My bedroom window looked out — at a safe distance and from the omniscient perspective of the second floor — onto the street. It was not a busy street, but the cars and foot traffic that did pass were enough to enliven the otherwise still life framed by my bedroom casement.

That it was a casement, rather than double-hung, I realize in retrospect, took on great importance. Even more important was that I, at even so young an age, knew — and had wanted to learn — the difference between casement and double-hung. The window treatments for each are so different. Had I been born a boy, a real boy, I’m sure I would have never noticed.

Yes, I was meant to be a girl. And more: a girly girl.  Little wonder that the greatest of women’s literature, from Jane Austen to Virginia Woolf, has always been grounded in the notion of interior space and confinement.

The floor-length mirror screwed to the interior side of my closet door was my closest friend. It had no frame at all, and of course revealed nothing when the door was closed into the darkness of the closet. But when the door was open and I was bold, what worlds it opened up!

With towels and sheets and random fabrics, I improvised and fashioned my own designer wardrobe. I well remember one of my very first creations: a scandalously tiny bikini bottom made from two red kerchiefs, each folded into a triangle and then joined with a square knot at the apex.

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I slid the creation under my butt until the knot was snug in the hole that would become – though then I could only vaguely imagine such sensations – the future happy home for butt plugs, vibrating dildos, and real, hard cock.

After my fingers tied the ends of each kerchief together where they overlapped on my hips, I stood up, admired my creation, and wiggled and gyrated before the floor-length mirror. Such fun!

But I wanted more (don’t we always?).  I – and my creation, my very own bikini – needed to be seen by others. First, I would have to fashion, also out of red kerchiefs, a matching top, though I had no titties yet to fill it. Then, with my costume complete, I spent days and nights practicing and prancing in front of the floor-length mirror.

What would happen if I really did venture outside and let people glimpse me? I had to know.  So one day, when no one else was home, my bikini-clad body snuck outside.  A large beach towel draped around my torso would convey the false impression that I was modest.

A large linden tree’s trunk next to the street, I hid behind.  When I heard a car approaching, I stepped away from the tree so that I could be seen by its occupants and dropped the towel as if I was about to lie down on it to go sunbathing. Then, as the car passed and I could see the people inside staring at me, I feinted surprise, wrapped my arms around my tiny bikini top and even tinier tits, let out a soft squeal, dropped my face as if embarrassed, and quickly baby-stepped away from the street.

Over and over, as I would hear another car approaching up the street, I would repeat the thrilling ritual. Revelation and concealment. Getting the attention of others. Shocking them as if I were an apparition. Exciting them: I could only imagine the intensity of it, but strangely I felt I could feel it, really feel it, the excitement, as if I were they.

But to actually be the bikini-clad and shockingly out-of-place nymph was the most exciting of all.  And so it was that I first tasted the tempting fruits of teasing and seduction. And there would be no turning back….  My closet door with its floor-length mirror, never to be closed again.