Fembitions

FEMBITIONS

 

Yes we all have them, ‘ambitions’ while we look or are in feminine mode. Let me give you an example. I am neither into motorbikes nor leather, but I have an ambition or a fantasy (let’s call it a fembition), concerning both.

It’s not a sexual thing but something that the feminine side of me yearns to do. I have this vision of me, the female me, riding pillion behind a young cyclist. Both of us are appropriately dressed.


I am encased on one of those all enveloping black figure hugging leather outfits, wearing heeled boots and have underneath, but unseen, as little underwear as is necessary.


I recognise that leather and motorbikes have strong fantasy connections for some but this is not the case for me. It’s just something that I’d love to do and have wanted to do for many years.

The young man is purely there to steer and drive the bike, and provide a body for me to clutch to. Why I, who has never owned or ridden on a motorcycle should have this ambition, I have no idea.

Is it the suppressed exhibitionist within me? Is it the promise of helpless dependency on the rider while he (or I suppose, she, I’ve never comsidered the rider’s gender) puts the powerful machine through its paces and I hold on tightly?


Is the unmistakable statement of gender, despite the disguising helmet, made by the figure hugging leather? Perhaps it’s simply my feminine side’s sense of adventure. The male me certainly wants nothing to do with motorcyles.

I thought, until recently, that I was alone in these adventurous fembitions. After chatting with a friend I realised that not only was I not alone, but I had seen others fulfilling their ambitions, either not recognising what they were doing or hoping that no one would understand what drove them on. I am an amateur thespian. Amongst groups performing pantomines very often it is the same male that plays the dame, year after year. Now there’s nothing wrong with that. He might be the only one capable of taking what is a very important and central part. He might be on an ego trip, determined to be the star each year. But equally there are some perennial ‘dames’ who would deny any interest such as ours, but fight tooth and nail to make sure that only they wear the dresses.

Often the costume demands of these characters are quite extraordinary. How can you know which is which?

The test, I discovered, is Mother Goose! Those of you who know the story will remember that Mother Goose has various wishes granted for money, power, beauty and often a full wardrobe we would all kill for. Frequently, since it gets the best audience reaction, MG ends dressed in the very height of fashion. perhaps like a current female pop singer – what a dream for a closet TV!

But these males are very often not TV’s, closet or otherwise, or so they claim. One, I know, is aggressively ‘macho’ and any suggestion that he had an ‘unhealthy’ interest like ours would immediately result in a bash on the nose, or worse. He is avidly anti-gay, anti-perv and anti-non normal. What is normal? If you aren’t a beer swilling, chauvinistic, woman chasing, pot bellied, bigoted male, then you aren’t normal.


You might gather that he and I do not see eye to eye. His requirements for Mother Goose? Two special changes of clothes, which had to be correct in every detail. The first was a powerful ‘Dallas-type’ outfit complete with matching accessories. The other a ‘Marilyn Monroe’ dress, reminiscent of that famous scene where her skirts are blown uncontrollably upwards. Now that might be a scene any one of us might aspire to figure in, but this specification was so precise. From the closet I seethed with jealously but it was the silky underwear and matching handbag he demanded that made my hackles rise. All this for a man who would instantly lead a mob to make a TV’s quiet walk down the street a misery, and who accused me of being a ‘nancy’ for my quiet southern accent.


 

 

Anyway, having got that off my chest, I hope you see my point, even ‘outsiders’ have fembitions.

Having chatted to others, from our TV world, I find that the fembitions are almost endless. A keen golfer and TV of my acquaintance is desperate to play, en femme, at his local golf course.

He would love to play a course from the ladies tees as Angelina. If anyone out there knows where she might be welcome, let me know.

In a limited way I have already achieved this fembition. You may have played one of the many golf games that are available for your computer. The more sophisticated ones allow you to choose and name your own players. Driven, I presume, by ‘political correctness’ some even permit you to select the sex, not to mention skin, hair and clothing colour.

Hidden away in my directory of players are Maggie and Rose. Maggie – redheaded, fair skinned, and whose emerald green top suits her colouring. Similarly Rose, attired in lilac complementing her tanned complexion and dark hair.

The greatest advantage is that I can nip off for a quick game as Maggie without having to leave the office (and the attendant difficulties it might create).


But there’s no ladies locker room to retire to for a chat or to repair one’s face.

From others I’ve found fembitions to serve in shops, banks and restaurants. I’ve even come across a fembition to ride to hounds, become a chauffeuse, and play in ladies cricket or tennis matches. That ignores those who want to be brides, geisha girls or tarts. I didn’t enquire whether they wanted to take their roles to the logical and ultimate conclusion.


Fembitions are not only for TVs, through. Not so long ago, I saw and was involved in a female achieving her fembition. Even though I was alone on stage with her and in front of an audience, this caused me no problems. Sally and I were performing in a revue and our sketch was set in a hospital room. There I was, lying in my hospital bed being visited by my ‘wife’.

On each previous night she had made her entrance in a fur coat and completed the scene precisely according to the script. But on the last night as she stood to speak, with her back to the audience, her hands lifted to her hips to draw the fur coat open and reveal to me – alone – a white basque, tiny white bikini knickers and stockings tautly gripped by suspenders. The audience had no idea what I could plainly see.


Afterwards she confessed that she had fulfilled a life long ambition. She had discussed with her husband and my wife what was to happen beforehand, and she had enough confidence in me to presume I would not give her secret away to the audience. Little did she realise that my stuttering reaction was caused less by surprise then the recognition of a fembition of my own!! The flashing isn’t important to me, nor to be recommended, except under those very controlled circumstances. It was the thought, for me, of appearing in public so apparently respectable, and yet beneath being so vulnerable. But if Sally can fulfil her life-long fembition, why shouldn’t Maggie? Anyway, you must excuse me, I have to dash.

Angelina, wait for me on the first tee, will you? I’m just popping into the locker room to adjust my bra, it’s cutting into me.

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