How I get off

The bell on the glass door rings as I walk into the store. It's in a suburban strip mall sandwiched between a nail salon and a beauty parlor. I'm scared to death someone I know will see me here and learn my secret. But this is part of the thrill. This is dirty sex, and I love it.

I'm in a trashy lingerie shop. I'm not buying for a wife or girlfriend. I'm shopping for myself. The racks are filled with my fantasies. Lace panties. Corsets. Garter belts. They hug my body in all the right places.

The woman behind the counter is the same one who's there every time. I think she's the owner. She smiles and says hello. I nod sheepishly and say "hi." I'm pretty sure she knows I like to cross dress. She would have to be stupid not to. I'm in her shop a couple of Saturdays a month. I always buy large. But if she does know, she never lets on. Whenever I buy something, her comment is neutral: "This is very pretty." It turns me on to think that she knows.

Today, I'm in the market for a black corset with garter straps and matching thigh-high stockings. I saw a chick in a porno picture wearing one and decided I'd like one, too. That's how my trip to the lingerie store always starts: I spend hours looking at pictures of women wearing lingerie. Sometimes, I use Victoria's Secret catalogs, but I prefer softcore Internet porn. I examine the tits. I admire the models' smooth asses. Their sexy gazes hit me in a special place. My mind enters another zone where only the porn matters. I tease my nipples, rubbing and pinching them. My fantasies become so intense that I'm willing to become the woman to make them come true. Changing gender on the spot is impossible. But wearing women's clothes comes close enough for me.

The rack I need is in the front of the store. The corsets come in pink, red, purple and blue. They come in satin. But I know exactly what I'm looking for: a lacy, black one. I flip through the hangers until I find a large. The first thing I do is feel the material where my tits will be. It's important that I have access to my nipples while wearing lingerie. If a garment has too much support material around the tits, I can't feel a thing while trying to pinch myself. This is common with bras. Many have a layer of foam padding that separates the skin from the pretty fabric on the outside. But I don't automatically put padded bras back on the rack. The padding can usually be removed by cutting around the seam of the bra cup.

None of this is a problem with the corset I've plucked off the rack. The front is thin lace. The elastic back has about a dozen bra clasps. It has garter straps attached. A pair of thong panties and stockings comes with it.

Perfect.

As I move toward the cash register with the corset, I notice a young couple looking at the sex toys. I don't recognize them. They don't acknowledge my existence. Fine with me.

The woman behind the counter takes the corset and says, "Will this be all?"

"Yup," I say.

"This is very pretty," she says as she removes the anti-theft tags.

I'm looking down at the counter the whole time.

The total comes to $52.48. I pay with three twenties. The woman hands me some change that I don't bother to count and a plastic bag.

I head out of the store and into the sunlight. As soon as I'm in my pickup truck, a feeling of relief washes over me. I've made it out of the lingerie store without being caught again. I open the bag, stick my face inside and inhale deeply. New lingerie always smells like potpourri – so feminine.

I turn left out of the parking lot and head in the general direction of the strip club. But I have one stop to make first. I pull into the first fast food restaurant I see. It's a KFC.

I park and conceal the bag under my arm beneath my coat. I walk into the restaurant and quickly head for the bathroom. The lunch rush is over and dinner is an hour away, so the KFC is dead now. In the bathroom, no one is in the stall.

I pull out the corset and tear off the tags, then drape it over a railing. I take off my jacket and shirt and hang them from a hook on the door. I've put on a corset before, so I know what I'm doing. You've got to put it on backwards so you can hook all those clasps, then spin it around and slide your arms through the straps. It fits perfect. The corset hugs me tight and pushes up my tits. When I look down, I'm peering into my own cleavage. I've got a helluva rack for a guy.

After sliding on the panties, comes the tricky part: the stockings. The stall wall doesn't go all the way to the ground. If anyone comes in, they'll be able to see what I'm doing. But it's worth the risk. I pull off my tennis shoes, socks and jeans. I quickly slide the stockings up my legs. Then, just as quickly, I put my pants, socks and shoes back on. Whew! Made it. No one came in.

With my pants pulled up to my knees, I fasten the garter straps to the stockings. I'm careful to make sure they're straight. Buckling the back clasps is no easy task. I have to twist my body as far as it will go to get both hands on the clasp.

I pull up my pants, put my shirt back on and head back to the pickup. I love wearing lingerie in public, even if I'm the only one who knows it. I feel like such a slut. In the parking lot, I throw my hips back and forth like a woman and let my wrist hang limp.

Back in the truck, my boner is impossibly hard. I hang a right and head toward the strip club.

It's happy hour when I arrive, but there are only about 10 cars in the parking lot. The big, Saturday night rush won't come for hours. I park around back, so no one will see my truck.

When I enter through the tall, wooden doors, I'm greeted by an attractive but fully clothed blonde. "Three dollars," she says. I pay with a twenty. She gives me change in two-dollar bills. In this is a high-class club, the girls demand big tips.

But the rewards are great.

Bass thumps through the building. It's dark inside. The purple glow of black lights illuminates the bar. Three guys, a bartender and a couple of strippers laugh about something. At the far end of the room, a girl is swinging around the pole on the main stage. This is what I've come to see.

I sit in the second row. This is close enough to clearly see the girl but far enough away to tip her when I deem it convenient, not her.

The girl's top is still on. It must be her first song. Strippers at this club almost always wait until the second song to show their tits.

