Just Look at Me Now Ch. 01

A few years ago, midway through President Pelosi's first term, I overcame my typical inclination to avoid risks and accepted an invitation to visit the apartment of two women—total strangers—who had just discovered that I like to wear panties. Becky and Jude will be along in a few paragraphs, after I tell you the odd story of how I came to meet them at precisely the most embarrassing moment of my life. My life up to that point, that is, before the humiliation tsunami hit shore.

On this particular July 3 I was participating in an organized half-marathon walk; it was physically challenging but in no way unusual until things spun out of control in the last half mile. The start/finish was at City Hall in downtown Burlingame, California, though most of the route wandered the affluent and hilly neighborhoods to the west. The walk was a local fundraiser for breast cancer research—modeled on the Susan G. Komen walks—and I was wearing the event's pink t-shirt and my favorite baby blue running shorts. There were a few other male participants, but only a handful.

After five hours and twelve-plus miles of walking I was waiting at a crosswalk at El Camino Real, a major thoroughfare between Burlingame's residential and commercial districts. Eight or nine other walkers, all women, were waiting with me cheek by jowl in the small curbside area between utility poles, a mailbox, and a massive eucalyptus. We were a bit giddy because the finish was only three flat blocks away. I was chatting enthusiastically with an English immigrant who had walked with me for a few miles earlier in the day. Then it happened: without warning a young woman behind me yanked my running shorts down to my ankles, revealing my brand-new, dazzlingly white, haute couture panties.

As you can imagine, that caused quite a commotion. The women around me laughed, whistled, cheered, or simply gawked. After a moment of stunned paralysis I reached down to pull my shorts back up, but the woman who had pantsed me had them pinned to the sidewalk with her foot. I turned to see who had done this, then tried to move my feet, then started to bend over again to grab my shorts—all ineffectual and aborted movements. The Englishwoman then took hold of both my hands firmly but kindly and said, "Just take off your shorts, luv, and let's have a good look!" Her suggestion was vigorously seconded and immediately passed by unanimous voice vote. Maybe it was the endorphins, or maybe the realization that I couldn't possibly deny what had been revealed, but I surrendered to the moment, took a deep breath, and replied, "As you wish." By now cell phones were popping out and more walkers were catching up with us. The Englishwoman squatted to guide my panties over my shoes, and with my hand on her shoulder to steady myself I stepped out of my shorts.

She stood up and wordlessly gestured that my t-shirt should come off too. I pulled it off to a round of applause (the only standing ovation I've ever received), and when we got a "Walk" signal to cross El Camino we all headed to the finish with me wearing only shoes, socks, and panties—shirt and shorts in hands. I don't know if I was in shock, but I certainly experienced some kind of altered state. It felt like a dream, half nightmare and half erotic fantasy. I wasn't thinking rationally, just walking with my escorts along the city's busiest shopping street. Ironically, one of the stores we passed was a lingerie boutique where Jude and Becky would take me shopping months later, but I didn't notice it at the time. I also realized later that I could easily have put my clothes back on and fled, but my fight and flight instincts had both been muted, and running away didn't even cross my mind. The women wanted to walk with me on display, and their collective will proved surprisingly powerful. I didn't offer much resistance, so beneath my embarrassment I must have wanted it too.

To be clear, things could have been a lot worse. I've revisited those streets and determined that my walk of shame probably lasted only six or seven minutes. And "shame" is too strong a word: there was plenty of teasing, but no one was truly mean, and a few people congratulated me for taking all the ribbing with equanimity. I also got compliments, both teasing and sincere, on the curvature of my ass and the quality of my panties. After years of hiding my panty-wearing habit, I had realized my worst fear, in spades, and I was going to be OK.

As we neared the finish, the woman who had pantsed me introduced herself and half-apologized, saying that once she had noticed I was wearing panties she couldn't resist outing me. It turned out that she had walked past me as I stretched a tight hamstring at the final rest stop. I had my leg out straight on a fence rail, and when I bent forward she glimpsed my panties' lace fringe between my shirt and my shorts. She'd been walking along near me ever since, thinking about how and when to play her "practical joke." When a perfect opportunity presented itself, she carpe'd the diem.

Crossing the finish line in panties felt surreal—hugely embarrassing but distinctly erotic as well. I was trembling as I put my boy clothes back on, and I hadn't even noticed the event photographer shooting pics of everyone crossing under the arch of pink balloons. Thumbnails of her photos went out that evening to all the participants. I couldn't find myself by bib number since I'd been shirtless, but when I searched by finishing time there I was, in all my pantied splendor, at 3:52 p.m.—and yes, I did order an 8x10 glossy print. In for a dime, as they say.

