Frédérique
12-05-2010, 09:04 AM
Nowadays, too many words are used to describe something, perhaps in an effort to make something disturbing sound more benign, and thus non-threatening, for whatever reason. Case in point: shellshock has become Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; the dump has become the “sanitary landfill,” and poor students are now “minimally exceptional.” In this vein, I wish to rename crossdressing as “alternative wardrobe explorations.” Of course, you may be engaged in alternative sexual explorations involving your alternative wardrobe explorations, or you may simply be trying to seek and embrace pleasure, all in the name of assuagement, exhilaration, and gender reconciliation. Let’s begin our abnormous expedition into the interior – we cannot devenustate ourselves any longer...
OK, we’re approaching the closet, a.k.a. the containment vessel for feminine metamorphosis, the repository of fetishes big and small, and everything in-between. Our transformation may now officially commence. You are a transformist, right? I thought so. We seek to shed our corporeal physicality, and move towards a heightened state that may reveal the transhumanist in us all. Frankly, my corporeity is quite literally a drag. We begin by decorticating the drab wrappers and creating a blank canvas. I assume you have completed your ablutions? Good. Grab a pair of drawers from one of the drawers. I mean a skin-tight, form-fitting, roseate microfiber undergarment, meant to constrictively contain one’s trochlear drupelets. Once you wiggle into this worshipful lingerie, the cerebripetal feelings will cause great euphoria – that’s a given. Next we put on an equally delicious peritoneum, replete with prosthetic mammilla of some sort, designed to make up for any curvilinear shortcomings. Don’t be shy, now. Our illusory manipulations cannot be meretricious or exaggerative, yet figuration is our ultimate goal – we need to look credible, once we are enshrouded in our superimposed feminine overlays...
Time to put on our hosiery, fabricated from synthetic materials, consummately elastic. Don’t be too transilient – it takes time to transform with style. Are you feeling hugged all over, making you a bit testy? Personally, I like the feeling of compression, since the cerebrifugal happenings reinforce the moment, driving away any lingering thoughts of injurous deviancy. Masculinity drains away, like an antediluvian watershed, revealing the genuine, undeniable me (or you). Slip on some decorous pedial coverings to become ambulatory once again – if you have created a new, higher platform you may need to check your balance, once your tootsies are ensconced, that is. The outer-garments may now go on, after a quick narcissistic look in the ever-present reflecting pool nearby. What to wear? I can accurately be termed an off-the-rack sensualist, or even an anti-pants curvaceous activist, hedonistically speaking, challenging the accepted status quo. There are many outfits, uniforms, costumes, and adornments to choose from. I could clothe myself with a pannier, a petticoat, a tutu, a frock, a kilt, or a muumuu, but I become what I don simply by close association. If a skirt swings or swishes, and it should, we can aptly be called effeminate airflow specialists - or maybe a dress could be a controlled whether system (whether or not you wear the desired garment, of course). Groan, grunt, and grumble. The spin cycle is optional – let’s not get too dizzy, or giddy, or disconcerted, since there’s more to come...
To finish off, it’s time for facial concealment. My cosmetic reconstructions beautify the personal landscape, all the while resembling cosmography, since I’m creating my own femme universe. My face gets a toned ground, appropriate to the desired motif, and any underpainting helps to create form and delicacy by revealing positive attributes. Careful with the imprimatura! Layer after layer of rendering obscures anything remotely tangible, yet a new, surrealistic visage is created miraculously. Some subtle outlining adds definition, and, finally, rouge-colored pomade is brushed onto the twin labrum. I prefer crimson, either alizarin or quinacridone. My countenance is like an expressionist painting – it never comes out as I had planned, yet I do like what I see, since I am a conceptual work of art. I cover my head with an artificial auburn piruke, very transformative by design, and I become aware of my unmistakable transvestism. Hold the simulated follicles in place with an elaborate fibula or two, please. A pair of dangling ornamental ear pendants adds to the vision I have just created, plus any other accessories that may enhance my physically effeminate characteristics. Of course, a layer or two of blush-stained varnish was applied to each digital appendage long before I began this whole metamorphic affair – trust me. Thus adorned according to my wishes, the deliberately delicate world I have dressed for awaits me, just outside the nearby portal...
See, we’ve successfully denuded the associative queerness from our inexplicable transgendered re-imaginings simply by cloaking the proceedings in contradistinct and/or unperceived words – I think it’s safe to say that “they” can’t touch us now, at least in terms of alternative terms. This may be double-speak, but it speaks to me, and you, and it keeps the real world at bay, precisely where it belongs. Since crossdressing resists explanation, or justification (amongst outsiders), why not crank it up a degree and REALLY make it hard to understand? You’ll be doing yourself a courtesy, trust me – discomfiture is good for others, but not for us...
That being said, I may as well end it here. Well, not “end” - I hereby terminate the proceedings. Hopefully, I haven’t been too pedantical with my discursive redundancies. Keep in mind that my lexicon is under construction, and any unrestrained verbosity on my part is meant purely for the purposes of entertainment or distraction. Did you know there’s something called “wordhoard?” I am an effeminate wordhoarder – oops, that last word was too much for my word processor...
