Sissy Biography - VII

The big college relationship finally (and thankfully) ended right about the time I graduated.  That meant moving back home with my parents for a time until I was able to get my own place.  Getting my own place meant living alone for the first time.  For those of you who have never done so, I highly recommend it.  There’s nothing quite as peaceful as not having to worry about others in your day-to-day life…or maybe I’m just a misanthrope.  I’ll definitely say this: living alone is a must for any and all burgeoning sissies out there.  You know who is home, when they’re home, and don’t have to worry about being caught.  You can literally be en femme the entire time you’re home.  It’s awesome. 

 

I imagine it’s not much of a surprise that, once I graduated college and had enough money to get out on my own, I immediately started building my sissy wardrobe: skirts, heels, wigs, stockings, garter-belts, bras, and, of course, panties.  My outfits ran the gamut from classy to sexy to out-and-out slutty.  I was truly on my own for the first time and damned if I wasn’t going to celebrate it, sissy-style.

The funny thing about living alone is that there’s never anyone around to rein you in.  Your weird habits tend to intensify when there’s nobody to point them out.  For me, that meant really starting to push the boundaries of my sissydom.  Once I had the money together, I started buying more than the clothes, I started buying dildos and butt-plugs and all manner of other…accessories.  Before I lived alone, I always had to worry about erasing the evidence of my forays so that no one would have the opportunity to grow suspicious, however, now I could buy more things because there was no one around to find them.

 
If you’re anything like me, though, this will eventually make you lazy.

One day, I'd been very busy at work and my apartment was a wreck.  There were stray clothes and plates everywhere because I hadn't had time to clean, being too exhausted to do so after coming home from work.  Of course, that also meant that there were stray panties and skirts and dresses and toys all over the place, too.

One day, I came home after an 11-hour workday, frothing at the mouth for a drink.  I open the door and made a beeline for the fridge.  As I reached for the door, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.  There, on the kitchen counter, sat a white piece of paper.

Had my landlady been in my apartment?!  I hoped not.  Hell, I still had a Victoria's Secret bag from a recent purchase sitting on my livingroom couch.  My bedroom had leather collar, a ring-gag, and a dildo on the night stand!  Good god, if she even gave a cursory glance around my apartment, I would be completely outed!
 

A little bit worse than this.

I felt my stomach drop, and for the paper with a shaking hand, expecting the worst: a note regarding my sissy-dom, or maybe an informal eviction notice.  Luckily, the note was just a form letter reminding the tenants of the building to take their trash to the dumpster and not leave it in the hallways like a bunch of filthy savages (for the record: I had never contributed to this issue).

Relief washed over me, and I laughed at the absurdity of my panicked mind.  Of course it wasn’t some weird retaliatory to my sissy-dom.  Life is not a smut-story.

After thinking about the note a bit, I found myself left with more questions.  Did she just walk in, leave the letter on the counter and walk away without seeing my panties strewn about the living room?  Did she assume I had a girlfriend who had worse laundry habits than me?  Did she step inside my bedroom and take note of my sissy-toys?  Did she know what I did to myself when I was home alone?  Did she know that I dressed like a girl—like a fuck-slut?!  Did she know I was a sissy?!  Would I be able to look her in the eye the next time I saw her?  Would she have a knowing tone of voice the next time I called her about the bathroom sink clogging?

I had to know…something…anything.

I did the only thing that made sense: I called her immediately, secretly hoping that I would get her voicemail.  No such luck.

"Hello?" Said my landlady, a woman in her late 50's to early 60's who still maintained a pretty active lifestyle, managing all of her properties by herself.  She was pretty impressive, really.  If she were 15 years younger, I might have been willing to try to persuade her to give me discounts on the rent for “miscellaneous services.”

I let her know who was calling, telling her that I saw her note, but that I was calling to apologize for the mess I left in the front room, making an excuse of my nightmarish workload.  Immediately after I stopped speaking, I began to wonder what kind of an idiot would make this call.  What the hell was I thinking?!  What the hell did I expect here?!  Was I expecting her to tell me that it was all right?  Was I expecting her to shame me?  Was the fuck was I doing?!

There was a brief pause that lasted an eternity.  Sick as I am, I felt a stirring in my pants.

My landlady assured me that messy apartments were fine, just as long as there was nothing illegal going on.  She then reminded me that the exterminator sprayed on the first Friday every month.  She didn’t seem to have an edge in her voice, or any kind of taunt at the ready.  I thanked her for understanding and hung the phone up shortly thereafter, berating myself an idiot, again.  It occurred to me that she had been managing properties for decades, and that a sissy collection was probably among the least worrisome thing she’d contended with.  I was coming to terms with this idea when another thought illuminated my brain.

“Fuck.”

She said that the exterminator came on the first Friday of every month.  I had seen him before, a well-muscled, labor-tanned tanned man in his mid-40’s.  He was good looking, but definitely more the football and bar fight-type rather than the type to understand a panty-wearing sissy lifestyle.  As I was usually at work during what I imagined were prime spraying times, I can’t imagine a situation where he didn’t see my sissy collection.  Did he tell her?  Was that why she reminded me?  (un?)Luckily, I wasn’t in that apartment for very long, so I never got the opportunity to see him, again, or to ever find out what he thought about my sissy-side.  Just as well, I suppose, as I doubt anything good would have come from the meeting.