A Moment That Will Never Leave You... Wearing Female Clothes For The First Time

There's a momentous and unforgettable day in every trans woman or cross-dresser's life that stands out more than any other - possibly more anything else of significance in their entire femme experience.  I might just be speaking for myself and on behalf of the other trans women that I've chatted to, but I feel sure that this is something that we all have in common.

The thing we share - perhaps with different residual emotions, is the occasion when we finally got to wear some tights or female clothing for the very first time. 

Almost certainly, like me, trans girls will be able to recall every moment of the day with perfect clarity - it's such an enormous landmark in our lives that it'll be there, permanently stamped on our consciousness until our dying day, alongside all of the other extraordinary landmarks that pave our way towards different degrees of femininity.

I think it's fair to say that this is a definable, polarising difference between cross-dressers and trans women on one hand and cis women on the other.  It's very hard to imagine a cis girl being able to recall the exact day she first wore she wore tights or a dress to a party!  Yet I can't imagine that there's a single individual like myself who can't remember the events leading up to, during and after their first experience of trying on female clothing for themselves.

With all of this in mind, I wanted to share my story with you - of how I got the opportunity to pull on some tights / pantyhose for the very first time.  This was my first step into the world of my inner life.

***

It’s a typical weekday evening in my house in 1980.  I am at home, I'm about ten years old and at this point it’s about nine o’clock on a typical weekday evening.  All is quiet, except for the drone of the TV coming from the living room downstairs.  My parents are watching a favourite programme down there together and I’m upstairs in bed, in my room behind a closed door.  My bedroom light was switched off a few minutes before, and I’m lying quietly in the darkened bedroom as I do every evening, waiting for sleep to take hold and for school and the morning routine to greet me in the morning.

Tonight though, I can’t get to sleep and I’m feeling restless and bored.  I go over to the bathroom and take a book with me.  I can turn the light on there without being spotted from downstairs, and my parents know that sometimes I read whilst I’m in there to pass the time.  This might sound a trifle odd, but at that age, an extra few minutes alone n the bathroom really did mean a chance to read for a little longer, and nothing more!

Having let a few moments pass, I decide to go back to bed and try to beat my insomnia and boredom.  It’s only then that the thoughts come together and form the most exciting prospect of my young life...

It’s amazing that I haven’t considered doing this before – but it’s only now, at the age of ten– four years after experiencing the desire and longing to wear tights for the first time that I realise that I could actually make my long- held desire a reality – and right in my own house too, at that very moment.  

My life is about to change – and this is what’s about to change it...

Going back down the darkened hallway to my bedroom I glance into my parents’ bedroom and catch a glimpse of my mother’s clothes lying neatly on their hanger against her mirror ready for the next day.  My train of thought moves on to imagine her the next morning, dressed, as ever, in a longish smart skirt and jacket ready for the office, with her brown or barely black sheer tights beneath as I see her every working day.  Of course, I think - her tights are in her drawer, she keeps them there all bundled together.  I’ve seen them from a distance in her room a dozen times, and not really thought any more of it.  They’re hers after all – clothes for an adult lady.

But then – the connections happen and the amazing possibility presents itself to me for the first time:

Why don’t you go in and have a look at her tights for yourself?  No one will ever notice if you’re quiet and quick!

And, then, a second later, sending a bolt of excitement through me so strong that I feel my face flush and burn, the inevitable thought arrives:

Why don’t you secretly try a pair of your mother’s tights on?  No one will ever know!

The burning continues.  I feel my heart beat and my body begin to swell and pulse.  I’m a child, a boy of only ten years, but still, incredibly, I feel a rush of desire and a thrill to even consider wearing tights myself. 

The sheer audacity of the prospect is intoxicating.  I could have done this before on any quiet night or moment in the house before now, but it’s taken me until this very minute to come to the realisation that I could have my beloved tights – and without any of the previous worries and concerns ever rearing their head or blocking my way.

*****

After all of those years of waiting and hoping in vain that a teacher, a fancy-dress party or a school play would allow me to wear tights without humiliation or without having to ask for myself.  All of those days in primary school looking longingly at the girls’ dark-green legs– wishing that I could borrow some woollen ribbed tights and wear them for just five minutes in secret.  They all come flooding back.

There was even a time when I thought my ship had come in, when a girl in my primary school class had left hers on my table getting changed for PE.  Back in those days, we all changed into our shorts and t-shirts in the classroom without any consideration of childhood embarrassment.  That was simply how it was, although I'm doubtful things are so liberal and innocent today.

