Pink Prom Dress – II – Arrival & Fitting

ne morning as I entered my office there it was, an olive green plastic bundle looking like it would explode at any moment. I knew it was ‘The Dress’ as I was still in a daze and hadn’t ordered anything else since that day. Normally I would wait for an opportunity later to open my orders and take a look and if they were heels even try them on after everyone had gone home.
Here I was hesitant to even make a little hole and peek in. With the way it way puffed up and under tension I knew that if I unpacked it in no way would I get it back into the bag and closed up again. I would just have to make do with waiting until I got home.
At least I knew it was the right colour; it had the word PINK in big capital letters on the address label mixed in with cryptic article coding. If anyone had seen this from reception to my office they didn’t comment, actually thinking about it nobody said anything, not even about it arriving...
I must say that was a very long rest-of-a-day.

That evening I had the chance to disappear into the cellar and with one ear monitoring upstairs I carefully opened the package. Why is it that some plastic bags make so much crackling noise when handled! You try to be quiet and they wake the dead with every crackle! I opened just one end (minimal noise) and removed the transparent inner bag.
Wow what a pink! Pink is not my favourite colour but looking at this I could be persuaded otherwise.

I opened the inner bag and pulled out the dress.
I realised almost instantly that I was not in control. It started to unravel of its own accord as if programmed to do so! It reminded me of a runaway inflating inflatable dingy! Every time I tried to grab at one part of the skirt, it would expand in another direction! This was the first time I was in close proximity to such material and in this volume. It had a life of its own. Finally the ‘program’ hit exit and everything stopped moving. It just laid there – a sea of pink!
I sat down and starred. Before me was the real thing not just a picture of a prom dress. I let out a long wow, quiet like as if in awe of what lay before me.. 

I was tempted to try it on, but realised this was going to be no mean feat considering all the material. It was a no go anyway, as MrsA could come down anytime to check the washing machine which was rumbling next door, also they had forgot to include the instruction manual with the dress. A long Abi session would be needed to explore this unknown terrain.
I pulled my eyes away from the glitter and twinkling of sequins and stones and made a temporary storage space for quick access at the next session, by the look of it I would need all the time I could get. I also had to figure out in which stash box it would be stored or start a new one for ‘my pink precious’.
With the quick stash area in easy reach and no movement from upstairs I decided to at least lace the ribbon into the loops at the back of the dress before calling it a day. I didn’t leave any slack because I was afraid I wasn’t going to need any, just the opposite by the look of it..
I packed it away as best I could; normal folding as with most materials wasn’t possible, it just sprung apart again! It would have been better to hang it up but that was out of the question as with all my dresses. I must admit I’m not really some one that looks after clothes in general, but funny enough with my dresses its different, another relationship. I find it really frustrating to have to fold them together and depending on the material knowingly crease them before literally stuffing them in boxes. It hurts.

To save even more time on the evening before the next Abi session, I went in search of my pink heels. I was also thinking of looking for a corset, but I still had a feeling that the dress was too big and it wouldn’t help. Also putting it on would take time and I wanted to know as quick as possible where I was size wise. The next day as soon as I returned from taxing MrsA to rehearsals, I was off down into the cellar. I unpacked the dress and spread it out over a chair.
I was now confronted with the logistics of getting into it.
 

I had no real idea on how to proceed; there was so much material to get into! I had no first hand, let alone second hand knowledge about contraptions of this kind. I never saw anyone putting on a dress of this type and never found any YouTube videos titled ‘How princesses put on dresses’ or ‘How not to ruin your prom by tripping up while putting your dress on’.
No. No tips anywhere.
 

This could of course mean either there wasn’t any out there, or that it would be so simple and straight forward that it was not deemed necessary to even include an IKEA like schematic diagram in the packaging. As I held up the dress and turned it around, I started my own set of instructions. At the top was: Try and not step on to the material as you get into it.

With this in mind, I decided to sit down and step with both feet into the top and work it up until I had to stand and bring up the rest. It worked; I then drew up the dress very slowly making sure I didn’t feel any resistance which would have meant I was down there standing ‘on it’ and not ‘in it’.
At last I was standing, the skirt kind of rested on my hips - what there is of them - but I had the feeling the dress would slip any time and the bodice even with the lacing done up to maximum felt lose. Ok as in the picture I didn’t have to constantly hold it up and although I wasn’t ‘fully’ dressed under the bodice, I knew that the dress was too large. 
Darn it!

