by jarvisteflon » October 26th, 2006, 4:11 pm
My fantasy ~ My reality ~ My evil twin
There is a masochistic and "addictive" aspect to it for me. No doubt about it.
The humiliation I might experience as a result of my feminization as my skin and muscles and voice softenened and my breasts became difficult or impossible to conceal and my tush became rounder and "cuter" and stuck out behind me—the thought of it turns me on. Endlessly. Feminizing equals a betrayal and destruction of my masculinity. And I get off on the idea. Of reliquishing my manhood, giving up the agency and "power" that is thought to be a man's birthright (in a "man's world" anyhow, man has the upper hand over woman) and being forced to accept another supposedly weaker hand. Of being destroyed as a man and reborn a woman, but less than a woman even. A shemale. A hermaphrodite. The Third Sex. I suspect for me humiliation IS the whole deal, because that is all that I could ever really become. Not a woman, but a humiliated demoralized womanized version of a man.
In terms of pure fantasy though, yes a complete transformation to a genuine woman would not involve a humiliation factor. Not necessarily anyhow, except in terms of whatever mental and psychological adjustments I'd be required to make. To "cope". But if it is a fantasy there need not be any such adjustments. No coping. Just me AS a woman, suddenly, magically. But where's the fun in that? (In this area I have occassionaly fantasized simply swapping bodies with women I know. Or having my male body "stolen" by them and being "trapped" in their female body, forced to live their female life. I remember having these fantasies as early as the sixth grade.)
But I think I am much more interested in the transformation process. Slow. Deliciously slow. To the point of being maddening, a daily incremental mind fuck, like waiting for water to boil, ("Am I changing or not? I can't tell.") with the idea that the transformation—which I have allowed, initiated, nurtured and hastened, fully aware of the embarassment and pain it might eventually lead to—will quietly and imperceptibly progress to the point where one day I realize "Fuck me. It really IS happening. Oh shit." But it will seem manageable still, as I go on my merry way. Concealable, for awhile. And more importantly, it will be exciting. Thriling. So I will foolishly let it continue, telling myself "If they start to get too big I'll just stop." AS IF I am in control of what's happening! And then before I know it (perhaps sooner and more suddenly than I'd expected) that day comes. And just as suddenly and unceremoniously it will be too late. I'll realize that my feminization is all too real, all too obvious, and that it has "gotten out of control". I will panic. I will cry. I'll want desperately for it to stop. But I won't know how to stop it because I won't know how, really, it all started. Or if I could stop it, or slow it down, even with an endocrinologist's help, growth's forward momentum will continue even as it is "ramping down". So even as I wake up and come to grips with the fact that I've taken things too far and resolve to put a stop to it, I also have to face the fact that there is more growth to come. Inevitable and unwanted growth. My doctor will warn me, "It's gonna get worse before it gets better." Except it's not going to GET better. It's only gonna get worse!
Though I will have proof to the contrary, I will reject the possibility that the changes in my body have anything to do with hypnosis or with anything I may have "wished" for. Because that's silly, right?! Besides, I won't want to appear responsible for what has happened. So I will feign ignorance. I will try to just think of it as nature's cruel trick, a homornal imbalance. Something beyond my control. I'll still be embarassed and humiliated. But if I can characterized it this way, if I can convince myself and those who care about me of this, then any further changes I am the victim of (i.e. if and when my boobs get even bigger) it will be "out of my hands". Hopefully that will make it a little bit easier for me to deal with the fact that my secret fantasy life, my perverted obsession, my reckless experimentations with self-hypnosis actually became manifest and bit me on my ass. Regardless of how I rationalize it to myself or to the world though, at the end of the day I WILL have breasts. Real breasts. Breasts that no longer pass for well-developed pecs. Breasts I can't hide or remove without the $10,000 cash that a painful and disfiguring reduction procedure will cost. Breasts that are more and more beginning to look like... BOOBS. I will be outted, dragged from my private fantasy world into the light of day. I will have kept my beard up until that point, mainly as a disguise, a way of distracting people from noticing my feminized body, to reassert (cling to) my masculinity. But eventually I will realize that my female form would look and feel less ridiculous and that I could probably go unnoticed more easily without a beard. So I'll shave it off, for good. And I'll look even more feminine. As much woman now as a man. Discretion will force me to give up the gym (or any public restroom for that matter), my lean muscle will melt away from lack of regular exercise, turning to fat, further softening me, rounding my shoulders... leaving me with a voluptuous womanly figure, one whose main outstanding feature is a pair of round pillowy TITS large enough to make me into an object of male sexual desire. Large enough now to sag, necessitating the wearing of a brassiere, which will support them and keep them from bouncing around inside my shirt, but will also make them sit higher, look prettier, and stand out even more noticably, enough to draw objectifying stares no matter how I minimize or dress them down. I will experience daily the indignities and inconveniences visited upon any large-breasted woman as my tits are continually jutting, bouncing, cleaving together, catching the light, stretching my shirts, jiggling, bumping into things, distracting me, attracting unwanted attention, diverting people's gaze from my eyes to my chest, getting in my way physically, emotionally and socially to the point of taking control of my life. Basically restricting my freedom of movement in the world. Determining what I can and cannot do (without inviting pain and embarassment on myself and others). Friends and loved ones will pressure me to get them cut off. And if I refuse or make excuses why I can't afford it or if I appear reluctant at all to pursue a reduction, their sympathy for me will disappear. They will feel free to judge me, or shun me. At that point the "curse" aspect of the breast curse will be all too evident. Because I WILL refuse. I WILL be reluctant. My breasts will make life difficult, but they will also be incredibly sensual, comforting, a source of unspeakable pleasure. The biggest turn-on imaginable. My feminized body will prove its own consolation. Whatever pain or humiliation it causes me will eventually yeild to a weirdly defiant pride, self-satisfaction and, finally, forced acceptance of what I am, of what I've become. I will surrender to my fate. Out of necessity.
