New Age Lifestyle

When I was growing up I was totally under the influence of Mother and "Aunt" Margie.  They were glamorous, full-bosomed, domineering women who didn't like boys who were rough and aggressive.  As years passed I learned to repress my masculinity and assume a more feminine persona.  Nothing pleased them more than my taking an interest in feminine fashion, hairstyles, and cosmetics.  And before long I found myself incorporating their ultra-feminine vocabulary into mine.

When asked what I thought of a pretty dress, I'd say it was "darling."  A pretty necklace or earrings would be "exquisite."  I'd tell Mother she looked "gorgeous" in a new dress.  An exotic new nightie and peignoir were "ravishing."  A new blouse was "cute." Delicate lacy lingerie was "adorable."   I said countless feminine items -- from slips and bras to dresses and jewelry -- were "darling" or "pretty." And I did everything I could, including affecting a delicate, mincing walk, girlishly crossing my legs, preening before a mirror, and playing "makeover" with lipstick, rouge, and eye shadow to be more like Mother, Margie, and their lady friends.  I was thrilled when they called me their "little sweetheart" or said I was "adorable," "darling," or "too sweet to be a boy."  Their eyes lit up and they were never nicer to me -- never more affectionate and approving -- than when my words, interests, and demeanor imitated theirs.

This feminine way of experiencing and talking about the world have been deeply imprinted into my psyche.  No ordinary or "Real" Man  thinks or talks like me.  But having identified and bonded closely with Mother and Margie, I'm not an ordinary or "Real" Man.  Deep down I remain a delicate, effeminate Momma's Boy, identifying more closely with Mother and Margie than with any man -- and proud of it!

--Billy Lovelace

Thanks, Chris.  I greatly appreciate your support and approval.  Your insights into the male psyche (or at least psyches like mine) have been an inspiration and given me the courage to face up to the truth.  The truth is that while male, deep down I am not and will never be a Man.  I will never be genuinely, authentically Manly!  What little masculinity I've been able to show the world has been nothing but a thin veneer.  As a male, I now no longer try to hide my effeminacy.  Insofar as women recognize me as male, they think of me as a little more than a non-threatening, sexually-neutered, "sweet little man."  And that's okay with me.

Mother and Margie recognized my true nature long before I did and encouraged me to identify with the "sweet pretty sissy boy" within.   After years of resistance, I'm finally owning up and coming to terms with their insight into, and nurture, and training of, my Sissy Self.  These days I never feel more myself -- never more comfortable in my own skin -- than when I am girlishly mincing about in makeup, lingerie, nylons, and heels, and then -- gently, tenderly, girlishly -- make sissy boy love to myself.

My dream now is to timidly surrender my "sissy bits" to a glamorous, full-bosomed Matriarch who will accept and love me as a Sissy and enable me to re-enact my "sweet pretty sissy boy" relationship with Mother and Aunt Margie.  Nothing would please me more than dressing and serving as her sissy-maid -- brushing her hair, polishing her nails, helping her in and out of her powerful spike heels, and performing a series of delicate little curtseys and serving drinks for the amusement of her and her lady friends.

I am a small, slight, submissive male who for years struggled to deny my underlying femininity.  For a long time I attributed my lack of natural manliness to coercion and manipulation on the part of Mother and Aunt Margie.  But I was wrong.

When I was growing up Mother didn't like boys who were rough and aggressive.  My father was an abusive macho womanizer and she wanted me to be different.  So when other boys played cowboy or football, she and Aunt Margie forced me to play dress-up and act like a girl.  They had a happy, laughing time painting my lips, adding jewelry, and dressing me up in pretty, ultra-feminine panties, dresses, tights, and nighties they'd picked up at Goodwill.  They watched with delight as the silky caress of satin and lace gradually made me more girlish.  Then they'd seductively kiss and caress me and tell me how pretty I looked.  They were never nicer to me -- never more affectionate and approving -- than when I was dressed and acting like a pretty girl.  Before long I found myself identifying and bonding with them and internalizing some of their distinctively feminine vocabulary.  "How do you like this party dress?" Mother would ask.  "It's darling," I'd respond -- or "pretty," or "gorgeous," or "cute," or "exquisite" -- words no boy or man would ever utter.  And Mother and Margie would beam with pride and smile with approval.

Yet all of this was confined within the walls of our home.  To the outside world I was male.  I tried very hard to compensate for my lack of physical manliness by joining scouts, playing (though somewhat ineptly) and watching sports, and imitating other boys my age to whom these things seem to come more naturally.  For me, though, it was never natural.  It was always forced, an act.  Though I'd still see a dress and think it was "gorgeous," or a "cute" pair of heels and think they were "darling," or earrings I'd think were "exquisite," or a lacy bra I'd think was "darling," I'd never dare say so out loud.  Though these effeminate thoughts came naturally to me, verbally I repressed them.  I'd never actually express them outside the home or, apart from, much to their delight, leafing through the pages of "Cosmo" or "Glamour" with Mother or Margie.   

Beginning when I was about 12 or 13 at night I actually I started having dreams of being kidnapped by a group of glamorous, full-bosomed, heavily made-up women who removed my clothes, surgically implanted breasts, and then dressed me in bras, garter belts, nylons, and heels and smiled with approval as I girlishly minced about and performed a delicate little curtsey for their amusement.  Before long, this became a recurrent day dream. 

When other boys started chasing after girls I remained timid and shy.  The idea of forcing myself on a girl or woman was repugnant to me.  And I was too timid to even dream of nicely coming on to a girl or woman as a man.  The idea of thrusting my undersized boy part as a man had no appeal.  In fact I was afraid it would be laughed at for being so small.  I did, however, dream of gently, tenderly, girlishly, kissing, hugging, and caressing glamorous, pretty ladies like Mother, Margie, their lady friends, and the mature, buxom, heavily made up salesladies in intimate apparel, dresses, jewelry, and cosmetics in department stores.   

