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'Becoming Bea' Chapter one I'm about to turn thirty-eight. My name is Bernard Torres and I'm only two years away from being forty. I'm still telling people that I'm in my early thirties, but that is most certainly not true. Not any more. I am middle-aged. It seemed only like yesterday when I was a carefree twenty- something student. I spent all my nights partying and all my days trying to keep myself awake during lectures. Well, maybe I didn't 'party' so much as I stayed up late playing board games with my nerdy group of friends. But still, I wasn't studying. I wasn't, and I'm still, not a very ambitious person. All I want is to find a life that is comfortable and simple. I want to love someone I know that I can trust and rely on. Someone who I can dedicate my whole life towards. But despite my disinterest, I managed to scrape together a degree in economics. Possibly because I am quite talented with numbers. In any case, the degree led to me getting a high-paying job working for a bank. I don't like to call myself a banker, but I suppose that is what I am. It is a cushy gig, sure enough, but it is soul-crushingly boring. My teenage self, the goth that played bass in a rather pitiful and unsuccessful band, would hate me now. Wearing suits and ties. Going to work for the evil capitalist system that oppresses the masses. Not that I ever truly believed any of that. I was just posturing. The truth is that I have always been a rather meek man. The only difference between me now and me then is that I used to smoke pot. Maybe it is my meekness that made my father hate me. After my mother died when I was still an infant he became solely responsible for my upbringing. And he was a rubbish father. He certainly did not believe in such sentimental nonsense as thinking that a father should have a loving relationship with his offspring. Even though he was a desperate alcoholic, and he hadn't been working for the army in decades, he still always thought of himself as a military man. His big hope in life was to see me grow into a strong and rugged man. He only ever expressed pride over me when I did something 'manly,' but that was something I rarely did. My father hated me for daring to only grow to be 5'6", like as if I did it to spite him. But I blamed it on him malnourishing me by hardly ever providing me with real food. I spent my whole youth living on cereal and potato chips. To say that Mary saved me would not be an exaggeration. Lots of people feel as if their partners picked them up from the worst possible situations, but when my father kicked me out of the house the day I turned eighteen, Mary was the one that offered me a place to stay. Back then we were just friends, but soon we came to love each other. I'd love to say that what happened was some great romantic moment where we suddenly realised our great love for each other, but that wasn't the case. It just happens to be the case that when you spend every day together and learning to appreciate each other's unique quirks, you just can't help it. You end up thinking you are in love. Although Mary insisted, for the longest time, that we were simply really good friends and roommates, she came to admit that she did have feelings for me. I secretly suspected that the reason she took so long was because she did not find me attractive. I mean, she was only half an inch shorter than me, and I am a provable complete wimp. She was, and still is, way out of my league. As we're still together, I guess I must be doing something right to make her want to put up with me. She does, however, spend an awful lot of time away from home. On the surface we might look like just any other married couple living in the suburbs. We've got a nice house that is not too big and not too small. We've got a mortgage which... well, it is definitively too big, but we manage to keep ourselves afloat. It all seems right, but the thing is, most of my time I spend in this house I am alone, and not with Mary. When we were students we were around each other almost every hour of every day, but now that we're both adults we hardly see each other. She is always away travelling for work. She is an archaeologist, my wife. Sure, I am proud of her, she is successful and considered to be a leader in her field, but that means she will spend long periods of time abroad, visiting various dig sites across the world. If I didn't know any better, perhaps if I was more paranoid, I'd think she was purposefully avoiding me. And obviously I feel like complaining any time I see her, or talk to her on the phone, but I can't do that without feeling guilty. I can't expect her to stay cooped up here at the house. There's not a lot of archaeological discoveries happening in the middle of suburbia. As much as I want her here, she likes the adventure and the romance of going 'round the world and digging up new artefacts that she can put on display. She does not share my simple need for a comfortable life. I think this is why we haven't had any children. Despite my wishes, and I've tried expressing them in the past, we're a childless couple. I very much would like to raise a kid and I don't care if it is a boy or a girl. At some level I just want to prove that my father did wrong. I want to prove to myself that it is possible to love a child, even if they aren't exactly what you wanted them to be. It is possible to feel unconditional love for