Magic Dress - Diana Pt. 01

THE BEGINNING

Shit! I thought. Oh fuck! Buggeration! Damn and fucking blast!

Here was I a happily married man, standing in a dress. A real woman's dress. And I liked it. I really liked it. It was fucking wonderful!

"Oh," I said.

"What was that?" said my wife Gwen, just adjusting her moustache.

"It's surprisingly comfortable," I answered weakly.

"Hmn," she said. "Now let's do your makeup. I can't wait to see you as a tart!"

It was the rugby club annual do, where we bring our wives and moderate our language and drinking, but still have some fun. We always have a theme and often dress up. This year it had been the unoriginal 'vicars and tarts', which is always easy to do. The women overdo the makeup and the men have cardboard collars and black t-shirts. However, it was suggested that we do it the other way round, with the men in drag. Well, rugby folk are always up for a challenge, so we agreed.

It turns out that the easiest kit to hire for a man was 'French Maid', so that was my costume, and very fetching I looked in it. An hour and a half ago I had been prancing around and managed to knock over several bottles in the kitchen with assorted flavours and colour. My darling (but now fuming) wife tried to repair the damage, but it was obvious we could not do anything in time, so she had rummaged around in the wardrobe and found an old dress.

Now when I say Rugby you are probably thinking of 20 stone forwards, but one of the things I like about the game is that it provides opportunities for different sorts. Yes, the big tanks, but also the skilled kickers and the smaller but nippy ones to dodge out of the way of the lumbering dinosaurs. That was me. I am not that big, but just try to catch me!

So yes, I was able to get into that dress. A little loose on the hips but not tight on the waist, and no shoulders, just straps. Unfortunately, it looked a bit too good. I don't even have the kind of stubble that gives a blue chin. I had my Y-front pants, of course, (I'm not stupid) but she put me in tights and then added some flower print knickers.

"I'll get all sweaty, love," I complained. Which resulted in a big squirt of female deodorant on my wedding tackle. And under my arms. So I smelled like a lady as well. And the way the skirt flared, I would not even show a bulge whoever I thought about. Though that was unlikely to happen anyway.

A bra stuffed with socks added to the humiliation. But worst of all, I liked it. I was devastated as she applied makeup. I looked in the mirror. My face was that of a woman out for fun. I had been hoping to look like a clown at least, but this was what you would see on any Friday night with girls of all ages out to for the evening. My wife was very happy with her handiwork, so how could I complain? On went her only wig, and I looked a picture. Hair makeup, nice bust, nice dress. Totally right and thus totally wrong.

"You look very nice," she said, and offered me her arm like a man does to a lady. "Shame you couldn't manage high heels." (Thank God for that!) I couldn't wear any of her shoes, but she found some black plimsolls which were at least unobtrusive. Then I had a brilliant idea.

"How about I wear rugby socks and boots?" Yes, that would be silly enough!

"If you had rubber studs, maybe, but yours would damage that nice wooden floor." Fuck!

I could not think of any further excuse, so off we went.

There were two French maids there, but most couples had been much smarter than us. Two guys had hired pantomime dame costumes from the local repertory theatre, with outrageous bosoms and silly bonnets. Why didn't I think of that? Some others were obviously the result of a lot of work. Colourful and silly dresses from old curtains and such. Along with excessive blue eyeshadow and highly coloured (but very cheap) wigs like you can get from a party shop, they looked ridiculous men in drag. As they should, of course. Some of the wives had added a vicar's collar to something like a catsuit or a short skirt outfit and looked disturbingly sexy. Others (like my dear wife) had gone for the dull look.

The only one out of place was me. "Oh," with surprise, "you look nice," was the usual comment, which had two things wrong with it. Firstly, I did not want to look nice, I wanted to look ridiculous as someone who couldn't possibly be mistaken for a woman. Secondly, I took it as a compliment!

I escaped outside along with a couple of smokers. I didn't smoke, unfortunately, so announced I was getting some air. "Nice dress," said one.

