The 29th Jan 2011 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
I don't know if it's unique to me, but I can only get inspiration to write if I'm wearing women's clothing. The excitement I get from ladies' garments is the only thing that energises me into being creative.
I've not been doing it for very long, but I realise now that I have possibly discovered my own answer to life, the universe and everything. However, it seems as though my path to spiritual fulfillment is not to be without its drawbacks.
I only dare try on my 'special outfits' when the wife is out, which is not nearly often enough. I keep an old trunk under the workbench in the garage, where I know it's safe. The last time she ventured that far into man's territory it was just to tell me my dinner was ready. And that was years ago. These days I just get a shout. If I'm lucky.
Every time she visits her mother, normally a Sunday afternoon, I now commence my new ritual. Heaving the trunk upstairs to the bedroom, I close the curtains, and spend the precious and all too brief time I have trying out different combinations. I try and make sure I have something new each time. And it was just about a month ago that I had my revelation.
I had been braver than usual. Buying women's clothes had always been as much of a challenge as wearing them without being discovered. Obtaining saucy underwear in my size was a new thing for me, and I wanted to be able to feel it in my hands and imagine how it would feel against my skin, so I mustered up the courage to visit the shops, rather than order things from the internet. The young lady in the lingerie shop had seemed far too put out that she had been asked to interrupt her texting to notice that I was taking possibly too personal an interest in the 'anniversary present' I was paying for. I guess they get all sorts. The choice was agony, but I settled on a basque and some suspenders.
That Sunday I felt like a new woman. My mind raced, and for the first time I found myself thinking of all the story ideas I'd had when I still harboured literary ambition. I started making handwritten notes, and only stopped when I noticed the time. I had barely got the trunk back in the garage when the wife got home.
This marriage of arousal and creativity gripped me like a whalebone corset. I planned to take it further, but was not quite sure how to proceed. Then opportunity presented itself perfectly. The mother-in-law fell terribly ill. How I rejoiced! This meant the wife would be going to stay for a while. This meant I could vary my routine.
I had dabbled in some creative writing recently, but always struggle for ideas. But now I was sure I could hold my own and compete.
I got hold of some make-up specially, and sat last Saturday in my underwear at the PC. The mirror on the outside of the wardrobe door caught my profile wonderfully. I was excited almost beyond the capacity of my brief underthings.
The anticipation of the possible themes set my mind racing, and the clock seemed to tick slower and slower towards half past five.
I felt truly alive, and sensual as a virginal teen. I refreshed my page at the appointed time and waited.
And waited.
The screen froze, and I became stuck hideously in the moment. My sexiness teetered on a knife edge.
Half an hour later I was a dejected middle-aged man with lipstick smeared on his face, his new dawn darkened by a faulty server.