a child. In fact, it is what every parent should feel. Most of my evenings, when I come back home from work, I spend my time feeling lonely and depressed. Maybe I have to admit to myself that, although I struggle with being honest about my own emotions, I know that I am not happy. I always feel too grateful for what Mary once did for me to ever express my grievances about the way she treats me now. I can't tell her that she is making me feel this way, because I feel as if it is my own responsibility to deal with my unhappiness. But as I stare at my tired face in the mirror I worry that it might be too late for me to change. But I shouldn't pity myself. I may be getting older, but I am hardly ancient. I don't have that many wrinkles on my face... Frankly, I look as boyish as I ever did. Not handsome, no, but I stopped aspiring to be seen as handsome many years ago. I will settle for not being outright ugly. And my eyesight still remains good, albeit not perfect. I do need my reading glasses. But I am certainly not some half-dead old man awaiting the grim spectre of death. I shouldn't dwell on my age so much. For a moment I thought about taking Mary out on a date. Like I used to, back when we were young. I'd get dressed up in a smart suit, something a little nicer than the ones that I have to wear to work, and she'd get to put on one of her sexiest dresses that she hasn't had an excuse to wear in a very long time. It would be a surprise to her, and I wouldn't even tell her which restaurant I would take her to. She likes surprises, Mary. Then maybe I could start up the ol' rusty charm-machine inside of me and make the case for why she should get a job in the city so that she doesn't have to keep travelling. I could make the case for why we should have children, I am sure I could make her see my side! I know that I could convince her to finally settle down and stay with me always... Or she would look me in the eyes and admit that she never truly loved me. That all she wants is to get back out there, in the wilderness, getting dirty while digging in the dirt. She'd sigh and say that it is time for us to get a divorce. If I made my desperation too obvious, and I pushed my agenda too hard, then it would only serve as the last straw that would make her leave me forever. I can't change her. I can't make her want the same things I want. I took a deep breath and decided to wander 'round the house a little. It was Friday and I had managed to sneak away from work earlier than usual. I can get all of my work done before noon, and yet I am expected to stay just to appear to be working harder. Pfth, it is pointless... but then again, now that I am home, I'm just feeling sorry for myself. There's gotta be something else I can do with my time. *** I enter the bedroom where we both are supposed to sleep. It is a double- sized bed, but only one side is ever being used. Mary comes home every now and then, and then she even sometimes sleeps on the couch. Come to think of it, the last time we had sex was probably years ago. When we were young we used to fuck nearly every day... but maybe that is every married couple. I looked at the doors to the wardrobe. It seemed silly to me that despite her spending so little time here at home with me, she still has a big walk-in closet filled with all sorts of clothes that she never wears. My own clothes all fit inside the small little dresser next to the bed just under the window. It is all mostly plain stuff, some cardigans and some khakis. Except for that previously mentioned goth-phase I had as a teenager, I have always dressed like I was a middle-aged accountant. Which I guess is what I am now. But Mary's wardrobe... it is something that I could only describe as being near magical. Behind those flimsy doors you will find whole rows of dresses from nearly every accomplished designer that has walked on this earth. You would also find boxes upon boxes of fine and expertly crafted shoes in nearly every style. And deep into the wardrobe you would find a naughty but fine collection of the most exquisite lingerie. I knew all this because I had actually bought most of it. Mary wasn't mad about shopping, but she did like it when I got her new clothes as gifts. And as I could afford it, I kept buying her new gifts. Our life together, before she would spend more and more time travelling abroad, was actually rather affluent, all things considered. Perhaps it is because we never had kids that we ended up with such great disposable income. And much of that excess wealth went towards filling Mary's magical wardrobe. "A mausoleum to the clothes that she never wears," I muttered to myself bitterly. I noticed a bit of cloth sticking out underneath the wardrobe door. As I generally have nothing better to do when I am at home alone on the weekends I tend to get a little crazed about tidying up. Seeing that bit of cloth sticking out from behind the door felt like I was being physically poked by it. I had to make determined steps to fix it. I can't have even a little trace of a mess in my house. But as I opened the door, in a gesture that frankly was a little too flamboyant and dramatic, I expressed genuine shock. The entirety of the wardrobe's content had fallen down from the various hangers and shelves that kept things organised, and now the clothes were found as a big pile on the floor. It looked like there had been an earthquake, but on closer inspection I noticed that one