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