Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, in that it will try to positively document my life (something that I usually try to keep very private). So don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about one particular aspect of my life (see the most numerous tag) but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Friday, 2 December 2016

We could be immortals

Short post:

I have an urge to write a scene in wartime where women are visited by soldiers but from the point of view of the women (and there's a story beyond that too) and there's a scene I wrote once from the male POV and the male was autistic and the scene was stolen from All Quiet on the Western Front that would rather fit the bill. I've always had this idea of writing about the society left behind the lines when there's an invasion, detailing the petty heroism and the overall petty vindictiveness of life generally - an invasion and occupation provides the kind of extreme backdrop that allows a justification of exaggeration of human responses of the sort I write.

I have also find my soundtrack for the moment.

Thursday, 1 December 2016


As a huge coward I am scared of having my relative privilege upset by the new Investigative Powers Act in the UK. I am slightly over-awed by the upsurge in nationalism masquerading as patriotism and the concept that patriotism is benign and so often say nothing when I ought to speak out. As a Christian my faith tells me to find the abused and the forgotten, the minority and the victim, and to stand with them. And so far I do little.

However, do you know of Network made in 1976? I watched it way back in 2003-4 and thought it was eerily prescient then. Now? Now I think it was a Cassandra. Consider the iconic scene that starts it off (kinda) and that everyone knows pretty well even if they don't know the film, I have found the clip on youtube below:

Now, contrast that with this clip of Keith Olbermann doing a relatively good job of talking up resistance but doing so under the auspices of GQ magazine. The trans-nationals (well, more appropriately meta-nationals) packaging and selling your rebellion back to you at a profit margin:

These could have been written to mirror one another. But, in a more general sense, Olbermann has a point. Resistance is required. Anger is required. I am good at angry. I am good at making myself an obstacle in small ways.

So, I am small-fry. I have nothing to fear because I have nothing to say, not because I have nothing to hide. I am safe enough as I am small-fry. Sure, one day they will come for me. I know that. In the meantime, my job is to stand with those who they will come for first. To speak with them and, mostly, to keep my damn' mouth shut when they're talking but stand in the way of the trucks at 3am (or whatever they actually send). To agitate. To draw attention. To stand in solidarity. To use my privilege to offer as much buffer and protection as I can.

Sunday, 27 November 2016


I should start out by warning you that this is one of those awful TMI posts. That means some musing on stuff that lots of people don't want to know about.

It's also been a while and so I guess an update is in order.

The world has gone mad, officially. I have been warning in my lessons that the world was heading this way for years and I warned that some things would start to happen as a result. Since making those warnings I have discovered a whole new realm of people that stand to lose a tremendous amount from what I now believe is to come. I may even be part of that group, though my camouflage of privilege may be enough to protect me for the most part. Well, at least until I am inevitably unmasked by the rather terrifying Investigatory Powers Act that was passed into UK law recently that essentially removes even the fig leaf of protection of privacy online. We live in a world where youtube will pull videos with swearing on them, where Facebook will chuck you off for posting breastfeeding pictures but rape videos and trolling videos and info-graphics on how to sexually abuse and assault people are apparently protected under freedom of speech. Where odious men can boast from a gold plated elevator about how they have stood for working men everywhere to take on the establishment and the elites. Where to worry about those different from yourself is to be part of a metropolitan bubble, apparently - I have never been metropolitan.

And I do nothing. Like I have often worried on here, I am a coward. A total coward. Safe enough in my layers and wrappings of privilege to be able to function and carry on as before. I have a job that is moderately protected, my house is unlikely to be removed and my pay is pretty much in place. My family fulfil the norms and expectations of the privileged position that I occupy in society and, for the most part, I am a rule keeper rather than a rule breaker.

