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Portia's Confession free porn video
Portia's Confession
I have for years struggled to repress the desire in me to put on women's
clothes. It's always been part of me, this desire, a part of me and of
even my earliest memories. Ever since I swapped clothes with my
girlfriend and best friend at around the age of three.
Why has this desire been a struggle? Why don't I just put on the
clothes and have done with it?
Part of me asks these questions. Why can't I? Am I afraid of society's
disapproval? No, I have always been a rebel and never given a moment's
thought to what society thinks. I have always been a friend and an ally
of the weird, the outsider, the different, the oppressed.
Why then?
I have this deep underlying sense that it is wrong for a man to wear
women's clothes. And cute though it is I can't get out of it by saying
they're not women's clothes, they're my clothes. So where does that
come from?
"Judge not, less you be judged."
Yes, that's right. I have "got religion". Not in the Westboro Baptist
sense. You won't see or hear me telling people they are going to "burn
in hell". You won't see or hear me protesting about cakes or gay
marriage. You won't see or hear me at family planning clinics except
when I use my language skills to interpret for young women who want an
abortion.
You see I am not the placard waving sort.
"Judge not less you be judged." I don't want to judge other people and
I don't want them to judge me.
So am I a hypocrite? I guess people will see me as one. Particularly
when they read this and put "Christian" and "transvestite but strong
candidate for gender reassignment" together. But I was never there
speaking words of judgment or waving placards, well except for against
the government when I was a student.
My heroes? RuPaul, Eddie Izzard, Grayson Perry, Angelina Jolie, Mylene
Farmer, Marilyn Manson, Madonna, Lady Gaga, Pedro Almodovar, Graham
Norton, Prince, Mahatma Gandhi and Jesus Christ.... Yes mainly women or
men who dress or have dressed as women. People I feel might know what
it feels like to be me even though they don't know me. People I would
never meet in the real world. The "tick box" world. The binary "male"
or "female", "gay" or "straight" world.
In the real world I try to help the fatherless, people who are about to
fall off the ladder and become homeless. Because I know what it feels
to be homeless. And I wouldn't want anyone else to feel like me.
After a day at work and dinner with my girlfriend I have found that
there has always been something therapeutic about stepping into a pair
of panties and fastening a bra around my chest. What was it that was so
relaxing about rolling a pair of tights up my legs? Why did putting on
a suspender belt and stockings somehow feel more feminine as I fastened
the stockings to the straps than rolling on a pair of tights?
What was so purifying about painting my fingernails and toenails with
nail polish and applying a good lipstick? What was so fulfilling about
brushing a mascara brush over my eyelashes?
Standing there in the bathroom and having taken things this far, a full
or half slip was needed before zipping myself into a dress and slipping
on some decent heels. Sometimes I would add my fake pearl necklace
because I think it looks anachronistic and trashy (ever since Tim Curry
wore one in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show"!) and these days after
putting on my makeup I would find myself looking at myself in the
mirror. I would think about having my ears pierced. Sometimes I would
think about having a tattoo. But not tonight. A woman like my
girlfriend may be able to stand around in her bra, panties, stockings
and suspenders but I would feel naked in just my underwear.
So it was one of those evenings when she had gone to bed and I had
slipped off the tee shirt, trousers and boxer shorts my girlfriend would
expect to find me in and put on my clothes. Tonight it was hot and so I
hadn't bothered with a dress and had stopped at the full slip. I was
wearing a bra, panties, fishnets and suspenders under that slip. And 6
inch heels. Always heels!
I had done the washing up and was sitting in the kitchen with my back to
the door and the lights off while I watched "Suicide Squad" on my iPad.
Harley Quinn was my fictional heroine.
I didn't hear anything behind me and didn't realise that my girlfriend
had come downstairs for a glass of water until I found the lights on in
the living room and my boxer shorts were missing.
I knew then that she had been downstairs. She'd obviously seen me as I
had then gone back to the kitchen and seen her empty glass of water on
the worktop but I had not heard her. Why hadn't she said anything?
She knew but how long had she known? Had she just found out tonight or
had she known for a long time?
What was I going to say to her? Was our relationship over? I turned
off the lights, walked over to the stairs and slid off my heels. I
walked as quietly as I could in my stockinged feet, conscious that I was
the man of the house now. The man who walked on every creaking
floorboard rather than the fairy or nymph I wanted to be who floated or
drifted up to the bedroom without touching a single creaking floorboard.
She would be annoyed with me when my creaking floorboard routine stopped
her sleeping. But not tonight. I was relieved to find she was asleep.
No conversation would take place then tonight as I wasn't going to wake
her.
I couldn't open my drawer to look for a clean pair of boxer shorts as it
might wake her and she knew my secret now so I would sleep in our bed
for the first time in my bra and panties and my slip. I took off my
stockings and suspenders as I didn't want to put a run in my stockings.
I also removed my lipstick and mascara.
The fear kept me up and I couldn't sleep. What was I going to say? It
was one of those nights when you feel like you have been up all night as
you swear you heard the dawn chorus but how was it that she had got up
and left for work when you next turned round.
I had had lots of nights like that but this was the first one when I had
stayed up fretting about what I would say to her and how she would
react.
I got up and went to the bathroom. I resolved I would spend today
dressed as a woman for the first time so we would have to have the
conversation I was fretting about when she got home from work tonight.
I had to know what she was thinking.
I went back into the bedroom and drew the curtains to make the bed.
Then I saw it.
There was a handwritten note on her pillow and a single rose on top of
it.
It said:
"My darling Portia (I saw your secret email account on our computer),
Lately I had been worried about our relationship as you had become
distant and I had started to wonder why that was. You are not the first
boyfriend I have had with a penchant for crossdressing and I had
suspected you were a crossdresser for some time before I came home early
from work one day to find your clothing drying in our laundry room.
That was six months ago my Queen.
At the time I felt you were struggling with this and I did not know what
to say or think but I love you too much to lose you. When I saw you
last night watching your iPad I knew. So I took your boxer shorts and
threw them away. You need to face the facts that if you are not a
transwoman, you are at least a transvestite. It's time to woman up
Portia! Dress like the woman you were born to be.
I want to meet Portia tonight!"
So from fearing how she would react and what I should say I had in a
moment now gone to worrying what I should wear for my first date as a
woman with my girlfriend.
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