heavy shelf on the top had fallen down and brought the rest with it through some kind of domino-effect. Nevertheless, the mess was undeniable (and frankly unbearable to a neat-freak like myself.) "Well..." I said to myself with a heavy breath. "It looks like I have some tidying up to do." *** After several hours sorting and folding clothes into neat stacks, separated by colour and styles, I was relieved to see that nothing had gotten damaged. Not that I was worried that Mary would chew me out if she got home and found that I had damaged some of her precious clothing, but... Well, truth be told, I would be most upset if something had gotten damaged. At some level, I wanted all of these clothes to remain in their perfect pristine condition. Maybe because they reminded me of Mary, but also maybe because these were expensive clothes. You may repair a tear in an old pair of jeans, but you wouldn't do the same with a luxurious evening dress. But I suppose I also felt that if the wardrobe wasn't in the same condition as Mary had left it in, then it would be like she truly had left me. I realised that thinking that is similar to husbands whose wives have died and refuse to to get rid of anything that belonged to them. Now, Mary is hardly dead, but she's hardly ever present. I may have a reason to be a bitter husband, but not an overly sentimental fool. As I held one of her clothes in my hand I took my time to feel the fabric between my thumb and my fingers. It was a red dress. I suspected that the material was polyester, but I couldn't be sure. It felt good in my hands, though. I remembered buying this for Mary many years ago, but she's hardly ever worn it. It looks brand new, albeit a little less than fashionable. In fact, as I gaze around the room I realise that many of these clothes Mary has never worn. I used to think she was mad about clothes, but now I started suspecting that it is me that is mad about clothes. Clearly I am the one obsessed with her wardrobe, and she is merely humouring me by acting excited when I bring her new gifts. "That's embarrassing," I sighed to myself. "I suppose I'm more into women's fashion than my wife." But that got me thinking strange thoughts. As I held this red dress in my hands I started thinking about putting it on. I tried dismissing that thought as soon as it popped up, but I couldn't. I really couldn't stop thinking about the feminine material slipping over my skin. And the dress did look about my size, I mean, I was the same size as my wife so everything here should fit me just fine. Could this whole wardrobe fit me? I mean, sure, Mary was half an inch shorter than me, but that shouldn't make any difference. Sure, I've always been skinnier than Mary, but I've put on a few pounds since she's been gone... I suppose because I've been eating almost exclusively fast food (I'm a terrible cook.) No I wasn't chubby, and it'd probably require me to eat a whole mountain before I'd get overweight, but I had gotten 'puffier.' Especially my chest and my butt, which embarrassed me normally, but now seemed like it would be perfect, if I were to wear some of Mary's clothes. Was I really about to do this? I shook my head in frustration... I couldn't. It would be mad. It was just the result of my extreme boredom and loneliness. I was going a bit loopy without Mary. I had gotten mad spending all my days alone here in the house. Maybe I should just call Mary. She might not pick up, but if she does and we talk maybe this stupid impulse will all but evaporate. Though, I had to admit, that of all the ways to go crazy, this seemed like one of the more innocent ways. After all, it's just clothes... and no-one is here to see me wear whatever I want. Maybe could wear some of her lingerie, too. *** It was hard to say that I hadn't gone too far when I stared at my reflection in the mirror and saw the red lipstick on my lips, the mascara covering my eyelashes and the improvised feminine hairstyle that I had given myself. My hair wasn't long, though it had been several months since my last visit to the barber's. I guess you'd call it 'unkempt.' With the help of Mary's different hair products I have managed to make it look like the kind of short haircut a woman might have. I did it by combing my deep brown hair forwards then combing it slightly to the side. And as I've never had much beard growth, and hardly ever needed to shave my face, I didn't look like a man in drag. I looked like a woman. I looked down at my naked body. It was entirely hairless and smooth, but that's not because I wanted to look female, but rather because I actually liked keeping my body shaved. I don't remember when I started doing it, but I'm guessing that it was another lonely weekend and I got bored and I saw the razor and... I didn't see the harm in it. With the exception of the hair on my head I had remained completely smooth since then. But now it just signalled how lacking in masculinity I truly was. It wasn't news to me. Obviously, I haven't gone through my entire life up until this point unaware of the fact that I am a lesser man. Being together with a woman nearly the same size as me didn't exactly make me confident in my manhood. Obviously I was a small fry. A 'beta' male. But at least I thought I was still a man. Now I started suspecting that maybe I have some undiagnosed hormonal problem. Maybe I was intersex? It certainly would explain that tiny penis between my legs. Sure, Mary never claimed to have any problems with it, saying over and over that women don't care about penis size. 