My feminine wardrobe remains inaccessible on top of the wardrobe itself, now the only real storage with my stuff in it but the shelves on which my books stand to be judged by visiting intellectuals. Even discoveries of old CDs fits the milieu being those from the days I liked CCM and, to be fair, it is good music with good soul in it. I wear suits, I play the game and know what I am doing. I manipulate and lie to my charges as I do in every walk of life: that their exams mean something, that they need to work harder (or less) to gain results; that results are not them but they are what they are worth and they are what is important. They must learn, they must listen, they must conform and, above all, they must never question the hierarchy of society or their role within it. Because that is what I do. Whilst I can, and do, point out the flaws my position bids me keep things the way they are and I can claim all manner of mitigating factors but I fail to act as Jesus would have acted. That revolutionary who listened and broke bread with those who needed him, not those that wanted his preaching, the one that came to those who would change and who needed sympathy and compassion and charity. Exactly the sort of people that need us, all of us, even more than ever.

But I am a coward and I do nothing.

It has begun. It is all around us. And I, for one, am scared.

There are less political problems. I see tipping points passed and publicised by people who know better than I what the facts and the stats all mean. I see the sea ice retreating in a feedback loop, I see the increased activity of methane fountains and the slapping of carbon taxes on the means by which we tell ourselves we can save the world. I see and hear the debate, for apparently it is one, about the raw facts that tell a compelling and dangerous story. And I see intelligent people, who should know better, arguing that things aren't that bad - not with their word but with their actions and their choices in life. I see my own family expanding as the world grows ever more precarious and dangerous and as the climate rallies round to change the future in ways that were impossible to imagine just five years ago when I started this blog. Here I have no privilege but to live where I do, at the height I do in the country I do. Rising seas will not affect me directly. Most of the food I eat is from sources that will not be affected immediately nor for some time. There is a good possibility that I could live to my 60s and not see the effects of what is already happening affect me directly. Or, at least, until my children leave home. Things are already changing and I am not certain about anything. And I sit and blog. About CDs, about sex.

Tuesday, 8 November 2016


Neither indicative of my childhood nor my present. But a decent
stab at white, middle-class happiness I guess.

2.4 children. Guess I'm the one with that statistic rather than
the image.
I don't remember much specific or useful from my childhood. But I remember playing stuff with my father and mother. I remember board games, sing-songs in the car, stupid family games and puzzles, reading together on a weekend in different chairs, being lost in books. I remember extended periods alone playing in my room too and plenty of less wholesome stuff. However there was a balance and, I would argue, my home life was pretty positive even during their divorce.

With a third child, likely a boy, on the way I find myself assessing my current parenting standard a little more critically than normal. I find that I don't really play with either of my children. As a family we don't do sing-songs, Tilly has long since quashed my usual singing instincts. Let me explain, I can't sing. At all. I have long been embarrassed about this. Tilly just happened to confirm something I long suspected, my singing is not a thing that brings or sustains joy, rather it is something that is atonal and bloody annoying. So it is that we do not sing in the car on long journeys nor do I sing or even play music in the house as it is often considered too loud or just plain annoying. My children will never sing with me as I sang with my parents.

I'm never this interactive when I play. Also, I tend to play to
win, because I am a selfish bastard who likes winning
and hates losing.
As I increasingly learn about Asperger's (now simply ASD) and what boxes in it that I tick, I understand more on how I can't do what my father did regarding joining in games. But opportunities to play board games are slim. We have recently started playing Settlers of Catan. Well, I say we, Tilly has played it with the children. We do not play as a family. I play chess and the Viking game (Hnefletafl) with the Boy but the problem is that these are complex games and he is still young. Like when I played chess with my father and he always played to win (and thus usually won) the experience is not altogether positive for the Boy. He will play but then there are long fallow periods where he doesn't and I can respect that. As a child I was a very poor loser indeed, my mother often won family board games, her own autistic superpower, and liked to win. So, yeah, I became a bad loser. I got that from my father. I am keen not to pass that on to my children and they both tend to be okay with the losing, but we don't play games often as a result. Or they play with Tilly because she can actually play with them rather than against them.

That could even be our Boy. It isn't.
I'm not a good listener either. As both my children have the Asperger's quality of wittering endlessly and without pause on something in their head we often end up at impasse - they can't work around their issues and I am often unwilling enough to let that stand.

To realise I am but a poor shadow of my parents is... saddening.

