As a teenage boy, I was a bit overweight and was taunted by bullies about needing a girdle. This was was back in the late seventies, when such things were regularly advertised on TV and displayed in department store windows. There was one such store on the way to school, and they'd point at whatever was in the window and tell me to get myself one. That was humiliating enough, but it was just kids being kids.
At the start of the new summer term, I was on my way to school when one gang ambushed me and dragged me down a side street where we'd get some privacy. I was handed a package. I can still remember the name of it - the Berlei 'Instant Slimmer' - and I can still recall how sick I felt when I realised I'd been handed a panty girdle. I refused to put it on, so they attacked me to force me. During the struggle, I was terrified my new school uniform would be torn, so I gave in. And as they giggled and laughed, and as I cried my eyes out, I took off my trousers, took the girdle out of its box and struggled into it. The older sister of the ringleader has guesstimated my size and bought it for me and, unfortunately for me, she'd done an excellent job - it was a good tight fit. As I stood there, wide-eyed in horror, they took photos of me. Then came the killer blow - if I didn't want the pictures to be shown around school, then this monstrosity had to become part of my uniform from then on.
I was forced to put my trousers back on and wear it to school that first day. The awkward stiff-legged walk I initially had saw me nicknamed Frankenstein, later reduced to Frank. The name stuck with me from then on. That day was sheer hell - I was disgusted to be wearing women's underwear at all, let alone an item of corsetry. It held in my belly and backside, the legs gripped my thighs, and I was sickeningly conscious of it every second I had it on. At home that evening, I was almost crying in frustration as I struggled with the belt of my trousers to get my clothes off and get this thing off me. Once I'd peeled it off, I threw it across the room.
I hardly slept that night, as I grappled with the decision I had to make the next morning. I dressed for school, leaving my trousers till last. And then I realised I couldn't face the humiliation of anyone finding out - my parents, my classmates, the whole school - and so, sick to the pit of my stomach and with tears running my cheeks, I picked up my girdle, stepped into it, tugged it on, and finished dressing for school.
I was just 14 - 14! - and I was now facing up to spending 8+ hours a day, 5 days a week, wearing a firm control panty girdle. The first few months were agony. Slowly I started to get used to the physical sensation, and the terror of discovery slowly abated as I realised people just weren't that observant. But the self-loathing was intense. I could hardly bear to look at it, never mind see myself wearing it - for months I'd dress and undress with my eyes closed, just to avoid the sight.
After a couple of years, my younger sister was in my room being a nosy little bitch as usual, and she found my girdle. When I explained the situation to her, she was delighted and revelled in my torment. She was happy to agree not to tell anyone - that would have brought her fun to an end - but from then on I had to put up with her taunting me with slogans from TV ads ("Is your girdle killing you?", "Can you believe it's a girdle?"), snapping my girdle legs underneath the breakfast table, and so on. She even asked the bullies if I needed a bra!
For four years I had to wear a damn girdle under my school uniform. When I left school and went to university, I stopped immediately, but I then had the most intense panic attacks whenever I was outside. It took me ages to realise why - I wasn't 'properly dressed' as the bullies used to say. It was nuts - I was miles away from home ad they were hardly going to turn up to check on me. But there was only one way to put the theory to the test. I went to a local department store and bought myself a new panty girdle. The panic attacks stopped immediately.
The self-loathing went off the scale. I decided that, if I was going to be that weak, that pathetic, I might as well really go for it. I got myself another girdle and a couple of bras, stockings, panties, the works, and wore women's underwear every day, hating it, hating myself, hating the sickos who'd messed me up so much in the first place.
I started to find more peace of mind as I got older, but these days I still get the intense flashbacks. Music is the most common trigger. That first morning the radio was playing "Money Money Money" by ABBA - I just have to hear a snippet of that song and I'm suddenly 14 again, tears pouring down my face, stepping into my panty girdle and wishing I was dead.
I've recently started reading about (C)PTSD, and if there is one thing I'd like to get control off, it's these damn flashbacks. Time will tell...
At the start of the new summer term, I was on my way to school when one gang ambushed me and dragged me down a side street where we'd get some privacy. I was handed a package. I can still remember the name of it - the Berlei 'Instant Slimmer' - and I can still recall how sick I felt when I realised I'd been handed a panty girdle. I refused to put it on, so they attacked me to force me. During the struggle, I was terrified my new school uniform would be torn, so I gave in. And as they giggled and laughed, and as I cried my eyes out, I took off my trousers, took the girdle out of its box and struggled into it. The older sister of the ringleader has guesstimated my size and bought it for me and, unfortunately for me, she'd done an excellent job - it was a good tight fit. As I stood there, wide-eyed in horror, they took photos of me. Then came the killer blow - if I didn't want the pictures to be shown around school, then this monstrosity had to become part of my uniform from then on.
I was forced to put my trousers back on and wear it to school that first day. The awkward stiff-legged walk I initially had saw me nicknamed Frankenstein, later reduced to Frank. The name stuck with me from then on. That day was sheer hell - I was disgusted to be wearing women's underwear at all, let alone an item of corsetry. It held in my belly and backside, the legs gripped my thighs, and I was sickeningly conscious of it every second I had it on. At home that evening, I was almost crying in frustration as I struggled with the belt of my trousers to get my clothes off and get this thing off me. Once I'd peeled it off, I threw it across the room.
I hardly slept that night, as I grappled with the decision I had to make the next morning. I dressed for school, leaving my trousers till last. And then I realised I couldn't face the humiliation of anyone finding out - my parents, my classmates, the whole school - and so, sick to the pit of my stomach and with tears running my cheeks, I picked up my girdle, stepped into it, tugged it on, and finished dressing for school.
I was just 14 - 14! - and I was now facing up to spending 8+ hours a day, 5 days a week, wearing a firm control panty girdle. The first few months were agony. Slowly I started to get used to the physical sensation, and the terror of discovery slowly abated as I realised people just weren't that observant. But the self-loathing was intense. I could hardly bear to look at it, never mind see myself wearing it - for months I'd dress and undress with my eyes closed, just to avoid the sight.
After a couple of years, my younger sister was in my room being a nosy little bitch as usual, and she found my girdle. When I explained the situation to her, she was delighted and revelled in my torment. She was happy to agree not to tell anyone - that would have brought her fun to an end - but from then on I had to put up with her taunting me with slogans from TV ads ("Is your girdle killing you?", "Can you believe it's a girdle?"), snapping my girdle legs underneath the breakfast table, and so on. She even asked the bullies if I needed a bra!
For four years I had to wear a damn girdle under my school uniform. When I left school and went to university, I stopped immediately, but I then had the most intense panic attacks whenever I was outside. It took me ages to realise why - I wasn't 'properly dressed' as the bullies used to say. It was nuts - I was miles away from home ad they were hardly going to turn up to check on me. But there was only one way to put the theory to the test. I went to a local department store and bought myself a new panty girdle. The panic attacks stopped immediately.
The self-loathing went off the scale. I decided that, if I was going to be that weak, that pathetic, I might as well really go for it. I got myself another girdle and a couple of bras, stockings, panties, the works, and wore women's underwear every day, hating it, hating myself, hating the sickos who'd messed me up so much in the first place.
I started to find more peace of mind as I got older, but these days I still get the intense flashbacks. Music is the most common trigger. That first morning the radio was playing "Money Money Money" by ABBA - I just have to hear a snippet of that song and I'm suddenly 14 again, tears pouring down my face, stepping into my panty girdle and wishing I was dead.
I've recently started reading about (C)PTSD, and if there is one thing I'd like to get control off, it's these damn flashbacks. Time will tell...
