I have
always been a sissy: I was petticoated as a
child, my hair kept long and was required to
wear girl's knickers and a petticoat under my
kilt on Sundays, which developed into regularly
wearing skirts and dresses at home.
However, my fondest memory is of going for a
Valentine's weekend to Dubai to celebrate our
tenth wedding anniversary.
My wife convinced me to wear my Sunday best to
travel, which was a ladies' kilt, under which,
as with normal practice, I wore a full satin
slip and matching knickers. My dear wife had
bought me a lemon satin bra-slip which was
underwired - for those of us with excess fat in
the breast area it gives a rather feminine look
to the chest, with undisguised breast mounds.
This was worn with white knee-length socks and
normal buckled slip-on shoes and a soft lemon
lambs wool top which hid my slip straps if I was
careful, and a black ladies shoulder bag.
It's amazing just how little gets noticed by the
general public, I got a few knowing looks, but
most was only curiosity until I got to the
security search. The machine just kept on
beeping so I was invited to go over to a
security man for a quick body search. With me
almost shaking with fear (or anticipation!), his
hands went up under my sweater and you could see
his eyes get wider as he slid them up the satin
material and onto the cups which shaped my
rather well developed excess male breasts.
He completely disarmed the situation by asking
if I was travelling as a man or a woman, and
after I flustered with, "My passport says male,
temporarily."
"It's OK sir," came the reply, "I'm sure it was
always a mistake." There was a Nigerian
woman next to us who was tickled pink by the
whole thing, she having seen the lemon satin as
he raised the side of my sweater.
As bad luck would have it, she was on the third
seat in the aisle on the other side of my wife,
who took the centre seat in the Emirates
business class cabin. The next piece of
humiliation was the handing out of the
complimentary gift sets, which was a feature of
Emirates flights (in first and business class)
and is so for most of the others. The young lady
approached our seats and she pulled out two
ladies' complimentary sets handing them to the
Nigerian lady and my wife, then was handing me a
male gift set when the Nigerian lady grabbed her
arm and told her that a ladies gift set would be
more appropriate for me. The Stewardess looked
at me and asked me if that was indeed my
preference. With a red face I, of course, said
"yes please".
For those of you who know the flight, it takes
almost seven hours; I had to put up with tricks
from this woman, including ordering ladies,
magazines, a rather feminine cocktail and
make-up from duty free, all delivered to me.
When my wife went to the toilet she swapped
seats into the middle and spent what seemed like
hours during dinner regaling us with stories
about how difficult life is for effeminate boys
and men in her own country and how refreshing it
is to travel in Europe and find such tolerance
for 'male ladies,' much to the amusement of
those around. For those of us who live this way,
of course, it can be an occupational hazard to
be singled out for humiliation at the hands of
others, but on a plane there is no escape from
your audience.
Having finally dropped off to sleep, her final
trick was to undo the rose clasp pin holding my
kilt in place as a skirt and to slightly move
the neck line of my sweater. This, according to
my wife, who was highly amused by all this, had
the joint effect of revealing a satin strap and
a few inches of lemon lace. Next thing I know
she was asking me to let her out for the toilet,
at which time my additional movement revealed my
bra-cup and most of the skirt of my slip, while
she told me my petti was showing.
I don't suppose most will think it mattered by
then - I was very androgynous in appearance
anyway, and in essence my femininity exposed
prior to this, but I had not yet reached the
point in my life where it became second nature
to wear feminine clothing in public, even if I
rarely wore trousers at home. As we queued to
get off she was behind me, deliberately rubbing
her hand on my rear and giving it the occasional
squeeze.
In comparison, the weekend was event-free.
I got a rather knowing smile from the security
lady in her burka, I wore my kilt on a couple of
occasions while out without incident, and the
only other thing that happened was a trick by my
wife by the pool side. I usually wore a ladies'
bathing costume because of my prominent breast
tissue, with a robe and Birkenstock sandals
while I sat and read a book or a magazine. I
fell asleep, later to find my robe had been
undone revealing my red bathing suit. According
to my wife, I attracted very little attention
and she pointed out that it should be a lesson
to me, that acting naturally, being rather
pretty for a male, having long hair, no Adam's
apple and having small hands and feet would be
my passport to passing at all times. I wasn't
quite ready for full femme in public then, so I
resisted her suggestion that I should swim, and
resisted the suggestion that I should wear
lipstick and paint my nails.
When I look back I can laugh at this as part of
a rite of passage from sissy to woman, but at
the time it was scary, thrilling and dangerous
in equal measure, and I suppose I must have
loved it. When I got back I found a note with
the Nigerian lady's name and telephone number in
the side pocket of my cabin bag. telling me how
much she would like to get me properly into
dresses. I never called her.
My wife brings it up at dinner parties to this
day.
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