Then there is the sex stuff. Now, obviously, based on past experience I am not going to expect Tilly to do anything even remotely physical or sexual. And I am largely correct. There is some hugging. But mostly she hides the fact that she feels sick all the time and is less craptacular in my direction than she was the last two times, which is nice. Hard for her, mind, very hard for her. I do not help as I do tend to get in a loop with jokes and phrases when she's trying to be direct and quick. Also, I forget things because I didn't hear them properly the first time or I discard them because it's not something I need in the moment I learn it. In short, I am a bit shit and infuriating and annoying and irritating in so many different measures I can't even keep them all in check.

When reading about sexual things, then, I often try to cast the antagonists in my fantasies and, well, as ever, I know that Tilly would never take the role. And that means I cannot even fantasise about her taking the role. So I don't. Inevitably Toby takes that role instead, which is not great, because she was mad. And I worry about conditioning. So, why do it? Because I am a bit crap at not doing it. Masturbation being very much my thang since I worked through the religious arguments and decided that God probably doesn't care about it unless it leads to issues via conditioning. Besides, it can help in other ways such as lowering stress and whatnot.

And that's all I have at the moment. Just musings. No answers.

Saturday, 8 October 2016

Almost Loved

I found some new music this evening. It seemed strangely fitting.

It's not new. Almost a year old, but I am slow to see new things.

It is the sort of thing I enjoy, being repetitive and synth driven and having the kind of rhythm that draws you in until you sing along. Because, let's face it, the lyrics aren't hard to learn. The title helps of course because it is pretty much how I feel at the moment. Tilly is still trying, a bit too hard, to be accommodating. We have an ill Boy and she is working a lot. I'm back on pet duty and now she's trying to wash the pots more (on weekends) to compensate. I see that.

I looked into vasectomies. I need to be referred by a GP, shouldn't be too hard, and then have about three days off work. Hmm. May have to wait until the summer. I don't think this will be much of a problem based on past experience. Third child is due in April and I don't suppose there will be anything physical after that before the summer. If ever again. Honestly, I'm beginning to think that there's little point in even hoping, let alone trying. I'm not trying again, some other fucker can do the running now.

My wardrobe is on top of my actual wardrobe in a big box now topped with spare hangers in the bedroom, to all intents and purposes it is inaccessible. I have beer, my hands and all the pr0n that the internet has to offer. What's not to love?

Thursday, 6 October 2016

Unapologetically Aspergic

Raising awareness seems to have become a Thing recently
without any concept of what one does with that awareness nor
any real connection with the activity used to 'raise awareness'
and the thing about which awareness is supposedly being
raised. I like dress down days as much as anyone (so not much)
but I fail to see how one could use it to raise awareness of

Also, what the fuck is awareness of autism? Are there really
people who don't know? Surely we'd be better doing things to
accommodate, or otherwise, autism in the workplace? Just
sayin', campaigns with no clear goals are standard NT methods
of dealing with things. I don't get it.

Like I say, I might just be a cunt, that's still on the table.
Someone asked me today how bad my autism was. Well, first of all, I remain undiagnosed so I have no confirmation as to whether I am autistic or just being a bloody annoying bastard. The reading I have done has suggested strongly that I am, but I might just be a selfish cunt, we can't discard that option. Of course, these were not the words with which I met the question, being asked by a 14 year-old student.

I had to think about the answer for a fraction of a second, but ultimately it was about how to phrase it, because the answer isn't what people expect, or maybe it is. Either way, my answer is mine and I get the impression that many people with the now defunct tag of Asperger's would recognise it as their's too (not everyone, after all: you've met one person with AS then you've met one person with AS). My answer was that it's not bad. I do not suffer with it, I do not work at surviving through it. I do not struggle with AS. I struggle to understand how people without it function. I suffer the lack of logic of others. That is: how do neuro-typical people operate and engage with a world they rarely, if ever, analyse and understand? It's strange. So that is my new battle cry - I am unapologetically autistic.

Fucking how!?

No, seriously, what the fuck has fancy-dress got to do with autism? And, also,
what? I mean, seriously, what the actual fuck is this all about?

Finally, comic sans in italics... really?
And on that note, I am unapologetic about my foibles. Or, rather, I am now. I have spent most of my life struggling with them, with my desire to cross-dress and appear outwardly as I would like to appear. I have struggled so much and so long that I completely missed when people were being accepting and the arenas in which I could have indulged, explored and understood. I carved a life where my outlets to do anything in the cross-dressing sphere have been curtailed and slowly dwindled to nothing. Almost by accident as Tilly has offered to provide time I have found myself with none, as Tilly has agreed with my need for the physical space to do so I have found myself with none and this will only increase. Not because of Tilly but, as usual, in spite of her. In spite. And so it is that I find myself having not dressed at all since... well, my autism allows me to remember some things with crystal clarity and other things to fade unless I directly record them. Especially if I record them. The answer is in this blog but fucked if I can be arsed to go and look.

The brave man does it with a sword. Okay, that's Oscar
Wilde, but Turing quoted it.

I love the fact he dropped his oddity casually because,
to him, it made perfect sense. We should all be so bold
and maybe, just maybe, people would stop being such
dicks about everything.

Or it would be easier for bigots to murder the different.
Same diff.
In the car I was listening again to the Prom that the Pet Shop Boys did a few years back where they premiered their orchestral piece A Man from the Future about Alan Turing. Homosexual he may have been, exceptional his pardon, posthumously, from the Queen for his indecency conviction that led to chemical castration and thus to his suicide may have been but he was also autistic in his own way. I can follow his reasoning and I am intrigued by the story of him revealing in conversation nonchalantly in 1943 (!) at an army dance that he was homosexual. Casually, in conversation, simply stating a fact. At a time when homosexuality carried a prison term. Later, in the 1950s, the government would view homosexuals as an automatic security risk as it was believed that the USSR would ply them with males who were spies to find information. Treason, heresy, homosexuality and non-conformity linked once more as they always have been. And, you know, I am happy with mah penis. This mah penis, this mah guhn. It's part of me and I understand it in some small way. I get it. I get that part of me. I'm not saying having a vagina wouldn't interest me, nor that I wouldn't change given the chance, but I am at peace with that part of me. I am at peace with having a beard, with underarm hair and puberty. But I am not a man and I am at peace with that too.

Back lit: check.

Villainy by dint of being something I desire based
solely on appearance: check.

Deviant behaviour beyond acceptable societal
norms through looking at clothes rather than
having a boner: check.

So, villainy, back lit.

It'll do.
Perhaps it is the autism, perhaps it is the upbringing, my class, education or religion, but I am happy now with the parts of me that are undefined. I am happy with my attraction to females and my simultaneous jealousy of what they get to wear and to do, with the clothing and the trappings, the femininity and the masculinity. And I want to embrace that androgyny, the both-ness, of it all and live it more. I want an androgynous hairstyle, I want androgynous clothes. I want to challenge the Default Man settings of the suit, a coat of war, and I want to carve out my own part in life.

Scroobius Pip said "always had the feelin' I could never be the villain because the villain in the films is always back lit" and he also said "you don't have to be back lit to be the villain". And I was public for the first time today with my lack of happiness for having a third child. I do not believe that I can, nor do I want to, be at peace with this whole thing. I will never want a third child. My arguments will not be mollified or quieted - my feeling that it increases population, that it is wrong to bring a young life into the world the way things are going, that I and my family are ill-prepared and ill-equipped to work with three children - all of those things remain and will not change. Oh, I will love the child, none of this is the child's responsibility. But no, I shall never be able to claim that I want nor wanted the child that we will eventually become stewards of. I can't do that. And, if asked by the child, I shall tell them the truth: I love them but I did not want a third child.

Maybe that makes me a monster.

The first image when I searched for 'cross-
dressing monster' on Google.

It seems somehow fitting, n'cest pas?
And I think: yeah, I can be a monster. I care not when people die, it does not affect me and they are dead. I analyse before I emote and I am, apparently, incapable of understanding what other people want in relationships. Tilly is trying and is relentlessly positive at the moment. I am given my time and my space. And, you know, I actually care less than I did the last couple of times. I mean, yeah, I love her but not in the same way as before. This latest break in physical relationships may well be my last. I actually don't think I can be arsed with the whole fucking journey back, you know? I mean, sure, maybe she'll want to do some sexual stuff again in the future but, fuck it, it's never going to be what I want. No one is ever going to be able to provide what I want from sex and relationships because not only am I unrealistic I am a monster. And I can be a monster. I can be as much Frankenstein's Monster as I can be the scatty professor or the distant father. That's me. Unapologetically me. As much a part of who I am as my autism and my genderqueer-ing. As little a choice as my analysis of History and denial of passion. Woven in like my kinks with unknown influences, beginnings and pathways, as much a part of my fucking tapestry as anything else.

