transretrogurl

T’was the night before Xmas, and all through the house, nothing was stirring, just my mouse. And keyboard. And various bits ‘down there’ if you know what I mean. And all because I started to pontificate on the subject of fantasies.

So, some ground rules. This blog post may come across like an invitation to indulge in some personal gratification, and I’m not going to tell you off (I’d be a red-faced, muscled-right-arm hypocrite if I did). But that’s not the point behind this post. This post is all about me trying to understand why the fantasies that fill my mind whenever I let them are so satisfying.

Firstly, for those who have read all the blog posts (and well done if you have, there’s a lot of mind-spasms here) will know that I’m a writer. Not a successful writer – on the scale of broke to Stephen King I’m broke if Mr.Broke has sold about fifty books – but a writer nonetheless, and as such I like to think that I have a mind that can craft a good story.

Secondly, the word fantasy itself. It derives from fantastic, which means beyond the ordinary. The fun of a fantasy is that you can be anything, you can do anything. It is for your pleasure and as such it is something delightful you can do that has no impact on any others.

Thirdly, ever realised any of your fantasies? If so have you noticed that, well, the reality isn’t quite as fun or as satisfying as the fantasy? I’ve tried to live out some of the more fun fantasies I’ve had and the results have been……amusing.

But I get ahead of myself. If you’ve been following the blog you’ll have noticed that I have a couple of traits, as I like to call them. The first is I love to dress in a way that is very, very feminine. The idea of normal women’s clothes doesn’t really do it for me, I need the styles and clothes that emphasise the feminine, that make it clear that the wearer is a woman. Why is that?

That’s an easy one. I love the idea of relinquishing my masculinity. I love the idea of accepting the feminine role, of playing the part of the fairer sex. It’s the absolute difference, the fact that I am a 21st century male yet I can wear the garb of a woman from a different time. It’s a complete submission of self, and I love that.

Secondly I love to dress in uniforms. Not all uniforms, but the ones that define the role of the woman wearing them. The proper maid outfits, the uniform that identifies the wearer as someone who cleans, who serves. Again, it’s a submission thing.

But what about the fantasies?

Before I managed to get my hands on a proper maid uniform I fantasised a lot about taking the role. To be honest some of my fantasies were also about being forced to take the role, by a stronger male. They still are. It will never happen, I’m too much of a control-freak for that, but the idea of being ordered around, nameless, is a good one. I even investigated the idea of being a waitress at a fetish party or two. Spending an evening serving drinks would be utterly satisfying.

Or would it? Much as I love the uniforms they aren’t the most comfortable of garments. Chuck in the essential black heels and I can see myself sneaking out the back of the kitchen f0r a break, shoes off. Plus the fantasy is all about being the serving maid. Other people would have fantasies in this scenario, and I imagine that trying to fight off unwanted attention while uniformed would be problematic. Down that road lies darker fantasies.

Earlier in the year I went out to a trans nightclub fully dressed. I was escorted by my best friend, and I have written it up in a previous post – quick recap would be too much alcohol, sore feet, terror. The fantasies I had before the night out were very vivid and, if I’m honest, the reason I downed a couple of bottles of Red wine before I went out.

The fantasies were great. I’d get to dance, get to flirt, maybe end up outside the club for a snog or something….else. I loved thinking about that, Sarah loved the idea. However, in the cold air of a London evening it all became a bit too real and I turned into a terrified defensive T-Gurl. I hid out in the ladies toilet for a proportion of the evening, trying to get my heartbeat under control and wishing I was tucked up in my hotel bed as opposed to tucked. But still the fantasies seep into my head when I’m flicking through the memories for a little bit of self-satisfaction.

And therein lies the paradox. A fantasy is exciting, wonderful and thrilling, because you don’t have to realise it. You can be the hot girl, the sexual object, the maid, the wife, the schoolgirl. When you try and realise it it has to conform to reality.

Here’s an old story, again one I’ve never shared but really highlights the boundary between fantasy and reality. In my first relationship we liked to mess about a lot. This involved a lot of role-reversals which I found seriously fun in a fantasy way. Maybe it was a touch of the BDSM but the idea of emasculation was the best. And my partner bought into it a lot.

So, one day we were contemplating what we should try, for a laugh of course, and she suggested that I should spend the day as the wife in the relationship. I had a blouse and a skirt that I absolutely loved, and she suggested that for the entire day I would do all the stuff that she did, while she took a day off and relaxed.

I was up for it. I can’t really describe how much of a turn-on it was. What I didn’t know, and what I should have known, was that my first other half had what could be described as an interesting sense of humour. We’d been sexual experimenting for a while and we always liked to finish in a certain way, which I’ll get to in a bit and not spoil the twist.

So I spent all day in heels, skirt and blouse. I washed, I cleaned, I cooked for her (being careful to avoid the curtain-less downstairs windows). I even sneaked out to the bin when the sun went down, which was a serious thrill. She actually locked the back door and I stood there trying to be quiet as a car drove by. She unlocked the door almost immediately and I tottered in with a massive rush.

By now the feet hurt, the corset was squeezing my kidneys (I’d used the toilet a couple of times as a girl) and I was tired, so we decided to finish the fun as we always did.

I was into BJs in a big way back then. And so was she, so, in the comfort of our living room I stood in front of the fire and she knelt in front of me and, well, you know.

The cumulation of the day was too much for me and I didn’t take long to reach a climax.

And then she did what she had been planning all day. I know this because after, when the laughter had stopped, she told me she couldn’t resist doing it.

I had my eyes closed in that wonderful moment and before I knew what was going on she had stood up, grabbed my head and kissed me.

Expelling all of my cum into my mouth.

I stood there for a second, the buzz gone instantly, then turned and ran out of the room and up the stairs.

And yes, that picture was taken about five minutes before the unasked-for snowball 😉

It’s a moment that has stuck with me ever since. I’d never tasted it before, even though we had talked about it as a fantasy. It’s not a nice flavour, and all the stigma and no-nos were flying through my head as I ran up the stairs, the skirt and heels slowing me down, my hand over my mouth and trying desperately not to swallow.

I made it to the toilet before I accidentally swallowed some of it. I immediately gagged and threw up, which wasn’t very lady-like.

I asked her after why she had done it and she shrugged and said “you wanted to be the woman, didn’t you?”

She had a point. My fantasy had been to be the woman and she had taken it literally. In fact her fantasy would have been to take it further – she bought a strap-on and surprised me one evening, which was pretty much around the point that I realised her fantasies didn’t quite tie up with mine.

Which brings me to my point. I have fantasies, as Sarah, a lot of which cross the line between dressing and sexuality. They are very exciting fantasies, but given my reaction to my own outpourings I dare to say that realising these fantasies would end up messy and, as I’ve mentioned before, probably awkward.

For a long time I found that thinking of a fantasy and using it brought a massive orgasm and an instant change of attitude. The peak would come and then everything was gone, instantly sexually-sober. That’s changed recently, the shame has gone so the brain doesn’t flush her wants and needs with his ejaculate. Which is a nice change.

So where does that leave me? The stuff I fantasise about has escalated a lot in the last year, and I’m comfy with that. In fact the fantasy is starting to revolve around realising the fantasy. Now that’s a quandary, although a fun one.

Merry WhateverMas and stay sexy you beautiful fantasists.