For ten minutes I’d been waiting for that second to snatch this pair of rolled up, bottle-green tights and then hold them under my jumper.  The plan was to remove them to the toilets.  I’d never have stolen them, I genuinely had every intention of giving them back but the prospect of having some real tights, just for few minutes and then getting wear them for myself…  Well, it was just too much to hope for. 

Of course, the teacher spotted them before I had my chance and they soon were reunited with their rightful owner, which was probably for the best. 

*****

A little reminder:  I had no sister, no close female friend or female relative my age.  My mother was the only significant female figure in my life at this time and the only source of tights in my life.  My fascination and longing was becoming stronger with each passing year and I’d toyed with the idea of going to the shops myself and trying to buy some; but I was still a young boy without any real financial or practical independence.  In short, I’d mentally explored all the possible avenues for wearing some tights, only to see them all close – until this very sudden moment of revelation on the landing of my family home, in the dark one weekday evening.  I really couldn’t believe that I’d never considered it before, but I genuinely hadn’t.

The only worry now would be carrying it out quietly and inconspicuously, so that my parents wouldn’t hear me, and my mother wouldn’t spot that I’d been into one of her underwear drawers the next day.  God – imagine that having to face that!  I knew I was going to have to be very careful.

*****

Things are still quiet in my family home that evening.  I tiptoe in to the bedroom and sit down on the floor.  My mum keeps her tights in the lowest drawer of her cabinet.  I’ve seen her delving in there time after time putting her laundered tights back in their home; loosely separating them between the black pairs on one side and the beige on the other. 

They’re there now as I silently slip open the drawer - the tights. bundled, just as I’ve envisaged.  

I’ve pulled the drawer open slowly, or, at least as slowly as my excitement will allow me.  The blood is still pumping in my ears and the heat is scorched across my face.  My pre-pubescent body stirs in ways that are both comfortable and disconcerting.  None the less, I am focused on something with a ferocity I may not ever have summoned before.  I’m interested in just one thing – finding a pair of tights to wear as quickly as possible!

My nerves prevent me from burrowing in the drawer.  Instead, I pull out the rolled, ball-like pair from the second layer in the drawer and begin to pull and stretch the legs out.  They’re a dark-beige / light-brown pair of 15 denier tights or pantyhose– just like so many of my mother’s everyday pairs.  To her, they're simply another pair of everyday clothes.  But I don’t really take this in.  At this second, they’re the greatest thing in the entire world and nothing is going to stop me fulfilling my life’s ambition now so long as the house stays calm and quiet and I keep my cool.

*****

I hold them out in front of my face.  The familiar, dark reinforced pantie reveals itself at the top, and then the two legs begin to dangle loosely all the way to the scrunched, shadow-toes at the bottom.  Their recent wash has caused them to contract and I worry that the wrinkles and linear seams will remain in place and ruin the experience for me.

I don’t need to worry.  I sit on the floor and lift my leg.  My pyjamas are off now and my expectation has reached an extraordinary pitch.  I don’t have time or the nerve to wear or find any knickers or panties.  I just want to wear these tights now.

There’s a good deal of light coming into the darkened bedroom from the landing and I have a perfect view of myself in the bedroom mirror.  The stage really is set.  And there, slowly, but surely, I get to experience at last what I’ve been dreaming about every day for the last few years. 

*****

The tights smooth out and cling to me perfectly, despite my small size.  I remember being worried that the fit would be wrong and the adult tights would be too big for me, but the nylon legs slip onto me readily and reveal their magnificent, subtle  dark sheen as they go.  I admire myself in the mirror.  Astonishingly, I am able to see that my legs now look just like a girl’s, and it’s all so, so perfect and everything I’ve hoped for.

This really is one of the highlights of my life.  All these years later I can see myself and recall the emotions of that evening.  Today, every time I pull tights on or embrace my feminine side, I’m back in that room as a small boy.

*****

I don’t really have the time or the nerve to fully enjoy the sensations, but I feel surprised that the tights have certain toughness to their texture that I wasn’t expecting.  My imagination had them as completely, feathery soft and smooth.  But the real tights are a little bit rough – the tight weave of the nylon and the firm stretch of fabric around the whole of lower body and legs feels completely alien.  It’s not disappointing in the slightest – quite the opposite.  God – girls get the chance to do this everyday?  I really have been born under an unlucky star – I need to be able to do this!

Wearing tights really does feel completely different to anything else.  Nothing that I’ve ever had to wear as a boy has felt anything like this.  I am overwhelmed with what I’m experiencing.  So much wish-fulfilment and sensory amplification leaves me numb.  On top of all of this joyous fulfilment, there also lurks the thrill of the taboo, the fear of being caught and the incredible feeling of comfort that has stemmed form this moment.

