Sheery, undressing

There is no doubt that we as crossdressers, transvestites, t-girls… whatever you want to call us, retreat into our feminine skin, slip into something we love and momentarily basque ourselves into that girly little world of ours. The reasons may vary but it is pretty safe to say that it makes us feel good. I mean don’t we spend our lives chasing feelings and finding pleasure where we can? Then what happens when we find pleasure?

We repeat it of course.

But what really is that pleasure we seek in our femme skin? It most often is sexual (duh) yet it doesn’t just stop there really, am I right? Well, that may very well be where things can get a little complex. So back to that feeling we’re chasing, things can get arousing (duh) or maybe it calms us down after a long day of digging ditches in the prison yard. Maybe we just like that tactile tight silky feeling of that underwear that gives us that momentary chill up down down our spine.

Well, last week, I planned to try on a new piece of lingerie I had just purchased and did my usual routine of shaving all around, showering, then body lotion, then on to the makeup, etcetera. As I slipped into that new lavender teddy, I felt this incredible rush that I really only experienced a handful of times as a crossdresser. It wasn’t the usual “Oooh this is nice” while in my silkies but a more intense full-on high all over my body.

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Sheery in a Redhead Wig

At last count I had six wigs lying around the house. I think there is another one deeply buried in storage next to some old pantyhose from the year 2000 but we won’t count that one. They have all served their purpose at certain points as the icing on that delicious cake of me the crossdresser. Actually they have been more like the cherry on top, so to speak. Basically, a wig has been nothing more than a finishing touch when I am in the mood to dress.

Up until recently I actually haven’t given much though to that little cherry until I went out and paid for a decent one. I was always pretty much happy with the 30€ – 50€ ($33 – $55) bargain barn rugs that went on the top of my head but I had never given a second though to quality since it never really seemed to matter. If hair is fake, it is fake and, well, looks the part.

Then I figured why not try out a REAL wig as in a professionally made prosthetic piece instead of using the same old strands of plastic that I’ve been use to. I thought about it back and forth whether to shell out ten times the price I paid for the cheapos and, even more funny, thought about just getting another ten head rugs in different colors and styles. I eventually made the rational decision to go for the quality and maybe in a tint that I would not normally go for… the redhead.

So I forked over the several hundred euros from my credit card to a German company for the “Carlotta” bob wig in a “paprika” color. It is quite a lovely piece with curls and a length a little bit short of the shoulders. I decided I had to ready myself well for the trial so I showered and slipped into my girly attire and then spent a good hour doing my makeup. God I hate putting on makeup although I do really like the end result.

Then I carefully combed through the wig with my hands and gently placed it on. I nearly came when I looked at myself in the mirror.

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Sheery in Wolford Neon pantyhose

I was on Twitter the other day (a more frequent occurence now) and had a look at a long lost tweet I had saved a while back…

https://twitter.com/WTFCrazyLaws/status/351320491564351489

I retweeted and saved it for a reason. I pondered in those very words a bit and I couldn’t help but to think that this was directed right at me. When you think about it, though, isn’t it directed at likely a majority of hot blooded crossdressers, transvestites and other “T’s” out there?

Yes, those of  you who can’t pry themselves from the mirror dreaming that you’re either some kind of pantyhose model goddess or high-priced glamour hooker whose phone won’t stop ringing (my hand raised too). I’m fairly confident there is a huge narcissistic component to our feminine alter-egos that probably just comes with the territory.

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