laundrette confessional

ive never fancied myself as much of a cross-dresser. certainly, not the kind that stuffs a wonder-cup, shaves his legs and struts around in a tight little mini and heels, smoking long cigarettes, and oozing that peculiar sort of muscular feminity. most men have brandished the odd eye-liner in their youth, dabbed the littlest of rouge on their pre-pubescent cheeks, wrestled with the strongest urges to suck on a stick of blush-red lipstick, but a flagrant flaunting of parallel sexuality requires a courage only the bravest of men can muster. today, i wore panties to work.
not that i would be so naive as to even compare my little fiasco to the grounds those esteemed warriors of alternate lifestyles have tread. it was at best, a sociological experiment with fringe benefits; a private pleasure if i may. what i wish to elaborate on are not the details-not the guilty savouring of my erection restrained by the soft fabric, or the bitter-sweet sensation of the material riding up my anus- but the sense of secrecy it evoked. all day, i was traumatised by the fear of being discovered. i sweated and panted from the effort and conciousness involved in ensuring my denims dont once fall below the coveted line or my tee-shirt rise too high and expose my lilac hued under-things. at the same time, that delicious feeling of hiding something from the world, a secret so dark it could cause bodily harm and life-long humiliation in these alpha-male times; for, i like the proverbial child, wanted only to explore, i nurtured an interest that can sustain itself only in the comforting knowledge of the proximity of home, like a swimmer in the ocean who tests himself only so far as his muscles tell him he can swim back from. what a beautiful feeling, that sense of comraderie with the shadowy! that brotherhood with the underworld, the almost sinful indulgence in privacy so rare! much like the purveyor of a nuclear attack, or the Virgin Mary awaiting delivery. or is it deliverance?
i would be lying if i professed any particular erotic pleasure in the act. unlike the used intimacy of the belongings of an object of lust, or the consumerist proprietorship of a brand new purchase, the undergarments of a stranger stolen from her (his?) laundry basket promote little space for such egoistic celebration. i didnt wonder how they looked wrapped around the precious modesty of their previous owner, nor did i look around and try to figure out if any of my colleagues prefer the same material, or softener or design. they were mine, mine, mine; my dirty little secret, the fruit of my inquisitve, if lecherous mind. and all day, i revelled.