*****

Time ticks by - it's probably no more tithe two minutes since I even touched the tights for the first time, but I know that I have to take them off.  I try to do this as quickly as I can without making a noise.  They’re soon off and I try to roll them back to their original state.  The nylon scrunches back a little, and so I place them in the drawer just underneath a similar pair, and hope my mother won’t notice any difference in the future.  The drawer is so full (at least 20 pairs rolled up in there, with a couple on new packets in cardboard and cellophane at the side) that I’m sure I’ll get away with it.

The pyjamas go back on.  Then, perhaps no more than ten minutes before I’d left my bedroom, I’m back where I was before.  My mind races.  

There’s the knowledge that I can do it again if I want to.  Not every night, or even every week, but as and when I feel brave enough and the opportunity presents itself.  I can wear anything I want to, provided I borrow it secretly from my mother.

I do repeat the experience the following night after a day at school thinking of nothing else.  This time, it’s black tights and I sit and watch myself in the mirror for ten minutes or so before putting them back.  The novelty doesn’t diminish, but I have to hold myself back, and it’s several months before I dare to go back and do it again.

*****

This was my first experience of this type and I know that there are literally thousands of similar ones out there inside the hearts and minds of so many 'girls' like me.

Perhaps, like in relationships, the need and compulsion to cross-dress or transition is an attempt of some sort to recapture that initial burst of unobtainable ecstasy.  Every subsequent experience needs to replicate that initial 'hit', and I think it's telling that I remember my first time in tights even now as I take a private opportunity to wear some some once again.

If you've a story to tell, please feel free to share it in the comments. below.  I'd love to hear it!

My Girlfriend Encourages Me To Wear Her Black Evening Dress

Rachael's legendary black dress - as I remember it.

For this entry, I’m going back to the early summer days of 1996.  I was in my mid-twenties and had just started going out with a new girlfriend, Rachael.  

We’d got together quickly and unexpectedly, and we’d only spent a few evenings together before I decided to ‘come out’ and tell her about my cross-dressing.  I didn’t expect to be dressed as a girl in front of her after only knowing her for just a few weeks, but that’s how things turned out.

Rachael was very intelligent, a little older than me and, ultimately, rather too serious for us to stay together for very long.  But, out of all the women I’ve been out with she was the most tolerant of my need to ‘be a girl’ and she’s the only girlfriend who’s encouraged me to go out in public and do it properly rather than to simply pull some women’s underwear on with a t-shirt in a haphazard way in my room.

I never did get the chance to go to the club with her.

Rachael was initially excited by the novelty of my need to cross-dress, and as soon as I’d told her about it she was buzzing with excitement.  She wanted to tell her friends but I protested strongly that I didn’t want anyone except her to know about this, at least for the time being.  

Rachael had another suggestion soon after:  She asked me to allow her and her best friend to dress me properly (in full female drag) complete with wig and make-up so that we could go to a transvestite nightclub in Brighton. (I didn’t do this with them in the end, but it was a tempting proposition, as I’ll describe here in the full story  below.)

***

By chance Rachael was a wonderfully enthusiastic tights wearer in her own right, and she’s the only girl I’ve been out with who was happy to wear a real variety of tights rather than standard opaques.  I got the chance to see her in thick, dark blue control-top opaques with shorts one day and soft-sheen, neutral sheer tights with a straight skirt the next.  This was tremendously exciting and sexy and I loved the way she would vary her tights to suit her mood and her outfit, often taking me by surprise by wearing ones I’d never seen her wear or buy before.  She got a kick out of this and I know that for a while she did this as a way of playing to my fetish too.  It was fun!

Rachael also had an arousing habit of putting on her bra, knickers and tights first thing in the morning before fixing her hair, make-up or even having her breakfast.

Sometimes she’d put her shirt on as well, but often she wouldn’t; she’d just be in her underwear meaning that I’d spend a very happy, (but often very frustrating 30 minutes) staring at her as she padded around the house – wearing tights on most work mornings and many of her weekends too. Wow!  It was particularly fascinating when she was wearing some sheer 15 or 20 denier tights, as I hadn’t really seen a girl wearing them close-up before.

Rachael told me that she’d always done this – get half dressed  in the morning to stop her clothes getting messed up with breakfast crumbs and make-up smears. It wasn’t for my benefit, then, but it felt like it was.  Apparently her mother had done the same thing when she was growing up and it was a habit she’d naturally copied and stuck with herself.

She always popped back upstairs to get dressed just before leaving the house, and I was always amazed at how quickly she did this.  I’d see her legs and bottom wrapped in some lovely brown or blue tights go up the stairs.  I was always careful to be ‘coincidentally’ in position at the foot of the stairs at this particular moment each morning, so I could watch her go up and see as much of her as I could. Two or three minutes later she’d be in her work clothes or weekend dress and on her way out of the front door.  Rachael knew this but never complained, and part of me loved the fact that she might have done all of this a little theatrically - emphasising her femininity and exuding effortless, everyday  female glamour for my benefit as much as for her own practical reasons.

