love R&B and mentioned Stevie Wonder (yes, I
genuinely do like Stevie Wonder. How can any woman NOT like, "I just
called to say I love you"?) That steered me away from any awkward,
"Wait a minute- are you supposed to be here?" moments, and I went
through his collection of music and even wrote down the names of some
really interesting songs he was playing. Remember from my last diary
entry that I keep a "woman's" pad and pencil in my purse to keep
shopping lists and the like? It really comes in handy for writing down
the names of kewl songs I come across, too. Once again, as I pushed my
lipstick and mascara out of the way to retrieve my pad, my purse was
telling me it wasn't simply some piece of costume or play pretend piece.
It was a fully functioning component of my completely female lifestyle.
I was enjoying myself so much, it wasn't until later that I had reached
female Nirvana- I had COMPLETELY, and I mean COMPLETELY, forgotten that
I was a cross dresser. I had become a woman in the middle of a party
properly dressed in a velvet skirt, off black nylons, purple silk
blouse, black suede high heeled boots, and a black leather purse that
was a fully functioning component of my completely female lifestyle
hanging off my shoulder, like it was something that I did every day.
Even when the DJ was taken aback at my rudeness, he said, "Did you hear
what SHE said?" in a purely instinctive use of the feminine pronoun in
referral to me. If there was even a shred of this Venus envy in me, it
was now completely gone, like someone thirsty that had been given a
glass of water.
Then, as I was sitting at a table with my legs crossed so femininely and
playing games on my cell phone (a Java game of a figure skater trying to
score points in her skating program. What else would I be playing?)
while listening to the music, right about this time, the guest of honor
showed up. The birthday girl turned out to be a freshly post-op
transsexual and her pre-op girlfriend/significant other/fellow club
member/whoever. Let's just say for politeness' sake that she didn't
even remotely get her money's worth out of her gender change operation,
as she suffered from a female malady that many women suffer from-
namely, she didn't even remotely look like one. She and her
girlfriend/significant other/fellow club member/whoever greeted everyone
and they all went into the kitchen of the club hall and, except for the
two guys sitting in the corner who weren't talking to anyone else,
everyone followed them in, leaving me alone.
The only way I can describe my feelings is that one moment I was high as
a kite, and the next moment I felt like the loneliest person on the
planet. I will admit my personal failure here in that the weirdness
factor of the evening had suddenly sunk in, and the loud music was
starting to give me a headache anyway, so I decided to slip out and head
home.
As I left the building, HOLY RONALD MCDONALD did everything change
outside! The bar down at the other end was hopping, the parking lot was
full, and standing directly outside the door I was leaving from was a
drug dealer! I'm not a cop, but I know drug dealers put out signals of
being a drug dealer the same way as a woman does when she sends out
signals that she's a woman. He glanced my way for a moment before going
back to his business of calling out to people down at the other end. My
"girl fears" took control of me at that moment, as being alone in a
parking lot at night in heels and a skirt made me feel extra vulnerable
and submissive in female instinct. My old friend of "click click click"
on the pavement now turned into a siren for anyone drunk or high enough
to look to cause trouble. I looked down submissively and held my purse
extra tightly as I clutched my pepper spray, walked to my vehicle,
fortunately unmolested. As I drove home, I had to laugh at how
thoroughly I was mentally changing into a girl- I mean, really, what guy
would ever instinctively clutch pepper spray and hold onto his purse
tightly as he walked through a parking lot alone at night?
Later, as I sat on my couch at home, with my hair pulled back in a pony
tail with my favorite scrunchie and relaxing with my stocking feet in my
"world's softest socks" (ooooh, did not wearing heels feel good. It's
one of those peculiar feminine feelings that every woman has experienced
and men will never know) while relaxing with a cup of tea in my pink
"Girls Rule" mug (phooey! I forgot to take my lipstick off and I'm
getting lipstick stains on it. People are going to think I'm a girl or
something), I was basking once again in my feminization that felt
natural and normal to me. Yet, the entire evening kept running over and
over in my mind. It wasn't entirely due to a guy dressed like Milton
Berle in drag who was munching on fried chicken while hitting on me. It
wasn't that I had crashed an African-American gay and lesbian get
together, and it really wasn't that it was a birthday party for a
transsexual who made Patrick Swayze in that "Wong Foo" movie look like a
runway model by comparison. Such things are only skin deep, and they
were all such great and nice people (especially that kewl DJ). It may
have been all of it put together, I suppose, that got me weirded out. I
am ashamed at my rudeness now, and wished I could have at least said
Happy Birthday to her.
What I find fascinating about this is how distinctly different women's
gender roles are to men. I had been so seduced by all the feminine
feelings and all the acceptance that I lost track of the fact that it
wasn't my party, it was for someone else, and I felt depressed when the
MY party suddenly became SOMEONE ELSE'S party. I can definitely see now
how beautiful women can sometimes fall into the unpleasant trap of
becoming a prima donna- men are always fawning on them and making them
feel like the center of the universe that it sometimes can go to their
head and they wind up like the inevitable stuck up cheerleader who went
to my high school as well as yours. On retrospect, I needed that
occasional dose of reality, to get my mind out of the clouds.
It's something I'll have to ponder, once I finish tugging, squeezing,
and swearing to get this damned "slave" ring off...
EPILOGUE
The next day, GREAT OPRAH WINFREY'S GHOST the emails were flying.
Apparently the organizers of the event we were supposed to have the
previous night was irate with the organization we were to rent the hall
from, and were complaining that we were summarily kicked out without
warning. In my lone voice I did what I could to defend my new brothers
and sisters (or is it sisters and brothers and sisters...?) and
responded that we really weren't kicked out. They were having a
birthday party and we could have attended if we had wanted to. Now, as
I write this, I have to laugh at my nativity- due to my full acceptance
by society in becoming a female member of the public, I had completely
forgotten why everyone was so irate- the majority of the other members
were frightened to go out and they were nowhere near my level of
confidence, and were barely able to leave the house dressed, let alone
crash someone's party. Thus, the most profound thing I have discovered
before or since: following a female gender role didn't get me into
trouble, but rather, it had liberated me. I guarantee that wouldn't
have been something I would have done in my male persona.
What can I say? I guess Karen is a party girl at heart.
Toodles!
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