Transvestia

such). After two or three months of sneaking my momen- tary pleasures, I told my wife. Bless her heart, she took it like a champ and, with tru pride for her sex, admitted she was lucky to have all the blessings of dress I have enumerated. As a result, my times for dressing have been increased, but the childred still force me to observe some restrictions on time, place and amount.

And now, wither away? My voracious reading on the subject of transvestism since my introduction to it has shown that we femmiphiles are a varied lot. Some want one thing from their transvestic excursions, some another. Some of us are perfectly content to get dolled up once in a while, while some of us hunger to travel the no-return road of the sex change.

For me, at this stage of my development and evaluation of self, it is the hormone route. When I get dressed up I look exactly like what I am, a man in woman's clothing. As I gain practice in my art, this will change, hopefully, for the better, but it will never be all that good. I am cursed with a damnable need for perfection and if I must dress as a woman I must be womanish. I want to replace the foam rubber in my bra with me. I want my waist narrowed naturally and my hips flared without benefit of padding. I want to see a smooth, no-need-to-shave face in the mirror just before the Corn Silk or Cover Girl goes on.

The "beauty aids" I seek are tantilizing close, just across the pharmacist's counter. But as yet I have not gone to a doctor (or a psychiatrist) for a pres- cription, and I don't know any pushers in estrogen or progesterone.

Nevertheless, those are my goals; my ambitions. Lucky you, out there in TVland, who found Nirvana early in life. I envy you your years more of enjoyment. Hope- fully, after I have served my apprenticeship for FPE the sorority will accept me and I can meet you and learn from you. For I firmly refuse to believe that it is impossible to teach a late blooming femmiphile new tricks. Better late than never at all, I say.

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