Escapism

Let’s face it, if you’re reading this story, and you have read this far, you either A: like to dress up like a girl, B: want to fuck a man who dresses up like a girl, or reside in category C: the confused region in between, where in fact it’s probably both. In recent popular surveys by trashy online publications, crossdressing ranked at number 8 of ‘common fetishes that aren’t actually that unusual’, while Shemale porn grows more and more popular each year, making up for 18% of the total consumption of all online fap sources. Now, these are the questions you have to ask yourself: is this one of those Modern Man fetishes? Or are you escaping that tag entirely, fed up with your social surroundings? Seeking something more?

It is out of rejection of being a Modern Man that I became a sissy.
Escapism is a wonderful thing.

It all started when I shaved my legs. Well, it probably started as a child wearing my Mum’s knickers, eventually escalating in to flashes of crossdressing obsession. But that’s a story for another time.

When I first shaved my legs, it was a physical rejection of the person I had become.

I was bored, tired and ultimately pretty depressed. I was 25, in and out of relationships and one-night-stands. In debt, slightly overweight, unfulfilled at work and in life. My boss always questioning my punctuality and disappearance around deadlines. Sick of weekends consisting of some shit night out to another shit club. Sick of drinking through a lack of anything else to do. Sick of trying to pull the hottest girl in the bar, and ultimately settling for whoever falls for my shit lines. Sick to the back teeth of following a football team that never wins. Sick of my friends and everything we did together.

I needed a drastic change. Some people may have committed to hobbies, explored the arts, moved countries. Fuck, some people may have even found God.

I shaved my legs.

The dark night already drawing in, the grey darkness clouding the apartment as I arrived home from work. Another grey, mundane day. January is the worst. The light from the fridge illuminated my face as I scanned its contents. Half a carton of orange juice. A half consumed block of cheese. I sighed, knowing I’d have to make a trip to the shop. These excursions regular and erratic, never buying enough food to last more than a day or two.