Did Pantyhose Make Me Want to Become a Woman?

Wearing pantyhose for the first time changed my life. I was only nine, but the moment I slipped them on, I felt something I couldn’t explain. It was exciting, strange, and deeply personal. That one moment opened the door to a lifelong journey of gender discovery.

Yes, pantyhose were the first spark that made me question my gender. That silky fabric, that tight fit – it felt so right. I didn’t just want to wear pantyhose. I wanted a body that fit them. I wanted to be a girl.

If you’re like me, curious, confused, or just trying to understand yourself better, this story goes deep.

It started when I was around nine years old. One day, I found my mom’s pantyhose and tried them on in secret. I sat on the bed, legs stretched out in front of me, staring at how smooth and feminine they looked. My legs were slim – almost girlish. Everything about the experience felt wonderful, except for one thing: the bulge between my legs. I remember thinking, “If only I didn’t have that, then I would look perfect in these.” I started to believe that the only way to truly enjoy this feeling was to become a girl.

Looking back, I realize these thoughts started even earlier. At four years old, I already felt drawn to femininity. I admired the way girls dressed, especially how their clothes fit snugly and showed a smooth, clean shape. I envied their leggings and pantyhose, and how they didn’t have the bulge I was starting to resent on myself. I didn’t know the words for it back then, but I wanted to be one of them.

That desire only grew stronger with time. I dreamed of one day removing the parts of me that didn’t belong. I imagined having a flat, feminine body and wearing whatever I wanted without shame. At nine, the pressure to do something about it began to build. Trying on my mom’s pantyhose was my way of touching that dream, even if only for a moment.

But I got caught. My mom noticed her pantyhose had been stretched. She confronted me, and I couldn’t deny it. She asked me directly, and I confessed. To my surprise, she didn’t get angry. She half-joked, saying, “Pantyhose are for girls. If you want to be a girl, go ahead. But if you want to stay a boy, and I catch you again, I’ll cut it off.”

That wasn’t a threat to me. It sounded like permission. Deep inside, I had already made my choice. I wanted to be a girl. And if it meant losing that part of me, then so be it. From then on, I kept wearing pantyhose in secret. I knew who I wanted to be.

My parents had always wanted a daughter. My mom often joked about making me her girl. As strange as it may sound, her jokes gave me comfort. When she said things like “I’ll just cut it off and make you my daughter,” it didn’t scare me. It gave me hope.

After being caught that second time, she asked again, more seriously, if I truly wanted to be a girl. I said yes. That moment marked a quiet turning point in our relationship. She didn’t encourage it, but she didn’t stop me either.

As I grew older, I started hormone therapy. The effects were subtle at first, but emotionally, I felt more aligned with myself. Eventually, I took the next step. I decided to undergo castration.

The surgery was done while I was awake. I felt the tug of every movement, but no pain. The doctor removed one testicle, then paused. He looked me in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure you want to remove the other? If we do this, there’s no going back.”

I nodded without hesitation. He continued. The final cut came with a snap – I heard it more than I felt it. My second testicle was gone. That was the moment I knew: I was no longer a man.

Then came the final stage – removal of my penis. As he cut, I made a joke, “Maybe just sew it back on?”

The doctor looked serious. “It’s already cut. Even if I sewed it, it would be dead tissue. You wouldn’t feel anything.” I touched it. He was right. There was no sensation. It felt like it wasn’t mine anymore.

I looked over at my mother. She placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “You’ve come this far. Why stop now?”

I nodded again. The doctor finished the surgery. When I sat up to look, there was nothing there. Just a clean space, a small wound, and a strange feeling of peace.

My mom gently covered my eyes and said, “Don’t look yet. Just rest. It’s over.” I lay back and closed my eyes. Everything was quiet. The next thing I knew, I was waking up.

Today, those old pantyhose from when I was nine still sit in my closet. They’re too small for me now, but I’ve never thrown them away. They are more than just clothes. They are a symbol. A turning point. A memory of the day I stopped pretending to be a boy and started becoming who I really am.

That soft fabric changed everything. That first time in pantyhose was the start of it all. A simple act with a lifetime of meaning.

From that moment on, I was never going to be a man again.