***

I do have some fond memories of Rachael (and not just because of her clothes) but I don’t think I was really in love with her, or she with me.  We met at a time when we were both quite unsettled in our personal lives.  We were both discontented with our jobs and we became intimate companions whose mutual situation brought us together rather than any deep emotional bond.  I know a lot of people who've done something similar.  By chance they've ended up in a relationship that's not really comfortable, but for a combination of reasons have stayed together with someone even though they're both fully aware that this isn't really meant to be.  Rachael and I separated on good terms without tears or histrionics after we'd been together for just over a year, and if I'm honest I’ve not really thought of her a great deal since then.  But, a quick glance at Facebook has reassured me that's she doing very well for herself and seems happy - much happier than at the time we were together and I'm really glad that things have worked out well for her.

But, back in those first moments of novelty and discovery with Rachael and myself when we tumbled into intimacy with each back in 1996, things promised a lot more than a painless, awkward separation.  For a while I thought the gateway to cross-dressing peace of mind had been opened by this curious and pretty young woman.

*****

As I mentioned earlier, it was after knowing Rachael a very short time, on our third or fourth date that I told her about my love of tights.  We’d spent the evening talking on the sofa, drinking red wine, smoking Marlboro Lights and telling each other our interesting stories.  As the evening wore on we become more daring and flirtatious, and we inevitably arrived at our biggest secrets.

Rachael’s big secret was a surprise – and again, I’m aware that this sounds like male wish fulfilment, but this is again true.  Rachael admitted that she’d once slept with a girl when she was at college.  She was confident now that she wasn’t really gay or bisexual, and if she was honest she hadn’t really fancied the other girl, but one evening, thanks to a combination of drink, circumstances and a desire to cast convention aside, she’s allowed herself to get flirtatious with a friend and things had escalated into a full blown night together where plenty of sexy things happened.

I was fascinated of course, but Rachael wouldn’t be drawn on too many details and said that I was one of the only people she’d ever mentioned it to.  She wasn’t embarrassed about the gay aspect, but rather she regretted it as you would any one-night-stand with a close friend.  After she’d been so honest, I knew I had to be too.

*****

The words came a lot more easily than I’d thought, and it was a lot less traumatic than when I’d told Katie several years before.  I simply told Rachael the truth:  That I loved women’s clothes, but tights in particular were my real obsession, and had been since I was a little boy when I’d first wanted to wear them. 

This is the conversation, in as much detail as I can remember. It’s not verbatim of course, but I’d like to think of it as a tissue of truths:

“You mean you’re a tranny? Do you dress up as a woman?” 

Rachael was clearly more curious than shocked - her voice suggesting intrigue, not fear or surprise.  She was, (unsurprising considering her personality) rather detached and analytical about what I’d told her.  I went on:

“Well I’ve never been out in public but I am a bit of a ‘tranny’ I suppose.  I’ve got some tights and a few female clothes of my own that I wear around the house. I don’t go out though.”

“Really?” She giggled. “I’m really surprised, I’d never have thought that you’d be into anything like that.  Well, you hear about it and read about it don’t you!  I’ve always wondered about why a man would want to do it.  God I’d love to tell Bronwyn, (her best friend – a slight eccentric character and a real fag-hag) she absolutely loves drag queens.” Pause, then a concerned expression. “You’re not gay are you?”

“No, it’s nothing to do with fancying men.  I just get this burning urge to wear women’s clothes, it’s like an addiction.  When I feel that I need to get dressed it’s really hard to ignore it, especially when I want to wear tights. But I only do it here by myself.”

“Does anyone else know? Did you do this at university?”

“No one except Katie (my ex), and she’s promised not to tell anyone else. You’re not going to tell Bronwyn are you?”

“No, no, not if you don’t want me to.  But I didn’t see that coming, that’s just so weird.  Why do you like tights so much, I can’t imagine why you’d like them. (My last boyfriend) ….hated me wearing tights and said that they made me look like an old lady.”

“Well, it all started at primary school when…. “

I told the tale, as written up in all of my blog entries about my earliest stirrings of transvestism. 

“Have you worn anything of mine without telling me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you want to wear something of mine?  Oh my God, I’ve got to see you wear something now that you’ve said that.”

“No, I’m too embarrassed, I’m not really ready now.”

“Are you really a tranny? I want you to wear something for me.”