So where do Jude and Becky come in? From above: when I was pantsed, they were looking down from their second-story balcony. They had been cheering for all the walk participants, but I earned their special attention. When I removed my shorts and t-shirt, they clapped and shouted, "Bravo! Come back after you've finished! We have beer! Number 201... remember, 201!"

I certainly didn't forget the women or their apartment number, but when I left the finish area I felt I'd had enough excitement for one day. As I made my way back to my car, I took side streets, trying to avoid anyone who might have seen me earlier, including the balcony women. I was glad that I lived twenty miles away, rarely visited Burlingame, and knew no one there. I'd been busted, but only by strangers I'd likely never see again. I got in my car, cranked up E Street Radio, and headed for the freeway. But before "Out in the Street" ended I pulled a U-turn and headed back toward #201.

When I rang from the lobby intercom, a woman's voice quickly asked, "Is this who we hope it is?"

"I think so," I replied. "You, uh, saw me from your balcony a while ago."

"I'll buzz you in," she said. "Up one flight, first door on your left."

There's still time to chicken out, I thought as I climbed the stairs. I was afraid, but of what? The women might mock me, but they weren't going to rob me or kidnap me. (I'm sorry to say such thoughts arose, and happy that I could dismiss them).

I knocked on the door and was greeted with gratitude and enthusiasm: "Thank you for coming—we were afraid we'd never see you again." "It's been quite a day for you, hasn't it?" "Here's that beer we promised—hope you like Stella Artois! We buy it because we love their ads." "We've been talking about you nonstop since the little incident we witnessed—it's great that you didn't run away or get angry!" All this put me at ease, or at least tamped down my anxiety. The women seemed genuinely friendly.

Introductions followed (though I was invited to use a pseudonym), and I got my first good look at the women I'd only had a glance at before. Jude (Judith on Nabokov's dotted line, Judy in school, Jude after coming out as lesbian) was of average height but markedly thin and high-waisted. She had a runner's body with long legs and a diminutive torso and looked like she could have run my half-marathon without breaking a sweat. Her most striking features were her long auburn hair and pale blue eyes. Becky, a brunette, was taller (nearly my height), bigger boned, more muscular, and a bit overweight. She looked like she could have maybe walked the course if she really had to. I'm terrible at guessing ages, but thought they were perhaps about thirty, so a decade younger than me.

With much talking over one another, they quickly explained why they'd asked me to come meet them: they were queer, they were married, and they were deep into kink, particularly dominance/submission. They routinely explored bdsm with one another but had never played with a man, and seeing me in panties made them think I might be interested in gender play, feminization, and who knows what else. They proposed talking through all this with me, within the broad parameters of no intercourse, nothing nonconsensual, nothing dangerous. Was I interested, or should we just share a few beers and talk about music or politics or movies? I was interested.

Jude suggested that since they'd already seen me in panties we could take one step further tonight as we got to know one another and sought common ground for erotic play. If I was willing, she said, I could have a shower while they picked out some clean panties and other lingerie for me. They would help me dress up and we could all find out whether or not this was fun and exciting. I was willing.

Becky showed me the way to the bathroom and gave me a clean towel. "Take your time," she said, "and lock the door if you like. Just come out when you're ready."

The shower was more than welcome after a long walk on a warm day, and I did take my time, partly because it felt great to scrub off the sunscreen and sweat, and partly because I was on the threshold of a hugely intimidating experience. Finally I toweled off, arranged my clothes and shoes into a neat pile, wrapped the towel around my waist, unlocked the door, and headed back to the living room, where Becky and Jude were waiting.

"Shall we proceed?" Jude asked.

"I am soooo nervous," I confessed. "I can barely talk."

"That makes total sense," Becky said. "You're feeling the intensity of disruptive power dynamics—something we love to play with. You're usually on an equal footing with women, at the very least, and you're often granted higher social status simply for being male. Now you're on our turf, we're fully clothed, and you're about to be naked."

"But don't be afraid," Jude said. "We don't bite!"

"Not without permission, that is," Becky added.

"Maybe it will help if I level the playing field just a bit," Jude said. "Becky, take off your blouse."

"Yes, Ma'am." Wholly unfazed, Becky unbuttoned her blouse, top to bottom, and let it slide backwards off her shoulders to the floor.

"And now the bra."

"Yes, Ma'am." This instruction brought a slight blush to Becky's cheeks, but she complied without missing a beat. With a flexibility and dexterity that I would come to envy, she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, slid it down her arms, and dropped it behind her on top of her blouse. I'd already had an erection, and now my cock hardened fully at the sight of her magnificent breasts, which were large (I guessed a D cup) and nearly perfectly circular. Her pert nipples suggested she was excited too.