The stripper has long, blonde hair and wears a skin-tight black dress. Even through her dress, I can tell her hooters are natural. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes tell me she's older than most of the strippers in this club. She's probably in her mid 30s, maybe 40.

I fold my arms and lean back into my seat. I discreetly pinch my nipples and roll them between my fingertips. As my cock rises, it rubs against the lacy panties.

I notice a couple of other guys sitting near the stage. They don't seem to notice me. They're transfixed on the girl.

The song fades out and the DJ comes on: "Remember guys, these girls are working hard for your tips, so get up and show the lady you appreciate her. Give her a buck or two. Now round two with...Sierra."

Another bass-heavy song reverberates through the club. Sierra faces the back of the stage and seductively pulls down the top of her dress. She crosses her arms across her chest and twirls around. One of the guys in the audience walks up to a set of stairs that lead to the stage. He stops at the bottom step. In his hand is a two-dollar bill folded in half lengthwise. Sierra locks her gaze on him and comes over. She uncrosses her arms and pulls his head into her cleavage. Sierra bats her tits against his face. The guy isn't smiling. He seems to be just drinking it all in. Sierra backs up and lifts up her G-string. The guy slides the bill up her hip. The G-string snaps back into place. The stripper smiles at the guy, kisses him on the cheek and goes back to the pole.

The next girl is Liza. When her name is announced, she steps away from the bar and hurries up to the stage. She wears a neon orange mini skirt that glows under the black light on stage and a swirl-design bikini top. She looks young enough to be in high school. Liza uses the look to her advantage. She bounces around the stage like a cheerleader.

I'm the first one to offer a tip. Halfway through the first song, I walk up to the bottom step with a two-dollar bill in my right hand. Liza immediately comes over to me. She stands on the second to last step. I'm close enough to lean in and kiss her, although I don't because I know it will get me thrown out. The perfume she's wearing smells cheap, like you could buy a gallon of it at a drug store for $5. But I love it. Liza makes her body undulate, then whirls around and shakes her ass. My cock is as hard as it has ever been. It's pointing straight up, the underside straining against my panties and jeans. Liza presses her ass against my cock and slides up and down. She starts slow and speeds up. Just before I'm about to bust a nut, she stands up and lifts her G-string. I slip her the $2 and she kisses me on the cheek. Another guy is waiting at another set of stairs on the other side of the stage. She dances over.

I return to my seat and fold my arms into the nipple-pinching position. I find that if I lean back just right, my cock pitches a tent in my jeans and I can discreetly hump the material. During the next stripper's performance, I almost cum twice.

A young stripper stops me the second time. She approaches me from behind and puts her hand on my shoulder. Beneath her hand are my shirt, and then the corset's shoulder strap.

"Hi, baby," she says. "I'm Jasmine."

I look up and say, "hello."

She's young with a slim body and peach-size tits. Her curly hair falls to her shoulders. She's wearing a bikini top and short skirt.

"You want to do two for thirty?" she asks.

She's rubbing my back. Her hand is on the corset. I'm wondering if she notices. Then I'm hoping she notices. I want her to know I'm a sick fuck, a twisted, silly faggot who wears women's lingerie to strip clubs.

I blink hard to clear my head. I don't understand her question.

"What's two for thirty?" I ask.

"Two dances in the VIP room for thirty bucks," she says.

"Sure," I say.

The young stripper takes me by the hand and leads me to away from the stage. I can feel the corset and stockings squeezing my skin as we move. We go into a side room. The lighting inside is even darker than the rest of the club. Everything has a purple glow. Another stripper and a john are snuggled up together on a couch. They have drinks in their hands. They giggle. We pass them and go to the other side of a partition. She takes me to a couch and tells me to sit back and make myself comfortable. We're alone on this side of the VIP room. Extra large cushions make me lean way back, almost fully reclined. The stripper grabs my knees and opens my legs. The next song starts and she goes to work.

With the bass pounding, she turns away from me and pulls up her skirt. Her body undulates. She's got a tight, little ass. It's smooth. She slowly brings her cheeks closer and finally drops them directly on my cock. Jasmine shifts around until my dick is situated lengthwise into her ass crack, like a hot dog in a bun. All that's separating her skin and my skin are her G-strip and my panties and jeans. Even through the fabric, she brings me close to climax.

Jasmine stands up, spins around and straddles my lap. We gaze into each other's eyes for a moment, then I fix my stare on her perky, little tits. I can smell spearmint gum and cheap perfume. She rubs her cleavage against my face. Her skin is soft. Jasmine starts dry humping me. Her pussy rubs against my cock. Then she runs her hands up stomach and across my chest. The hands stop abruptly at my tits. She seems to be lingering at the underwire cup of my corset. I look at her face. She gives me a quizzical look. She knows! But I don't offer any hint in return. This is all too much. I can't hold it in anymore. I unleash a torrent of cum in my jeans. I can feel the warm jizz running down my leg. I'm not sure if Jasmine knows or not.

The song comes to an end. She owes me another one, but I don't need it or want it.

"Thanks," I say.

"Anytime," she says without meaning it. Jasmine has a look of disgust on her face, as if the hustler had just been hustled.

On the way home, I stop at a gas station and go into the bathroom. All I want to do is take off this lingerie. I strip down and shove the underwear into a trash bin. "I'm never doing this again," I tell myself. I have a wet spot on my jeans. It's time to go home and do laundry.