And yes, I feel guilty and ashamed for the lifetime I have spent ogling women's breasts, guilty for all the time and energy I've spent—that I have wasted, frankly—fixated, obsessing over them, envying them, staring until I'm stupid, seeking out the huge-titted silicone-enhance models and masturbating to their cartoon likenesses for untold thousands of hours. If through a bizarre twist of fate I were to BECOME the very thing I have for so long leered at, objectified and lusted after, then... I guess I secretly am asking "let the punishment fit the crime." If a supportive bra and burdensomely-large tits that never escape passing notice are to become my cage, it will be a gilded cage, a soft sweet feminine cage, one I have willingly entered, locked myself into, and swallowed the key. (Or maybe I just lost it in my cleavage.)
Some of this has actually begun to unfold over the course of the last year. The result of hypnosis? I don't know. I have doubled my efforts to lose weight and build muscle, so that my upper body retains a masculine appearance. But I feel like my pecs are in a race now with my breasts and I am not sure which is winning. Both are noticeably larger and more "shapely" than they were a year ago. The muscles of my chest are nicely toned for the first time in my life. And hanging from those new nicely toned muscles; female breasts, a small handfull that I can cup and that is soft and shifts on my chest independent of the underlying muscle, and beneath the skin a collection of what feels not like fat but like a growing network of rubbery milk ducts, (glands, nodules) that I can pinch, pull and manipulate, that start in my arm pits and converge behind overly-sensitive nipples that show easily through my shirts.
I do not wear a bra (yet) nor do I cross-dress. My hair and clothing have been more-or-less unisex for years. I recently bought a 38 B bra which I fill out. If my growth continues what size I can expect to be? My mother is well-endowed, currently an E or F cup, so who knows. I shave and moisturize and fondle and pinch and massage my boobs frequently. I can barely keep my hands off them. I actually worry sometimes that excessive stimulation and manipulation of the breast tissue might induce lactation. And if it did, if that's even possible, what kind of growth would that spur? If I began expressing milk, draining the breast, would it feel good? Would it feel great? Would I be able to stop? Would I be able to resist experimenting with breast pumps, lactation aids, chasing an even greater feeling? If so, would I ever be able to quit long enough let my milk dry up? Or would the supply increase to keep up with the demand, until my breasts were engorged and hurting, requiring more milking, to relieve the pressure, spurring more milk production, breast growth, etc. etc? There are times when I think maybe they have stopped growing, or when I simply doubt my own perceptions about the whole thing, ("Am I making mountains out of molehills??") I will go through brief periods where I try to ignore it. Put it out of my mind. Which inevitably results in me noticing at some point "Whoa. I'm bigger!" My self-image has adjusted by now, for whatever reason, to accept a bit of a shelf on my chest. What shocked and worried me a year ago really was nothing compared to what I've got going on now. But for some reason I am less self-conscious now about the contours of my chest than I was then. Less concerned. Less afraid. It (my figure, I guess you could say) has begun to look and feel "normal" to me, despite the two mounds and their conspicuous points tenting my tee shirts. As long as no one touches them they might just assume it's all muscle anyhow. Understand, it's not like I wake up every morning and my breasts or my tush are suddenly bigger. I invariably look and feel exactly as I did the night before. There is never a sudden dramatic change for me to freak out about. Growth is slow and minute and imperceptible, so it's easy to disregard it or put it to the back of my mind, or even tell myself it's probably all an illusion. Boiling water. I can choose instead to accentuate the positive, focus on the fact that I am finally dropping some pounds and making my waist smaller. Considerably smaller. I look and feel better, whatever's going on. But it's been a year now since I first started paying attention to my tits. Long enough for me to know: they have grown. I can never put that fact out of my mind so I watch them every day now. Constantly. Noticing them getting larger is virtually impossible. But one thing I do know for certain is that there is never a time when I notice my breasts looking or feeling any smaller. Never. Not ever. Always larger. Always softer. (Even when the underlying muscle grows firmer.) I am in the best shape of my life. I have my waist back. My tummy is almost flat now and... hello... I have boobs. Boobs that are still more-or-less concealable, thankfully, but that seem to be here to stay and are getting bigger all the time. I keep waiting for it, but for some reason that moment of "Oh shit. This really is getting out of control" never seems to arrive. Besides, if it's out of control, that means; it's out of control. Out of MY control anyhow. So I tell myself I'm helpless to do anything but watch and wait. Thanks to sites like this however, I have become addicted to my perverse desire to grow my breasts larger still. Addicted to addiction! So I still listen to the files (Breast Growth Curse, Super Female Whammy, Nipple Growth, Butt Growth, Dream 2 Reality Breasts, Curse Milky).
