25 Jan 2012

Launderette Confessional

Kurt liked his dresses blue

I've never really fancied myself as a cross-dresser. Certainly not the kind that stuffs a wonder-cup, shaves his legs and struts around in a tight little mini and heels, smoking long cigarettes, and oozing that peculiar sort of masculine femininity. Most men have brandished the odd eye-liner in their youth, dabbed the littlest of rouge on their pre-pubescent cheeks, wrestled with the urge to gently kiss a stick of blush-red lipstick, but a flagrant flaunting of multiple gender identities requires the kind of courage only the bravest of men can muster. 

Today, I wore panties to work. 

Not that I would be so naive as to even compare my little escapade to the grounds those esteemed warriors of alternative lifestyles have tread. It was -at best- a sociological experiment with fringe benefits; a private pleasure, if I may. What I wish to elaborate on are not the details- not the guilty savouring of wanton erections restrained by the soft fabric, or the bitter-sweet sensation of the material riding up my perineum- but the sense of secrecy it evoked. All day, I was traumatized by the fear of being discovered. I sweated and panted from the sheer self-awareness involved in ensuring my jeans didn't once fall below the coveted line or my shirt rise too high and expose my lilac-hued under-things. At the same time: that delicious feeling of hiding something from the world, a secret so dark it could cause bodily harm and life-long humiliation in these alpha-male times; for I, like the proverbial child, wanted only to explore, I nurtured an interest that can sustain itself only in the comforting knowledge of the proximity of home, like a swimmer in the ocean who tests himself only so far as his muscles tell him he can swim back from. What a beautiful feeling, that sense of camaraderie with the shadowy! That brotherhood with the netherworld, the almost sinful indulgence in privacy so rare! Much like the purveyor of a nuclear attack, or the Virgin Mary awaiting delivery. Or is it deliverance? 

I would be lying if I professed any particular erotic pleasure in the act itself. Unlike the intimacy of the belongings of an object of your affection, or the consumerist delight in proprietorship of a brand new purchase, the undergarments of a stranger stolen from her (his?) laundry basket promote little space for self-indulgence. I didn't wonder how they looked wrapped around the precious modesty of their previous owner, nor did I look around and contemplate if any of my colleagues prefer the same material, or softener or design. This was for me. They were mine, mine, mine; my dirty little secret, the fruit of my inquisitve, if lecherous mind. 

And all day, I reveled.

*Originally posted here on 16 August, 2007 
** Image courtesy of the unfortunately-named Ulteriorgrrrl

               Venus in furs - The Velvet Underground


red dirt girl said...

Revel away, panty-clad man! Of course, now it is OUR dirty little secret since you chose to share.

I'm keeping my secrets safe within me. It helps to preserve my waning mystery.


JOutlaw said...

Nothing wrong with having a bit of intrigue in work. Kudos to you for going with it!

icyhighs said...

Red (AKA International Woman of Mystery), my life's an open book and all that tosh. Besides nobody here knows me from Adam.

Cheers JOutlaw; keep ranting, enjoyed your work.