Samantha’s First Dress

I know someone else said this already, but, like many stories, mine starts at the beginning. Now it is probably a good idea to launch into a fine array of theories as to why people cross dress. I will do that in time but as this is essentially one person’s account of female impersonation, I will keep the clinical stuff and the psycho-babble to a minimum. This story will be interspersed by random musings on the causes of this constellation of femininity – but it is beyond the scope of this writer to offer anything new, save for his/her own experiences. So on with the show…

 

My first dress (clearing my throat now, like any great storyteller) was one of the prettiest sights my young male eyes had ever seen. It was of a silk-like material and while predominately white, it had pretty little blue and yellow birds variegated throught its delicate cut. There was aplique on the hem and around the short sleeves and it seemed to whisper femininity when it was disturbed. Just looking at this fine garment set off fireworks in my head and butterflies in my stomach. I knew instantly that I wanted it, and more importantly, that I wanted to wear it. There was of course a small problem, I was six years old and it belonged to my eight year old sister. So with all the ingenuity that a six year old could muster I took the unprecedented step of getting actively involved in my older sisters’ games and, once I had infiltrated their girlie society, I ventured a new game of my own devising.

“Why don’t we all play dress up?”, I said with a conviction that belied my uncertainty. To my eternal surprise they acceeded instantly and without any conferring. I was soon to learn why. You see, ‘dress up’ for them was the perfect opportunity to humiliate their otherwise aloof little brother. They understood this tacitly and began, with great urgency, the transformation process. A smear of soot above their lips from the old chimney and the donning of some ties and they were complete. I would have protested at their hastily improvised male guises, but I was far too eager to move on to myself. They launched at me with obvious glee and held up a dress for me to climb into.

“Wait!”, I screamed. I didn’t want just any dress, I wanted that dress. But how could I articulate that without betraying my cunning? Necessity is the mother of invention they say and a new twist to the game had just been neccessitated. “You lay all the dresses on the bed there, and I’ll close my eyes and jump on one.” Brilliant!! “That will be my dress”, I insisted.

 

It mattered little to them which dress I wore, so they gave each other a cursory look and then nodded affirmatively in unison. Closing my eyes I made a mental note of where ‘my’ dress was and jumped headlong at it – a manouvere that pre-figured my dressing in later life. A considerable crash and bruised cheek later, I lay on the floor dazed. My eldest sister holding my prize above me – that dress. It had an incredible anodyne effect on my post-crash aches and my transformation began in earnest.

 

That first experience was the beginning of a life of dressing. I went through all the various stages: Plastering lipstick en masse; donning every fuax pas fashion could muster; wearing heels and walking like an ostrich. These days, I’m pleased to say, I have mcuh more fashion sense, have finally got to grips with liquid eyeliner and am generating a much stronger female aura – all good things come in time.

Vive la femme!!

Samantha

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