I have no clear memories when it was the first time I felt the “urge” of dressing like a woman. It’s hard to fix a place or a time for it. All I remember was the opposite — during my teens, I suppressed my intense desire of being with women, because I was ugly, too clever for my own good, too shy, too badly dressed, and too uninteresting to attract any girl. I made a conscious effort to drive down my own hormones and intense, burning desire to have a girlfriend like anyone else in school — because I knew that no one would really care to be my girlfriend, anyway.
Thus in my late teens I had overcome that urge. One reason I thought that I was so unattractive to girls
was because I hadn’t a “mature” look. Other guys looked great — massively built, strong, already with a beard, good at sports, able to drink like hogs. I was the wimpy (or so I thought), the intellectual one. I also found out that I liked to talk to girls much more than “doing things” with them. Since then, my fascination with observing human beings never left me.
Still, I got scared. I thought I was probably gay or something worse; definitely something was not be right with me, and that was what scared girls away. But I was very sure that I had no interest in having sex with guys; I loved women, I love the way they move, the way they talk, the way they dress, the way they think. I always did and always will. So, I wondered what was wrong with me, and in the mean time, I hid my face behind a beard.
During college, I finally met a girl and I was seriously in love with her (she teased me… never showing how much she cared… something I only found out much later). She was ravishingly beautiful (and I guess she still is!), and very quickly, I forgot all my sillynesses in the past. It was just a question of “finding the right girl” after all. Later, I had no more problems in getting some attention from the women I liked; it was easy to charm them with a smile and witty conversation, as well as long and clever talks…
The shyness was gone. But, to a degree, I felt that something was gone as well, namely, the urge to think about sex all the time. Like all guys do. And apparently, also all the girls. All the time: sex, sex, sex. That suddenly simply did seem a waste of time and effort. Why was it so important, after all? It’s just a bodily function; what is that compared to the feeling of touch — touching a smooth skin, touching the silk, the laces on top of that skin? That is indeed the prelude to sex — the time you spend watching at each other, admiring the way you move, the way you say things which shouldn’t be said out loud — or the way you don’t say things.
Flirting is sex-in-your-mind: what you imagine that the other partner is thinking about what you’re thinking — and if you both are, indeed, thinking the same thing. Observing this exchange of words – like a very stylised martial arts combat — is exciting. The hand that lightly brushes your hand; the touch of a foot; the lock of hair that gently brushes your skin; the smell of perfume, eyes meeting each other, the reflex from a golden earring or a gem set in a ring… all these tiny things matter. And they are the ones that set you in a mood. It makes you eager for what comes next.
Once discovered, flirting is very addictive. It’s one of the best forms of excitement available; it’s free, it’s amusing, it can last for hours, and you don’t get any side-effects or diseases 🙂 It’s in 3D, it uses smell, touch, visual, and auditive input. And it uses magic.
This is what I have learned, perhaps around 1992 or 1993. What did excite me most was the magic of women. The way they move and dress and talk and do things “just so”. It’s a very complex system of powerful weavings that attract you to their net — drawing a wide web with themselves as the central focus. It is fascinating to watch — and a wonderful feeling to get slowly trapped into that net. The way they do it is uncanny!
But, sadly to say, not all are like that. Magic is becoming more and more rare. Women who use sexy dresses or outfits, or tease by showing you laced stockings… are seldom found these days. If they do it, they’re labeled by their peers as being too forward. Girls in 1985-1990 dressed in loose-fitting jeans and barely washed T-shirts — just like the boys they hang up with. They cut their hair short, discarded their makeup, and used minimalistic jewelry. They talked like the guys and they moved like them. In short, they were so much obsessed with the male image that they wanted to “get accepted” by emulating that image as much as they could.
When these girls grow up, even if they need to get rid of their “male” image (say, when entering the corporate world), they will do it badly. They’ll wear flats after having spent their youth in tennis shoes. They’ll have trousers because they don’t know how to sit down in a skirt. They will use comfy woolen socks, because that’s what they always used. They will wear uninteresting, grey, pinstripedtailleurs because they wouldn’t dare to wear a dress. Their lingerie will be boring white cotton bras and panties — very comfy all the time, and as sexy as a paper handkerchief. They will never know what haircut will fit their face. And a lipstick is all they will ever use as makeup; they’d be scared to touch their eyes with a pointed eyeliner.
The younger generation is fortunately the reverse — they are all for the glamour. But my own generation wasn’t. My generation sadly forgot about the magic. And I was very, very sad because of it.
