My Girdle Is Killing Me!

Chapter 7: A Cure Worse Than The Disease?

So there I was, halfway through my first year at university, and instead of freeing myself from the obligation to wear corsetry, I'd doubled down on it. This is how I now dressed from first thing in the morning to last thing at night, seven days a week. It's inevitable that anyone reading this will sneer and assume I was a fetishist getting off on my own peculiar kink.

It's hard to explain my state of mind at this point in my life, but let's give it a try.

Part of me was ashamed, disgusted, mortified. It was my schooldays all over again – back in the victim role. Every morning, as I fastened myself into all this crazy clothing, the normal teenage male in me looked on in a state of appalled disbelief. What the hell was I doing?

Another part of me was vindictive, filled with self-loathing, convinced it served me right. I was now also the bully. I knew myself to be a pathetic weakling, lacking in any semblance of self-respect. I hated myself with a vengeance and revelled in my self-inflicted discomfort. I deserved to live like this. I totally deserved it.

I was confused, scared, terrified at the thought that this was going to be my life from now on. Was I really going to be doing this crazy shit next year? Five years from now? Ten years? The rest of my life?

And, deep down in my psyche, part of me was somehow at peace. The panic attacks were a thing of the past. I was now “properly dressed” and so I could relax. Pete could have appeared in a puff of smoke like Aladdin's genie and slapped my backside, and I'd have had nothing to worry about as I was wearing my girdle like the “good girl” I'd always been.

I was all these things, and all at the same time. In short, I was a total bloody mess. How I managed to function at all, let alone keep on top of my studies, is one of the seven wonders of the world. I'd get home after a long day at lectures or lab work or the library, my restrictive underwear driving me crazy, yet I'd resist the urge to take it off until it was finally time to go to bed. I'd simultaneously hate, and yet take satisfaction from, the shame and discomfort.

And, to add to the gaiety, I got found out. Pete and the gang hadn't made me wear a bra at school, as even teenage kids knew it'd be hard to hide the signs. But, in my orgy of self-flagellation ,I'd got blasé. I had thought I’d made a decent effort at camouflaging my bra – wearing heavier clothes and sewing up the cups to reduce the excess material, as my moobs couldn’t quite fill a B-cup. But one day in a maths lecture, a comedian in the row behind leaned down and twanged my bra strap. I then had to sit there, beetroot-faced, for the rest of the lecture and listen to the giggling behind me. Not long after this incident a girl “accidentally” bumped into me, gave me a pat on my backside, then turned back to her friends to inform them triumphantly that she had been right. So not only did everyone know I wore a bra, they would soon know about my girdle. The news spread like wildfire throughout my peer group. Walking into a lecture hall was now an ordeal, with all eyes on me as I self-consciously made my way to a seat.

“Captain Playtex.” That was my new name among my classmates. I first encountered it on a board listing exam results at the end of the second term, written beside my real name in bright red ink. Pinned to the bottom of the notice board was a cartoon. Some budding artist had created a caricature of me in bra and girdle, helpful arrows pointing to various parts of my anatomy with descriptive labels based on marketing slogans. The arrow pointing to my slack-jawed face had a variation of my sister's old taunt: “he can't believe it's a girdle!” The arrow to the bra cups: “moobs lifted and separated!” To my girdle: “strong panelling for figure control!” I could hear the sniggering of the people around me turn to outright laughter as I turned and pushed past them in my efforts to get away.

I soon received an invite to see a student counsellor. This should have been the time I asked for help, as my attempts at secrecy had been a spectacular failure. But by this time I was incapable of rational thought on the subject. I admitted to him that I did indeed wear women's underwear, and I said I did so because I preferred it. I gave no hint whatsoever of my backstory or inner turmoil. After promising I would go back to see him if I was receiving any ill treatment from any of the students over my “lifestyle choices”, I left his office and resumed my life of self-inflicted misery.

It was now a blessing that I didn’t live on campus and instead had taken a bedsit in town. That minimised my contact with my fellow students. The novelty of taunting me had quickly worn off, and I was now treated as the class weirdo rather than a figure of fun, shunned rather than ridiculed. The few friends I’d made had already grown uncomfortable around me as my mood had changed so much since the turn of the year. On finding out my secret, they all drifted away. Those were dark days – Pete and Donna would have loved it.

