An Intimate Portrait of a Cross-Dresser

Days when nothing, not one thing gets blown away which is the state of old age, days when too many nips paint his cat's fur green, the old man wearing fine silken pink panties--the crotchless kind  underneath his brown corduroys, sits in his swivel chair at his desk in the den, listening to the ticking, chiming clocks in every room of the house, his lifelong hobby collecting clocks.He settles back and remembers: : hearing Lily Pons singing at the New York Opera House while he sat in the audience, wearing those expensive though very simple, very silky  and very  very  black  panties he imagined were  Lily's style--and how they rode so knowingly with his every movement and her every grandiose note!;  another memory when taking a civil service examination he wore flowery panties over a tampon stuck between his legs;  and  the time in church his pantyhose was so tight he almost "came";  but he still feels a little guilt about wearing a bra and white cotton  panties to his daughter's wedding reception; he has to chuckle every time he  remembers wearing stockings and garter belt as he went door to door taking the census in his neighborhood; and even a bigger laugh for that time he appeared for the draft wearing a skimpy pair of his girlfriend's pink and blue mesh panties  and was re-classified  a 4F--these happenings are never to be lived again except in the  roundhouse of memories or in the deep bowels of dreams whose   adulterated forms he can't ward off nor beggingly invoke the pure mercies. He warms himself in a slant of sun through the window, and feels a familiar craving rush over his skin before a snore extinguishes his being.