Cross DressingThe last time I wore a skirt was not as liberating or exciting as it could have been. I'd lost a drinking game and had been given the task of running from the bar, across the road and back again whilst wearing a friends clothes as a forfeit.
Easy, I thought. I hadn't reckoned on them getting every person in the pub to block my way back to the bar whilst I was outside. I had to FIGHT my way through. And I'm not much of a fighter.
Your own thoughts on cross dressing for fun, pleasure or profit are most welcome.
(
chthonic, Thu 15 Mar 2007, 15:05)
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Polish bananasPoland, early Nineties, working as an English teacher in a town that had been slower to embrace change than the rest of the country, and was, shall we say, a little less than tolerant of deviants (whilst seemingly being full of people who seemed to want something very specific to do with them...)
Anyhow, a colleague decides to have a party, and to make it a little different, also decides that it should be a “Red Party”, meaning that everyone should wear something red. A friend, who, being Lucy, will remain nameless, decided that she and her friends should outdo the rest of the party, and thus eight people should go dressed as a red light district. There seemed to be some sort of logic to it at the time, but this has been lost in the mists of time and vodka.
The day comes, and the other lads take possession of the stock of fishnet stockings, skirts and bras offered by Lucy and Rachel (who will also remain anonymous). Groover J finds himself rather at a loss, as all the truly good stuff has been nabbed. At Lucy’s suggestion (there may also have been vodka involved), it is decided that going as a rent boy will complete the red light district’s charms and services.
So, off we go. Pink shirt open to the waist (with rather a camp medallion), tight leggings, clogs (clogs?), a dinky little hat, half a dozen earrings (made from paper clips), copious make-up, and, logically, a banana stuffed down the leggings. God only knows what I looked like. The vodka excuse now sounds more and more likely.
Off we go to the party, in a taxi. On the way, we had to stop at the major station to pick up cigarettes. Lucy dressed like a Soho cocktail whore, Groover J in his finery. I swear, seeing some of the looks (and unintelligible Polish comments), we could have made an absolute killing that night, there and then, at the station, if we had been so inclined (no way, as far as either of us were concerned).
Of course, we get to the party and no sod is wearing anything red, and we look like a bunch of tits. On the up side, I did get sufficiently hammered on vodka to go around asking all the girls if they’d like to feel my banana…
(, Sun 18 Mar 2007, 15:22, Reply)
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