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!

Friday, 3 February 2012

On Beautiful Things...


I cannot believe what I just did.  On tha way back from work I bought a gorgeous yellow dress with a black cincher sewn into it.  There was even an underskirt with a black lace hem beneath the outerskirt, again sewn in.  It's size 10, but apparently a big one so it may fit me.  I can take it back within 28 days if I leave the tags in.  It was £25 and what I said the last time about cost hasn't changed.


I bought a dress.  Again.  And it was a proper one.  Not like the sale one I got from ASDA.  This one is yellow, and lovely, and fashionable, and nice and...

I have this habit of driving to work and checking out the windows of the charity shops I pass.  Been doing it since 2005 actually.  There have been several outfits and dresses and stuff that I've liked the look of and I've always wondered about popping in to buy them.  But I didn't.  I know some of the people that work in those shops, not well but enough, and could never quite chance it.  You know, that they may figure it out.

But today has been a hyped up day, and I drank caffeine in the morning, and I'd seen this dress a week ago and thought it long gone and it was there again and I thought... Why the heck not?

I can't quite believe I've done it.

When Tilly is a-bed I shall bring it into the house and try it on, see if it fits, on one level I can't wait.  On another I worry that it won't fit, which will be crushingly disappointing.  And, yet more, I hope it doesn't fit, so I can take it back and forget I did it.  My heart is thumping.  I can't believe I did it.  I've bought two dresses in a few months, that's more than I bought in two years before Tilly moved in.  Does that mean therapy is working or failing?  If it fits, should I splash out another £25 on the boots?  I don't think my current shoes will match, they're fawn.  I'll get away with dark brown knee-height boots, but not fawn heels.

Pictures may follow.  I'm too excited.  I even managed to forget the name of thing on being told it I was so excited in the shop.  Oh God, I hope it fits!  But please let it be too small so I can take it back.  I want to wear it forever!  Amen.

See what I mean?  Achingly beautiful.

It's a Karen Millen.  £160 when new.  It's beautiful.  I'm wearing it now.  I love the fact that it holds my arms back as I type.  But it's too small.  Irredeemably so really.  I mean, if I had some sewing skill I could maybe come up with a fix, but my ribcage is too wide, I can't just 'suck it all in' because it's my frame that's too big, not me being too fat.

It is beautiful.  I would pay twice as much for a size 12 version, because it would fit me.

I guess I take it back.

But it was beautiful.  I owned it for a few hours.  I wore it.  Sorry beautiful thing, I cannot keep you.  But you will be cherished and loved by someone you were designed for rather than a hairy, sweaty, selfish bastard.  If you love something, you must set it free.

I wrote a poem once, called The Salad Ballad and this is the kind of dress I imagined was in it.  It wasn't a ballad, that was part of the 'thing'.

The poem is below, for what it's worth:

The Salad Ballad
"I," the world draws breath,
"Am a manly man."
Birds with sunshine wings
And other pleasant things
Fill his dreaming with meaning.
Sweet sounds of sucking, suckling,
Stones play on his bones.

He remembered when he was old:
to the leftTake a stand on the golden sand,
Streams of flaxen hair like cream.
to the rightNo, the pastel pink on his wall,
Not an indication but a squall.
aheadStorms must be weathered.
(but not always, like that time as a child he ran away rather than become fodder for the angry gang of lean teens)

Lettuce and celery;

Eaten with clarity and
The barest hint of vinegarette.
"My name is my own."
No one can take that away
But God and he knows.

"I," wait with bated breath,
"Am a manly man,
"And manly men do not feel pain."
Or wear yellow dresses in

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