I don't brag about much, but I do have to say that I am a damn good cross-dresser. When I slip into a dress, no one can tell I have eight inches of meat hanging between my legs. I've had relationships with more than a dozen men who never knew the difference.
It helps that I have a girlish face with a small nose and innocent, blue eyes. Glamor and Cosmopolitan magazines have taught me to apply make-up. My slim body is like a piece of clay waiting to be molded by sexy skirts and flimsy blouses.
My weekends are filled with feminine pleasure. I dress like a slut and find some cock to suck. I get it wherever I can find it. Sometimes, it's night clubs. Other times, I pimp myself out to long-haul truckers at the local truck stop-- not for money but because I like it.
But I'm not all female. That is why I consider myself a cross-dresser and not a transsexual. I live most of my life as a man. I watch sports. I don't ask for directions when I'm lost. When I go to the construction site in the morning, I wear jeans, T-shirts and work books just like all the other dudes.
I like fucking men, but I prefer to date women. I'll do anything legal with a transsexual.
Despite all the weird sex I've had, I never saw Julie coming.
Julie lives next door to the house I'm renting. She is a total MILF with long, blond hair, healthy hips and double-D tits.
We were neighbors for nearly six months before we ever said a word to each other. Over the weeks, I gathered that she was married to a beefy linebacker-type with a military-style buzz cut. They didn't have any children and drove sensible cars-- a Volvo station wagon for her and a Dodge pick up for him. She favored flimsy dresses and liked to work in her flower garden. He mowed the lawn twice a month. They seemed nice enough and waved when they saw me. Both were tall. Julie must have had half of a foot on me.
I came home from work one day to find Julie sitting on the top step of her front porch. She was hunched over with her face in her hands. I could see she was crying.
