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Occasionally, when gazing upon a perfectly-sculpted, highly-polished lovely, I've indulged my inner femboy-lover, and tried to imagine what the various stages of the LB-evolutionary-process looked like. Pre-bolts. Hair just growing out. Early experimentations with make-up. Doodle-doodle-doo...
Recently, I've come to know one lady quite well, and after the most recent trip, having spent two weeks together over the holidays, like to think we have some semblance of understanding and comfort level. So, toward the end of the trip, while in her loom, I threw out the question, "Hey, any old photos laying around?" "Yeayus. Haab." And she goes and gets me a little photo album. Now, I've asked this of others before, and always got the "no way in hell"-type response. So, I was immediately impressed and touched that she had the confidence (and the confidence in me) to show me old photos.
I open the cover and here we have her early cabaret days. Nervous smile. Outlandish make-up. Now we're talking. Then I turn the page and I'm looking at a ten year old boy with a crew cut.
I don't know if I'll ever be quite the same. Somehow I had managed not to recognize this looming danger in my active consciousness, or ever even really associate the imagery in my dim mind before. And now here I am -- in an instant -- feeling like a homosexual child molester. I keep hoping for a reprieve but the shots go on and on -- all the way down to the Halloween pic replete with a penciled-in mustache. She's pointing out her other friends I know, in their crew cuts.
Finally, it ends. But she wants me to choose some pics for myself. I say I can't. I mean, for one, these are very possibly the only photos she has. And two, I don't want to get arrested at Customs. But she insists. Which is endearing in its own way, as a true gift. So, I walked away with a couple cabaret photos, and potentially permanent psychological damage.
But hey, I bought the ticket, so I gotta take the ride...
Recently, I've come to know one lady quite well, and after the most recent trip, having spent two weeks together over the holidays, like to think we have some semblance of understanding and comfort level. So, toward the end of the trip, while in her loom, I threw out the question, "Hey, any old photos laying around?" "Yeayus. Haab." And she goes and gets me a little photo album. Now, I've asked this of others before, and always got the "no way in hell"-type response. So, I was immediately impressed and touched that she had the confidence (and the confidence in me) to show me old photos.
I open the cover and here we have her early cabaret days. Nervous smile. Outlandish make-up. Now we're talking. Then I turn the page and I'm looking at a ten year old boy with a crew cut.
I don't know if I'll ever be quite the same. Somehow I had managed not to recognize this looming danger in my active consciousness, or ever even really associate the imagery in my dim mind before. And now here I am -- in an instant -- feeling like a homosexual child molester. I keep hoping for a reprieve but the shots go on and on -- all the way down to the Halloween pic replete with a penciled-in mustache. She's pointing out her other friends I know, in their crew cuts.
Finally, it ends. But she wants me to choose some pics for myself. I say I can't. I mean, for one, these are very possibly the only photos she has. And two, I don't want to get arrested at Customs. But she insists. Which is endearing in its own way, as a true gift. So, I walked away with a couple cabaret photos, and potentially permanent psychological damage.
But hey, I bought the ticket, so I gotta take the ride...
These are all interesting posts. Thanks for sharing guys.
Another one of your witty one liners...
This is a yawn because you are bored.
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