'What matters is how the man uses it,' she reassured me. But I am not sure that I believed her. I mean, there must be a good reason why she never asked me to penetrate her when we were having sex. She only ever wants me to lick her pussy, which I am happy to do, but I can't help but think that my particular inadequacy 'down there' is to blame. If I was a real man, with a big cock, then maybe she wouldn't be away working all the time. Maybe she is cheating on me right now... For some reason thinking that made me shiver. It was almost an exciting feeling, but then I felt a rush of humiliation. To distract myself I shook my head and grabbed the pair of panties that I had picked out to wear. They were a light blue pair (I suppose you'd call them 'baby blue,') and they had a small white bow in the front. It gave me pleasure feeling the light fabric slip over my hairless skin. I had never worn underwear this comfortable before. Is this what women feel all the time? I had just assumed that it was natural for everyone to wear underwear that felt uncomfortable and kept itching your skin and were too big. Maybe I wasn't made to wear boxers. These fitted me so well that I almost instinctively swore never to wear anything but panties again. But then I realised that when Mary gets back she can't see me wear her things... but until Mary gets back I shouldn't have to be uncomfortable. And she can't exactly wear them if she's not here, right? As I wandered through the house naked except for the make-up on my face and the panties hugging my hips, I felt as if I was walking on a cloud. To get the panties on I had to push my small (likely underdeveloped) testicles back into my body. I managed to flatten my crotch as best as I could and found that the tightness of the panties were enough to keep my testicles tucked away. I hope I didn't do any damage to them. I still hadn't given up my hope to one day become a father, even though I now realised that I looked more like a mother. I walked past the mirror in the hallway and noticed how my legs and crotch looked exactly like a woman's. It thrilled me. I pictured myself wearing stockings or high heels. I mean, if I was going to do this then I might as well go the whole way. It is not as if anyone will know. This will just be my secret. And it excited me. I actually felt my tiny penis twitch between my legs, but luckily it struggled to get hard. It would be very awkward having to get rid of an erection while wearing women's clothes. What if I got some of my, erhm, 'seed' on Mary's clothes? Standing in front of the mirror I noticed my flabby chest and using my hands I pushed my pecs together to make it look like I had a cleavage. But even without artificially making my chest look feminine, it did look like I had a pair of small breasts. You could even call them 'perky.' Of course, as I thought that I felt a surge of humiliation wash over me, and I remembered what I was doing to myself. Here I was about to completely surrender to the feminine ghost that has haunted me all of my life. My lack of masculinity was now being phrased as something positive in my mind. It made me think about the new clothes that I could get to wear. My humiliation briefly lessened as I got excited again. I started thinking about which of Mary's bras would look the best combined with the panties I was wearing. Mary was a big-chested woman. Probably a d-cup, but I couldn't say exactly. While I bought her a lot of clothes, I didn't buy her any underwear. The thought of entering that part of a store, where few men dare to tread, well... it would just be far too embarrassing. I mean, it was already embarrassing for me to buy her regular clothes. Especially as I was a small man and all the clothes could potentially fit me. I think most of the sales' ladies I talked to assumed that I was buying them for myself. They often gave me helpful tips about how I could make myself look prettier, often while giggling madly. Sure, I had tried buying Mary new lingerie before, but I ended up with a face so red you could mistake it for a beetroot. Still, if I was going to wear one of my Mary's bras then I would have to stuff it. I could use some bundled up socks for that purpose, but if I was going to do this more often in the future then maybe it would be a good idea to buy a pair of false breasts. The kind female impersonators use. It would certainly look more convincing than some socks! But then, after having thought that, I slapped myself for even thinking that was a good idea. How could I hide a pair of false breasts from Mary? I saw a blue bra hanging from a chair by the door leading to the bedroom. I didn't know how it had gotten there, but I realised that it matched the panties that I was wearing. It was nearly the same colour, and the bra even had the same kind of white bow, but this time placed between the two cups. In general it wasn't the sexiest bra, but it did have a little lacy trim to make it look a little fancier. It was pretty, and I've always liked 'pretty.' As I held it in my hand I felt that it had no underwire, which seemed good to me. If I was going to start wearing bras, I'd better start with a comfortable one. And it is not as if I needed the support that a wire would give me. At least not currently. I shook my head at the thought that I might one day require a bra with an