*****

It felt as though Rachael didn’t believe me, that my personality was so mundane and unflamboyant that she’s didn’t believe I was capable of cross-dressing- something she had in her mind as something really camp and outrageous.

So, whilst I wasn’t entirely in the mood to do it, I got dressed in front of her that night with her guiding me and egging me on.  It turned out to be fun rather than arousing.

*****

I admitted that her short, black shift dress from Next (a UK clothing store) was my favourite of hers, as were her very shiny black opaques.  She asked me to pick out knickers as well, and I chose her full, control-top style Sloggi briefs.  Rachael loved the fact that I liked these ‘mommy-knickers’ more than her skimpier or lacier ones. 

“This is a weird thing to say, but if we ever split up I’ve got loads of clothes you can have if you want!  I’ll leave them behind for you.”

So, in my living room, with the curtains drawn one late Saturday evening in the summer of 1996 with my new girlfriend’s help, I dressed up as a girl: Knickers, bra (stuffed with tissues), black glossy opaque tights and a black cotton dress.  Rachael zipped me up at the back and asked me to walk up and down the room. I did find this special, I must admit.

Rachael enjoyed seeing me get dressed, not with a sense of sexual excitement but out of the novelty of seeing a man wear women’s clothes so willingly and out of choice.  After chatting about it briefly she soon realised that I was serious – I knew so much about tights - knowing all about the different styles, denier numbers and materials, as well as a great deal about knickers, skirts and women’s fashions that I Rachael knew that I definitely wasn’t doing this as a joke or novelty.  After that, things carried on as they had before:

She sat with me on the sofa and the conversation carried on into the night. After a while I forgot, as much as it’s possible to under the circumstances that I was dressed up at all.

*****

I stayed dressed up for another hour or so.  The most exciting part for me wasn’t so much the cross dressing, as I was still a little bit self-conscious and it was all a little sudden and overpowering to be fully dressed just ten minutes after coming out.

The thrill came when Rachael pushed back the hem of my dress with her hand.  I watched her eyes, and they moved down to look at my smooth, black shiny knees, and then peer up my skirt. She asked me to lie down opposite her on the sofa; we were lying toe to toe. Before we went to bed and the intimacy of the evening drew us towards the bedroom, Rachael’s foot was lodged between my legs, pulsing gently. (I know what it feels like to have someone go up my skirt!) My excitement gathered, as did hers, leading us to undress. I went upstairs with her – but without the female clothes. 

The dress, underwear and tights sat in a guilty heap on the carpet the next morning and neither of us mentioned the cross-dressing again for a few days.

*****

That was pretty much that, and despite this promising start, the mutual dressing didn’t really happen again.  There were a few isolated occasions where Rachael asked me if I wanted to have her tights before she threw them out, but I said no because she was offering me her torn or laddered tights.  The fact that they weren’t perfect was a little bit of a turn off; I wanted my tights to be as new and as nice as her best ones.  I can understand where she was coming from though.

*****

Once, after a horrible day at work I sat in a bit of a daze at home trying to come to terms with things. I was in a bad mood and Rachael seemed keen cheer me up.  After disappearing for an hour, she reappeared with a gift for me that she know would lift my spirits.  She’d been out to buy me a pair of 40 denier black tights.  

I almost cried when she handed them to me.  This was one of the most thoughtful things anyone had ever done and I was incredibly grateful.  She had given me a big smile before watching me unwrap the package she’d even gift-wrapped for me.  It certainly did cheer me up, and she urged me to go and put them on for the night to relax and feel better.  It worked!

*****

The planned trip to the transvestite club in Brighton never happened.  Rachael mentioned it once or twice on our earlier days together (and I’m pretty sure she did tell her friend Bronwyn about my cross-dressing).  There was a discussion about going down for the weekend and visiting the club too for a fun night out.

If Rachael had prompted me and actually organised the weekend, I might well have been brave and gone with her and her friend in full drag.  Brighton was miles from my home, and there would be no one there who could possibly recognise me.  One afternoon we even went to a local charity shop to buy an outfit for my female alter ego.  It seemed that the Brighton weekend was coming very soon. 

Or, that had been the plan, but somewhere the idea quietly disappeared. Rachael bought a denim skirt and a top for herself at the charity shop that afternoon and that was all.  My feminine self wasn’t to be treated to any clothes from Rachael again, and within a year; we would be living in different countries in the knowledge that we’d never see each other again.

I was sad, but, as I mentioned, there were no tears; and despite an earlier promise that she’d leave her old clothes behind for me, she didn’t. They all went to Canada with her. 

It was time for a new start, once again.

My University Challenge - Going To Live With Three Girls As A Closeted Trans Girl

This story is true and it's the first time I've ever told it to anyone.  Aside from the names that I’ve changed in the interest of confidentiality, this is a genuine autobiographical story.  

