Playing dress up

When i was a young child, my only play pal was my older sister. Being four years my senior, she was well ensconced in the make-believe theatre of dolls - specifically Barbie. As early as i can remember, i was the "preparatory" stage of these productions. That meant i was tasked with costume changes in between sets. Very quickly i gleaned the stark difference between the clothes for the girl dolls and those for the boys (which numbered only 2 in her coterie of plastic figurines). The girl clothes had ribbons and shiny colors and materials. Different angles and patterns and cuts that actually flaunted and flattered their bodies. For my first formative and interactive play, i was deciding what the girls would wear and how they would ultimately look. I loved my role.

As i got a bit older, much to my father's dismay, i continued using dolls for stimulation. My mother had no problem supplying me with a contraband 'My Lil Pony' or a 'Cabbage Patch Kid'. I would enter into an intense relationship with these tiny feminine objects, treating them with delicate and meticulous care. In fact, my first crush was on 'Blueberry Muffin', the dark girl in the Strawberry Shortcake gang. But, as some may suspect, i didn't brush their hair or primp them in any conventional way. In fact, if you were to look at my small collection of dolls, they would look very different from how i received them. Almost all of them, if they didn't have it already, got their hair dyed to a dark color. I would take markers and draw longer lashes across their plasticine brows. Eventually, they would look as i wanted them to look.

Of course, as i reached adolescence, i abandoned my dolls. In fact the impulse to dress up a doll got locked in deep subterfuge, replaced instead by the less heady pursuit of real live girls and the flowery scents on their necks. It wasn't until i was dedicating my time to one of those females that i would begin to see applications of my childhood aptitude. I only went to three formal dances in Middle school and High school, and for each of them, i payed an unusually high amount of attention on what my date would wear. In 9th grade, i broke up with the captain of the Freshman cheerleading squad because one day she didn't smell the way i'd wanted. I even convinced the girl i dated for the longest amount of time in my teens to dye her hair from her beautiful natural blonde to deep, rich auburn. I still remember the whole body stimulation i felt when she came back from the salon with her newly tarnished locks.

Over the years, i've been able to explore different levels of feminine image manipulation. Most of my courtships have not taken the "ask for her phone number, set up a date" format. A few, those who i sensed would tolerate it, would be taken through a lengthy phone or e-mail interview - the equivalent of the stage director looking from the dark at the ingenue pinned by the bright spotlight, asking her to "turn around for him". The girls who permitted this odd evaluation wanted it. They wanted to be cast in my production. As a prerequisite to our eventual 'first date', the girl would consent to me choosing her comportment from head to toe. Some would be told to wear a certain length of skirt. Others with their hair up, and earrings that complimented the length of their neck. A very select few would be told to go completely without panties. And yes, a few of them agreed to that. All of them were asked to wear heels or boots, of a specific shape and style. These girls were not accustomed to dressing in the ultra-feminine way i demanded, and they absolutely were not used to being told how to dress. Over the years, through trial and error (some would come to the dates so enraged at me for my demands - yet, oddly still dressed as i asked - that i would usally get a faceful of the lady's beverage by the end of the night), i honed what i came to understand was my dress code, which i recognize serves as a hoop that a beautiful feminine creature must leap through in order to gain my attention.

My girl abides more or less to my dresscode on a daily basis. Except for the unbearably hot months, she laces in one of her custom corsets down to 22 1/2". We've been together for several years, and i still get incredibly aroused when on occasion she asks for my help lacing her up. She wears thigh high stockings, usually with seams, held up by a garter belt (or sometimes garters attached to her corset). She dyes her hair jet blue black, and keeps it long. Every two weeks, i treat her to a trip to the nail salon, where she gets a french manicure and fills for her 1/2" long acrylic fingernails. She does not wear pants - ever. Only dresses or skirts (i used to get such horrible looks from her in the early stages of our relationship when i would say "Men wear pants, darlin. Do you want to dress like a man?"), even in the colder months, where she employs the use of legwarmers, which i find much more flattering.

On the surface, she looks incredible every single day, and i look at her as a present to a world that suffers from not having enough beauty - to quote the theologian Vigen Guroian "We long for salvation, so that beauty fills our lives". When we are out, people take notice of her, stare, marvel at her tiny waist and her prim outfit. One elderly man stopped us and even paid her a compliment by saying "You are so beautiful, you remind me that there is the Divine." Underneath all of this, i know that my dress code limits her. She can only eat certain-sized portions when laced. She has grown intimate with the "Backspace" key, because the length of her nails causes her to hit the wrong one. All of this endlessly titilates me. I get a kick from the struggle, but i also admire, respect and cherish it.

Maybe someday i'll grow tired of enforcing this dress code. Perhaps, i'll find other passions to deploy my meticulous energy for details. For now, i enjoy having a living and breathing doll, who i can take out whenever i want, or keep her locked up in her case.