Abby's Panties

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the top, and took a long pull. I burped, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and made my way into den. I turned the flat screen on, flipping the channel to ESPN where some sportscaster was talking about the Cavaliers and their chances of repeating as NBA champions. I muted the TV, only to fire up my computer.

I hadn't planned on it, in fact, I barely remembered doing it when the package arrived two days later, but sitting at my computer I fired up Chrome, typed the URL to Victoria's Secret into the address bar, and began browsing. I looked at panties first, from thongs to briefs, to G-strings and everything in between. I pulled Abby's panties down just to get her size, a small, so I figured since they almost fit, I'd need maybe a medium or a large. I browsed the colors and the sizes, not knowing what a cheeky panty was any more than I knew how plum differed from maroon when I thought they looked to be the same color. I was curious though. Would another pair of panties affect me the same or was it only the ones I had found harboring a fugitive dust bunny? The ones that belonged to the woman I still loved but had foolishly abandoned in search of the almighty dollar?

The prices didn't matter, nor did the styles. I selected a pair of simple cotton panties, similar to the ones I was wearing. The color was white, though the order form called them chalk. I selected medium then upped it to a large. I created my account, typed in my address and credit card number, and sent in my order.

Afterwards, I kept browsing. I looked at bras and slips and garter belts and camisoles. Each item had me wondering if they held the power to wash my workday away. Even as I sat there, browsing the web, sipping my beer, and reading the news ticker on the tv, work didn't enter my mind. If Abby was to be trusted, and she should be, then my normal at home pattern would be to think about work at the cost of ignoring everything, and regrettably, everyone else. That I was able to cast work aside by just contemplating how each of the items would look on me told me that I was onto something, even if I was unsure what that something could be.

(iii)

Wednesday night I returned home, once again stopping for a deli sandwich - turkey with swiss, on a whole wheat roll - for an overly late lunch. It was almost 8 when I got home, my earliest hour that week. Sitting on my front step was a small brown envelope. For a moment I had to wonder what I had ordered. Then it came to me.

I raced into the house, work immediately forgotten. I didn't even realize that fact until later, while lying in bed, one hand absently toying with the tiny flower at the top of my new panties.

I locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and made my way into the kitchen. At the center island I opened my new treasure. Opening the nondescript paper envelope, I found the panties within were wrapped in a clear plastic bag. I tore the bag open. The panties were bigger than Abby's. I brought them to my nose. They had a mild chemical smell; I'd have to wash them before I truly wore them but that could wait. I had to try them on. That was important. Just then, it felt like the most important thing in my life.

I stripped in the kitchen, my clothes falling into a heap at my feet. Standing naked save for my black socks, I slid those panties up my leg. The size was almost perfect; they were perhaps a bit too snug still, but I didn't hear the disappointing rip of fabric. The next pair would be extra-large, but I was sure that I'd found my size thanks to this one simple purchase. While tight, I still thought they fit well enough. I ran my hand over my behind, feeling the cotton against my skin. I traced the outline of that suddenly interested part of me, before pulling my hand away. These new, plain white cotton panties were arousing. Not just Abby's.

I picked up my clothes, only to drop them in the washing machine. I smiled at the dark gap behind the dryer, like it was an accomplice in a bank heist that had gone according to plan. I walked from room to room, feeling how the elastic of the new panties, my new panties, felt digging into my legs or waist. They didn't budge or bunch. That thought made me smile. How big did my panties have to be before I could get them in a bunch. My smile turned to a laugh. When was the last time I laughed? I couldn't remember. I thought that Abby probably knew and if that was true then it had been well over six months.

I spent the evening in my panties, sipping a beer with ESPN on. It could have been the news, or reruns of some mindless sitcom, or even the paint drying channel for how much attention I gave the television screen. No, I was focused, much like I typically was at work, but instead of thinking of airline flight paths, or issues with staff, I was browsing panties again.