I stayed on in my bedsit over the summer, only going home for a two week break. But I packed my corsetry, hosiery and lingerie in case I needed it. (I'd stopped wearing my usual underwear under my girdle and had started wearing panties instead, figuring there was no point in half measures. The self-loathing monster was infinitely more sadistic than the bullies at school.) I only wore it the once though – the masochist in me had to let my sister see what I'd become. The first time out parents were both out, I put on my panties, open girdle, lace-top stockings and bra, covered it all with a dressing gown, walked across the landing and knocked on her door.

“What do you want?” she said as I entered the room.

“I thought I'd give you a treat as you enjoyed the crap Pete put me through at school – let you see what it's done to me.”

I opened my dressing gown and her jaw dropped. For once the little bitch was speechless.

“Well, don't you have anything to say?”

She finally regained the power of speech.

“What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“I guess I have at that. This is how I live now. Are you happy?”

“I knew it! I knew you got off on it, you pervert! Get the fuck out of my room!”

I re-fastened my dressing gown and went back to my room. She hardly spoke another word to me for the rest of my visit.

Back in England I returned to my solitary existence. Occasionally one of the girls would try to strike up a conversation with me. (The males treated me as a pariah.) But inevitably these overtures would sooner or later get round to fishing for an explanation of why I wore women's underwear. They weren't interested in being my friend, they were simply being nosy. So, as soon as the conversations headed in that direction, I'd shut them down and that would be that.

One day in my third term I was sitting at lunch when this other student I'd never seen before asked if he could sit at the same table. I told him it was fine, and he sat down opposite me. He tried to make conversation, which was hard going as I had retreated into my shell so much I was little more than monosyllabic in my replies. Eventually he got to the point and asked me if I'd like to go to a party with him that weekend. It was only then that the penny dropped. He was asking me out on a date! I guess some people had put two and two together and come up with the answer five. Shocked as I was, I somehow managed to be tactful and point out I wasn't gay. He glanced down at my body and didn't have to speak - his implied question was so obvious. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and give him an embarrassed smile.

I did take him up on the offer to go to the party. Recent months had been a solitary existence, so the chance to socialise was too good to turn down. Back in those days there was still a stigma about the gay scene, especially with growing concerns about a new disease called AIDS, so discretion was the order of the day for these sort of gatherings. My non-date, Rick, introduced me to various people at this gathering – this was to become my social circle for the next two years. I was quite the curiosity, being straight and a cross-dresser, and one or two were aware of my reputation.

“Do you really wear women's underwear?” one of them asked, “you know, the heavy stuff? Girdles and such?”

I nodded.

“Go on, then...show us. We're all friends here.”

I was conscious that I now had an audience. With trembling hands, I took off my jacket, then my t-shirt. I stood there in my bra, avoiding eye contact while opening my jeans. Finally I let them slide to the floor to show my long leg girdle and tights. I braced myself for the laughter, but when it came it wasn't the usual mockery.

“Jesus, Dave, you look like my granny first thing in the morning!”

“Does your granny know you've been spying on her?”

“Maybe he helps his granny get dressed!”

I stood in silence as they exchanged one-liners. There was some gentle laughter, I got a few pats on the back and a quick slap on the backside.

“Oi, you, leave him alone! Remember he's straight!”

The idea of me being straight yet dressed in corsetry got a huge laugh. I was overcome with sheer relief as I dressed again and Rick went to get me a drink. Finally I had found some people with whom I could spend time, share my secret and not be seen as a pervert. And in this group I became known to one and all as Cap'n – a reference to “Captain Playtex” – and that was fine by me.

It's not too over-the-top to say that this group of people saved my sanity. I gradually came out of the shell into which I had retreated so deeply, discovered the ability to be relaxed and at ease around others...and slowly, without even realising it, began to be comfortable with my need to wear corsetry. The whys and wherefores of how the situation had come about began to fade. It was just something I needed to do, and I had started to take the first faltering steps down the path of accepting that fact.