There had been always the chance that the theoretical work upfront would be off and now I had the proof that it was. Ok it was not ideal, but as I had come this far I decided to see if the skirt length was at lease correct, in bare feet it was catching in the carpet.
I sat down. Well it was more of a panic initiated fall down. I just couldn’t see my legs! I of course knew they were in there somewhere, but without visual feedback I was afraid I would tangle my feet in or stand on the dress, and so instead I just flopped down onto the chair. Rather hard as it turned out as I was a little bit further away from it than I thought.
 
In all that pink I went in search of my feet. I eventually found them and it was on with the heels. I was now ‘armed’ down there with two pointed weapons. The last thing I wanted to do at this time was heel the hem, so I very, very slowly started to go about getting up again. As I checked my balance I made sure I gathered and held as much of the skirt in my hands up and away from the floor as I could until I was fully standing.
 

I let lose the skirt and enjoyed the sensation of the material cascading down my bare freshly shaven legs. Wow, now that was something! I slowly started towards the mirror and while doing so saw my reflection for the first time.
It just hit me and I abruptly stopped.
Up until that moment I was occupied with being somewhat down with the realisation of choosing the wrong size and concentrating on the mechanics of getting into and standing in the dress without mishap.
As I starred at myself in the mirror I had the feeling of detachment, as if that was someone else in the mirror. It didn't last long, the sensation of the heels and the caressing of the skirt brought me back into sync.
 

I have never in all my years had this type of tactile sensation in the clothes dept. I felt my eyes starting to water up as I thought about what I had missed over the years. I quickly got hold of myself again, quite literary in fact; being half blinded at that moment I instinctively grabbed two handfuls of skirt and raised them so as to complete the manoeuvre to the mirror without stumbling.
 
You’re not normally conscious of wearing every day clothes, apart from selecting what to wear for the day or when one gets compliments to them. With this dress it was really something else, in its own category, a completely new feeling for me.
I was fascinated with the space it took up around me, a space that you had to be constantly conscious with every move of trying to anticipate and avoid collisions, like having to think ahead when contemplating a simple thing like sitting down.
It may be a silly comparison but it's like when you get a new car and drive it for the first time. You have to take on the space it takes up and make its handling an extension of the ‘you’, especially in my case when reversing or parking as with the dress when I tried to reverse and park myself on the chair. It’s good that cars have bumpers and I some built-in padding at my rear end. Ok it becomes routine over time, if one has the opportunity that is.
 

After spending what seemed like ages looking at myself in the mirror - I won’t go so far to say admiring myself - I checked the length and found I had an inch or so to spare to the floor. It looked good. At least that had worked out ok. I raised the hem to check I wasn’t standing on its inner layers and then let it fall again.
The length was just about right for careful walking and dancing.. Did I just say dancing? [Ed: Yes, dancing!]
Ok, ok nobody is going to whisk me around the dance floor in this or any other dress. Usually it’s me taking the lead and doing the whisking around.
But still the idea.. [Ed: ? ]

I started to look slowly up away from my feet. The skirt was sitting well enough, the bodice was not. As I said it was lose and was not fitting snugly at all. It had creases, not how I had imagined it. Then I saw my shoulders & upper arms and winced. What one doesn’t have in the chest and hips dept. one can build up and with the appropriate ‘tools’ pull in the waist. But one cannot ‘build down’ ones shoulders, only hide them in some way.
 

I had an idea, I went mentally through my wardrobe until I found what I thought would do nicely to cover them, a light cream coloured bolero like thing.
I had originally bought it for covering my shoulders with my sleeveless festive dresses. It’s not ideal colour wise but was dirt cheap and surprisingly in my size (I’m always surprised when I find something in my size). I decided to dig it out and see how it looked.
Now that was a problem, I couldn’t remember in which of my 10 stash boxes I had parked it!
 

[Ed: And where was that detailed inventory list with type, colour, size and location that I painstakingly created and edited for you?]
Yes, yes I know the one your thinking about, it’s just I couldn’t remember where that was located either! Maybe I was getting into panic mode as time was moving on. There was nothing for it but go through them all. 

