Well, I did it again. Matching bra and panties. Pantyhose. Orange women's button down shirt open low enough to show my white cotton camisole underneath. Tight women's flare-legged jeans. Women's waist-length black winter coat. Oh yeah. And these boots from Victoria's Secret.
I always feel the same reluctant anticipation as I approach the mall's highway exit. Part of me doesn't want to go through with it. Part of me wishes I had just beat off at home instead of deciding to expose myself to the humiliating ridicule another part of me craves. Sometimes I say little mantras out loud as I look for a space in the parking lot. You're a sissy. This is what sissies do. Face the shame.
Getting out of the car is often the hardest part. I usually have to wait - nervously, pathetically - for whoever is nearby to pass. I can't just "hop out" and stroll inside. I need a minute alone, standing between parked cars, to pull my jeans down so my high heels are as concealed as possible. I need to adjust my bra straps from the car trip. And I have to push my tiny, half-erect, half-limp dick down in my already-damp panties. I'm such a fucking pervert, I think, as I wipe the precum from my panties off my hand and onto my jeans. God, I hate myself.
And then, when the coast looks clear, I'm off. Out in the open. Heels clicking loudly on the pavement. Eyes focused on the mall entrance. Trying not to look to the left or the right. Trying not to notice if anyone's noticed me. If I'm already being gawked at. If some college-age woman and her boyfriend have stopped dead in their tracks to stare at the fag in women's clothes. At the sissy transvestite on parade.