I met Karen in my divorce support group while I was dealing with my second divorce and she was trying to cope with her first. About the only thing that we had in common was that both our spouses had cheated with good friends of ours. She was a couple years older and very attractive. I remember that she always dressed so well for our group meetings. We both attended regularly for almost a year, in which time several of us formed a sort of loose union. Among those in our circle of friends was Jane, another gal about our age who was trying to overcome abuse at the hands of her ex-husband. She was pretty strong, though, and in short order was back in control so it seemed to me.
But one by one, members dropped away as new people joined the group and created their own synergy. I never lost track of Karen, though. We would get together for dinner occasionally, exchange greeting cards, and just talk on the phone every once in a while. I never asked her about her love life and she never inquired about mine. She knew that I moved from one relationship to another while I never detected that she even dated.
The whole time, unbeknownst to a girlfriend I had at the time, I was dabbling in my hobby. I was a closet crossdresser, and without someone living with me fulltime, I had ample closet space. But I always yearned for that relationship in which I could be open about my desires and even indulge in my deepest fantasies of feminization. I was willing to settle for just a taste of things, but I never thought that I could trust any of my girlfriends.
I’m not sure when my desire to share my secret with someone started, but it never went away. Over the years, it would come and go, always coming back stronger than before. And increasingly, I thought that Karen was probably just the right person. She didn’t know anyone that I knew and her integrity was beyond reproach. Every time I called her and hung up without telling her, I felt like I’d let an opportunity slip by. I rationalized my silence by convincing myself that the topic was something best discussed in person. I needed to make another date with her, and I did.
I can’t remember ever being so nervous as I was that day. As soon as the date was made, in honor of what I hoped to share, I decided I’d be all dressed up—at least underneath. If I didn’t get up the nerve to tell her (a very distinct possibility), I would at least have the pleasure of going out feeling all feminine underneath my male clothes. I shaved. I lotioned. I painted my toenails. I selected a black, heavy garter belt, black panties and a pair of stockings that I’d been saving for Lord knows what. Before I set off, I opened a bottle of wine and had a large glass of the liquid courage.
After a pleasant dinner at a local Italian restaurant (and some more wine), we went back to her house for a little more conversation and, of course, some more wine. You might think that this is where the story takes a decidedly more interesting turn (as I’d hoped), but I was made to wait. When things were just right, I dropped the bomb. Not surprisingly, she handled the news well, saying basically that she respected whatever people did in the privacy of their own homes and that she would expect anyone to do the same for her. It was that latter comment that should have been a signal. Instead, I said my goodbyes and drove home, wondering about what might have been.
A couple days later, she called me back and told me that she had been thinking a lot about what I’d told her and that, the more she thought about it, the more it intrigued her. She said that if I was interested, she would like to see me fully dressed sometime. When she asked about what kind of outerwear I had, I told her that all I owned was a black leather skirt and a black blouse. I was more than a little surprised when she specified that my outfit had to be some combination of pink and white: shoes, hose, skirt, blouse and underthings. I thought that this was a rather odd request from someone new to my scene and secret, but I also felt like it was kind of an order that I was more than happy to try to comply with. We made a date for the following Saturday and I wasted no time in making an appointment with a local gal who specializes in makeovers for guys like me and then set about accumulating the new things that I would need. The short time frame meant that I couldn’t shop while hiding behind the anonymity of the internet. I had to go out and find my outfit. With some considerable discomfort, I ended up with a sheer white blouse, a pink miniskirt, and some pink, patent pumps with five inch heels, naturally. And of course I had the foundation garments. I opted for a very strict white corset with garters, white panties and white back-seemed stockings.
That Saturday I could barely contain my nerves as I set about preparing. After another close shave and application of false toenails (French tips), I set off to Judy’s place toting my outfit, false eyelashes & nails, brunette wig, jewelry, and purse along with anything that I thought I might need. At Karen’s request, I threw in a nightie. I hardly remember Judy’s makeover, but by the time I left trailing a lovely feminine scent courtesy of my makeup artist, I felt truly transformed for the first time.
I arrived at Karen’s exactly when she told me to and rang her doorbell. I guess I thought I’d be invited in and we would sit and sip wine while I told her about my history with women’s clothing. The best I could hope for was to show a curious Karen how I was dressed at which point she might be turned on and end up playing with me like a new toy. So I was surprised when she answered the door almost immediately. I couldn’t tell what she was wearing underneath her long leather coat, but there was something subtly different about her. She had a more imperial demeanor and, unless I missed my guess, she was more heavily made up than for our recent dinner. She brushed past me and indicated that I should join her in her car. When I asked where we were going, expressing that I didn’t think I was ready for a public appearance, she dismissed my objections with a wave of her hand toward the passenger’s side of the car. I obediently and nervously climbed in beside her. Once we got going, she said that she thought it was time I took my hobby to the next level and then she remained silent for the rest of the half hour trip.
Our first stop was a small jewelry store in a strip mall near her house. Against her objections, I dutifully followed her into the store. When the young man working the counter asked how he might help us, she told him that we were there for an ear-piercing. He invited her to sit at a counter towards the back of the store set up for just such a procedure, and she, of course, indicated to him that I was the one who'd be getting his ears pierced. Once atop the stool, the now nervous young man (since he'd discerned my rue gender) brought out a series of stud-style earrings that would be my first. "Those just won't do", said Karen. "We'd like some large hoops for our girl here". He tried to explain that saftey policy dictates use of studs for a "break-in" period, but the wave of a $20 bill by Karen made him forget all about "procedure".