:eek:
BTW, crossdressing is FUN – not to crossdress would be deleterious in the extreme, n’est ce pas? :battingeyelashes:
OK, we’re approaching the closet, a.k.a. the containment vessel for feminine metamorphosis, the repository of fetishes big and small, and everything in-between. Our transformation may now officially commence. You are a transformist, right? I thought so. We seek to shed our corporeal physicality, and move towards a heightened state that may reveal the transhumanist in us all. Frankly, my corporeity is quite literally a drag. We begin by decorticating the drab wrappers and creating a blank canvas. I assume you have completed your ablutions? Good. Grab a pair of drawers from one of the drawers. I mean a skin-tight, form-fitting, roseate microfiber undergarment, meant to constrictively contain one’s trochlear drupelets. Once you wiggle into this worshipful lingerie, the cerebripetal feelings will cause great euphoria – that’s a given. Next we put on an equally delicious peritoneum, replete with prosthetic mammilla of some sort, designed to make up for any curvilinear shortcomings. Don’t be shy, now. Our illusory manipulations cannot be meretricious or exaggerative, yet figuration is our ultimate goal – we need to look credible, once we are enshrouded in our superimposed feminine overlays...
Time to put on our hosiery, fabricated from synthetic materials, consummately elastic. Don’t be too transilient – it takes time to transform with style. Are you feeling hugged all over, making you a bit testy? Personally, I like the feeling of compression, since the cerebrifugal happenings reinforce the moment, driving away any lingering thoughts of injurous deviancy. Masculinity drains away, like an antediluvian watershed, revealing the genuine, undeniable me (or you). Slip on some decorous pedial coverings to become ambulatory once again – if you have created a new, higher platform you may need to check your balance, once your tootsies are ensconced, that is. The outer-garments may now go on, after a quick narcissistic look in the ever-present reflecting pool nearby. What to wear? I can accurately be termed an off-the-rack sensualist, or even an anti-pants curvaceous activist, hedonistically speaking, challenging the accepted status quo. There are many outfits, uniforms, costumes, and adornments to choose from. I could clothe myself with a pannier, a petticoat, a tutu, a frock, a kilt, or a muumuu, but I become what I don simply by close association. If a skirt swings or swishes, and it should, we can aptly be called effeminate airflow specialists - or maybe a dress could be a controlled whether system (whether or not you wear the desired garment, of course). Groan, grunt, and grumble. The spin cycle is optional – let’s not get too dizzy, or giddy, or disconcerted, since there’s more to come...
To finish off, it’s time for facial concealment. My cosmetic reconstructions beautify the personal landscape, all the while resembling cosmography, since I’m creating my own femme universe. My face gets a toned ground, appropriate to the desired motif, and any underpainting helps to create form and delicacy by revealing positive attributes. Careful with the imprimatura! Layer after layer of rendering obscures anything remotely tangible, yet a new, surrealistic visage is created miraculously. Some subtle outlining adds definition, and, finally, rouge-colored pomade is brushed onto the twin labrum. I prefer crimson, either alizarin or quinacridone. My countenance is like an expressionist painting – it never comes out as I had planned, yet I do like what I see, since I am a conceptual work of art. I cover my head with an artificial auburn piruke, very transformative by design, and I become aware of my unmistakable transvestism. Hold the simulated follicles in place with an elaborate fibula or two, please. A pair of dangling ornamental ear pendants adds to the vision I have just created, plus any other accessories that may enhance my physically effeminate characteristics. Of course, a layer or two of blush-stained varnish was applied to each digital appendage long before I began this whole metamorphic affair – trust me. Thus adorned according to my wishes, the deliberately delicate world I have dressed for awaits me, just outside the nearby portal...
See, we’ve successfully denuded the associative queerness from our inexplicable transgendered re-imaginings simply by cloaking the proceedings in contradistinct and/or unperceived words – I think it’s safe to say that “they” can’t touch us now, at least in terms of alternative terms. This may be double-speak, but it speaks to me, and you, and it keeps the real world at bay, precisely where it belongs. Since crossdressing resists explanation, or justification (amongst outsiders), why not crank it up a degree and REALLY make it hard to understand? You’ll be doing yourself a courtesy, trust me – discomfiture is good for others, but not for us...
That being said, I may as well end it here. Well, not “end” - I hereby terminate the proceedings. Hopefully, I haven’t been too pedantical with my discursive redundancies. Keep in mind that my lexicon is under construction, and any unrestrained verbosity on my part is meant purely for the purposes of entertainment or distraction. Did you know there’s something called “wordhoard?” I am an effeminate wordhoarder – oops, that last word was too much for my word processor...
:eek:
BTW, crossdressing is FUN – not to crossdress would be deleterious in the extreme, n’est ce pas? :battingeyelashes: