The walk of shame of the sissy

The mascara you bought at Sephora, along with the rest of your makeup, that you had to ask the smirking salesgirl to apply for you. She shook her head, suppressing giggles under professional decorum as, your girly voice faltering, you ask her to really slather it on because that’s “how your boyfriend likes it.”
It’s the same expression the girl at the nail salon had while she applied the bright pink color you requested to your long acrylic nail extensions while the other patrons in sweats and jeans laughed behind their magazines.

Back in the present, you’re in this state of self-pity and sissy confusion when you almost bump into a couple. She is a beautiful, sharply dressed woman in comfortable ballet flats, about your age, her tastefully made up face twisted in revulsion as she slowly looks you up and down, lingering over every overdone and ridiculous detail. The handsome, masculine guy on her arm shares her expression, but thanks to your training you immediately notice the growing bulge in his tailored suitpants. You subconsciously salivate and bite your painted lips to stop a lustful moan from emanating. Your head submissively downcast, you glance up to see them quicken their pace around you, loathing melting into amusement as she hugs his bulky arm tighter, thankful to be with a Real Man.