“Hello, My Name is Linda”

That evening had been a long time coming. Of course, I had been fighting it but deep down I knew it was for my own good.

I was sitting near the back and along a side aisle among a group of about 50 adults: some males, some females and some females who looked like males. Or were they males dressing as females? That latter group would include me. I was born a male but for most of my life and all of my adult life I have enjoyed presenting as a female, wearing women’s underwear and now dresses, makeup and wigs, the whole getup. I sat at the edge of the group wearing a nice low-cut floral print dress, heels and a black cardigan, comfortable but ready to slip out if things got uncomfortable.

I would not have even known the group existed had my wife not seen the local MeetUp group notice on the Internet. For several months we just monitored their activity. They met on a weekly basis at the local Metropolitan Church but other than that they didn’t reveal too much activity except to vetted members. It was Lisa, my wife, who encouraged me to join. “What can it hurt?” she asked. “Perhaps they have the answer to what drives you.”

So there I sat listening to a speaker and looking around judging the crowd. It turned out there were more couples than I had thought there would be. Not surprisingly the wives seemed to be sitting there supporting their husbands as they would hold his hand in her lap or his. However the man directly in front of me sat alone occasionally tugging at his left shoulder. It looks as if he is adjusting a bra strap I said observantly to myself. It is funny how we crossdressers can pick out these behavior ticks in others.

“Now it is Linda’s turn,” I heard the group moderator say. We had talked earlier in the evening and with a ‘why not’ attitude I had agreed to talk when it came to the point of the meeting where newcomers get to say a bit about themselves.

Fight or flight? As I stood it was about 50-50 whether I would bolt to the door or head to the small lectern at the front of the room where the moderator waited. I chose to head to the lectern, watching as some 50 pairs of eyes watched me. I was glad that I had long ago mastered the art of walking in heels and glad that my padded panties from The Breastform Store gave my profile an extra bit of feminine shape while pulling in my boy’s belly.

The moderator shook my hand but then without a word of introduction left it to me. ‘Oh merde,’ I thought to myself, ‘I wish I had made notes.’ Too late now, I smiled meekly out at the 50 pairs of eyes al looking curiously back at me.

“Hello, my name is Linda and I am a bracoholic.” I thus launched the first of what l thought might be my 12-step program to get my compulsion under control.

“Hi Linda,” came back 50 voices in near unison.

‘A bracoholic?’ You may ask, ‘what’s a bracoholic?’ I must admit I had never heard of the word before we happened on the Facebook group. I think they must have made it up. I think I would have chosen bra-aholic. But at least it is better than something like braophile.

“I cannot remember a time in my life that I had not been obsessed with the sight and feel of the brassiere.” I started, “As a very young child I had loved to watch my mother putting on her bra. I didn’t care much about her small bare breasts but I just was fascinated seeing her slip them in to her bra. When she removed her bra I marveled how the straps had created an exact replica pattern in the skin of her back.”

I continued, “My mother wore fresh underwear, including her bra, every day. So there were always a few bras in the laundry basket. Even as a very young boy I enjoyed grabbing a bra from the laundry and trying it on. Of course for many years I had to pull it very tight in the front to get it to make any mark across my back. I loved looking in her 3-way mirror to see the bra strap marks across my back.”

There were a few nods of agreement from the audience. I continued, “Remember the department store Christmas catalogues?” Almost everyone applauded as if they knew what was coming next. “When most little boys got their hands on the catalogue they would note the toys they wanted to get. They would dream of Santa leaving cowboy outfits or electric train sets or building blocks. I do remember once wishing for a chemistry set but most of the time I searched out the pages for women’s undergarments. I spent what seemed like hours of each day studying the panties and slips, for sure, but mostly the bras. White ones, black ones, ones for push up, ones you could apparently wear for 18 hours. I studied the stitching. I sought out the ones that had three clasps in the back. I knew those were meant for larger breasts. Of course my secret Christmas wish was for Santa to bring me my very own lace bra and panty set. However it was so secret I never even told Santa.” The polite laughter gave me a chance to pause and organize where I was going next in my voyage of revelation.

“Despite my fixation I had been a pretty good student in school. I paid attention and got good marks. That is I did get good marks until the seventh grade. That is when I started at a school where all the girls wore uniform skirts and white blouses, always white blouses.” I paused, looked around the room and then continued, “It was also the year all the girls in the class started wearing bras under those white blouses. And do you know what you can see through a white blouse?”

“BRA STRAPS!” exclaimed several of the men in the room before looking sheepishly in the direction of our moderator.

“Yes, bra straps and the band. The girl who sat in front of me in home room sometimes wore a blouse so sheer that I could tell how far her straps were tightened and I could tell whether the manufacturer’s label was tucked in or hanging out. I spent a large part of the seventh grade hoping I would not be asked to stand up to answer a question and thus expose the fact I was carrying an erection under my desk, an erection simply caused by studying the bra on the girl in front of me.

“From then until this day I find myself studying women to catch a glimpse of the outline of their bras and seeing how their bras are carrying their breasts. It is amazing to me that so many women are wearing such ill-fitting bras. I would not have been caught dead wearing a bra that did not carry my boobs just right.

“But I digress. When did my bra obsession start to become a problem? Well in the day despite my falling marks I certainly did not think I had a problem. After a long time of fear I finally got up the nerve to order my first bra and panty set from a catalogue. I arranged to pick it up at the department store and was that a nerve wracking experience. I was sure the clerk would be very interested in why I wanted the purchase. I slinked very low when she suggested we open it to make sure it was what I wanted. “No, its okay. I’m picking it up for someone. She’ll be able to exchange it if it is not right?” I asked not at all convincingly.

“As you all will know my fear and nervousness were not warranted. I got my purchase back to my small apartment and thus began many evenings of wonderful sexual feelings of course followed by not so wonderful guilt.”

I paused while I considered what I was going to say next. “I guess that was a fetishistic behavior. I was using my bras to help gain sexual release. But it was a pretty tame fetish compared to say pedophilia, necrophilia or exhibitionism. Besides, I was a college student without much money. I couldn’t afford to go out on dates or join a fraternity. My bra, my right hand and, oh yes, a book called Fanny Hill were all the company I needed on a Saturday night.

I could sense that our moderator was about to step in and cut me off. In fairness I was running over my allotted time so I concluded, “I used the past tense on purpose. It was a fetish. But why has my enjoyment of seeing, touching and wearing bras continued long after the sexual thrill has gone? That is what I’m here to find out.”

To a chorus of groans our moderator took it as her cue to step in and stop my revelations, “And that is what we will help you do, Linda, but I’m afraid not tonight. Our time is up. Can you come back in two weeks?

“It might not be until next month but I’ll be here,” I winked to the girls as they applauded my response. “And if you think it will help I will tell you the amazing Florida story.”

I think at this point the moderator could tell that many in her group of bracoholics were considering back slipping. If there had been a nearby outlet mall or JC Penney’s, Sears, or Wal-Mart lingerie department she later confessed to me she might have lost half her clients right there. “Well Linda,” she chimed in, “it’s getting to our wrap up time. Perhaps you could come back next week and continue your story,” she added without enthusiasm.

Not next week but in four, Part 2 of Linda’s support group tale will continue.

Tags: bras, brassiere, crossdressing, featured

Category: Transgender Fetish, Transgender Fun & Entertainment