Just Look at Me Now Ch. 08

As the door to the lingerie boutique closed behind me, the first thing I noticed was that the day had grown colder and windier while I'd been shopping for my bras. My pantyhose offered scant protection from the chill wind that blew up my short skirt and right through my thin panties. As I went on my assigned errand to fetch Melinda a pumpkin spice latte, I would surely be the only one out without a jacket, not to mention the only one carrying a small flowery tote filled to the brim with three new bras.

I would also be the only male pedestrian wearing women's flats, pantyhose, a short black skirt, a massive bullet bra under a clinging red sweater-blouse, and to top it all off, literally, a wig.

Dear Reader, I must pause to thank you for your patience awaiting this chapter. The cliffhanger ending of chapter seven was obviously intentional, but I hadn't meant to keep you waiting so long for chapter eight! I do like chapter seven's open ending--the invitation for you to imagine what it would be like to walk down a busy boulevard crossdressed--but for those who prefer closure I'll tell you what it was actually like for me. As in the earlier chapters, I will hew closely to the actual events.

The physical shock of the bitter weather was quickly overshadowed by my sense of how exposed I was and how surely I would be noticed. With the holidays fast approaching, the downtown area was busy with foot traffic--noticeably more than when we had first walked to the boutique. My face looked distinctly male. Maybe I should have worn makeup? Maybe, but above all else I was worried about my bright red top, shining like a beacon and drawing eyes to my enormous bosom. Indeed I kept looking at my boobs myself, or at least noticing them in my peripheral vision no matter where I turned my gaze. I also noticed that I could not see my toes without leaning far forward.

My time in the boutique had temporarily desensitized me to the fear of teasing or humiliation, but now it came back strongly. I suddenly felt very alone--no Jude, Becky, or Melinda to protect me--and alone in a public crowd, removed from the more controlled environment of the shop. I felt this in my gut and in a tightening of my breathing, and despite my conscious determination to fulfill my promise, my body was telling me to turn around. After a few brisk steps I instinctively slowed and glanced back at the boutique entrance. What put me back into forward motion was the thought that my friends would be disappointed in me if I chickened out. Beyond my promise to fetch the latte was my sense that I'd signed on to submit to female control and this was a chance to prove it. I'd already signed a contract in ink; this felt like signing a contract with my feminized, crossdressed body.

So, reminding myself that I'd once displayed my panties on this very same street, I set off briskly toward Starbucks.

You can readily understand how my sense of time and distance were distorted. The five-minute walk felt like a five-mile hike--and in fact I made it a bit longer than necessary because I crossed the street several times to avoid standing still at a Don't Walk signal... I would cross the street, turn around, and come right back simply to avoid having a crowd gather around me. I was so busy dodging close encounters that I rarely made eye contact with anyone.

Evasive stratagems were of no use inside the Starbucks, however. I was fourth in line to order, having decided not to pre-order with my app because that would have meant standing still in full view on the street. Even now it's hard to know if that was a good choice: on the street dozens of people saw me, but often just for a moment; in the store I had only about twenty spectators, but they had plenty of time to look.

And look they did. Some looked away when I caught their eye, but others ogled me without shame. A few winked, or smiled, or whispered to their friends, but there's no doubt everyone saw me.

When it was finally my turn to order, the barista, a short young Latina with a rattlesnake tattoo on her forearm and ginormous false eyelashes, asked for my name. Why hadn't I expected that? Should I lie? Hesitating for a moment like a complete fool, I told her "Nick."

After I'd paid, a woman emerged from one of the two all-gender bathrooms. That's all it took to remind me I hadn't had a piss in hours, so I decided to relieve myself and have a couple of minutes of privacy before grabbing the latte and heading back to the boutique.

I slipped in, locked the door, and set my bag of bras on a thin metal shelf in front of a mirror. Inside the single stall I hitched up my skirt, pulled down my panties and pantyhose, and had a much-needed pee. I also took several deep breaths and reminded myself that I was roughly halfway through my trip out into the general public. I would survive this!

After flushing, washing up meticulously, and grabbing my tote full of bras, I took a final deep breath and exited the rest room--to find three women standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at me with big grins on their faces. They had been behind me in line and had obviously sussed out that I was a crossdressing man. They had surely noted my skirt, pantyhose, and women's shoes, but this was their first close look at my face and my protruding bosom. And what a close look it was! They were not exactly blocking my path, but we were all in a narrow hallway, with my boobs just a couple of feet from theirs. They had a 6-2 advantage in the number of boobs, but in combined mass I gave myself the edge.

I paused for a moment from the shock of seeing them waiting in ambush, as it were, then forced a smile onto my own face and began to pass by them. "May I have a peek at your bag?" the tallest woman asked. "Pretty please?"

I could feel my face turning as red as my blouse. "A very quick peek," I heard myself saying, as my subconscious mind overruled rationality. "But leave things in the bag, please." So I held the top of the tote open as the tallest woman, flanked by her friends, poked around like a TSA agent checking a purse (an indignity that I would face just a few months later).

"So, three bras," said the woman to my left.

"Yes," I replied, "and the one I'm wearing." Why was I still talking? "They were on sale," I added lamely.

