Pride cometh before the fall. I'm not sure who first said that, or is it an old adage? Or was it a warning?
My name is Janie, but it wasn't always so. No, before my humiliating comeuppance at the hands of a "mere woman", my name was Jim. And I was the consummate man's man, wild and free, capable of any enormity at any given moment, and a real lady's man. You know the type. I had soared to the heights of the sky, and dove the depths of the oceans. So confident was I in these accomplishments that I naively thought I could win the battle of the sexes, as well.
My downfall started with a rather rattling series of events-- a series that once engaged, took on a life of their own. Perhaps if I hadn't been quite so blatant about my opinion of women, and I had made no secret among my conquests of that peculiarity, a semblance of sympathy would have been extended to me. Like a dog, finally being thrown a bone, I would have eagerly accepted even the smallest forgiveness. But it was not to be, and it was all due to my pride.
Certainly, I was headed for greatness as I began in the world of work, and I had fully intended my first job at a world renowned department store to be a stepping stone. I thought it would be a good start, get a few quid in my pocket, and move on to a much more world intrinsic type of work. It was to my own deficit, however, when I allowed myself to be promoted quickly up the chain of command. Way up there in the ranks of management-- that's where I found myself when I was being accused by the females under me of sexual bias. Sexual bias, are you kidding me? Like that was a crime or something!
Unluckily for me, my immediate superior and sole judge for my female underlings complaints was, you guessed it, a woman! My crime was deemed to be due to my lack of empathy. Perhaps a bit of time "walking a mile in their moccasins" would do me good. And so it was decreed. I thought, "OK, no problem! I'll show these bitches a thing or two about how to get things done and done right!" I figured I'd spend a few days working at their level, you know, stocking shelves, serving customers, running a register, things like that. I accepted my boss lady's ultimatum, stupidly putting myself into the hands of my female staff for the next few days.
Well, they immediately took me to "Foundations". I thought they would put me in charge of a cash register or something, but it soon became apparent that they had other ideas. I figured that out when I was literally set upon by that department's staff, tape measures in hand. Before I knew what was happening, I had been measured every way from Sunday, and found myself being led to the ladies changing room with all manner of foundation garments in the hands of giggling girls following me post haste.
When it finally dawned on me what exactly these women had in mind, I of course began to protest in the strongest possible terms. I am ashamed to say that my pants were practically already off by the time I even had a chance to start my protests. It was then that they laid it on me-- either you're walking a mile in our moccasins for real, or we're all going back upstairs to get your ass fired! That was the stick. On the carrot side, do this for one day and we'll let you off the hook. One stinkin' day, eh?
Suffice it to say, I fell for it. Immediately upon acquiescing I found myself stripped like a cow by piranhas. And the female body suit being offered looked, well, intimidating. "That looks like it would hurt my, you know, package!" came out of my mouth. From somewhere at the back of the pack I heard a voice say, "He's right! He really should have some panties first!" Why did that voice sound familiar? Could it have been Tina?
Tina and I had dated the least of any of the women I took to dating during my tenure at the store. I liked Tina, but after all, it was no secret I was "dating". I'll never forget the squeaky voice she used when I ended our relationship, saying I "wanted to remain available" as my reason for breaking up. Was that her voice, and her little hand now passing panties over the throng now gathered in the changing room of Foundations? In any event, I figured I'd better go ahead and "insulate my manhood", as I offered my toe to the offensive garment.
It was quite a little confection; I couldn't help thinking that, as the slithery material made its way up my legs. Any girl would delight in its sexy little elastic leg openings with a sweet little bow adorning each, but now those leg openings were closing in on my legs as the sexy thing slid further and exquisitely slowly up, up, ever up my now sensitized legs. To the laughter of my assembled tormenters, it became a point of picture perfect delight that I was being tantalized thus by the experience.
The panties insulted me, as they assaulted my very manhood, which was now rising as though in salute to their newest conquest. Had I known I was to inevitably endure this particular humiliation, I would surely have run from the building upon the ultimatum, but now it was too late!
"Pantyhose goes on before `her' foundation, too!" I vaguely remember hearing. And packages of pantyhose were being quickly advanced to the forward section of the group for evaluation, and ultimately, a pair was rolled up my legs. I became aware that a crowd was growing out there, even beyond the lady's Foundations dressing room, and apparently word of this particular situation began spreading throughout the store.
There I was, in pretty panties and a pair of pantyhose that were patterned such that any hair on my legs was rendered invisible. And I was harder than Chinese algebra!