As eight of my boxes are stored above shoulder level it was not easy to climb up onto a chair and bring them down one by one until I had found the bolero. It was in the fifth box I opened. And all this in the prom dress! That cost time and a balancing act I can tell you!
[Ed: At least you removed your heels.]
Yes but only after the third box! I was so annoyed with not remembering where I had stashed the list and therefore in which box the bolero was that I just forgot about them! At least it shows that the heels are comfortable but not, in the long run, ideal for climbing expeditions.
 

I was pleased with the look; it covered my shoulders and arms quite well. It’s cuddly too, even if it is pure synthetic crackling like a distant electrical storm when one takes it off. What I like is that it twinkles a little in the light as with the dress. The pictures don’t show this well, as with all my snaps, but you can get some impression with the pictures here.
 

Time was getting on and I had to get changed, pack everything away and store the boxes back in their places. Instead of actively getting out of the dress I thought I would see how lose it was. So I just wriggled about a bit and it fell without help to the floor. Yes it was really lose. I stepped out and gathered it up and held it to me. This phase is always a little sad when a session comes to an end, especially when a growing panic comes on that I’ll not clear up in time.
Of course I made it with time to spare, but funny enough you only know that afterwards. I checked and re-checked for any tell-tale Abi activity around the cellar before returning upstairs to daylight. Its routine now, which, if one is not careful can lead to mistakes. 
Well it did. 
I had missed something, but I’ll dedicate a complete post to this in part III.

So what next?
I spent the next days, looking at the pictures I had taken. I could see that the bodice was not sitting right and this just underlined the fact I wasn’t at all happy with the situation.
[Ed: More disappointed than usual?]
Yes, the prom dress session was lovely, but the dress way too lose which put the dampers on it all. Usually I’m always positive about such sessions. There is always the fun and play part to it all. The colours, the lacy and twinkle glitter bits, the different materials and the different perspective when ‘high’ on heels. In all it makes me for a while content if that’s the right word. It brings me home to a part of me that had no tangible chance over the years to express its self, now I can to a certain extent. I would be even more content if I could be ‘me’ more often in my own time and having the chance to get completely dressed from wig to painting my toe nails. Will see what comes being home all the time.

So I had to make a decision with the dress:

1. keep it and on rare occasions get it out and wear it but with the frustration that it didn’t fit as it should, or
2. send it back and that was that, no pink prom dress, or
3. send it back and order the next size down, giving me the chance of 1. with I hoped less frustration as the next size should fit better.

I was mildly surprised that I decided on 3. as with this whole pink prom dress business.
Another first for me was sending articles back to the UK. Here in Germany with the large on-line retailers like Zalando, they don’t charge any P&P within the country, making one less hesitant when ordering and returning. With the UK, it would mean giving out P&P three times (2x UK to here and 1x back to UK). I would then be paying about 120% on top compared to the price of the dress. This sounds a lot, but the dress wasn’t that expensive only standard international parcel post is.
I packed it as best I could in the original bag, a tight squeeze but with enough brown tape it looked like it would survive the trip and then it was off to the post office. I was a little afraid it would disappear into the UK postal black hole which I had had experience in the past (see Twilight Zone: Stockings VI), but it would be tracked so I had some info when and where it was. On the same day I ordered the dress in the size UK26 and went into waiting mode again.

Three days later there it was again on my desk. I checked the label and noticed in addition to the expected word PINK; I saw a little ‘26’ mixed in with the coding. My heart beat a little faster as I packed it away for smuggling home.
 
I left it packed until my next Abi session came along. I had been waiting long enough that a few more days wouldn’t make any difference. Of course it did make a difference as I was developing mixed feelings about it. On the one hand I was eager to open and try it on. On the other I was somewhat hesitant because it could mean it was still too large and then what would I do?
So the day came where I would have again about three hours alone. So it was down to the cellar and carefully unpacked it. I held it up and critically looked at the bodice. Ok it was 2 inches smaller going by the size chart but one couldn’t see this. The only chance was to try it on. I dug out my white corset knowing where it was after remembering its location by the last box hunt. I pulled myself in as far as I could without going over the top. I need a clear head, not circulation problems with potential blackouts.
 