"Thank you," I said, automatically and like a lady. Luckily, they thought I was putting it on, so went into a routine of "Get her!" and such camp expressions. Meanwhile I was enjoying the feel of the air on my legs and the way my skirt moved in the gentle breeze. I went back in and felt like a glass of white wine rather than my usual pint.

Photographs were being taken, of course, and I was bound to be on them. Oh, the humiliation!

I was convinced that I would suffer the ignominy of being judged "Best Costume" but fortunately that went to one of the pantomime dames (Widow Twankey) and Catwoman in a clerical collar.

Eventually the torture was over, and we were home. Where I was strangely reluctant to change. I sat down, not sprawled as I usually do, but being careful of the dress, and tried to chat about the people. Fortunately, Gwen was well able to give cogent criticism of the other women and some compliments about the home-made costumes.

"Sorry," she said, after a while, "You must be dying to get out of that dress."

"Oh," I said. "It's actually quite comfortable, so I forgot I had it on. Of course, let's get ready for bed."

"You can wear it any time," she said, smiling. (Of course, she was joking, but did she know?)

She removed my makeup and hers, we showered and made love. It was a good evening.

Next day I looked at the pictures of the do on our club Facebook page. Amazingly, no-one seemed to have caught me properly (or at least didn't post it). There were bits of me off to one side, or half hidden behind someone leaning into the camera, and glimpses of the dress throughout, but not me in the dress to be recognised. I thanked whatever spirit had protected the dress.

The French maid outfit washed, but not well enough and we had to pay the hire shop its full value.

BIRTHDAY TREAT

My wife's birthday was coming up and I asked her which restaurant she would like for dinner.

"Anything I want?" she said, and I of course fell into the trap and agreed.

"Right, I want a candlelit dinner for two at home." I was happy.

"For the vicar and his wife." I was less happy.

"Why? Surely you're not serious?"

"Why not? It'll be fun. Just us being silly. You did say anything."

"No I can't," said while thinking "Oh yes, please, please. Please make me!"

"Oh," she said. "Never mind then."

"Oh, all right then," I grudgingly agreed. "Just for you," and kissed her.

We agreed a simple meal that even I could make. When we came home from work, she dressed as the vicar, and laid out my costume. She had bought a pair of women's shoes with almost no heel in my size at shop that sold really cheap shoes of low quality. It was a different dress but otherwise the same arrangement, protected by a nice apron while I was in the kitchen.

I served the dinner, poured some wine, took off the apron and sat down. I raised my glass and said "Happy Birthday, Darling".

"Damn!" she said.

"Something wrong, my love?"

"When you served me there. It should have been the French maid! Why didn't I think of it?"

"Oh, I see. Do you want me to change?"

"No, no. It's all right. You've served now and the dinner would get cold. You can do it next time."

"Next time," I gasped.

"Yes. Let's do the same next week, to make up for it. You don't mind making me another dinner, do you?" I said of course not, and that was it.

So we spent the evening in much the same way as always. We watched TV. We chatted. Except she wore the trousers and I wore a dress.

Then we went to bed and I gave her my best birthday lovemaking. We were both very cheerful the next morning, I noticed.

The next week she was in a smart evening dress which she often wore to restaurant dinners while I was in the French maid outfit. The damage was mainly at the back, although it all looked a little less crisp overall. She said it deserved suspenders and stockings, so helped me on with them. They showed under the short skirt, of course, as did the frilly knickers when I bent over.

I tried to mince around looking provocative and spoke in my best fake French accent. "Is zere anyzing else, Madame? Voulez vous quelque chose?" It was good fun.

After dinner, I did some pretend dusting with the feather on a stick that came with the outfit, and she was directing me to do the tops of the wall so that I was on tiptoe, and she could see under my skirt. It was more fun. I didn't mind at all.

So when she suggested a menu for next week, I took it in my stride. It became a weekly routine. First alternating between the French maid and a dress, but slowly the maid became less frequent. And Gwen had actually bought a couple of items for me, not her, to make a change: another dress and a skirt and top. I began to look forward to it. Once she wore one of my suits but in that way women can which emphasizes that she is not a man.