Like my other blog entries, I’d like it to be thought of as a ‘tissue of truth’ - some details have faded from my memory but a great deal is still vivid; and I’ve been as truthful as I can in telling it to you here.  

I’d be especially interested in hearing from you with your thoughts about what happened to me in this story.

Student girls celebrating - whilst wearing tights of course.

Introduction

Could I go away to university and live with three girls without giving my obsession away?  I’m fairly sure I might have failed with this one, meaning that there are probably some women out there in the world who believe that I am, or at least was a cross-dresser, or even a closeted trans girl.  I’m not really worried if they do, but it’s strange to think that my whole relationship with tights and women’s clothes might have taken a very different direction if I’d only been more confident and honest during my university days following this particular incident.

To get to the main point of the story, in my second year of college one of my female housemates accused me of:

(i) being jealous of her,

(ii) being jealous because she knew I secretly wanted to be a girl, and 

(iii) of being jealous because she knew I secretly wanted to dress up as a girl

How on earth did this this happen, and how did I react? 

I think I’d better get back to telling you the whole story, right from the beginning:

****

I went away to study at university when I was eighteen and moved into a shared student house straight away, missing out the usual dorms or official accommodation.  This had its advantages as I had to do a lot of growing up very quickly - and it was especially nice to be offered a place in a domestic house along with three girls.

We were all very innocent and fresh-faced, 18 or 19 years old and a long way from home for the first time. Looking back it was a really wonderful experience where we learned how to be independent adults together.

It was purely by chance that I ended up living alongside girls - I was placed in the house by my college’s accommodation office when I phoned up for help.  I went down to look at the house in September before moving in properly at the start of the Autumn Term.  I only knew about the female residents once I’d pitched up on the front door on the weekend before starting term.  It was a wonderful and unexpected surprise that would change my life.

I wonder if the same thing would happen today or if it would be compulsory to have single-sex arrangements for new students.  As it happened, the practicalities of sharing the house as boys and girls were fine - we all had our own private rooms and the house’s living room and kitchen were the only communal areas.  There was even a smaller, separate shower room upstairs on the upper floor that became ‘mine’ whilst the girls used the larger bathroom themselves.

My new housemates were called Martha, Alice and Jane; and we lived together for nearly three years.  They were from similar backgrounds to myself, from different parts of the UK and I quickly came to like them all very much.  I loved Martha like I might do a sister of a similar age.  I was a little less taken with Alice as we were quite different personalities but I had a real soft spot for Jane.  She became my first female friend and I wrongly thought my feelings for her at the time were a bit of a crush.  They weren’t, I just felt very loyal and protective towards her; and the rapport between us was built on a platonic, mutual like and respect. I’d never had this with a girl before, and we quickly became close friends.  We went to the park, to the shops and to the pub together and it never felt odd or forced - we just liked each other a lot.

Of my three female housemates, it goes without saying that Jane was the feistiest, most passionate, the most misunderstood by my other friends and the most beautiful of the three girls I lived with. Jane would also be the girl who’d say those extraordinary words to me to in our second year at college, and in the later part of this entry I’ll describe how that moment came about. 

*****

I didn’t think I’d ever lose touch with the girls after we’d played such a big part in each other’s lives, but of course, I have; and it’s been too long now to suggest meeting them again. I’ve found two of them on Facebook and know we’d get on if we were to meet up and socialise again; but sometimes the past just has to stay another country. 

You see too often the rather sad sight of middle-aged college friends falling in love with the people they used to be, rather than embracing the here and now. My time with Martha, Alice and Jane is best left as a memory, although one I’m happy to let the light in on.

I loved living with the girls - which 18 year boy who’d never had a sister or a girlfriend wouldn’t?

I’d idolised females through my adolescence in the way that boys who’re too awkward and shy to go out with girls for real often do. Women get put on a pedestal and labeled as perfect because nothing has ever intruded into the reality - they’re still just beautiful fantasy figures and not real people. That’s how it was for me at that age as I’d been through the rites of High School without anything more than a kiss and a fumble in a classroom cupboard.

The idea then, of going to live alongside three girls seemed like heaven, and the reality turned out to be pretty close and not just because of my love of all things feminine.

*****

Looking back, living with three girls was really great.  I shared their ups and downs, their occasional boyfriend troubles, their chats where they planned very sensibly for their futures that were not dependant on their husbands, their bad-hair days and their PMT. It was a wonderful life-lesson for a young man on how the fairer sex think; and whilst I don’t kid myself that it made me more feminine or intuitive of female needs, I learned that girls weren’t just female boys.