underwire. As if I was going to have boobs as big as Mary's. I always enjoyed watching her boobs jiggle around the house, and I understand why she might want more robust bras, but I was not ever going to be as buxom as my wife! A modest a-cup would do me just fine. *** I fell asleep that night wearing one of my wife's nighties, an awfully girlish and lacy bright purple one. I had removed the panties, but despite receiving that freedom, my penis seemed more shrivelled and minuscule than ever. Like as if it had been frightened and gone into hiding. In any case, I figured that wasn't so bad, as I'd be back to wearing panties today. I still had the make-up on my face, despite having tried to remove it before I went to bed. Turns out that make-up isn't as easily removable as I first might have thought. That was actually good to know, as I don't want to be seen dressed as a man with traces of make-up on my face. I probably shouldn't apply any new make-up tomorrow, as I'm going back to work on Monday. Still, despite these worries, I did sleep like a baby. A very feminine baby, surrounded by clouds of pink, satin and lace. Despite the nightie belonging to Mary and her fantastically large breasts, I managed to squeeze my two small mounds together to make it look like I did have real breasts. I looked like a woman. Well, a woman that greatly overestimated the size of her own breasts. Waking up was near perfect. I heard birdsong outside. I saw the gentle rays of sunshine come through the window and land softly on my sheets. I smiled. I felt good, and at first I actually feared that emotion. This is how I'd feel whenever I woke up next to Mary in my youth. When we were newly in love. 'Shame she wasn't here,' I thought. Then I remembered I was glad she wasn't here. I was still wearing her nightie. I looked like a sissy. But despite knowing that I looked like a sissy, I didn't stop smiling. I would have felt guilty about this if I had been a young man, but as I am about to turn middle-aged I felt unbothered. After all, life was too short to feel guilty about things. If it feels good, and if it harms nobody, then give me a good reason why I shouldn't do it? I was no superstitious man, I didn't believe that I had some vengeful God looking over me about to punish me for being a wicked pervert. Still... as much as I could following this line of reasoning myself, I didn't expect Mary to feel the same way. I would never want to tell her that I had experimented with crossdressing. Her clothes were her clothes. Even if I had bought most of them. After removing the nightie, and neatly putting, I slipped on a plain pair of white panties and a long lavender robe. Both were made of cotton. I would start this day with simpler garments, but then, once I've gotten my morning cup of coffee and my vitamin supplements, I might put on something more... raunchy. It got me excited thinking about my options. I was spoiled for choice. I found a pair of slippers that belonged to my wife. They were rather simple, and a bit worn, but they looked super comfortable. Small, though. At first I worried that they may be too small, but as I slipped them on they fit almost too perfectly. It got me to humiliatingly realise that I had feet the same size as my wife's. I had always known that my feet were small, but now I had to admit that they were 'dainty.' Indeed, I was a dainty man. But the humiliation that I felt was coupled with a certain low-level bliss. I felt relieved, for a second, that I didn't have big feet. Then I felt my little penis twitch. Did it excite me that I wasn't a real man? I shook my head and decided to think about it later. There were more important things to think about now. Like turning on the coffeemaker. As I walked towards the kitchen I instinctively made sure that my penis still stayed tucked between my legs. But that is when I felt it. I had just squirted some of my 'seed' into the panties. I was 'wet.' I hadn't felt it happening. Sure, I felt the twitching, but I had never squirted without being erect before. And even then, I never produced much of the stuff. Now I was practically soaked. And that wasn't good, because I couldn't make such obvious stains in all of Mary's panties. One obvious solution was to decide that this was it, and that I should stop this crossdressing adventure, but I didn't want to stop. There had to be a better way to ensure that even if I did leak some of my... erhm... 'juices,' the panties would remain clean. What do women do when they have a problem like this? Well, I decided to figure it out after I had my coffee. I could live with having wet panties for a bit. It actually made me feel even more like a woman. *** After having that cup of coffee my determination was stronger than ever. It was even strong enough for it to completely override the mounting embarrassment that told me that what I was about to do was completely going too far. I was about to do something that would bring my manhood such shame. The part of me that still valued my masculinity shuddered, but the newly established feminine person in me squealed with glee when I saw the box that I was looking for. There they were. Mary's sanitary napkins. I wasn't in denial about this being a drastic step towards utter femininity, after all, how would Mary react if she found out about me using her feminine hygiene products? But I reckoned that I could always buy a new box if I used up all of her pads, and it is