Well, it fitted much better than the other one. Again I wasn’t fully dressed in the chest dept. To do this properly I need more preparation time and I didn’t think I had it. I did have my strapless bra on (recently bought for this purpose), but no time to create a cleavage. I just wanted to see in principle if I needed to contemplate another size down. Which I was happy to say was not the case. The lacing at the back was almost closed and when I create the right bust I expect I would have more flexibility in tightening up the back.
This time I pinned on the bow to demonstrate that the dress was going to stay.
 
So I spent some time enjoying the feeling of the dress. Moving around in it, learning to sit down and in the heels standing up without having to use the chair as support. 
After looking at the clock I tried the wiggling test, and to my satisfaction the dress didn’t fall down. This time only a little sad having to call it a day and packing everything away. It had been a long haul but I was happy to have now a princess dress (in pink) in my collection.
 
Since that session in November last year and writing this up I haven’t had it on again. 
One of the reasons for this is that I’m a little hesitant in unpacking it. 
See the third, and yes finial part of this post to find out why..

Stockings III

o into the last ‘run’. So where to start, well let’s see...
[Ed: How about starting where you left off last time, you know just a suggestion like, nothing complicated.]
Good idea..
[Ed: Also you won’t be finished here; you have rambled on so long we will have to split again, with the rest appearing in part IV.]
Oh! Ok if you say so. Where was I, yes, last time I went back to swollen ankles after burying my first compression stockings, as they were ruined by constantly having to pull them up when they lost their grip.
[Ed: Like you]
What?
[Ed: Grip loss]
?.. No.. I buried them before I lost anything... 
.. Well about 4 months later, I was back at my phlebologist for a check-up and told my sad story of the grip-less stockings. She had sympathy with me, but no constructive advice other than a prescription for a made-to-measure stocking with build in garter belt. I must backtrack a little here to the deceased stockings. I forgot to say that they were open-toed. My phlebologist had asked me, closed or open toe, as she was rummaging around in her cupboard. I was a bit hesitant and said open. I think in my mind I reasoned that open gave more freedom for the toes and let the air circulate better - nothing more. I saw no connotations in her asking or in my choice for that matter. 
It was only when I went on the search for pictures for this post, that I came across this picture and a light went on. I searched in the net for open-toed compression stockings and found the following text on a website and the light shone brighter.
..Are you looking for top quality compression hosiery that is versatile enough to be worn with your favourite open-toed shoes? If you want to show off your newly pedicured toes in your favorite strappy shoes, our womens open toe compression stockings prove that you do not have to compromise comfort for style...

I don’t suspect my phlebologist though anything about it when I picked open, and as I didn’t at the time paint my toes (yes I do now, you will have to wait for the twilight post on nails), it never occurred to me there was a reason for open-toed compression stockings other than those I thought of when choosing.

Another thing, although I wore compression stockings on both legs only one leg was a real problem, but as I had the feeling the other was going on the blink and as there was two in the box, I thought it would be a good idea, prophylactic like, to stocking up the other as well.  I was therefore only handed a prescription for a build in garter belt stocking for the one leg. So with my prescription tucked into my handbag..
[Ed: What!]
Sorry wrong film. 
So with my prescription tucked into my ‘pocket’, I was off to the local hosiery shop for a fitting... 

I’m not sure why, but I have, since my mother started to drag me (literally) around department stores up to the time when MrsA would do the same (ok not literally, but under mind control), whenever we entered the hosiery/lingerie or cosmetics departments I went all quiet and tried inwardly to distance myself from what was going on around me, disappearing with any feeble excuse whenever I could. 
With my mother, I just went red in the face and made a right nuisance of myself until I was promised that we would visit the toy department before leaving if I kept quiet for now.
As a kid in the confinements of our home, I routinely raided my mother’s wardrobe and helped myself to her makeup (see Windows posts). However, out in the open a very different scenario. I had to make sure I didn’t give anything away. It got to the point that the only way to cope was a sensory shut down - less said and bored look the better. I don’t think I grew up and created this as a tactical manoeuvre when out with my mother, it just appeared, brought on I think by an extreme level of embarrassment that just numbed me.

In my teens, shopping solo, if I have to pass through such a dept. to get elsewhere (no, not to the toy dept., usually high-tech, music etc.), then I would look straight ahead, avoid eye contact and make a beeline for the exit, even holding my breath if I thought it would help. 

