|I love the dress and shoes here,|
I feel that if I could wear
these then I would be as happy
as she looks.
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.
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.