not as if she kept count on how many she had lying at home. As long as I remembered to get rid of all the evidence that I had used some, she would never figure out what I had done. And it would protect the delicate underwear from my little problem of squirting. Having to replace the white cotton panties that I had soiled I picked out a pair that I found particularly intriguing. They weren't that small, and they were kinda old-fashioned, but they were still sexy. They looked like the sort of panties a burlesque star might wear. They wear made from a black and lacy material that I couldn't quite recognise, but I could feel that they were luxurious. Probably had cost quite the pretty penny. They were probably not the kind of panties a woman might wear when she's in need of wearing sanitary napkins, but I didn't care. I wanted to wear them and I knew I couldn't afford getting them all wet. I placed the pad in the crotch of the panties the way I had seen my wife do it many times before. I removed the flimsy material covering the sticky part and placed it in the trash can. I had to remember to empty the trash can before Mary would get back home. When I pulled the panties back on, making sure to hold my penis and testicles back between my legs, I immediately noticed how vital the sanitary napkins truly were. I noticed that my hand was already covered in my wetness and completely sticky. I had washed my penis and it had already gotten wet again. In embarrassment I took to washing my hands and decided that I simply have to live with the fact that I'm always gonna be a little bit wet 'down there.' Maybe that is how it is for most women. I noticed myself in the mirror and saw the flat crotch now covered by the sexy panties. They reached all the way up to my waist and hugged me in a way that almost gave me an hourglass figure. In fact, I kinda thought my ass looked bigger than a man's ass should look. But then... who's to say what a man 'should' look like? Wasn't it like Mary had always said, that size doesn't matter, it matters most how you use it. So I may have a rounder bottom than most men, but that's not what matters... is it? I put on a matching bra, it was rather robust but also had the burlesque- quality that my panties had. It looked like it belonged to one of those women from a raunchy photograph in the fifties. Sure, it wasn't the kind of skimpy outfit that was fashionable these days but they were exquisitely feminine and made my entire body feel like a woman's. And if I pushed my small breasts together, and placed the bundled up socks underneath the flesh, it even looked like I had something of a cleavage. Oh, the thought of seeing a necklace plunge between my breasts made me shiver. I really loved this. I began to resent the fact that it would be Sunday tomorrow and the day after that I would have to return to work. I would have to get these feminine urges over with as soon as possible, because I couldn't imagine wearing girly clothes at work. It is not as if I ever talk to my co- workers, or as if anyone really cares about me there, but I like to blend in and make as little of a fuzz as possible. But maybe... maybe I could still wear panties underneath my suit. I felt my penis twitch in my panties. Good thing I thought about the napkins. *** I found myself, later that day, lying on the sofa all tuckered out from trying on nearly half of Mary's whole wardrobe. I had gone into a frenzy and now my own body was giving up. Sure, the things had fitted me, even if I had to struggle a little with some zippers and some other curious feminine clothes. It was certainly harder to dress yourself as a woman than as a man. Not to mention the make-up. I am sure that I really just looked like a clown, having had no experience with applying make-up before, but I had made sure to do my best. At least I thought it looked mostly okay, with no obvious mistakes. I did poke my eyes a lot with the mascara, and I really couldn't understand how women dealt with putting this stuff on every day. Lazily I had prepared a sandwich to eat. I could barely lift the butter knife, I was that tired, but I managed to spread it mostly equally over the bread. As I was preparing it I accidentally got some of the butter on my finger and decided to lick it off. When I had done that I noticed that my finger had gotten some of the bright red lipstick from my lips onto it. I sighed. If I was truly going to be ladylike, I would eat the sandwich with a knife and fork to preserve as much of the make-up. But... I decided that I had had enough time being a proper lady, now it was time to be the feminine equivalent of a slob. I switched on the TV and thought about watching something new. As I was dressed so femininely, I thought it was a good idea to put on something equally feminine. Let's go down this rabbit hole as far as it will go. So I found myself looking at the DVD box set of Sex and the City sitting on the shelf in the living room. My wife had been obsessed with the show when it was airing, but I always did my hardest to avoid watching it with her. It seemed too girly for me, but now being dressed like this I thought that I'd be an appropriate watch. And maybe that would actually help me get closer to my wife once she got back. I'd learn to think like her. Although I wasn't much of a drinker, I thought about opening a bottle of white sparkling wine that we had lying in the fridge. I mean, I shouldn't be that afraid