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Crossdresser poem

 As young as five, no-one to blame,

He envied girls in frills and lace;
First felt them in a party game,
A flouncy dress against his face.

The crisp straight lines of pleated skirts,
Pink's soft glow and satin's sheen;
The boys like sticks in pants and shirts,
The girls a blur in clothes so clean.

His life's a place so full of treasure,
All he desires within his grasp;
The very thought of all the pleasure,
Is so intense it makes him gasp.

A hem's soft swing against his knees,
The billowing as he sits down;
Mirror's delight and fabric's tease,
Freedom felt to spin around.

He never knew, no way he could
Whilst slipping into pretty socks,
By doing this he one day would
Become one whom a hater mocks.

As years rolled by, he became adept
At mimicking the feminine act;
In secret places dresses kept,
There was nothing that he lacked.

Knees together, he might play the prude,
Or strut about in vulgar fashion;
All depending on his mood,
To get satisfaction from his passion.

He so adores his clothes to wear,
While dancing in a club's bright light;
Gucci, St Laurent, Dior,
Advertise his preference - transvestite.

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