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!

Wednesday, 28 December 2011

In the Beginning...

Or, to put it more Biblically: Genesis.  One of the things I always come back to when musing on my addiction is when it started.  Not because this is some kind of large event that shaped who I am and therefore something I'm still recovering from nor even is it the traditional series of events that most people who blog or who write fiction over at that one site seem to suggest is the beginning of such a journey.

No, the reason I come back and back to this like a moth to the flame is because I don't know what that beginning was.  I have a memory, but by this point I've gone over it so much that I'm not even certain how the thing originally went down and how much I've modified and rationalised it over the years: to the point where I can't even say for certain when the memory was laid down.  In my head, I was six at the time - which would mean the house in which I remember the memory being laid is set out wrongly
This is one of the closest images I can find to illustrate what I
mean, it would have looked something like this.  The woman,
the mother, was brushing a pony tail.  I have no idea about clothing.
Did I mention I was blonde until the age of about five?
for the memory to take the form it does.  The other option is that I was walking from my brother's room (which, at the time, may not even have been my broher's room) to the bathroom.  Anyway, the exactitudes aren't important.  I simply remember glancing into my parent's room and seeing my mother brushing the hair of a young blonde girl at a vanity we didn't own.  Now, this may not actually have been my mother nor even our actual house.  At that time I did know someone called, oh I don't know, Phyllis Longbottom (note: names have been changed, in case that wasn't obvious) who did have a mother and blonde hair and did own a vanity.  It is eminently possible that I saw this at her house.  But that's not all, I also remember looking into that mirror at the same time and seeing the blonde girl looking back and the feeling of having my hair brushed.  Now, I have had my hair brushed so I know how that feels and, yes, it felt like my hair.

Part of all of this is the death of my eleven week old sister
some time around my second birthday.  It meant twice yearly
trips here with the family.  There's no record, of course, beyond
an entry in a book.  I believe that has been moved now, or the
entry removed as no longer relevant.  This may explain my issues
with death.  Spend time playing here as a three to twelve year old
and you'll see what I mean.  Displacement was obviously a big thing
in my family.  Could it be I subconciously knew that my parents
were jonesing for the daughter they no longer had?  It's
a little too 'neat' an explanation for my tastes.  I never knew her
and I don't believe I felt any ill-effects beyond my rather cold
method of viewing and dealing with death.
I suppose that the content of the memory is irrelevant beyond the point being made that at the age of about six I was aware that there were differences in the way that boys and girls were treated and there was some part of me that really wanted to be treated like a girl.  I sincerely doubt that my parents were dressing me as a girl and treating me in that manner, equally unlikely is the idea of anyone else's parents doing that.  In all probability the events about which I have a memory are a complete fabrication or some form of dream (I used to try and document all the dreams I had where there was a certain gender dysphoria but I, frankly, got bored and stopped).  From that moment on, and probably beforehand, I was pretty fascinated with girls and how they played with each other and boys.  I suspect it was one of the reasons that I was a pretty lonely boy myself and why I never really 'fit in' to a social group.  I had no love of football (always a bad sign) and wasn't really into 'rough and tumble'.

Of course, part of my aversion to 'rough and tumble' was more an aversion to dirt, which, in trun, stemmed more from my mother than anything else.  She didn't like mess in the house (we rarely painted
A random playground.  Apparently no one plays 'kiss chase'
any more.  Not because of Health and Safety, kids just don't
see much point in it.  Perhaps those gender barriers are already
falling and I'm the old fart keeping them around.  I'll be after your
brandy next!
and even had to have newspaper down to play with playdoh in the kitchen - more time was spent setting up these play sessions than was had in the playing, also lego), didn't enjoy the feeling of mud or water or sand on her feet (and so, as children, we weren't really allowed in it because she would have to fish us out) and usually complained about laundry if I came home muddy.  All this combined to make me a little aversive to muck and grime and that probably fed into the already slightly creepy way I watched girls playing.  The fact that I can remember being ever-so-slightly obsessed with a female class-mate at my first Primary school between the ages of four and five marks me out as a bit of an odd-fish all things considered.  I'm fairly certain that most five year old boys did not look on in wonderment at games of kiss-chase in the playground and wish to be caught by the girls even though they weren't playing the game in the first place.

There's the bondage element to all of this as well.  The love of feeling and being helpless in the thrall of someone else, and that someone is usually female in my memories.  It wasn't my mother though.  Being helpless with my mother was, and remains, a source of primal fear - there's no enjoyment there.  The helplessness that I craved as a child was firmly fixed upon my peers, or younger girls (usually a school year younger, they could be quite close to my own
Apparently there aren't any easily accessible shots of Penny
being all captured.  In fairness I did get a few episodes on DVD
and there were no examples of this particular fetish.  Maybe I made
it all up.
age, I'm a late birthday so this was quite common actually, the difference could be as little as a few months), and usually not overt.  That is, I sought situations where I would be doing things for these girls and entertaining them (not sexually, I was between the ages of five and eight here!  I had no idea what sex was).  If I played a hero then that hero would be caught by the bad guy.  I used to love the sections of Inspector Gadget where Penny would be caught by agents of MAD and tied up.  These were the bits that made me watch more.  When I moved and was being looked after by a family of a friend the pair of us used to play as puppies left in a pet shop, unloved and whatever, and I was always the one chained to a beanbag (out of choice and not actually chained and left).  He had short-sightedness and I remember being fascinated by the concept of having sight limited in some way, something that I do return to in some of my darkest fantasies and in trips to places like this.

I suspect I'm babbling, I'm not sure whether any of this is relevant, interesting or just plain stupid.  I suspect the latter.  I'm not even sure who I'm writing this all for.  None of this seems to be written for me, it's not like I'm ever going to check back.  A readership?  If I have one I think I'm slowly turning it off.

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