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

On with the show...

22nd October 2011
So, it’s become a habit that I seem to enjoy.  After that first day I did it every morning and quickly switched from the costume, that seemed to be too much stealing from my wife, to a skirt that’s far too small for her and a top I ‘rescued’ from one of her binning sessions.  I know that, strictly speaking, they’re still her clothes but I felt better that these were ones that she was never going to wear again.  I added my own knickers, bought from Morrison’s years ago and my first ever purchase of female clothing.
I added shoes, at the moment they were also owned by my wife, and the combination of the skirt and the shoes – the swish of it as I walked and the brush against my legs combining with the feeling of my feet being forced to arch, my steps to become shorter and my balance to be changed so that I had to thrust out my rear and my chest – took me to the edge nearly every morning.  One day I just had to touch myself and nearly had an accident.  Clearly I find the whole thing arousing and satisfying, but it’s not just that.  I feel whole and comfortable when dressed in a way that I don’t really feel the rest of the time.  I don’t worry so much about work, about the day ahead, I am focussed on that electric thrill from the skirt billowing and the tightness of the top on my chest.  I love the way that the heels clicked on the floor, and the way that I had to constantly adjust how I stood to keep balance, the way in which I began to think carefully how many steps I would have to take so as to not try and take too few.  I loved trying to run.  The house is too small for me to do that properly and get the full effect but it was something that I was happy to try.  I tried with wrists up and wrists down.  That was irrelevant, I enjoyed the feeling of the skirt and the fact that I was not really any quicker than when I walked.

At the weekend, my wife took the children out to give me some time to mark.  I took the opportunity to mark dressed.  I originally started with the skirt, another strappy top that I had ‘rescued’, my old tights, the shoes and a jacket I found in my wife’s wardrobe.  This felt good and right again but it soon became apparent that there was something missing.  The jacket wasn’t sitting right and the whole ensemble didn’t really match up the way I felt that it had during the week.  I reassessed, changed the strappy top for my old blouse, the first one I bought, added my fuchsia bra (a little too small around the chest and padded), stuffed that with some socks and then tried again.  Success, this felt ‘right’.  I marked quickly and normally, enjoying the feeling of the clothes together and the fact that the shoes were making me sit in an odd position.
I love the dress and shoes here,
I feel that if I could wear
these then I would be as happy
as she looks.
At this point I added some string round both of my knees to force a more feminine seating position, in truth I was doing that anyway, I just liked to feel that I was being forced to do it.  I tried walking around to get a drink and the like and loved the way that this forced me to walk.  I felt more feminine, but know that I hardly looked the part.  The jacket was nicer with a stuffed bra, it hung better and the blouse just added to it.  A shame that the blouse hasn’t been ironed since my wife moved in but that’s the way of things.  The skirt really didn’t fit with the whole thing, it looked completely off but it still felt wonderful.  I began to wonder what it would be like to walk outside dressed, how far I could get and what I would do.  Of course, that’s not going to happen any time soon as I don’t look the part and this remains an intensely private experience.  It’s not for sharing; it’s all about me and how it makes me feel.  And having anyone look in on that would be a little humiliating.
The following week I didn’t dress in the morning, there was too much to do, I was getting up later and later, and there wasn’t really the time to get a feeling from it all.  Spending two minutes to get ready for two minutes of being dressed didn’t really seem like a good way to go about things and, frankly, would have been a waste of time.  I thought about it and each morning I wondered if I had the time and that seemed to have something of the effect of actually being dressed in that I wasn’t constantly worried about work.  Of course, my planning at work was suffering a little in that I wasn’t always clear what I needed to do each day but that was still tempered by the fact that I wasn’t getting everything done in the first place so I’m not certain how much of that was down to the dressing and how much was just down to general incompetence on my part.
I love the understated make-up and the corset here.
I wish I could look like that.
Or have someone look at me that way when
dressed.  Or at all.
On Wednesday evening I was in therapy again.  My CBT professional is very nice and tries to listen to what I say, but I question the whole process.  Much emphasis is placed on what I want but, as we have discussed, I’m not really sure what this is or what it means.  At the moment the nearest I’ve got is this log and the fact that I dress in clothes that are designed for women.  I left and tried to stop at a sex store on the way back but I just couldn’t do it.  I had the time, the excuse and the space and I bottled it completely, which was a bit stupid really.  If I was going to go to a sex store I should have just, well, gone to a sex store.  Pratting about worrying about it and then driving straight past and into a sea of traffic just seems like a bit of a wasted effort.