I knew my size now and I filled my shopping cart. I added thongs first. I always liked how Abby looked wearing them, so I was curious to see if I liked wearing them just as much. I added boy shorts and bikini briefs. I added two G-string panties to the ever-growing collection in my cart. I selected colors from basic black to white to pastels in yellow and green and blue. I bought pink panties and orange panties. I selected simple and I selected sexy. Some had more lace than cotton, others had so little fabric I had to wonder how they could charge so much.

Oh, but it didn't stop there. I looked at bras next, wondering my size. I'd never worn a bra. I'd never even dressed as a woman for Halloween. Somehow, sitting there browsing Victoria's not so secret secret, I wanted to not only buy a bra, I wanted those bras to match my panties. Abby had been like that; her bra and panties always seemed to match. "A woman just feels better, John, when everything matches." I had no reason to doubt her, and even though I wasn't a woman and I didn't want to be one, I still liked the idea of my bra matching my panties.

I didn't know my bra size. I read the sizing guide and went from there. I wore a size 38 jacket so I reasoned my bra would be a 38. Next, I needed a cup size. Abby had been a solid B, though sometimes she would complain that her bra was too tight. Since she was a little smaller than I was, I thought that to be proportional I'd need a least a cup size bigger. I was guessing. The only way to know for sure was to have a proper fitting. Another option came to mind. I ordered nine bras in total: why not? I can afford it. I ordered three of every cup size, B, C, and D, of a trio of bras, sized 36, 38, and 40 for good measure. The styles confused me. I didn't know the difference between a demi bra and a perfect shape bra. Push-up I could figure but staring at the photos they mostly looked the same to me. To keep it simple, all nine bras were of the same style. Once I knew my size I could experiment. The bras I ordered were all a faint blue with black polka dots. Those little pips appealed to me.

Continuing with my shopping I browsed camisoles next. They looked soft and inviting. I wondered if the little thin strap would fall off my shoulder like it had for Abby so many times. I never tired of reaching over to help her, aiming to tug the other strap down instead of righting the errant strap. Often, at least during the good, early years, that would lead to a squeal, a laugh, and then something more. That memory stung. All the memories of my ex-wife stung. The good ones made me miss her; the bad ones made me hate myself.

Since I needed extra-large panties, I assumed I needed extra large camisoles. I found a few I liked. I never stopped to wonder why I would be liking lingerie. I'd never thought of wearing it before. Was it because it was naughty or because it reminded me of Abby and everything I'd lost? Or was it because I was able to push work aside and unwind. People are complicatedly simple. It was probably all of those; it was likely none of those. And it didn't matter. I was having fun. I wasn't hurting anyone.

And work was forgotten.

At the office, I keep a bottle of aspirin in my desk drawer. I keep a bottle of aspirin in my car. I keep a bottle of aspirin in my desk at home, and I keep another bottle in the master bathroom next to my toothbrush, shaving cream, and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. Headaches seem to follow me, but as I sat there, having moved on from camisoles to stockings and garter belts, I realized I did not have a headache. The dull throbbing that seemed to follow me like a stalker had faded away like morning fog burning away with the rising sun. I'd felt it when I got home, an ache as intimate as a tumor. Now, much like work, my headache was gone. I paused to ponder that revelation. How long had it been since I hadn't felt the mild underpinning of a headache threatening, or the full-on tsunami of a migraine? I truthfully couldn't remember. It was almost enough to make me shriek in joy.

I kept browsing, only stopping when I had spent over five hundred dollars. Panties weren't that expensive, but bras were ridiculous. By the time I placed my order I was giddy with anticipation. I couldn't explain it. I wasn't even sure I wanted to. I just knew I was onto something. Abby had told me, first kindly, then with disgust, and finally with rage, that I had to do something. That I was tearing us apart, that I needed something to put my mind right. Anything to allow me to put work aside, to relax. To be me. She was right, she usually was, even if I was far too proud to admit that to myself and I never let Abby know that sad little truth. Had I finally found what it is Abby knew I needed? What would happen if I had never found those panties? I thought, maybe, I'd work myself into an early grave. It was still far too early to know, but somehow it felt like I was onto something. That I would finally find a way to relax even if what I found wasn't something I was expecting or was considered, if not normal, then mainstream. And what did it matter? If it worked, it was good enough for me. A placebo was as effective as a drug if the results were the same.