For example, passing through cosmetic departments I had a paranoia panic that if a bored cosmetician would shout out “Hey boy! you have a cute face, how about a free makeover!” I’m quite sure I would have spontaneously said “yes please!” and promptly fainted. Then on recovering, as well as leaving with a shopping bag full of free samples and smelling like a perfume factory, I would have a bill for all the products which would be arranged with perfection on and around my face.

With this vision in mind any form of detection, confrontation was absolutely undesirable.

This is only speculative but if I had been brought up as a girl, I think I would have jumped at the chance to handle the lingerie hanging around in the endless racks, with the classic question “Mum, when can I have a bra like this?”, or at the cosmetic counter “Please buy me a pink lipstick, just this once, you only have red ones, please!”. I will never know. I am now trying to 'makeup' for lost time, but of course it’s not the same. 

About 25 years ago I was friends with one of the secretaries at work (only friends), she was quite lovely and her makeup was always perfect. One day after work I invited her out for a meal, afterwards we went back to her place for a coffee (only a coffee I might add). She had a room that looked like a cosmetic studio with a reclining chair, lights, the works. We started chatting about her hobby and I remarked that this explained why she looked like she had a professional makeover before coming to work every day. She was flatted by this, with a smile she asked if I might like to see how she would do my face. I was a little taken back and I’m still not sure if she meant it in enhancing my face as a boy in some way or making me look like a girl. I’m still kicking myself to this day for not accepting and finding out what she intended to do to me. 

In the last year, when I’m out with MrsA and we end up in the cosmetics dept. I interact with her as well as I can with the knowledge I have gathered from YouTube videos and make suggestions where appropriate, but also I’m critical if I don’t like something on her. I am at the same time in my head having a running commentary with myself about what I would like to wear. I haven’t todate checked out sample lipsticks on my own hand, although when I think about it she has used my hand sometimes when she has smeared hers full. 
I think the earlier panic / embarrassment attacks where due to not really knowing I had deep down in me a girl side. Now after ‘personalising’ her with a name, I now realise how important Abigale is to me and having her react with the world. Ok, it brings a lot of frustration with not being able to dress when I want, maybe I would become more Abigale if she was let lose more often, but that’s the way it is at the moment. 
I don’t have to keep that much of a wary eye on her any more as I understand myself better. Although there has been some near misses and tight situations, like being asked in a shoe shop if I would like to try on some heels, and then having to weigh up pretty quickly what to say without giving the game away! (see ‘Heels for health’)

[Ed: I think that’s enough flashback.]

Ok. Now where was I, yes, prescription, fitting for a stocking..

.. So I entered the small hosiery shop around the corner from work, my prescription tight in my mitt and with that ‘I should be somewhere else’ feeling in my stomach. The shop had hosiery but also corsets and other foundation garments I couldn’t put a name to. There was a customer just paying, the shop assistance and the woman were chatting like friends and so I suspect they were. They didn’t notice me at first, but when they did the chatter abruptly stopped and the women went to leave. I smiled and held the door open for her, she thanked me returned the smile and added a nod. I was just about to follow her when I remembered why I was there in the first place. 
So it was about turn and with the prescription held out at arm’s length quickly advanced on the assistant to get this all over with. If I hadn’t smiled and said ‘hello’ she would probably have disappeared backwards into the dark recesses of the shop and out the back door. But she was brave and held her ground, took the prescription scrutinised it, grabbed her tape measure and beckoned me behind a curtain and asked me to drop my trousers.
As I was loosening my belt, I had the long drummed into me thought.
Did I have clean underwear on?
[Ed: and if yes, did I have underpants or panties on?]
No, I didn’t think that! You know well enough I hadn’t any at that time, today is different but then strictly drab boy underwear. 

She started to take measurements, jot them down, then back to the tape measure, it took ages. I had the feeling she had more scribbled details about my leg on her notepad than I would get with a CT or MRI scan. Then it was up to my hip and waist for the last measurements, we made out a fitting date and then I was released and free! 

The experience was uncanny in some way. It’s not as if I’m not use to having my measurements taken done there. My father carted me off to Savile Row for a fitting because of an evening at the Savoy. He wanted me, as he put it, dressed ‘proper’ at least once in my life. I had no problem when I felt a pair of hands in an unusual place and was asked ‘left’ or ‘right’ and before I understood what he was going on about, the assistant had decided for me! And you know what, he was right with left! As said no problem.