Jude fixed her cerulean eyes on me. "Now you're not alone in feeling vulnerable," Jude said. So, look at me, take three deep breaths, and then hand me the towel." I did as I was told, and there I was, naked with a hard-on. If Becky's cheeks were rosy, mine must have been glowing like Rudolf's nose.

"How lovely—now let's get you dressed and talk things over. Fortunately Becky is almost as big as you are, so we think we can squeeze you into a few of her things. I hope you like black." She moved a cushion on their couch to reveal what they'd picked out for me while I was showering.

Becky handed me the black panties and I quickly slipped them on. They were fairly high-waisted, so I was able to cover the head of my penis even though my erection remained prominent under the silky fabric. They had me turn in a circle so they could see the panties from all angles. Next came the matching bra, which they put on for me—I only had to hold up my arms. The band was stretched tight, and the straps had to be fully loosened, but we did get it on. The cups, of course, were just sitting there empty... an issue for another day.

Next came a pair of black thigh-high nylons. They had me sit on the edge of the sofa and asked if I knew how to put them on. I of course had the general idea, but I'd never worn nylons, having been strictly a panty fan until this day. Becky gave me a demo, showing me how to check for seams and gather the fabric without snagging it (easy with the short fingernails I had back then). She put the stocking on my right leg, expertly unrolling it and keeping the back seam exactly centered on my leg. Then I did the left, a bit clumsily with my hands trembling with nervous excitement. Some minor adjustments brought the tops to matching heights. Although we hadn't snagged my stockings, we did hit a snag with shoes—only amputation would have let me wriggle into Becky's shoes. I wanted to wear those shoes, but not enough to imitate Cinderella's stepsisters.

At this point, when you might expect X-rated descriptions of fetters and floggers, clamps and collars, I must report the modest truth, namely that we acted like adults and had a conversation not just about erotic likes and dislikes, but also boundaries, privacy, respect, and safety. We made it clear that I was not their slave, and that I need not address them as "Mistress," at least for now. We discussed what I already owned in the way of clothes and sex toys (very little compared to their cornucopia). We picked a date and time to meet again. Finally, we jotted down how I should prep for that second meeting. I still have Becky's loopy handwriting on the back of a large manilla envelope:

Required

> Shave legs

> Feminine pseudonym

> Matching bra/panties, new with tags

> Shoes, one- to two-inch heel

> Thigh-high stockings

> Lipstick

> Safe word

Recommended

> Breast forms—ideally silicone

> Private email account

Once we had covered all this, Jude brought us back to the present moment by summarizing my situation: I was dressed in lingerie in front of two brand-new acquaintances, and I'd had an erection for more than an hour. "Would you like to masturbate before you leave?" she asked.

"Yes, please."

"Would you like to cum in Becky's panties?"

"Oh god yes!"

"Very well, but as the man famously said before he went to prison, 'We would like you to do us a favor, though.' We want you to wear those cum-soaked panties home, then hand-wash them and bring them back when we meet. Also, we will hold your white panties as collateral. Becky will be wearing them from time to time and enjoying an orgasm or two of her own, but she won't wash them. You'll do that when you return, along with whatever other delicates we might have for you. Agreed?"

"Yes, I agree." I wasn't in the mood or the position to negotiate, and of course this oral contract was a win-win for me—one fantasy fulfilled and another lined up three weeks out.

Jude placed me in front of the sofa, then sat with Becky sat to watch the show. She put her arm around Becky, who had remained topless all this time, and casually toyed with her nipples. "You may begin," Jude instructed me.

I was so aroused that I could have orgasmed almost instantly. Somehow that struck me as even more embarrassing than what I was already doing, so I began to stroke myself slowly and gently, focusing on the base of my shaft instead of the most sensitive bits. Soon enough, however, I was sprinting toward my second finish line of the day, and I came explosively as my new friends watched with big smiles on their faces.

"Bravo," said Becky. "You were very brave!"

"I forgot to ask you something earlier," Jude said. "Have you ever swallowed your cum?"

"Not really—I've only ever tasted a tiny bit of precum."

"Well, one more thing to look forward to. This is going to be so much fun! Becky, fetch his clothes quick so he goes home with that cum still oozing around."

Five minutes later I was in my car, and half an hour after that I was lying on my bed making another sticky contribution to Becky's panties, thinking not of some fantasy but of what had actually just happened—and what awaited me at my next visit.