I closed the browser and turned up the sound on the TV. A talking head was giving a report on the Heat losing to the Magic. I sat, taking in the NBA highlights. When the show ended and the new one began, I flipped through the channels, stopping on an old movie about a Great White shark terrorizing Amity Island. I watched the movie until I was too tired to stay awake, long before chief Brody told the son of a bitch to smile.

It was only after I'd brushed my teeth and crawled under the covers, listening to the droning whirl of my ceiling fan that it dawned on me that for the first time since Abby had moved out I was able to just sit down and watch a show without thinking of work.

(iv)

Friday brought of those first-time-in-forever moments that had seemed to come on me like a mammoth wave cresting an unobservant surfer. I left the office before the sun set. I left the office before the clock stuck eight. I left the office before the other members of my staff. It was just past four when I noticed the time and thought that there was an order waiting for me at the house. Suddenly, and not surprisingly, that seemed infinitely more important than work. "Have a good weekend, Alice," I said, walking out of my office.

Alice gave me a look of stunned incredulity that I was still smiling about twenty minutes later when I pulled into my subdivision. "You," she said, then, a few seconds later, "too." She was as surprised as I was. "See you Monday."

"You bet."

I parked my car, smiling at the large brown box sitting on my doorstep. I practically skipped into the house, the box under one arm. I stripped off my clothes, socks included this time, before returning to the box as it sat waiting for me on the kitchen island. I opened the box, pulling out my newest treasures.

Each item was wrapped separately in its own plastic bag. I tore each individual package open. The panties were larger then both Abby's and the first pair I'd ordered. I pulled the first pair up my legs, settling them against my waist and tucking myself into place. I thought they fit just right. I opened all the panties, looking at the pastel kaleidoscope of color. They were softer than my boxers and far brighter. I thought they were cheery in a way, like you could be happy not just seeing them but wearing them.

Before my innocent discovery, I had never thought of wearing panties. It wasn't something I'd ever considered. Why would I? I was a man. I didn't want to be a woman. Even standing in my kitchen, wearing a pair of yellow panties with lacy around the waist and leg holes, I still didn't want to be a woman. I didn't consider myself transgendered. I did not feel that gender played a role in what was happening. I guess if I had to describe what I was becoming it would be a cross dresser, though I didn't really need to label things. It was the clothes that fascinated me. No, they did more than charm me. I had to admit that. The huge order spilled on the concrete slab of my counter told that story. They had enraptured me. And it wasn't the clothes, not really, it was what the lingerie did. How putting on a pair of panties had somehow allowed me to unwind. Abby, if she were around, would say it was miraculous.

I opened a bra next. I had never worn one and I had way more experience taking one off than putting one on, but it wasn't that hard to figure out. I had nine bras to choose from and by the time I was done, I knew the size correlated with the suit jackets I normally wore. I wore a size 38. I tried the B's, the C's and the D's, stuffing the cups with wadded up paper towels until I thought they were the right size. I thought the B cup was too small. C was probably right, but the man in me liked the D cups better. It felt weird holding my hands up to caress my bra, my thumbs caressing the lace.

I kept going, of course. I tried the camisoles. Two were snug but the other three I ordered fit well. The shiny, shimmery fabric raised goose pimple along my flesh. My yellow panties tented as the soft satin caressed my skin, the hem toying with my thighs like a breeze.

The garter belts were next. I tried them on, and they all seemed to fit. I donned a pair of stockings, jet, something I would have called black. The same way I would call chalk white. I guess that's why I never got into marketing. I clipped the stockings to the garter belts and walked around the room, feeling an electric tingle where the taut strap of the belt snapped against my thigh as the hem of the camisole seemed to caress the same, overheated skin.

I tried on everything, discarding the items that did not fit. I knew my bra size, my panty size, and my camisole size. It wasn't knowledge I even knew I needed but it was something I was glad to know. I wandered around the house, savoring the sensuous feeling of the satin and lace. My face was red with excitement, even after I took care of the most demanding part of me.