You may think yourself in general to be a
nice guy but I'm telling you now: that there
is a lie. Even the nicest of guys has some
nasty within 'em; you don't have to be back
lit to be the villain. Whether it be greed, lust
or just plain vindictiveness, there's a level of
malevolence in all of us.
This whole blog I paint myself as a victim of others but that is only because I wanted to be that role. I made believe that I was a better person, that I had something better and higher in me. But that's not true. Just because I want something doesn't make it true any more than not wanting something means it won't happen anyway.

So, a monster.

The villain. Back lit. I can be back lit. I invite the back-lighting. I can put on masks in the classroom and in my life. I can do the grand gestures. I can turn off compassion and feeling if I want. I have done it before but without choice: unconsciously. Now? Now I need to do it consciously.

What does all this mean? What action will it lead to? I don't know. But enough apologising, enough struggle, enough analysis. Decision. Action. Movement.

The chances are that my marriage will actually survive and it will continue as it always has. Tilly will no doubt be happy because whilst I don't lie I also don't let anyone in that I don't want to let in and so she won't know unless she thinks to ask, and I will pursue the resistenz of Broszat, the inner migration, and live there instead. As I already am.

And, as a father, that is monstrous.

Sunday, 2 October 2016

Beer, but not as we know it

No, not at all, but look at those shoes. And the dresses. *sigh*

I ought to be writing a post up for my blog about beer.

First pub, first ale, it's a stout.

Always a dangerous game to play as the stouts
are generally the best ales. How to follow up?
Already there are discussion points within this post. Let me explain: a good friend of mine was up yesterday to sample the delights of the local beer houses and to have some time as, well, friends. Primarily, however, the early hours of the visit were taken up with playing with our small people, which is fine and dandy. My good friend is rather good at this game - bringing Exploding Kittens to play, which the Boy is now obsessed with (and even though Tilly neither played it nor really saw it, she too wishes to gain a copy) and the rather awesome Pirates of Pangaea comic book/graphic novel (is there a difference?) that enthralled the Girlie this morning. Anyway, yes, time was mainly spent entertaining small people in a way that only my friend can manage, I will confess to being slightly jealous of that ability, and was thus ended when confusion reigned.

Ah, no, more explanation required. Tilly had booked in someone to come and help declutter the house. Not because we need someone to do that but because a friend is setting up a business based on that (so achingly middle-class) and they bring their daughter for ours to play with. Basically Tilly is happy to pay her friend a nominal fee, call what she does work and they both have a sweary time together that is mutually beneficial and happy. Much like my friend and I heading out to pubs and me buying in rounds, I guess, so that probably explains that one.

Clearly, by going to another pub and having
a golden ale suited to the summer in the
middle of a heavy downpour whilst discussing
Grayson Perry.

I mean, obvs!
Back onto the opening point: the word 'ought'. Now, many people will have their own unique relationships with this word (its stable-mate 'should' often rears its head too) but, for the most part, the self-help manuals and psychologists tell us that the word can be somewhat dangerous when employed by people who use it as a stick to beat themselves with. All of which, of course, serves only for me to show you that I fully appreciate the power of the word, the importance of its deployment and then to continue on having used it as if I do not know either. Make of that what you will.

However, I am not updating my beer blog with my thoughts on the ales that were imbibed and I feel that I should be because the weeks ahead will be busy and the ales will no longer be anywhere where people can have them. I suppose that calls into question the point of the blog about beer - the point could be about me sharing my thoughts or about me trying to help others with their choices on ale, either way, the purpose is not served well by my writing this blog rather than the other one and yet that is what I am not doing. Of course and quelle fucking surprise. Which is a delightful variation on a phrase I over-use that I must use more often.