My impression after a year or so was that women were even more beautiful, sensitive and attractive by their very nature than I’d even dared to think. If possible, they rose even higher in my esteem.

Despite the warnings of some male friends and relations that living with girls would drive me mad, I know it did the opposite. Three years alongside young women made me saner, more balanced, more open, more empathetic and kinder. And boy, did I have fun being close to the contents of three 18 year old girls’ wardrobes!

*****

Did I love seeing them each day? Of course. Did they wear tights a lot? Yes they did, especially the compulsory student uniform of thick wooly ribbed, or black opaque or Alice in Wonderland style stripey ones. They were girls after all, and so of course they were always in skirts, dresses and leggings and all in front of me every day. Wonderful!

I saw the reality again that tights weren’t anything special to a girl - no more than socks were to me. I found myself confronted with piles of washed knickers, vests and tights in the kitchen or having to pass dry pairs of tights or a bra from radiators on the landing to female hands popping out from behind closed bedroom doors. “Thanks sweetie!”

I wasn’t in any way an honorary girl or overly effeminate with them and I didn’t camp myself up at all. I just seemed to fit in alongside them and the girls seemed to trust me. We all became friends and the first year flew by happily. 

After a few months of living together, Jane was sufficiently trusting to sit with me on the sofa dressed in just some black opaque tights and a long t-shirt.  I didn’t see her knickers but I remember spending all evening looking at her tights instead of the TV.  On one occasion she even caught me gawping at her smooth black thighs. I though I’d be in big trouble, but she simply turned back to the TV as before. It clearly wasn’t an problem for her - perhaps she was flattered or amused by my metaphorical tongue hanging out.

*****

I’m proud to say that I never took advantage of the girls’ trust, and there were more than few occasions when I could.  I conspicuously turned my head away once when Alice decided to suddenly lift her dress up in the kitchen one time.  She was using the hem to clean something in her hands and it revealed her legs right up to her knickers. I was embarrassed that she’d been so unguarded in front of me and I forced my head to the side to make it clear I wasn’t ogling her.

Similarly, Jane once plonked herself on a kitchen chair one afternoon with her legs astride the centre. She was flashing everything, wearing her short black ethnic skirt and green and black stripy tights at the time!  Again, I turned my head away before leaving the room. Jane must have known that I'd be able to see up her skirt.  Had she thought it was ok because of her colourful tights - they were stopping me seeing anything more than green and black stripes, but I'd still seen the top of her tights. Wasn't that intimate enough?

God, it was so confusing. I went away from those events wondering if girls routinely let their guard down when there were no boys about. Did they relax in their skirts and allow their knees to separate, knowing that a girl sitting opposite wouldn't want to fix her eyes on her knickers? My wife has subsequently told me that this is not the case and women do no such thing.  But she has told me of moods when she hasn't cared less if anyone has glimpsed up her skirt - it's just too bad of they have.  Perhaps the girls did this too - just let things slide on these odd occasions.  They may even have found it funny.  I'll never know the reason why, but I found it oddly unsexy at the time, like I imagine a brother would feel about catching a glimpse of his half-dressed sister.

*****

The big thing happened in our second year together.  All four of us were on our way home from a trip to the supermarket one cold, wet evening.  Luckily, Alice had a car, (quite a rarity for students in the UK as ownership and insurance is very expensive for younger drivers).  This made our student life together all the more exciting and exotic.  We would sometimes go out on day trips together as a little ‘family’, (shopping malls, cinemas and theme parks) and we’d usually go to the supermarket together every week.  Young people playing at grown-ups.

We were on our way home that particular night when the mood in the car turned sour.  It was over an argument about the shared housework rota.  The debate about kitchen-cleaning schedules, vacuuming and wiping round the bath turned from a heated debate into a proper, more unpleasant row with raised voices.

I must admit I was one of the reasons why it became such a heated discussion, as I had tried to make a rather lame point about boys spending less time in the bathroom and thus needing to do less cleaning there.  This was a bad move, and Jane, ever the most passionate personality decided to fight back her cause with both barrels.

After a minute or so of the exchange, she silened the car.  Not with any bad language, but with the outburst. Here’s a paraphrase of what was said on the backseat of that old VW Polo:

Me - “No Jane you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not putting you down at all, this was just about the cleaning and...”

Jane - “You always reckon you’re so cool with us, and that you’re on our side and everything but you’re not at all. You don’t see us as equals at all”

Me -“That’s unfair - really unfair!  You know I really respect you all, you know I do!”

Jane - “No way, you don’t respect us! I know you want something else. I know that you’re jealous of us, and you’ve just proved it!”

Me -“What do you mean?”