I was shaken out of my daze by a male voice calling out that an extra-hot spice latte was on the counter. His voice had that extra bit of urgency that said it was the second or third announcement: "Pumpkin spice latte for Nicole!" That had to be mine, though I had given my male name. A quick glance at the barista who had taken my order confirmed it--she was looking at me and winked when I made eye contact. I couldn't really blame her for her little trick.

Moments later I was out the door and hastening back to the boutique, but without any evasive street-crossings or detours. Let the chips fall where they may! A few pedestrians were so fixated on their phones that they seemed not to see me at all. Most people clearly did, however, and I saw a range of reactions on their faces--mostly surprise and amusement, but occasionally a warm smile or a disapproving frown. On the trip back I was more able to see others simply as random people whose equilibrium I had perhaps disturbed for a moment. They weren't obstacles to be dodged.

Back in the boutique I brought Melinda her coffee and asked if Jude and Becky were back in the fitting rooms. She sipped the latter and said, "Thanks, darling. Still piping hot! Someday when I'm less busy I'll have to hear all about your errand. Becky and Jude left a few minutes ago. Your things are in your room. I'd appreciate it if you could clear the space right away--I need it for other clients."

"Of course," I replied. "And thanks for this whole experience, even the Starbucks challenge."

Beth was in back and pulled aside the curtain to my fitting room as I approached. "Your things are right here," she said, "And Jude asked me to make sure you see the note they left for you."

I still have the note as a memento of my shopping trip, so I can transcribe it here verbatim: "Meet us at our apartment. Do NOT change clothes. We have the empty Lululemon and garment bags. Keep your boutique tote but DO NOT ask for any other bag or box--just carry everything. When you reach our corner, make an extra 4-sided trip clockwise around the intersection (on "Walk" signals only!), then an extra counterclockwise loop.

Because the traffic signals on Burlingame's busiest street are on a long cycle, each extra loop would take 5-6 minutes. Some cars would be speeding by, but I would also be crossing the street right in front of cars waiting for a light to change. Foot traffic on the residential west side of El Cam is generally light, but on the east side a grocery store and bank keep car and foot traffic busy.

It's worth reminding you exactly what I had to carry back to the apartment: the men's shoes I had worn to the boutique; women's jeans; my "old" bra as well as the three new bras in my tote; three blouses (one gray and mannish, one floral, and one sheer white); a navy skirt; and my D-cup breast forms.

The three blouses were on hangers, but everything else was loose. I emptied my tote bag and repacked it with the unwieldy breast forms at the bottom and my old bra nestled on top of them. The three new bras went in next--sort of. I could pack them in securely, but they bulged out so much that I would have to carry the tote by a single strap.

I tucked my phone into my more-than-ample cleavage, grabbed my shoes with my left hand, and draped the jeans and skirt over my left arm. I drew aside the curtain, put the hangers and the tote in my right hand, and left the dressing area.

"Would you like a larger bag?" asked Melinda with a wicked grin as I walked through the sales floor--knowing full well I would have to stupidly refuse as everyone watched me struggle with all these clothes.

"No, I think I've got it," I replied, "but you could maybe get the door for me."

"Allow me," offered a shopper I hadn't seen before. She walked in front of me to the door, opened it very slowly, and said "Have a marvelous day!" as I went back into the world at large.

It was still cold, and either the wind was getting stronger or carrying all this stuff made it seem so. I quickly realized that simply holding onto everything for fifteen or twenty minutes could be taxing. I imagined dropping something and seeing my bras scattered in a crosswalk, or my sheer blouse blowing off across the grocery store parking lot.

That didn't happen--my hands grew tired but held firm--so I only had to suffer the indignity that I had been expecting since I'd read Becky and Jude's note: making my loops around the intersection with my massive bosom and women's clothing on full display while my friends watched from their balcony. I couldn't spare a finger to flip them the bird, so I occasionally stuck out my tongue at them as they waved, pointed, and clapped. Time slowed down again: we figured out later that my two circuits took just over ten minutes, but it felt like half an hour. Again people stared, and a couple of drivers honked, but I suffered no explicit insults and felt in no physical danger. When at last Jude and Becky met me with hugs at their door, I felt a mixture of relief, pride, excitement, and gratitude. What an adventure I'd had!

I savored a hot cup of coffee and the familiar, safe feeling of their apartment--a feeling that persists to this day despite the escalating challenges of my sissy servitude. I continue to enjoy the paradoxical mix of submission and freedom, whether I'm just watching a film, or cooking breakfast, or dusting shelves in my maid's outfit.

One item that never needs dusting is a photobook that sits about halfway down a stack of albums on a living room bookshelf. Its cover shows Becky and Jude atop Angel's Landing; above them "Zion National Park" is emblazoned in red against the cloudless Utah sky. Inside, however, one sees no junipers or cottonwood tress, no bighorn sheep or rock squirrels--in fact not even a rock, much less squirrels. Instead are two dozen slightly grainy shots of me shopping for bras, lifted from the boutique's security camera footage. Then come the pics of me posing around the apartment in all my new bras--with and without skirts, dresses, nylons, wigs, handcuffs, and ball gags. Last are the remarkably crisp telephoto shots Jude took from the balcony as I made my loops around the intersection. I can't be sure what visitors have been looking at this photobook, or when, but I must say it's getting a little dog-eared.

I count myself among the luckiest of sissy crossdressers. I hope that you have enjoyed my story, and I wish you the same good fortune I enjoyed as you pursue your own dreams!