Point, what? Oh, yeah, I had a point.

Thence to have a lovely porter at a third bar.

I think I rather like this porter, I rave about it.
I don't know precisely what it is that makes
it so nice, but it did the job nicely.

Over this offering was discussed identity and
how it can be stripped out but not immediately
replaced and what this might mean.
My friend and I had a good conversation, across several bars and locations, interrupted by stormy rain and darkness, curry on Indian time and strange looking bars with old men that did not bode well, decent ales and thirties decor. But it was frank and it was full. I suspect, also, it remained unfinished as we were both rather prone, indeed we are rather prone, to tangential remarks and rabbit holes. But I shall summarise the points most relevant to my thoughts here in this blog - the rest, well, that's not my business nor mine to reveal and discuss. And there is no real order to these thoughts nor, as is my wont, much in the way of answers.

First and foremost there is the over-thinking aspect of my potential (and just unconfirmed) Asperger's. I have been amazed in my reading to discover that NTs don't have their brains turned on for full analysis all the time. I mean, I knew that people tended not to think about things to the same level as me but I did not realise that literally no one who was NT thought about any given thing nearly as much as I have to in order to stay sane. More to the point, most NT people tend not to be thinking about things nor turning them over in their heads all the time in order to reach a clearer understanding or for any other reason. Now, this revelation was not had in my discussions on Saturday night but the ramifications of that were discussed and did become apparent in the way I approach the recent news and where that leads. I cannot turn off my thoughts on over-population, environmentalism, society and how Tilly and I interact. I can weather them, but I cannot turn them off. I guess an NT would call the turning off something like 'moving on'. Simply put, I am going to struggle.

Thus to a bar that was designed and built in
the 1920s and has gone back that way with
the decor, to have the lovely Affinity.

A good hoppy number that is warm and inviting
and soft, like good company and good
conversation. The rain had increased but, as my
friend put it, we're not soluble in water.
On Friday night I was sent out to get some take-out for the evening meal. I had a list. I am provided with lists to stop me trying 'something clever'. However, I wanted tea too. So, finding an option that seemed to provide what Tilly wanted along with something for me prompted me to go 'off list'. On returning home there wasn't one of the things that Tilly wanted. She got upset. No, she would not warm the food up if I got what was missing. No, she did not want me to go out and rectify. I should eat what I'd got and she'd have nothing. I ended up storming off and getting her the bloody meal again (for free, the mistake was not mine this time, apparently). And it made me angry. How bloody hard is it to follow a bloody list? Yes, she was being unreasonable because she's bloody pregnant. And that summed up this whole thing for me. I saw this coming, I know what her being pregnant entails and I am fully aware of my own proclivity to fuck up the most basic instructions through trying to be 'more efficient' or 'clever'. You'd think that, by now, I would know better but it appears I simply am unable to turn that part of my brain off. I'm not just spotting patterns but I am constantly trying to pare them down or make them better. If there isn't a puzzle to complete then I am apt to make them up - maths puzzles or geometry or word games - so that my brain has something to do. Just now, having the pet out, I found myself working out work puzzles and rhythm for poetry because this is what I do all the time.

My life not being entirely pintrest, I did not
take pictures of the curry nor the accompanying
half of Cobra. So, instead, here's the last
half of the night at the first pub all over again.

Ruby Red, this one, which seemed like a decent
stab at ending the evening out, and so it was.
The second major theme was masculinity. Now, given my blog and my behaviours, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I think that masculinity is defined a particular way. However, the more I write this blog and interact with people who are trans and who aren't, the more convinced I become that the only differences are what we decide as a group they ought to be. That is, society really does dictate what masculinity is and ought to be. And yet, it does the same with parenting and political thought. In both cases I have long opted out. So has Tilly, for that matter, and we tend to move in the same direction in both of these areas. Reading that Aspergirls has also unlocked a method of my realising that I do the same with gender and, well, have always done so in some small part of my head. The difference here is that, for many years, I fought against myself to stay in the socially accepted norms of gender behaviour.