to treat myself just 'cause Mary isn't here. It is not like I don't like the taste of wine. As I stood by the tv I once again saw my reflection, this time in the black mirror of the turned-off TV. I was now dressed in a long flowing maxi-skirt, in a floral pattern. The top ended just over my belly button, which made my waist look even more narrow than it actually was. Underneath that I had a pair of bikini briefs, naturally protected by another sanitary napkin. On my upper body I wore a rather simple white top that left my shoulders exposed. I had no bra on, but even then, the shape of the top only extenuated their forms and made it plainly obvious that I had a woman's figure. Worried that I might get cold as the sun sets I had a blanket with me. I tended to freeze a lot, something that Mary said was because of my size. She mentioned a male co-worker of hers that could stand outdoors, in the middle of winter, and happily continue digging for archaeological finds without even putting on a sweater. I'd probably freeze to death without this blanket with me. As I sank down on the sofa, having eaten my meagre sandwich, and now pouring myself a glass of the sparkling wine I recognised myself as one of the women that I've known that after a long day wants nothing more than to sit down and enjoy their femininity privately in front of the tv. They'd always like to sit with their legs tucked underneath them, rather than the mannish way of sitting which is to have their legs in front of them spread wide. I wasn't a good man-spreader, but I had never tried huddling together like I've seen women do. This seemed like a good time to try. I smiled to myself as I turned on the dvd-player and heard the familiar theme tune to the show. Hey, it was aired on HBO, so it can't be that bad. At least I won't have to suffer through a laugh track. *** What I hadn't expected, when I sat down to watch the show, was that I would end up spending the entirety of the evening getting increasingly drunk (I had opened at least four bottles at this point) and binge- watching Sex and the City. I suppose my concentration wasn't great throughout all of it... I'd definitely had to rewatch some episodes if I wanted to know what was going on, but I nevertheless greatly enjoyed myself. Knowing that it was getting far too late, and that I should be in bed, I moaned and wondered about falling asleep on the sofa. I was feeling so comfortable lying down, with my little belly full with wine, and even some ice-cream that I had found deeply hidden in the freezer. I let my hands run over my body. I had long ago found out about the thrills of having a smooth body, but now I also enjoyed having a perfumed and lotioned body. I felt so feminine, and I felt like... Well... I felt a little horny. A hand met the top of my panties underneath the skirt, and I ran a finger from the bottom to the top. The sanitary napkin did make it so that I couldn't feel my penis underneath, but it still felt pleasurable. And comforting, in a strange way. Like as if I was being cuddled by the feminine feelings into remaining calm and smiling. As my rubbing increased in speed, I felt my mouth opening, and I even felt myself starting to breathe heavier. I rubbed myself harder and harder and... I stopped. I was masturbating wearing my wife's clothes. Suddenly everything seemed so clear, and so clearly perverted and wrong. I was a man! I wasn't supposed to like any of this. In fact, I did not like it! I was simply bored and I love my wife so much that I desperately wanted something to do to make me remember her better. I miss her, that's no crime, but my perverted desire to bring her back to me by wearing her clothes had gone too far. Despite my drunkenness I rose from the sofa and made a conscious effort to get myself out of these clothes. I knew that I would need a really long shower to wash all this humiliation off me, but I was now resolute that I had to get rid of all of this feminine stuff. Well... at least put it back in place in Mary's wardrobe where it would be sealed away from me. But right now... I needed that shower. *** That Sunday I was firm in my intention to not fall into the same kind of perverted pit of feminine desire ever again. I awoke and looked at myself, still hairless as the day I was born, but now wearing my uncomfortable boxers and one of my, as I could clearly see now, oversized t-shirts. I had some slight traces of make-up still visible on my face, and I would have to scrub it very hard before going to work the next day. But before any such worries could come to me I felt the sudden, slightly delayed, but still enormously intense, hangover. I shuffled towards the kitchen like a zombie. On the floor I saw the slippers that I wore a couple of days ago. I made an incomprehensible low-pitched noise as I picked them up and put them away. By the sofa and near the TV I saw the bottles of wine, it even looked like I had spilled some without noticing. I really lost control of myself yesterday. But everyone has these lapses in judgement. Everyone is allowed to go a little crazy, as long as they get back the next day as sober and sane as always. And after the blasted hangover would be done with. It had been ages since I last felt this hungover. Not since my youth when I would awake after partying would I feel my head pulsating like this. It was like someone was consistently jamming the sides of my head with two tiny, but solid, mallets. I