Jane - “I think you’re jealous of us because you’re not a girl.  That’s why you’re being argumentative and fighting against us so much here!  I think you secretly want to be a girl - you want to be in our bathroom and dress like us -  that’s what this is really all about.”

****

I was so shocked I literally couldn't speak.  There was a nervous giggle from Alice and Martha in the front seat but then there was silence all the way home.

And the next day.

And even the next. 

****

Talk about a (very awkward) elephant in the room.  I couldn't bring myself to look at Jane or say another word to any of the girls after that.  I felt awful - really shaken up, and part of me felt as though I was about to be placed in a really uncomfortable and embarrassing position.

If I had pursued the conversation, Jane could have said something that  directly accused me or proved that I was a transvestite.  I have no idea how she’d leapt to that conclusion, but she’d certainly hit a raw nerve.

Despite all my secret cravings to do with cross-dressing, when the possibility of it being openly discussed by someone else started to approach, I felt ashamed and terrified that anyone might know the truth, even these three lovely girls whom I really cared a great deal about.

Yet, a bigger part of me longed to come out, to finally, there and then, tell the story of how I’ve wanted to wear tights since I was five.  How I’d cried sometimes with longing, after seeing all three of the girls go out to college or out for the evening beautifully dressed and made-up and known that I had to follow after them in my dowdy jeans.

If I told them the truth would it be all over the campus tomorrow?  Would being honest ruin our relationships with each other in the house?  Would they think I’m a pervert and believe that I’ve had myself housed with them to leer at them and snatch their underwear?

Or would they take me home, feel sorry for me and invite me to wear anything I like?  My mind conjured intoxicating fantasies of my housemates sympathising with me so much so that they one ton a mission to dress me up, allowing me to wear anything they like so long as I keep in the house and share the secret with them.

I really didn't know what was going to happen next, but I spent the following days in worried, shadowy silence - endlessly going through these alternative responses in my head, wondering if I was about to be humiliated or given the keys to a kingdom that I’d fantasised over for so, so long.

*****

I wish I could write the end of this story and resolve it, but of course, there is no resolution.

I never mentioned it again, neither did Jane or the other girls, and after a week or so, life went on. 

*****

I've never found out what prompted Jane to accuse me, but I have a few hunches:

Perhaps I'd gawped at her legs once too often and she'd just made a wild guess.

This is very unlikely, and it's a big jump for a girl to think a guy's a cross-dresser from out of the blue. There must have been something else to prompt her.

Had something in my body language or my attitude suggested that I was a trans? 

If so, what on earth was it, because I couldn't risk others seeing it.  I was always very careful not to give too much away, or so I thought.  It was impossible to believe that I’d said something ‘incriminating’.

Perhaps Jane had spotted some tights in my room, as I did have some pairs  but kept them hidden in a locked case.

They only came out after dark with the door shut, but it was remotely possible, I considered.

Had Jane, or one of the other girls somehow managed to spot a worn pair under my bed, or glimpsed me through a gap in the curtains dressed up one night?

I hadn't dressed in tights that often in the house. When I did, it was in one of my own pairs, and always in secret in my locked room.  But, once or twice I had picked up a pair of one of the girls' particularly interesting tights (red and black stripes!) from a washing basket or clothes pile, simply to stretch them over my hand and give them a closer look with my 'expert' eye.  This was always when they were out though and I tried not to leave any trace.  Also, I didn’t ever take any of their clothes into my room.

I still don't know, and probably never will find out the full story behind my near miss. This was one of the few that I've had and it was definitely the strangest and most surprising.

*****

Eventually, a year or so later I moved out and into a house with some of my male mates. It was fun sharing with boys too and we did argue less, but it wasn’t as special as the first house had been.

By the time I left, Alice had decided to leave as well and Martha had virtually moved in with her boyfriend.  Most upsetting was the fact that Jane and I never recaptured the trust and care that had shaped our first years of friendship.  Jane is still one of the best friends I’ve ever had in terms if close comradeship and emotional shorthand with someone, and I do miss her and think about her fairly regularly all these years later.

She was also my first female friend, and the first friend I made as an adult on my own terms, without the external pressures of home, parents or peer groups.

We were friends because we liked each other, not because we had to be. 

I do wish we could have stayed close for longer because I was genuinely very fond of her, and I would have loved her to be one of my children’s Godmothers.  She'd have been great.

I last saw her in 1994.  I found out from Facebook that she’s had quite a difficult time and I have the occasional day when I resolve to get in touch, but I always think twice later.  Surely she’d have contacted me if she’s in that much need of a chat? As a married man with two children I have to be careful how it looks, too.  My wife wouldn't mind and I know that she trusts me, but I do think there's something unsettling in going back through the wardrobe and into the Narnian world of university when you're twenty five years older.