Not another post about a trans woman buying lingerie…

It sure seems to be a ritual of shame for any cross-dressing, gender-fluid, transvestite (a word no longer in fashion), or trans person to have bought, to buy lingerie for themselves…or to write about it.  Maybe there was a period where I was bothered by it, yes, but it was more like getting “caught” by people that I knew but who didn’t know me…the thrill of that was like a sport.

The number of times I might have gone shopping with friends to a mall or retail area and felt the challenge of pouncing on a pair of knickers or something sexy, buying it, and squirrelling it away into the car, or somewhere before they noticed I wasn’t standing next to them, was a thrill in itself far greater than buying something naughty or shameful.

My favourite was when I told my wife that I had to “feed the meter” and I shop up the street into a store where we had been shopping together and I had discreetly put together three unforgettable dresses…I darted in, bought them, put them in the car and rejoined her before she had even gone to try on anything else.  Fun.

And of course, I bought lingerie over the years.  I enjoyed Victoria’s Secret, not for the cheap quality.  It was the catalogue.  What I imagined was that I could be her.  And if she was attractive to me, then I went jelly-legged, and purchased.  At a friend’s wedding in LA, I got special dispensation from both Victoria’s Secret and the hotel we were all staying in to receive a massive order.  Boy did I have fun with that…and even more fun when the cousin of the bride hit heavily on me, absolutely overpowering every defence (I always loved swooning into her arms, and took me back to my hotel room, and marvelled at my collection of panties.  I knew we were going to have fun when she was psyched and wanted me in a pair right then. 

“What?  Right now?”

“Right now.”

And so I undressed and put them on, and she pounced on me, throwing me onto the bed, launching her nubile body on top of me, scratching the crap out of my chest, pulling my hair and kissing me so deep I thought I would pass out.

I lost any fear or concern about “what they might think” once and for all when I worked for the company that provides the vast majority of smalls and bras to British women.  We all had to work on the floor once a week…and my female colleagues often talked about how it was easy to tell a man who didn’t have a “right” reason to be in the lingerie section in the first place.  It was great coaching, and from that point on, I just said outright, “they’re for me,” or didn’t even wait for someone to come and help, but went and found someone and said what I wanted.  And boy were they helpful.  Always.

More recently, in Spain, at an Etam shop, the saleslady was so flipping supportive, and helped me with my first bra.  Of course I had other bras, bought as part of sets, but I didn’t have boobs way back then.  But this time I had little teenager boobs, and she helped me pick out a couple of “training” bras that fit my ribcage…she measured me, and I left the store very happy.

The first time I bought lingerie was when I was 12 years old.  In those days I had a 24” waist.  I bought a purple and black satin garter belt.  My waist has grown to 28” when I am fit, 32” in my current blobby post-op state, but that dang garter belt is still in my possession, and it still fits (at least it did before surgery)…though now that I am well-healing, I have begun a controlled “fall” in my weight, aiming to take my weight down to the long-term target that I have for my body.

I have a vision of myself, of my body, that involves lots of fitness, muscle tone, and a lithe, bronzed figure that I intend to have by the end of the summer.  Technically I am not allowed to work out just yet, certainly no lifting of anything heavier than 10lbs, no yoga, no strength training, no stretching, until mid-October.  But I can swim even if I can’t run.  And I can do some limited pelvic and booty exercises, so that is what is happening.

Overall, the arrival of a vulva has given me a motivation to care for my body with a depth of feeling and motivation that I had never before.  Long-time readers will know that I was, and have been an exercise bunny.  But that has had to stop for the surgical period.  But I can’t wait for it to resume, and I count the days.

In the meantime, there is motivation around how I will adorn this body of mine.  It involves a long, silk bathrobe, navy blue, belted at the waist, with a silk that is so thick it feels like cream or velvet and drapes just so.  And when I open that robe, I am resplendent in the sexiest lingerie I have ever worn, showing off the female version of a 6-pack and a very perky bottom.  My projectile boobs are a given.

I have never bought lingerie before.  Of course I have, but this isn’t the same.  On very rare occasions, when I bought lingerie sets from La Perla [sadly now gone into administration—loss of the greatest brand], I did so knowing that I would need them and wear them someday.  Of course I wore them occasionally for a few minutes here and there, but I didn’t want to stretch them or wreck them, and I just know that my day would come.

But I don’t count those.  I don’t count the lingerie that I owned that largely replaced my male underwear over most of my adult life.  It may just be a body thing, but it also had to with fit.  No bra could ever fit someone without boobs—at least that’s how it felt.

I had a “date” with a trans woman who is a post-op fitness nut, and after drinking our kombuchas, she told me how to navigate the body recovery, arrival into exercise again, flexibility, and finally, some running.  After our meeting, I had the joy of heading over to the DMV to get my name changed on my driving license.

On the way, as I was waiting to cross the street, a car with some boisterous young men cruised past, one shouting out “are you a man or a woman?” a question which flattered me and made me laugh.  But it was followed by a shout of “faggot,” and so I shouted back “dyke”.  I don’t know if that word is okay anymore, but in the context, it felt good.  So much for the most tolerant city on earth, right?  Scum is everywhere.

But a few blocks on, on this lovely street I didn’t know, I passed one of those old, high-end lingerie stores.  On the door, it said, “appointment only”.  I rang the bell anyway, as the door was locked.  I wanted to get the gossip on La Perla.

The woman who answered looked suspiciously androgynous and was wary and not particularly welcoming.  She said, “I have a few minutes and you can look until my appointment.”  I had asked about taking a peak.

She asked me what I liked, what I wanted.  Lacy, frilly, embroidered, pastel colours like a lavender or light blue.  She pointed out a brand next to me which was very BDSM inspired—straps, zips, chain link…elegant, sexy, but not super girly like I wanted.  “This looks very you,” she quipped.

“Is it that obvious?” I joked.

“What looks good, looks good.”

“I want something uber feminine, girly.  That stuff is too sexy and too kinky.”  I showed her what I was looking for.  She had exactly what I wanted, only not my size.  I didn’t even bother asking if she could/would order it. This was a pure impulse purchase, so it had to be right then or not at all.  The shop was enormous, but not even a little bit crowded.  Everything was neatly organized by brand.  I don’t know how such a shop can exist…but it did.

In the end, I didn’t find what I was looking for in the lacey section…but as I was preparing to leave, I spotted a catalogue photo and said, “oh wow, that’s sexy.”  And she said, “that’s what you said you didn’t like when you came in, but I have it in your size.”

“Go on then,” I said, and she picked it out. 

“It really is kind of hot,” I noted, loving the light blue-grey colour and gold detailing.  Very.  

“Yes, it is,” she said, “would you like to try it?”

“Yes, I would,” I said.  She found my size: bra, bottoms, garter and led me to the large, sumptuous changing room, the size of a den, replete with chaise longue, full-length mirror, oriental carpet, opulent and spreading chandelier.  Soft light.  Happy light.

“You get started and I’ll be right back to help,” she said.  And there we went into a world of magic.  It was okay for me to stand semi-naked in front of a stranger, it was okay for me to be helped, for her to help dress me.  To adjust straps to the perfect length, to ensure the right fit…and then, she slipped her hands inside the cups of my bra and put everything in place exactly as it should with a quick and certain movement.  Repeat on the other side.

“They’re so small,” I said.

“You’re a ‘B’,” she replied, “more than enough to work with.”  And then somewhat wistfully adding, “more than I have.”

I’ve been wearing lingerie, like proper lingerie, on-and-off since I was 12.  Seriously since I was about 16.  At that age, my shape felt right to me, a waif-like body with just enough curves to allow me to feel female.  Enough to sustain me, to keep me alive.  Age, however, began to eat away at that self-image, and it was this desire to find that body that I was okay with once again, to start exercising about 5 years ago…I was working out for the her that needed a lifeline…she was on life support.  And I wrote about this some time ago, that I hired four therapists because I wasn’t sure I would make it.  

I also hired a dominatrix, several, for the same reason.  The latter were both a useful distraction, but more importantly forced kink out of me, to strip me down to what was essential, my sense of self.  I knew that if I didn’t let her out, let her breathe, that I wasn’t going to make it.  And I know that sounds dramatic, and maybe I would not have taken a dramatic path, but something deeply self-destructive was the only alternative, and not one that I had fought my whole life to end up with.  I wanted a different ending, a fairy tale, to feel that this princess was very much alive and in control.

Standing there in the boudoir mirror was the girl I have been hiding inside of me for all these years.  She’s a bit curvier now, but she also has size ‘B’ breasts, and the most delicious curve between her legs where there used to be dangly bits.  Her thighs are soft and supple, her butt is round and inviting, and she is me.  

The woman I wrote about that I nearly married, the woman who fantasised about collaring me, also regarded me as the “perfect accessory”.  She liked to treat me like arm candy.  And she could.  She sent me to Saville Row in London for my first ever bespoke men’s suit.  It fit like a corset and was stunning.  There is something profound about wearing clothes that were made for the body you have…how they fit just right.  As if they are part of you…as if they are entitled to your body.  That feeling was the same that I got from this lingerie set.  I have never worn a bra that was properly fitted.  I have never felt the snug embrace of a perfectly sized cup, a perfectly present and firmly supportive, but not too tight bra around my rib cage.

This is what I was buying.  A celebration of my own birth, of my body.  Lingerie is to me like wrapping paper.  We make ourselves a gift.  I have a sense of myself wearing this outfit with any number of people in any number of situations. Not the male gaze.

I had come from a date, and the next day I would have two dates.  As I sat next to my lunch date, the first of the two, I was overwhelmed by her beauty.  I couldn’t not say something.  Do you know what I mean, when someone is so gorgeous you can’t take your eyes off of them.  She just sparkled and her eyes swallowed me whole, and I said, “you’re so beautiful.”  I remembered how tall she was when we got up.

“It’s nice to kiss girls,” I said before kissing her.

“Women have so much more to offer,” she said.  My lips on hers.  Feeling her energy.  How she kisses told me she will be rough.  I can feel, can imagine, her hand on my throat.  I felt myself blinking into her, as in flashing in and out of present existence, swimming into a pool that poured from her eyes.  I nuzzled her neck, breathed, touched the skin of my cheek to hers, ran my fingers through her hair, and then kissed goodbye.

Our gender, our sexual beings, are so dictated by who we are, and how we feel in our bodies.  Yes, I enjoyed sex as a man, enjoyed orgasms, but my male body kept me from being able to feel love, both giving and receiving.  It was like an elephant in the room, an obstacle, a presence, one that was unwelcome.  A woman perceives a man in her arms differently than she perceives another woman.  There is a different tenderness, there is more openness, less violence, a more seductive passion.  That is what I was missing.  I was not able to love in a man’s body…neither to receive or to give.

My second date answered my first ad as a dominatrix.  She wanted to meet and to explore her submissive and masochistic side.  Her husband does not wish to play, but also wants her to pay.  She wanted to check me out.  I wanted to spank her.  She had a one-hour window that coincided with my busy schedule, and she crossed town to meet me, was punctual, and polite, and flattering.  This is what I expect to see from a prospective client.

There’s no sense in thinking things through.  The universe is laughing.  God has a sense of humour.  All is good.