This fact was one that was not lost on my growing entourage, and a problem that was smartly solved with the application of what the department was known for. Toot sweet, a bodysuit foundation was being pulled over my increasingly needy body. As the instrument of my ultimate de-maling was pulled over my head, I began to want these new, strange feelings. And then, a former girlfriend, I think her name was Gina, began her onslaught.
"Look what I have," she smirked, with a hand on my burgeoning manhood. Manhood?
She had pushed her way to the front of the crowd and was now massaging the front of my panties with the vigor of a member of Cook's Tahiti crew's demise. I found myself quite completely unable to prevent my enjoyment of her attention. Then she abruptly pushed my throbbing member between my legs, just as the bodysuit closed in on my torso, and snap, snap, snap! It was trapped in a "snaps beneath" foundation garment that was surely never made for this, this distressful application.
"Let's get her down to Juniors!" someone shouted. You can imagine my discomfiture as I was basically carried along by this bevy of babes, some of them cheering. "See how he likes it!" "About time someone put him in his place!" Similar insults were hurled all the way to Juniors, where I was thrust into a micro miniskirt and a sheer blouse. I wanted to do something, anything to get away, but now it was too late! Where would I go? Screaming into the street? Saying what? "Help me, women put me in this stuff and I, um, couldn't help it!" Oh yeah, that's believable!
I decided to let this thing run its course, instead. Yes, I was humiliated and yes! Part of me was liking it. Well, just between us, part of me loved it!
So it came to be, me thinking the unthinkable. A bunch of women now had all power over me! And by now every girlfriend I'd ever endeavored to thrill with my masterly manhood and dating prowess was now part of the group that was determined to humiliate me. It was when we got to the Ladies Shoes department that I learned the true meaning of humiliation, though. There, in that fussiest of all departments of the department store was... the flaming fag, Curt!
Now I'd never had a problem with Curt, and really. Fags need to work too, right? I just didn't like to be anywhere near this faggot, so I pretty much kept my distance from Curt, or Curtis, or whatever the heck his fag friends called him. He was a flaming one, that's all I know.
"Please don't let him see me like this, please don't let him see me like this," I prayed to all the things that you can pray to. But sure enough, there he was! And he was walking fast towards the bevy of babes who were now all agiggle and driving me before them.
"May I help you?" he smirked. He actually danced toward me, recognizing me immediately and apparently he had been alerted to the unfolding situation by some bitch up on Juniors. I had to swallow pride, and swallow hard. I said nothing. I just swallowed.
"She needs a pair of heels!" a delighted Karen shouted with glee! I had forgotten about Karen. She was one of my first conquests, and even though I never represented myself as a "steady boyfriend", she cried her eyes out when I broke up with her. She had talked about "our relationship" when we'd only been dating a few weeks, for Pete's sakes! "Relationship?" I remembered saying.
"'She' needs a really cute pair!" Karen perked. And soon I was seated in Ladies Shoes being fitted by the flaming faggot personified, Curt. He was looking up my miniskirt every chance he got, and I'm sure he was bringing out the wrong size shoes on purpose just to drag my ordeal out for as long as possible. He even slid a hand up my leg, and oh! I was made to wobble and mince about in heels, much to everyone's delight, until they were all finally satisfied with a pair that, as Curt said, "Seems to suit you."
That was only the beginning of my ordeal, and as I think you'll agree after reading the rest of this account, I got my clock cleaned. But first, let me interject: I understand a lot more already about how so very wrong my sexist attitudes were. Let's call this an attitude shift.
The entire and ever growing group of my tormenters next took me to the Ladies Salon. Apparently, no-one called them to let them know this was about to happen. I was partially relieved-- they didn't have a lot of time to prepare. Still, they just loved the idea of "turning a manager into a sissy". I think it was Curt who started that whole "sissy" thing. So I ended up with a quick makeover and my hair being put into a ditsy perm. I left the Salon with fluffy hair, tweezed eyebrows, blush on my cheeks, shadow over my eyes, and lipstick on my lips was to be left to the Cosmetics department.
Ending up in Cosmetics, which every girl knows is on the ground floor of the department store, was no accident. And this entire ordeal seems to be one of descending, floor by floor, as layer upon layer of my manhood was stripped away. Peeling the onoin, so to speak.
Every girl knows it ends on the ground floor, it doesn't start there. You do have to pass by the ground floor on your way to Foundations, Lingerie, Juniors, Shoes, but girls start on the top floor, and then work their way down. And you are a girl, right?
And the next time you push by a girl, ground floor Cosmetics who wants desperately to spritz a bit of perfume on you? You never know, it might be me.