I’ve just been looking at the VICTORIA’S SECRET swimwear collection.
I trained with the first team yesterday. Nobody said much to me. There is an air of despondency around the club. Performances have been criticised heavily in the press. Too many goalless draws. The strikers out of form. So perhaps the players had other things on their mind. Or perhaps, I thought, they were just acting naturally – self-obsessed, self-image fixated and full of their own self-serving agenda. But at the end of the final training session when I was deliberately slow in getting changed (I hate getting naked in front of other men – I feel inadequate somehow. I suppose I need to talk about that. Another blog perhaps) they asked me did I want to go swimming. They’d even give me a ride, astonished I did not have my own Ferrari yet.
Near to the Training Arena there’s a huge private Sports Club and Gym – Spartacus – it’s called. Misguidedly. The huge swimming pool is designed like a tropical isle; trees, lagoons, coconut huts, sand … and chicks! Lots of them! – who come to parade their bronze loveliness in front of the well-toned, athletic, rich football stars who shout witty bon-mots, sexpressions, and playful watchwords in their direction. Lots of expensive pretentious, café mochas, texting and sarcastic banter. Not much swimming.
I loved it.
And guess what I wanted to do? Right! Hence the VICTORIA’S SECRET trawling. Imagine just going there and reclining on a lounger and just looking beautiful. Perhaps flirting in front of my team mates. My Arabic style hair is long and suitable enough. I’m slim and can pad up. What body hair I have I can dispose of easily. There is just a tiny problem.
What the hell do I do with my WILLIE?
All the bikini bottoms I drooled over were either hipster, almost G-string, briefs or – if they were ‘shorts’ – too thin and silky. I could wear a cover all. Over my bikini. And beautiful though they were, you would need to cross your legs all the time? To avoid displaying your bulge. The size of your bulge doesn’t actually matter. It’s the ‘angle of dwell.’ As they say in fashion parlance. Hold up a piece of cloth or a T-shirt or whatever and wiggle your tiny little finger against it. The bulge looks enormous doesn’t it?
Now there is a process called ‘Tuck ‘n Tape’. You don’t need me to explain it. YouTube is, encouragingly, full of ‘how to do’ lessons. But like many aspects of cross-dressing there a need to practice. Which I will do.
Because I want to lie on that lounger and get my team mates to look over and shout invitations at me. I shall ignore them of course. Conversation with them would likely be as dry as their current goal drought.
But why would I want to do all that? Why go through all the bother? Especially the Tuck n’ Tape! Well, I guess if I figure that out I’ll be real close to understanding my need for cross-dressing.