When I was 16 I lived in a small mid-western town with my mom. My father had died when I was 5 and my mom had never remarried or had any other kids. I kept myself busy with a paper route, the Internet and computer games. Mom worked two jobs and I spent a lot of the time on my own.

One day the elderly couple next door moved out and put their house up for sale. It wasn’t long before it sold though. The new owner was a single guy about 26 yrs old named Gary, and he worked from home developing web sites. Because I was home alone often, I soon met my neighbor and we became computer geek buddies. He showed me lots of cool things on the computer and I learned a lot. I tried to find out more about his web sites, but he kept changing the subject. I figured it had to be some kind of secret business deal that no one was supposed to know about or a trade secret or something and let it go at that. I did notice, however, that he never seemed to go out on dates. I asked him about this and he said that he had recently gotten divorced and wasn’t ready for that yet.

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Ok a little bit about myself as of current I am 6 feet tall medium brown caramel skin color (or as black people say redbone ). I am African American and Irish descent on account of my dad being half Irish. So I took my dads sandy red hair which now after locking my hair and growing it out past my shoulders is a very blonde sandy red. When I say locked yes I have dreadlocks but not your stereotypical dreads your thinking if you can get an idea with the color description. No my dreads are thin and very neat and yes I wash my hair just like everyone else only I use way more shampoo and conditioner. So yes my hair is as I have been told numerous times is beautiful and it is the reason I have the look that I have to easily become my true self, which is another long story for another day . Quick history on hair I started dreads 4 years ago from scalp and let it grow so my hair is all mine no extensions weave or any bull that everyone seems to thank black people or more specifically black girls need to have long beautiful hair, no I put in four years hard work.

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I was in my second year at the university. The other day I helped a couple of girls get set up for a party. I was drunk before the party started and don’t remember much.

I put the pieces back together as best I could from what I remember. From the stories and of course the pictures.

It was a Friday like any other. Spring break was starting and I was looking forward to the week off. A couple of girls asked if I would help them set up for tonight’s party.

One of the girls, Jill’s, parents were gone for the week and they were giving a party for the football team. Only cheerleaders and football players were invited.

I was hot for both Jill and Donna, but they thought of me as ‘just a friend’. For a guy, that’s the kiss of death. It’s code and it means you will never get laid. So when they asked for my help, I hesitantly agreed.

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 Jean and Martin(e?) came into our lives that winter of ’71. Their skin was as pale as pink milk mixed with moon rays. They were dressed always in hippie attire–blue blue jeans that had bell bottoms that held hollow round their cartoonishly designed black heavy heeled and toed boots, all exaggerated in the flair of the style, the kind you found on those “Keep Truckin’” posters back then. Their hair was golden and flowed like a yellow sea to their shoulders. They wore large, too large for their slender waif bodies, outsized shirts always in plaid, changing only in color from one day to the next. They had silver chains around their little stalk necks. Their eyes were bluish green. Their hands were so small and their fingers were so long. They smelled like you would expect a dream to. They were tallish for their ragged body weight.

 They looked identical. They had rabbity teeth and pale lips. They could say things to each other without completing sentences themselves. The act Mantan Moreland perfected in the old Charlie Chan movies, they took one step further. They were dreams. Their bodies were flinty looking. Their elbows. Their cheekbones rode high. There seemed crystal bones made up the structure of their faces. They were otherworldly. They were magic you don’t look at too long because it gets caught up in things far too complicated.

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I was feeling really horny, massive nervous anticipation. I was all dressed up, looking for my first taste of cock.

My name’s Nikki, I was aged about 25 or 26 at the time, only 2/3 years ago, but I was fed up being the `closet’ tranny tart, I wanted to try out some cock; in short, I wanted dirty sex with a guy, I didn’t care who!!!!!!

I’d done myself up pretty well, great make-up, hair looking good, scarlet blouse (it was warm enough not to need a jacket), black skirt finishing about 3″ above the knee, matching black lacy bra, thong and suspender belt, plain black stockings (but I always carried a spare pair or 2 with me), 3″ black strappy mules to finish off.

I drove to a fairly well known `pick-up’ place, about 6 miles from where I lived. It was a large community park, but a no-go area after 10pm unless you were looking for something special. I’d heard it had its usual population of drunks and hobo’s on any particular night, but they weren’t a real problem.

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I am a 19-year-old guy living in the south of the UK. I have been dressing since I can remember but have never got caught. It was Saturday night and I had been drinking with the guys from football. I was pretty drunk and had made my way home. I live at home but my parents were visiting my aunt up north. Walking home I had been dreaming of getting dressed in my sisters clothes, she was away at college, and I had been using her spare clothes for the whole term. I love to dress myself as a slut and pose for my video camera then I play with myself watching what a slut I am. The desire to dress was multiplied by drink and whilst walking home I decided tonight I was going to dress the whole way. I began planning what I would do and what a slut I would look.

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I have been dressing for about 15 years. It has been a wonderful experience and I still enjoy the feel of the nylons and the way my legs in high heels. I always wear heels of at least 4 inches and even wear nylons under my awful male clothing everyday. While my life is now exciting and enjoyable my mind still wonders to the excitement of the early days of dressing. I have shared my experiences with others in person and in chat rooms.

I have recently felt an urge to share with even more people the wonders and joy I felt during my first few times out dressed. This is my first installment.

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It was a day like any other day,…at least that’s what I thought…

When there’s not much to do, you have to be creative. Creativity is a strange thing and sometimes even a little creativity can reap some large rewards.

It was going to be a very hot day. Hot days and hang-overs are not my favorite combination. The sliding glass door to my first story, one bedroom abode was wide open. I assumed that, in my drunken stupor of the night before I had forgotten to close it. I had pretty much forgotten everything from about one a.m. onward. Blacking out wasn’t new to me, although it did concern me, but evidently not enough to motivate me to kick my bad habit. Standing in the living room in my birthday suit one thing struck my mind like a harbinger reminder… “it’s gonna be a hot day”…

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The decision had been made. I had watched him walk to and from the showers with his dick swinging thru football season and basketball season and now almost thru baseball season. I dreamed about how long and big his cock must be when its hard, and just had to find out. I had tried every trick in my book but hadn’t gotten to first base. So I made the final decision.

Hi to all from trainerboy. I’m a 17 year old high school senior. I’ve been the head trainer for out sports teams for two years so have seen most of the good looking guys in school in the nude, have had the opportunity to massage and give rub downs to some and have even given blow jobs to a few. But Arden Delta had eluded my every advance.

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My wife was out for the evening. I was enjoying television when the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. The telephone number was a Laguna Beach number and the name display said “Raymond Dumont!”

How could it be? “Raymond Dumont” is a fantasy character I have used for many years in many of my writings. With trepidation I picked up the phone, paused, then nervously said, “Hello.”

The very confident voice of a man said, “Hi William, how are you this evening?”

I stammered, “Wh.Wh.Who is this?

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