knew, however, the trick that I learned back then of dealing with a hangover, which is a fatty and non nutritious breakfast. I wasn't feeling much the energy of taking the time to cook something too complicated, but I found a frozen pizza in the freezer. Maybe a pizza for breakfast would be unhealthy enough. As I saw the Sex and the City box set by the tv I noticed several dvds lying around on the floor. I must have been too drunk to switch between them properly, so I had some tidying up to do. I hoped I hadn't scratched any, but it is the sort of thing that happens. At this point I wasn't actually so concerned with how Mary would react when she got back home. After all, here I was suffering from what I, at some level, imagined was her fault. She was the one that put me in this situation and she is the reason why I am so miserable. Sure, I love the woman, but why should I have to be under such distress because of her? I switched on the TV. I wanted to find something brainless to watch, something that wouldn't require too much effort to keep up with. Like a documentary about 18th century shoes or some reality show about librarians seeking love. Whatever inoffensive programming I could find. As I was flipping through the channels it occurred to me that I hadn't checked my emails all weekend. Maybe I should turn on my laptop and see if there's any news that I should know about. But... that would require moving. It was easier just to watch this show about dogs learning how to track truffles in the north of Italy. It was just brainless enough that I could just lie back on the sofa and gently... close... my... eyes. *** I was awoken by the smell of burnt pizza. Shit, I had left it in the oven. I struggled my way out of the sofa, feeling as if my body didn't move in time with my mind. Like I was living with real-life lag. But with heavy steps I made my way to the kitchen and managed, with great effort, to turn off the oven. Sensing the smell of burnt pizza had effectively ruined my appetite and now I was merely staring at the floor feeling nearly nothing much at all. At least the pounding headache was gone, but I couldn't say that I felt any good. I missed my wife, but I also began to feel mad at her. The fact that she wasn't here had driven me to madness, that was clear, and I would have to have a stern talk with her once she got back. I saw the laptop sitting on the kitchen table and I thought that maybe I should make an effort to check and see if I had gotten any new emails. I crawled my way from the floor by taking one short step at a time. First on all fours, then on my knees and finally on my two legs. But as I reached the chair I felt like going back to bed. The chair was so uncomfortable and so very, cruelly, un-bed-like. But I switched on the laptop and decided to act like a responsible adult that doesn't take several days to answer an email, even if it was the weekend. It seemed like it took ages for the laptop to start up. Maybe I should be careful with my surfing habits, it wouldn't surprise me if I had tons of bloatware installed on the computer slowing everything down. I guess that was the one way I truly acted like a middle-aged man. I had no savvy whatsoever in dealing with computers, even though I spend most of my day at work staring at a monitor monitoring endless strings of numbers that I am supposed to be deciphering. I open up my inbox and I see that I've gotten mostly just spam emails. I got one that advertised 'penis-enlargement' and I felt myself shiver. No matter what I will tell myself the world is always going to make me feel terrible about my own inadequacy. But then I saw that I had a new mail from my wife. She didn't even call me these days... but I guess she had a reason. It is terribly expensive, but it would be nice to hear her voice every now and then. But when I opened the email to read it my mouth opened wide. I felt mad, truly angry at her. I never used to, it never used to seem wrong that she spent so much time away from home, but this just took it too far. In the email she explained that she'd be gone for three more months! I wouldn't get to see her again until the summer! Four months away! What was the point in us even staying married if she had no interest in being my wife? In disgust I threw myself away from the computer and threw the first thing I could grab at the wall. It was my wife's favourite mug... Normally I would be all over myself to try and fix it, try to glue the pieces together and pretend as if nothing happened. I wouldn't want to cause any frustrations for my wife when she got back home. But now, as I felt myself being so mad at her, well... I didn't care that I just destroyed her favourite mug. She didn't deserve to have a favourite mug in a house she clearly does not wish to be a part of. And right now I didn't care if it was an overreaction, she had hurt me much harder than she would be hurt from knowing that her favourite mug had been broken. And as I stared ahead at the wall, where I had made a small dent from where the mug hit, I seethed in frustration. I started thinking about my wife's clothes again. Why should I be upset about ruining her clothes if she doesn't deserve them? Those clothes belonged to me, because I was the only one that cared about this house and its contents. At that point I decided that I should continue wearing panties if they feel comfortable. After all, they are my panties. End of chapter one