Of course I still tell myself "If they start to get too big, I'll stop." But I don't know what "too big" would even look or feel like at this point. I love my boobs. And the bigger they get the more I love them. And the more I love them, the bigger I wish they were. My mind is warped. And my total preoccupation with them is making me stupid, vain, weak. I think about my appearance all the time now, always wondering if people notice my tits, like a common bimbo. And I love it. Now that I can grab onto them—strange new appendages to what was previously a flat and featureless part of my body—now that I can hold something, feel them finally beginning to fill my hands, now that they actually bounce and jiggle softly with my footsteps... it is unreal to me, surreal, and at the same time all TOO real. Real and tangible enough to feel completely natural and normal. It's ironic. I love what's happening to my body and my mind. And as for "stopping", who am I kidding...
Oh, and yes I have noticed some relocation of fat to my hips and buttocks. Not a lot, and frankly I do not monitor those areas like I do my chest. But it is noticeable. My butt is quite round now. I feel like if I bought a pair of women's jeans that my ass would look much better.
No penis shrinkage or loss of function (that I have noticed).
No voice softening (that I have noticed).
I am a hetero and happily-married forty-something and I have had these thoughts since childhood. They say "be careful what you wish for". And I think I have been careful. Very careful and persistent. I've been wishing for this for over thirty years.
I know it sounds ridiculous. Pathetic. Insane. How can any man (gay OR straight) want such a thing or find pleasure in such a self-destructive fantasy. I suspect that it is the girl inside me who wants it, not the man. It is for HER satisfaction, not mine. She has been there my whole life, mute, helpless, yearning to be seen and known, dwelling in my shadow, going along with whatever I wanted to do, whether it was what SHE wanted or not. I have always been ashamed of that part of me and tried to keep it hidden. As a boy I had long hair and pretty facical features and was sometimes mistaken for a girl. I have often thought that maybe I was intended to BE a girl and that my emergence as a boy was a fluke. (One of my testicles was slow to descend. My beard is thin. My testosterone is in the very low range of what is considered normal.) If so, if my being born a boy WAS a fluke, I imagine "she" is pissed off, vengeful, if not toward me then toward nature itself. Toward the roll of the dice that gave HIM the upper hand, that made "us" a man. I suppose any and every little bit of opportunity I can give her or allow her (like listening to these files repeatedly, massaging HER breasts, encouraging blood flow where it is needed, finding new dietary sources of phytoestrogen, soy, wild yam, black cohosh, and incorporating them into OUR diet) she will latch onto and take full advantage of. And maybe she DOES mean me a kind of harm. Maybe she DOES resent the 40-odd years of lazy freedom I have enjoyed while she has been consigned to a non-existence. Compromised. Powerless. The best years of her life, squandered on the likes of me! (?) And maybe all those years of subordination and neglect have hardened her, steeled her resolve, made her hungry, more determined, in that "eye of the tiger" way, to take advantage of MY weakness just as soon as I presented it to her. She knows I'm weak anyhow. Weak, lazy, unambitious, soft, ineffectual. Not a "real man", at least not the kind of man that a "real woman" wants and respects. Is she a "real woman"? Maybe she is. Or, maybe she has no way of knowing, no way of ever hoping to find out what kind of a woman she is or could have been—just unrealized female potential—and this fuels her contempt for me, makes her resent me all the more. Maybe now that I am moving into middle age and my testosterone levels are waning, in danger now of dipping below normal, she sees her chance. The chance she's been waiting for. A chance to come forward, emerge from the shadows and boldly take control of the weak body and mind that has always held her back. And if she IS a prisoner in a man's body, maybe she DOES relish the idea of somehow making that man a prisoner too, just like her, making him feel what she feels, turning the tables on him, quieting HIM, gagging him with his own perverted self-indulgence, encouraging him to gorge himself to the point of choking on his pornographic thoughts and visions ("Go ahead, listen to those files some more. You know you want to. Have another bong hit while you're at it, stupid.") until he makes himself even weaker, in body and in mind, crippling him, restricting HIS movement in the world for a change, forcing HIM to hide himself away while shining the spotlight instead on HER, on the Woman, not the inner woman, not some abstract "feminine side" which he claims pathetically to be "in touch with", but the EMERGENT PHYSICAL WOMAN whose best and most immediate means of getting herself noticed, finally, is with the help of a nice big pair of tits.
:roll:
Last edited by
jarvisteflon on October 31st, 2006, 4:08 pm, edited 26 times in total.