Saturday afternoon we rose from bed. While we dressed Monica told me to wait before I pulled on fresh underwear.
"You're going to be trying on dresses and heels, so I want you to wear these."
She handed me a beige pair of Hanes pantyhose.
"You're not serious."
"Stop bitching," Monica said, "unless you mean it. When you wear women's clothes I'm rewarding you, not torturing you. This is what you get for being good. Just wait till I get you fully dressed. Women's clothes feel so much better than men's. Feel the nylon. Men wear long johns. Women wear panyhose." The woman chuckled as I stood naked before her. "Look at how excited you're getting."
It got worse. (Or better, depending on your perspective.)
In Victoria's Secrets, Monica had to be the loudest person in the entire store. She not only held bras and panties up in front of me to judge size, she asked every sales woman that passed what they thought. Most were polite. One amused. One just as embarrassed as I.
"It's for my Halloween costume." I said lamely
A far farmer's wife and her pimply teenager old daughter (no doubt in to buy a nice tight corset) stared at us like we were in league with Beelzebub.