So I actually felt more comfortable staying home with Mother and Margie.  But I still couldn't fully admit this to myself.  Though they no longer dressed me up, I spent many happy hours shopping for pretty clothes and accessories with Mother and Margie.  And I enjoyed brushing their hair, polishing their nails, and helping them in and out of their high heels.  It was then that the idea of dressing and serving as their maid began crossing my mind.

Frightened by my lack of what I took to be typically masculine feelings and impulses, I then began overcompensating.  I dressed in flannel shirts, jeans, and boots, tried to build up my small, scrawny frame by doing weights, drove a muscle car, and drank heavily.  On the outside, then, I was still small, but thought I could look like a Real Guy -- a "Man's Man." But I now see it was all a pretense, an act.  Inside I still felt like a timid and shy little boy -- a sort of feminine boy at that.  Deep down I was still the boy who played dress-up for Mother and Margie,who  was thrilled when they kissed and caressed me and told me how pretty I looked, and who now dreamed of dressing up in a cute little maid's outfit -- complete with fishnet stockings, spike-heeled shoes, and a lacy apron and cap -- and serving as their maid.

Now, having learned so much from Patti, Chris (RF), and others on this forum, I've stopped denying who and what I really am.  My macho posturing, I now realize was an attempt to deny reality.  It was only a veneer of masculinity or manliness.  Mother and Margie weren't imposing femininity on me, I now realize.  It was already there.  They were simply recognizing and reinforcing it -- bringing it out.  As the Radical Feminist points out, the male brain is naturally feminine -- or at least mine is.  It's only social custom and expectation that caused me to deny it, to cover it up with a veneer of manliness, to pretend I could really be a Man.  It was nothing but overcompensation -- overcompensating for my underlying femininity.  Deep down -- and let me say it -- I'm a Sissy!  Let me say it again, "I'm a Sissy!  That's who and what I really am.  I no longer fear my underlying femininity, but embrace it.  I'm a Sissy who dreams of submitting to and serving strong, glamorous, maternal women.  And I'm Proud!"

Though still single and closeted, in the confines of my apartment I thrill to dressing up in sexy lingerie, nylons, jewelry, and ultra-high heels and applying layer after layer of shiny red lipstick,  As I do, every trace of masculine veneer disappears.  My wrists go limp, I curtsey  and girlishly mince about in my heels and try to wriggle my hips like Mother and Margie.  This is who and what I am -- and deep down have always been.  A Sissy!  And nothing would thrill me more than to serve and surrender any trace of remaining masculinity to a glamorous, domineering woman who would tell me "how pretty" I look and be happy to help me re-enact my submissive, totally effeminate childhood relationship with Mother and Aunt Margie. 

Granted I'm still male.  But not Manly, not masculine.  I have a naturally feminine Sissy brain.  I still have my undersized boy part, but without a trace of toxic masculinity.  So it's now a "sissy part"!.  And as a Sissy, girlishly mincing about in lingerie, nylons, lipstick and heels, I'm totally different from and will never be like my macho, toxically masculine Father.   Mother would be so pleased!

Some years ago I posted a four-part story, "Mommy's Darling," to Fictionmania.  It's an embellished version of my upbringing by Mother and "Aunt" Margie.  They wanted to keep me from becoming an abusive macho womanizer like my father.   So they encouraged me to play dress up with lipstick, lingerie, nylons, and heels, convinced me that I would always be too undersized where it counts to satisfy a woman as a Man, and conditioned me to identify erotic excitement and release with my latent femininity.  If you go to the "Author List" under "B" and click on "Billie Lovelace," my femme name, you'll find it. 

Here are links that may take you to the four parts:

https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=321567354265085132

https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=3216398558165970844

https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=32175303713042341

https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=3219329346252779903


--Billy Lovelace

A simply adorable feminine boy who, I am sure, is gentle, sweet, and obedient and will do anything to please Mother and her Lady Friends.

Thanks, Patti,

As years passed I became closer to Mother and Margie -- and correspondingly more distant from my abusive, macho father who Mother had divorced.  When other boys started chasing after girls, I accompanied Mother to the hairstylist and accompanied her and Margie as they shopped for pretty clothes.  They encouraged me to leaf through "Cosmo" and "Seventeen."  Before long I was identifying with them and internalizing their uniquely feminine vocabulary.  To their delight I found myself using words males rarely if ever use, calling dresses "pretty," hairstyles "darling," nighties "exquisite," blouses "cute," and various pieces of jewelry "adorable."  To gain the maternal affection I desperately yearned for I spent many happy hours ironing Mother's clothes, brushing her hair, polishing her nails, and helping her in and out of her many pairs of ultra-high spike heels.

At night I dreamed of being kidnapped by powerful glamorous women who spirited me away, transformed me into a glamorous woman like themselves, and returned me to Mother who showered me with kisses, hugs, caresses, and the maternal love and approval I longed for.  Then I began to daydream this.

I never desired to become like my father or to come onto a woman as a Man.  I had no idea of how to do it and feared being ridiculed for my ineptitude and being undersized where it counts.  Instead I longed to serve and be loved and lovingly seduced by a glamorous, full-bosomed woman like Aunt Margie.  I lay in bed and imagined myself wearing makeup and a baby-doll nightie with Margie, heavily perfumed and made up, beside me tenderly fondling my sensitive nipples, stroking my inner thighs, and fondling my undersized panty-clad boy part.

This is how I became the gentle, submissive, feminine, heterosexual male -- the kind women call a "sweet little man" -- I am today.