This was the day I had been planning for years. My dressing to date had left me unsatisfied. I knew my makeup was just not right and somehow my clothes did not fit. I had never been satisfied with my own efforts, as I never seemed to look girly enough.
This lack of confidence had driven me to have an appointment with a transformation service. This was a new experience and my male brain wondered if it would degenerate into a horribly disappointing session.
I’d arranged a daytime morning session. On the journey to my appointment my brain was in its normal tempestuous state, churning over new scenarios that I would encounter. I concentrated on driving and this kept my fears under control, but my nerves were still tingling.
My destination was a suburban block of units in an upmarket suburb on the tropical coast. I was early, so I sat in my car and the fears came back. I had five minutes’ left to appointment time, it was time to go. I rang the mobile number that I’d been given. A voice answered, a slightly feminine voice.
I knocked on the door, an attractive thirty something T-girl in a blond wig, short skirt and blouse opened the door. I looked around the room. It was gorgeous, with mirrors everywhere. Everything was girly and feminine.
I was shown to a room lined with lovely lingerie. Panties, garter belts, bras of all sizes were arrayed on one rack in front of me in a kaleidoscope of colors. Many beautiful wigs lined the walls. I caught a glimpse of another room with dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes. This was what I imagined heaven to be.
The lady, or let’s call her the transformer, because that is what she does. She transforms dull drab men like myself into passable and pretty women. That was her job today to transform my dull looking male canvas into another art form.
She asked my size and gave me some black panties and stockings and told me to put them on. The voice was authoritative, like she’d done this a thousand times before, which she had. I put the gear on. Next she passed the black stiletto high heels with four to five inches of heel. I’d worn heels before and knew my clumsy male side found them awkward to wear and painful to my legs.
Something new was happening. I’d worn similar gear before but this was different somehow. My transformer passed me a short silver robe to cover my male nakedness from the waste up.
I was asked to follow my host to the makeup chair. I sat down on a high chair and marveled at the amount of lovely makeup in front of me. Pictures of models with pouting lips in ruby red lipstick adorned the walls, slightly arousing me. I was experiencing something new which was sexual but much more powerful than I’d normally experienced dressing in private.
The transformer set to work applying makeup, testing each shade against my skin color to see which colors suited my skin. A picture was gradually being drawn on my face as more makeup was applied. A very feminine picture, which looked more like a woman to me as each minute passed. I admired my hosts professionalization as she worked on my face.
Then it was over, and I looked at a woman in the mirror that I had not seen before. This was me, all made up to look as pretty as any mature woman. I stared at myself and a surge of something new flowed through my body. My host laughed at me.
“Careful, you’ll want to marry yourself”, she said with a lovely smile to herself.
She was right, I was in love with my mirror image. Quickly, my host motioned me into the room with the femme clothing. She estimated my figure size and picked out some lovely clothes.
“Try these on”, she said, as she exited the room to get my wig.
I put on the mini-skirt and blouse chosen. My host then returned with a short blonde wig and placed it on my head, primping and fashioning it for me. She stood back and stared at her finished product. She had done her job; the transformation was complete.
I looked at my image in the large mirror that occupied one wall. I had not seen that image before in my life. A new wave of feminine juices went through my blood. I felt feminine. It is hard to describe the sort of feelings I felt. It was sexual in the sense that every pore in my body felt alive. I was in ecstasy and my mind was spinning out of control.
My host then completed her tasks of photographing me in three different outfits. In each outfit I wore a different wig, giving me three different female personas. Each new look was better than the previous look. My body was exhausted by the feelings I was experiencing as the femme juice surged through my body. This surge of femininity had spun my wheels since I put on my first piece of feminine clothing.
Finally, the session ended and reluctantly, I returned to my drab male clothes and the real world closed around again. I sadly left that place of pleasure and returned to my car with shoulders drooping. I sat behind the wheel of the car feeling sad that I had to go. My mood improved as I thought about all the lovely pictures that would make their way to my e-mail address. This was truly a great day in my life, and I now knew that I could transform.
She has written multiple articles for a historical journal which has generated academic interest in Australia where she now lives.
Recently retired, Allyson first experienced the joys of dressing at age ten and is still experiencing all the ups and downs normally associated with trying to pass as female. She is a new contributor to Frock who hopes to share her experiences for the enjoyment of fellow readers.