I am a sissy. It is my core being, my ulterior motivation and my ultimate satisfaction. Being a man is role play and crossdressing. Being a sissy is fullness, freedom and happiness. Being a sissy is more than just putting on a few girl things. It is a truth, and a life, deep inside of me begging to come out and breath. I idolize and envy women and it is my greatest desire to be and serve in the sanctuaries and rituals of femininity. Like the slave girls that bathed the Queens of Egypt or the Ladies in Waiting that dressed the Queens of France, this is my desire, my confession. The boudoir, the bath, the canopied bed, the ruffled vanity, the dressing mirror, the tea party in the garden, the cocktail maid, to answer the front door; these are places I hunger to serve in. No men, no males, no masculinity, just a perfect world of feminine harmony.
I love to make beautiful flower arrangements, I love to hand wash and care for lingerie, and to curtsey like a ballerina. I love to wait on women and crave hearing the praise reward, “good girl.” I love to bathe and dress women and care for their clothes. I love to wait on a lady in her boudoir and at her vanity.
I love the classic French Maid uniform; rustling petticoats, peak-a-boo rumba panties, a black satin shimmering dress with lace collar and cuffs, a dainty white apron with a big pouffie bow tied in the back, seamed stockings held up by garters, sexy high heels, bright red nails, fluttering eyelashes, red lips, dainty earrings, soft long hair with a big bow, a chipping happy voice, a prancing gait, and a willing, vulnerable and humble attitude. I could never be so proud, or so utterly happy, than to be dressed, presented and approved of in this way. I am a sissy. This is the real me. This is my perfection.
A lot of people think it is a good idea for a man to humble himself and serve as a sissy maid. It is definitely a good thing, a liberation that lets you become in touch with, and in harmony with, your better instincts. All the things, the good things, you suppress in the name of acting like a man are free to be experienced and appreciated. You definitely come out a better person. Little wonder transgenderism is so addictive. (Like the old joke. How come they can not find a cure for transvestism? Answer: because we don’t want to be cured!) But, for me, I think I’ve already crossed the half way mark. I need to live out my reality as a sissy. I almost hate every minute I’m not a sissy as if my true life were being stolen from me, minute by minute.
I love women. Women get it, they understand sissies. Of course, it takes a woman who loves being a woman to understand a male who would love to, and need to be a sissy. It not only makes sense, it is a little bizarre and incomprehensible that every man would not wish to be a sissy. These women hold the keys to my freedom, my liberation, my life. They understand that not only is it a good and necessary thing for me to be feminized, they have the confidence and wisdom to give me permission to do so. These are the women I love to serve, love to obey, love to see smile! The women who f***e me from my male cocoon, make me spread my beautiful and glorious feminine wings and become the fluttering sweet sissy butterfly.
Being a sissy maid offers the perfect blend of discipline and reward. The surrender and submission of the serving role places the will power, and energy, of a real woman behind me to push, and f***e, me through the self imposed barriers of masculinity into the realities and liberation of femininity. The prissy, prancy, frou-frou, weak and vulnerable sissy I become as a result is like being the bride in the wedding, the queen of the prom, the prettiest debutante at the ball. Each time I cross a boundary, I emerge, stronger, more self confident, and most importantly, happier with who I am.
I confess that I dream of obtaining the following realities.
To be a lady’s bath maid. To draw her bath, perfume it and set about the tub all the things she would desire. To attend her at her bath, however she desires or sees fit. To pour warm oils, to massage her feet, to bath her, to obey her slightest whim. To wait with warmed towels, to reach her hand as she emerges, to cover her. To dress her for bed, to attend her hair, her skin, her hunger, her thirst. To attend to her clothes, her bed, her room. To tuck her into bed. To be there when she awakens the next day with a tray and coffee served in the most delicate demitasse cup and with a fresh long stemmed flower. To arrange fresh flowers bouquets throughout the room while she lounges in bed. To have her clothes ready for the day and to assist her in dressing.
To be a lingerie maid. To hand wash all my lady’s delicate intimates. To fold them and arrange them in an appealing design in her lingerie drawers. To place scented sachets in each lingerie drawer. To make sure all my lady’s lingerie is always fresh, pretty and scented.
To cook, clean and wash as my lady sees fit.
To be seen.
To serve at parties, tea parties, cocktail parties, formal dinners. To delight her friends, to be her trophy, to be shown off. To answer her door. To curtsey to her and to her guests. To make her the envy and awe of all her friends. To please her. To spoil her. To entertain her.
To be put across her knee, my skirts raised, and spanked, both privately and publicly as a ritual of authority and obedience.
To be willing to accept obedience and vulnerability in whatever capacity she deems desirable as a gift to achieve greater self fulfillment and happiness.
I confess that I need to be a sissy maid, to be obedient and vulnerable to a woman and to publicly and freely serve her and other women.
(Okay, so this wasn't really about sex, but I put that there so you'd read it. Worked ... didn't it! And, maybe this really is about sex after all in a good and intellectual and sensual way.)