I wish that feeling of disgust and revulsion would last. If it did, maybe I could lead a normal life. Maybe I could have sex with women instead of jerking off in their lingerie. But the sissy desires always come back. Being a transvestite is forever.
Often, by the time I get home from the mall, I already want to change into clean panties. The frilliest, laciest ones I own. Then I'll put on that negligee, or my new pumps, or the skirt I tried on at The Gap. I'll look at myself in the mirror and think about the smirking saleswoman who asked if I needed help, or the teenage girls who burst out laughing the instant they saw me. I couldn't be more pathetic. I couldn't be more of a sissy. And then, because I am what I am, I lie on my bed, lifting up my legs up so that I can see my high heels in the mirror. I'm such a faggot transvestite, I tell my reflection out loud. I arch my ass up until I can see the bottom of my panties under my skirt. I'm such a sissyboy, I say, shoving a pillow under my small, now hard-again cock. Lust and self-loathing swirl in me as I start to rub my pantied-clad dick into the pillow. Fucking it up and down, back and forth. Faster and faster. Curling my toes in my pointy high heels. Feeling my bra straps dig in my shoulders. Mouth open, gasping, crying out softly. Until I'm cumming in my panties again. Cumming the only way I can. A masturbating transvestite. A sissyboy faggot.
This is the only way I'll ever be.