But here with the fitting, I felt slightly embarrassed. It was only a surgical garment, nothing more nothing less. But a stocking is still a stocking, compression or not, and with years of conditioning in wanting to wear stockings because it was sexy, feminine and I felt good in them and at the same time it being forbidden, a taboo and just ‘not done’, I was and still am in conflict with the situation surrounding them. 

TED: thromboembolism-deterrent

At the appointed time I went back tried it on and it fitted. There was a problem with having to first put both legs in the belt (one piece no join) then trying to get the stocking onto the leg without compromising the belt in some way, then pulling up the stocking and the belt at the same time. This was not easy and in no way elegant. The belt part sat ‘okay’ but the test would be how it went the rest of the day. 
Well sitting around was no problem, but too much walking (coffee machine and back) things started to slip. Not the belt, this was a little tight and with not being that thin in the waist area would only budge when I wanted it to. But the stocking had other plans; it started to sag down to the knee. The 15 cm wide strip of material woven in between the belt material and stocking was just too weak to counteract the stocking doing its own thing. It was stretching like a rubber band. The whole contraption was a farce. I went back and complained, was measured again and got a Mark II to try on a week later. Ok it was better, but lasted only a couple of hand washes until it died from the same weakness as Mark I.

So I was stocking-less again.
This wasn’t getting me anywhere. I started to surf for others in my situation. That is 'male', hairy legs, desperate to keep stockings up.

[Ed: it’s a wonder you didn’t put a contact add in certain magazines. With that description the replies and offers of help would have flooded in!]

Yes it would have been interesting. But I was just looking in forums to see what the census was to my problem. Between the numerous threads from males with a, shall we put it, affinity to pantyhose and Co., I eventually found a thread on compression stockings and hairy male legs. Of course I ‘knew’ deep down what I could do about the slippery stockings, but at the time I just couldn’t think about it without the “girly” aspect of it rearing up. On reading the posts I came to the conclusion that I had little choice in the matter. 
There was: 

• sticking them on, 
• the wearing of heavy duty garter belts with 4-6 straps,
• the shaving of the legs and 
• a few others that reminded me of the stapler on my office desk. 

Well if that’s going to be the content of my stocking bucket list then I should weigh them up and decide what to try first. 
I started with the ‘sticking them on’. Most of the companies that supply stockings also sold their own wash solutions and roll on water soluble glue. Gluing sounded okay, no girly inferences at all. Good! that’s it then. But I got to thinking, one of the reasons, if not the main reason, was the grip on my hairy legs, sticking would only partly work as they would be sticking to hairs as well as skin. Hairs that would slowly be pulled out by their roots. Ouch!
Ok, next on the list. The idea of garters and straps, heavy duty or not, made me come over all funny, too girly for my boy mode, wouldn’t be answerable for myself. But I still looked round in the Net to see what was available.
Daria commented in part II and send a link to Rago shapewear, I checked it out and found this (see left). There was another link in Goggle with the same article code and I ended up with this (see right). By the look of the stockings the garter belt is not in the heavy duty category, still a nice combi with the bra.
With a further search I found four companies that had garter belts that are supposed to stand up to being pulled down. One was from the NHS in the UK, it was too ugly by half and in a sort of NATO like green! Maybe it was for the National Health personnel when on military manoeuvres, no idea. 
Here are two (Jobst on the left and Therafirm right) that look like they could cope with the strain. The Jobst looks like something I could get used to as an alternative to sticking. It could be a little tight and looks like its formed for female hips. By the look of it I doubt if there is a chance of it slipping. The problem is I can’t find any store here in Europe that sells garter belts of this type, only in the States. 
One thing I’ve noticed, in all the pictures displaying garters here or in the Net they are worn over panties. It looks better that way, but is totally impractical when one has to visit the rest room. Of course I’m talking here from practical experience not just 'in theory'. 

It looks like I need a break after mentioning the rest room. 
So I’ll finish this next time, promise.
[Ed: You said that last time if I remember.]
I know, didn’t think I would need so much space.
[Ed: Too many diversions getting in the way. And what are you going to go on about next time?]
I’ll go on about, as you put it, support pantyhose, rubber gloves and the fun I had when buying my next pair of stockings. Also the next point on my check list is shaving and in this vain I'll end with this card.