That night I slept in it all for the first time. After that night, I never wore my boxers again.

Chapter 2

(i)

Saturday morning, I awoke still wearing my panties. My bed was littered with paper towels; my bra had sadly deflated. The paper towels gave me another idea; I needed something better than paper towels to stuff my bra. As my coffee was brewing, the smell of it filling the air and morning sun spilling in through the slats of my blinds, I opened my laptop and began browsing again. I knew my bra size now -- a happy discovery -- and so I began to look at ways to fill the cups.

My Keurig beeped, pulling me from the browser long enough to grab the cup, add two scoops of sugar and a healthy pour of two percent. I took a sip of my coffee, made a loud smacking noise, then returned to the computer.

I searched for breast forms and was inundated with fake breasts of every size and shape and color. Some had nipples, some did not. Some glued on, which was both fascinating and maybe a little more than I wanted to do. I found one that was more like a bra itself with clear plastic straps that went over the shoulders and around the back. That one looked the most appealing for a first, trial run. As before, I wasn't worried about the money. I placed the order, checking the box for next day shipping. I wouldn't get them on Sunday which was oddly disappointing.

I finished my coffee, made a second cup, and finished that as well, before brewing a third. I scrambled a trio of eggs and ate those with a slice of buttered wheat toast. As I ate, I continued shopping, looking at other things that both aroused and surprised me. I had my lingerie and soon enough I'd be sporting a pair of 38D breasts, but I wanted more. I can't say why. Was it as simple as being able to push work aside? Maybe. I'd always been the type to do something as best as I could, even if it took tons of extra work. I'd never once been able to wash my car without following it up with a thorough waxing. Was this new fascination the same or was there something else, something deeper? I shrugged as I took another sip of coffee, not really caring why I was suddenly so enamored by women's lingerie and ample breast forms.

I finished breakfast then took a shower. Standing in the water, I glanced at my hairy legs. Shaking my head for being foolish I left the shower just long enough to grab my razor, a packet of fresh blades, and my shaving cream. I had tried on the stockings the previous night. They had felt interesting. And amazing. My legs had been warm and somewhat tingly, like the nylons had been giving me energy. I had liked them, but I didn't like the way my leg hairs had looked matted and how some errant hairs had stuck through. I had not realized I was going to shave my legs until I was standing in the shower, my back to the water with my leg up on a small ledge, dragging a fresh blade against my calf, whisking away a layer of snowy shaving cream only to leave a denuded swath of skin. Over and over I ran the blade over my legs until my legs were bare.

Standing naked in my bathroom I thought the room felt colder. That the hair that was now clumped at the bottom of the shower drain had kept my skin warmer and that without it I could better feel the cool currents or air on my skin. I ran my hands on my legs. It felt more than weird; it felt alien. But it felt kind of arousing, too.

Back in the bedroom I donned the same pair of jet-black stockings laughing as I finally realized how they got their name. I pulled them up my legs. The felt invigorating and electric and silky and arousing and maddening all at once. I rubbed my calves, shivering at my own touch. Did every woman know this delicious madness? If so, it seemed cruel that they kept it to themselves.

I donned a pair of black panties, and just to match, a black bra. I stuffed the bra with socks this time instead of paper towels, suddenly frustrated that the breast forms I had just ordered had not been delivered by drone while I was in the shower.

I spent the evening watching ESPN while browsing the internet on my laptop. I was looking at heels now, figuring that if my car being washed was the stockings caressing my legs, then the heels had to be the coat of wax that followed the final rinse. I knew my own shoe size and if the sizing charts were to be believed then I needed a heel two sizes more.

Abby had worn heels a lot. She was the manager of a bank in downtown Marietta, a suburb of Atlanta. Every day she would put on her power suit, usually with a skirt that came close to caressing her knees. She wore pantyhose, keeping the secret of nylons on shaved legs a secret, instead of stockings, but she always wore heels. I didn't know the size of the heel, three inches maybe. She had owned dozens of pairs in solid colors of red and blue and black to some with floral patterns or the skins of leopards or crocodiles. Her shoes always matched, if not her outfit, then her mood.