In the end I had to stop at the supermarket for some things my wife had asked me to pick up and whilst I was there I bit the bullet and bought a pair of shoes that I’d had my eye on for a few months.  They’re fawn high heels, the heels are like platforms really and covered in what appears to be hemp, with a wide strap at the top and some art-deco patterning around an open toe.  Not strappy sandals but they are pretty close to the idea.  I bought them because they were on sale (£5) and were the largest size that I’d seen (size 9).  I tried them on in the toilet and discovered, to my surprise, that size 9 were too big.  I exchanged them for a size 8 and then went home.  I stowed them out of sight in the hall cupboard and then had an argument with my wife.
The library rang to say that I had a fine on my card – I wasn’t aware that anything was on my card – and I worked out that two books that my wife had presented me with, neither of which really floated my boat, were probably taken out on my card.  To be honest, I hadn’t really appreciated the books in the first place, she was ridiculously pleased that she had ‘thought about me’ but had she done so then she wouldn’t have got the books.  One had an amusing title and the other was a study of a sci-fi series.  Both would have been communicated to me just fine in speech and we’d have shared a giggle at the former and a pulled face at the latter.  No, now there was a fine, and I was upset by that.  I haven’t had a library fine before: ever.  Somehow this turned into a full blown argument and I couldn’t understand what was going on, my wife laid into me verbally and I decided to leave the house.  I slunk back later, we talked and she was convinced that I was gearing up to leave them all properly.  She kept returning to the topic and kept pushing despite the fact that I didn’t see the point in talking about it.
This reticence to discuss it was taken as confirmation of her fears that I wasn’t really enjoying being married or being a father and much of the conversation was then taken with her getting worried and upset about things that she brought up.  Oh, and angry and frustrated that I wasn’t being reassuring about issues that I was considering because that’s what I do in conversations like this.  I was blindsided and attempting to follow her train of thought, to treat what she was saying with some gravitas.  In the end it boils down to the fact that my wife’s idea of support seems to be to tell me that I have to change and show dire consequences if I don’t (end of family) and to intimate that the way things are at the present is particularly bad: “it’s like living with a block of wood!”  I wonder if I had done the same last summer what would be happening now.  I don’t think I’d still have a wife for starters.  Simply asking her about her therapy usually involved a sustained attack on me and an attempt to make me feel uncomfortable and guilty, and that attempt was usually successful.  Now I’m the one in need of support and this seems to involved a sustained attack on me and an attempt to make me feel uncomfortable and guilty, and that attempt has so far been successful.
It made it easier to wear the shoes the following day without telling my wife any of what I was doing or had done so far.  I’ve worn them every morning since for about half an hour and most evenings as well.
The heel helps. They're taller than the ones I borrowed and they are the size of my feet (I was surprised to discover that I'm two sizes smaller in these than my normal shoes) and, importantly, they are mine rather than someone else's so I guess I feel less guilty. I love the fact that they are more extreme than the borrowed ones. They make my legs know I'm wearing heels. I'm having to practice walking. They suit the skirt and top better as well. I don't think they'll work well with a jacket, but the jacket isn't mine so that was a one time thing. I think I love them. Which is odd, I've never really been one for shoes before. These ones are pretty. They feel really nice. And they're mine.  I read a story last night too, about a man who cross-dressed for a walk outside and passed for the most part but then had some trouble getting in.  He over-estimated the distance he had to travel and wound up with heels that hurt and he had to stop and rest.  His feet were aching for the rest of the piece.  And I wanted to do the same.  This morning, when I was dressed and doing the pots, I had an urge to throw on a long coat and then go for a potter whilst there was no else around, to walk down into the woods or up to the car (I’ve done that in just the shoes before now, but the ones I borrowed, not the ones I bought) just to see what it feels like.  I haven’t but I feel now that I own the shoes it will just be a matter of time until the right situation comes along.
But I have to ask myself: how healthy is any of this?  Is it what I mean or want to do?  Some of this originally appeared on the blog I’ve started keeping but I wrote it last night and deleted it this morning. No one is even reading the blog, why would I not keep it up there?  What does that suggest about the whole thing and the fact that I’m too ashamed to talk about anonymously in anything approaching a public forum?  My wife suggested in July that the fact that I’m ashamed by it means that there is something dirty and wrong with it.  She got angry at me for thinking about it and doing it.  She decided that I was dirty and wrong for doing it.  She shouted.  She cried.  And since then hasn’t initiated anything beyond a hug.  When my boy and I go out she leans in to kiss him goodbye but draws back immediately and makes it clear that I am not to attempt the same with her – ostensibly because we wouldn’t be able to get close because the boy is strapped to my chest or because he might grab her glasses.  I can’t help feeling that it’s really because she sees me as dirty, even if she doesn’t know that I’m dressing, she thinks I’m some kind of sick pervert.
She’s not alone, of course, a lot of the reading I did online back in July suggested that most people find habits such as this so disturbing that they will ostracise and hurt those who carry them out.  Countless people spewed invective that it was the start of someone wanting a sex change (no thanks, I quite like my dick) or that there was something inherently wrong with ‘them’.  “Why should they ask for acceptance?  They come to us and demand that we accept them, and they should be the ones begging forgiveness” went one line.  Indeed, I think homosexuals got less flack the last time there was an uproar about homophobia.  Many suggested a link between homosexuality and dressing.  I don’t know about that but I do know that I have no desire to look at men that way.  I find the female form endlessly fascinating and beautiful.  I think it’s more jealousy that fuels what I do than a desire to be a woman.  I hardly pass as one when dressed and so I doubt very much that the motivating factor is to confuse people – I think most people with eyes (and some without) would rapidly work out that I was a bloke in a dress.  Hell, even clean shaven, with a wig and make-up I look totally masculine, I’m not under any illusions there!
I’m not even sure why I’m recording all of this, but I’ve been at it for an hour and so I suppose I’d better wrap it up here.

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