I stopped camping it up and just enjoyed being female for a while. We discussed it at length. I wasn't gay. I didn't think I was a woman trapped in a man's body. I just liked these pretty clothes and makeup for a change. Female perfume was also nice. As well as teaching me about clothes she showed me how to sit and stand from a chair like a lady, and how to walk with a handbag. It was a sort of amateur dramatics, I suppose, getting into the character of Diana. I was no longer a maid: we were just two women enjoying time together. She said it was a relief to have some conversations not dominated by rugby and problems at my work.

MEET THE WIFE

After a good game of rugby, we were in the bar, and Jason, one of our big prop forwards, said he wanted a word, and steered me to a quiet table where a man who was not one of the team was sitting.

"Dave," he said, "I'd like you meet my wife, Lucille. Lucille, this is David." I knew Jason was gay, but not the details.

"Nice to see you again," said the man. "My surname is Ball and I was christened Luke, so the boys at school called me Lucille to make fun of me. When I came out, I was happy to keep it."

"I saw you at the club do, in a green dress," he said, "and I thought you looked great."

I remembered: he had been the only vicar who looked like a man.

"I don't know what you're coming to," I said quickly, "but I'm not gay."

"Sorry," he said, "I'm not suggesting you are. It's just that lots of men like putting on dresses. Some of them are straight and some of them are gay. I happen to be one of the gay ones, and I am very happy living with Jason. I just wondered how long you had been cross-dressing."

"Cross-dressing? What's that? Oh, I see. No, I don't do that at all. It was only the once," I slightly lied.

"Fuck me!" said Lucille. "That was really the first time you had put on a dress?" I explained about the French maid costume.

"Oh well, forget it then. We got it wrong, and I'm very sorry. I just thought you might be interested in something, but I'll shut my trap, and we'll pretend this conversation never took place. Nice to meet you, David!"

"Interested in what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Well at least tell me what it was you were going to talk about, or I'll be wondering all night."

He paused and cleared his throat. "This is confidential, but you might as well know just in case you fancy something in the future. I am secretary of a walking club."

This sounded extremely uninteresting and not very confidential coming from a man called Lucille who was married to a twenty stone rugby player named Jason.

"You mean like ramblers?"

"Well, a bit of that sometimes, but it is mainly down the street, in a shopping centre, that sort of thing." I was puzzled and must have looked it.

"It is for men who like to dress up as women. Instead of just sitting at home we can go out in public as women under fairly safe conditions, walking around. There, that's it. Shall I go on?"

"Well, I'm not interested," I lied, "but it's sort of interesting."

He explained that it had started with some university students as an offshoot of the LGBT society, but after graduation three of had started little clubs where they lived. Members met at each other's homes spending time "en femme" as they called it, and made little trips out. Some were in some state of transgender change, a lot of the others were just a man in a dress and makeup. What most of them wanted was to "pass as a woman" as they called it. That is, to be able to walk around just like any other woman without being particularly noticed. However, it took quite a bit of courage on your own, especially for the first few times.

Thus a few of them would go somewhere and just walk around for a while. A big shopping centre, an art gallery, a park or even a ramble in the country, but dressed as a woman, appropriately for the situation. These were experiences which were craved and valued by many. Simply going to the ladies' toilet for the first time was a daunting prospect, but often exhilarating in hindsight, and the group knew which ones would be easiest for a first-timer. They also occasionally organized more extensive trips, possibly with an overnight stay in a hotel which was known to be friendly, and where members might spend a couple of days entirely "en femme". The group provided support and protection for nervous newcomers.

They were often accompanied by their wives, or in some cases their husbands, as with Jason and Lucille.

He stressed that this did not replace transgender support groups, and was nothing to do with sex. It was just a ladies' walking club.

Our dinners were now a weekly routine, so when I got home, I told Gwen.

"You should go for it!" she said, then paused. "You did say wives could come along?" I agreed.

"In that case, I would like to go, at least once, to see these women. Tell Jason next time you see him that we'd like to attend a house party."