Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing 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!

Sunday, 4 December 2011

Getting started

I should have done this ages ago.  But I didn't.  I'll be posting one entry per short break til I catch up with things.  Then, who knows?

9th October 2011
I love the style of these.  The one on the left was
closest to what I wore.
Today I had a chance to dress that I have not had in a very long time. I got to dress in my wife’s costume from a Regency (Hornblower) ball many years’ ago, before I knew her, and something that she would not ever be able to wear again, according to her.  It was a made to measure piece of kit so it was rather too small for me, but not constrictive, and had a long flowing skirt with an inner-skirt that was particularly full and flowing. The fabric was flower print, mainly green, and there were stays sewn into the bodice that meant it kept its shape relatively easily. For some unknown reason I augmented this with some open toed high heeled mules, that seem to fit me just fine. Indeed, the dress itself fit me too, which it really shouldn’t have done, and was very comfortable to wear as I went about my business. It was something of a surprise, it felt… right. Like this was me and I was being comfortable in my own skin. I haven’t felt comfortable in my own skin for a very long time and the liberation, for want of a better term, that I felt this morning was palpable.
I have only felt that way very rarely, perhaps the first time I dressed, in the company of someone who was soon to become my mad-ex, and that was in a long dress (later I learned that it was a purple ‘wedding’ dress) but with trousers and shirt worn underneath. There were ribbons to tie the bodice in the back and tighten it, meaning that I couldn’t get out of that one on my own. The only other time I recall a similar feeling (but it is by no means the only other time I’ve felt it) was when I was dressed in a skirt, blouse, blue satin camisole top, tights and a pair of ‘strappy’ sandals with a bit of a heel. Thing is, was it down to the clothing that I felt so comfortable or not?
She looks free.  I felt like that when dressed.
This morning was beautiful. I got to walk around for a bit and feel the skirts flowing around my legs, the feel of the lace on the sleeves against my arms was fantastic and the rustle as I moved was really nice. It wasn’t just physically gratifying, indeed, in the end it wasn’t even. It was more than that. It was emotionally powerful and just, well, nice. There isn’t really another word for it. Don’t get me wrong, I was under no illusions on this occasion, or any others, about ‘passing’ as a female. I don’t have the shape to be female and my face, well, let’s just say that my face is about as far from feminine as it is possible to get and remain human. Equally, I was too tall for the clothes and my feet a little big for the shoes, there was no chance of going into public or being seen by anyone without being utterly humiliated and running the risk of serious ridicule. I am very aware that I would not have cut a ‘pretty’ or ‘good-looking’ figure. And yet this wasn’t the point. I wasn’t out to look female or even to feel feminine. I was… I was me: very male, in a dress that was at once flowing and twirly, unconstrictive and very very feminine in the decoration and choice of fabric. I won’t deny that I liked the lace, because I did, or the way that it brushed my arms as I moved and fluttered at the shoulders, this was nice. There was also something about how it felt to be in the ensemble, because I added ribbons to both wrists and my neck and it just augmented the whole feeling I got.
I confess I tried a curtsey: mostly to see if I could actually do one but also partly because it felt ‘right’ to try it. I wasn’t very good at it, but it felt good to try.
I won’t say that there wasn’t a sexual element to the whole thing because there was an undeniable one in the form of you-know-what doing its thing, but the interesting part about that was that it was a side-order, the same sort of thing I get when being close to my wife – there but not insistent is the best way I have of putting it into words and even then it’s not a terribly good way of putting it. Like I was aware that there was a physical aspect to the whole thing but could ignore it at will. There was also a feeling that I wanted to do it again, and really do it properly. On this count I failed, I did do it again, this evening in fact, but it wasn’t the same. I got caught up in the whole physical aspect of the dressing and thus failed to, well, enjoy the whole thing. I didn’t sit down, as I did in the morning, and luxuriate in the feeling of the skirts gathering beneath my legs, or the lace falling softly on the top of my forearms or the way that the skirt was cold but comforting beneath my hands. I didn’t take the time to swish the skirt about or hold it up to walk over an obstacle, to play with it with one hand and see what it would do.
Again, none of these affectations were done with thought of their femininity, and I would hardly cut a feminine figure in carrying them out, but they were done because they were nice, because it felt ‘right’.
And, I suppose, that’s it. That’s what it has taken me a full day to record and write about: a feeling of everything being ‘nice’ and ‘comfortable’. Essentially, I was happy twice today but most of all in the morning when I took the time to enjoy the whole situation and luxuriate in it rather than pushing for a physical response. I was taken by surprise this morning but, this evening, I was rushing too fast to get in and feel it again. I was happy, this is rare and, I fear, tied up with being dressed. What was it about being dressed that allowed me to feel happy? If I could answer that maybe I would be happy more often and dressed less.

Where does that leave masculinity and me?

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All comments are welcome, I have a thicker skin virtually than I do in real life!