This is why, at University, I spent most of my time pushing on the bondage front (self) rather than the cross-dressing front (which you could argue was more pressing). Bondage is socially accepted as a fetish and a 'thing' whereas cross-dressing, at least the way I do it, is less so. Now, bear in mind that trans was becoming a thing and there were some movements around the place on that score - I did not immediately recognise what I was doing as being part of that umbrella because I did not know the term and assumed, therefore, that it did not apply to me. Thus I wasted many years where I could have been defining my own masculinity and identity on fighting those very urges. One of the conversations that was had on Saturday was all about identity and masculinity and the pressure to conform one's identity to one's masculinity or femininity. And, in the course of that, I came to the conclusion that I, perhaps through autism, have essentially decided that if we get to define what being grown up means now that we're the grown ups then it means we also get to define what masculinity and femininity are too.

See, would have that hairstyle and that face.

It looks great.

Now, is that a woman or a man in the image?
I suspect I know, but how can one tell?
Do want.
To that end, I am happy to define my masculinity as a desire to wear clothes designed for women, an eye for good clothing on others (mainly shoes, watches and hair styles though) and a command of my academic focus. Parenting is something that I view as being masculine as well as feminine, or, rather, as androgynous. Increasingly I am working up the courage to ask the hairdresser for the most androgynous style my face can carry off when I next get a haircut. Basically, my concept of masculinity is what I suspect people may term androgynous simply because I'm not sure what the differences are despite being keenly aware of what the differences ought to be. That word again.

The third and final set of thoughts was when my friend raised the oddity of having tease and denial as a fetish, along with the idea of masturbating to chastity. That is, getting off on being unable to get off. It is something of a paradox and something that is thus a little strange. By this point in the evening, on our sixth half pint, I confess that although I realised it was directed at some of the things that I have said on here I opted for evasion rather than frank honesty. Come the morning, and sober reflection, I realise that this was somewhat disingenuous on my part and unfair given the frank nature of the discussions we were having. No, it is strange, and yet it is alluring. It plays into that whole thing of the magic pill - the thing that allows us to lose control and thus absolve responsibility and blame in case things go wrong. Be in hypnosis, magical captions or technology and conditioning, the literature and captioning on TG tends to hit this one hard. It's as if many people, mainly males struggling to come to terms of with Default Man masculinity and its ubiquity, want something that will allow them to step outside of themselves and and their desires to 'let them have their way' and thus cry innocence... later. This even chimes with femdom and all that this entails. And it makes a great deal of sense, in that context, to get off on the thought of being unable to get off as it fetishises the concept of loss of control and power over something that, by dint of masturbating to it, is pretty damn' fundamental.

Aaaand, we're back here again.

Fitting? Well, I should hope so or
it's going to chafe that willy.

Yes, I am quoting Robin Hood: Men in
, so? You have some kind of
problem with that?
I have, after all, said on here that I dislike the idea of a vasectomy simply because I rather like having my penis and the ability to make it do certain such as ejaculation. I cannot conceive of having my penis and being unable physically to make it ejaculate. This is, on one level, extraordinarily selfish but, on another, very much inkeeping with my AS. Now, a corollary of this is that I cannot suggest that my wife have anything done surgically on her to prevent pregnancy either - I suspect that she, too, likes her innards kept relatively pristine. This would thus suggest that my ability to ejaculate is something that I view as being fundamentally part of my identity in a way that is more than merely unthinking and has simply been unexamined. Now, what does this mean for the whole chastity fetish? I guess it means that chastity implies that the ability to ejaculate has been temporarily removed and simply placed in the control of another and thus is a method of exploring vulnerability in the presence of someone else - that is, something that society says is typically feminine. I have been known, vociferously, on here to say that I should like the 'damsel in distress' role for parts of my life, so, in my case, the chastity thing sits there. It's why I'm not that huge a fan of tease and denial as a masturbatory aid (though, let's be brutally honest, pretty much anything can be used as a masturbatory aid when the mood takes me).

This feeds back into that discussion on identity and masculinity and this is why I feel it is worth the over-thinking treatment.

The curry was really nice though and the whole night, curry included, came to the price I paid for the curry at the beer festival I went to a fortnight or so ago. That is something that pleases my tight as a duck's arse style of budgeting.