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!

Thursday, 7 June 2012

My addiction and my wife pt2

Here's a question: why do the clothes that I wear have to be female in their origin and design?  What is it that means that I eschew the fabric in favour of the cut?  Indeed, I can take it further, why is it that I even had a pair of socks in a female cut?  I mean, the fabric was exactly the same as male ones, the colours were a little more garish (red and white in case you were wondering) and the length was more than most male socks (but no more than some walking socks that I have bought in the past).  Once on there was no real way of me knowing without looking that they were female socks.

Go on, are these male or female socks?  How the sod can you
tell?
And yet, I bought them in 2007, after meeting Tilly but before she moved in, and then hoarded them carefully with the rest of my femme wardrobe.  They came out to be worn with other female items, mainly the ensemble that I wore last Thursday and documented here.  They didn't match that get up, nor when I added the blouse, and they really didn't do the job that I had originally intended for them to do - that of reaching my knees in that manner that some female socks do.  Nor did they feel really feminine or anything.  Of course I kept them and wore them from time to time and, of course, they inexplicably helped me feel more feminine (and perhaps the reason).  However, we come back to the fact that the only real difference between my femme wardrobe and my normal one is the materials used in their construction - the rest is all about what they look like and, generally, I can't see that.  Okay, there are skirts and dresses, granted, but the shirts and jumpers and t-shirts that have the same effect on me have no difference in material at all and little difference in cut - it would seem to be a perceptional thing, if I may neologise.

Why bring this up?  The other day, Thursday actually, after I believed that I had been so careful in removing evidence of my ensemble from the house in time for Tilly returning home with the children my daughter discovered the socks in the bedroom.  She threw them about a bit and then Tilly found them.  Her reaction was very telling.

I should add that mine didn't have lace at the top like
these and that I wasn't wearing them at the time.
"What the Hell are these!" She demanded, with all the fury of having discovered someone else's underwear or evidence of an affair.

"They're socks." I stuck to the deadpan, fearful of any emotion that I would put into my words.

She paused, the anger still there.  "What are they doing here!?" She demanded, and, yes, she was obviously angry.

"They're socks," I shrugged, "I was chucking them out, I must have dropped them." Okay, most of that was a lie, I wasn't chucking them out and I was kicking myself for forgetting that I had taken them out of my drawer when removing the skirt.

"This is something I don't want to know about isn't it?"  This was delivered in the same semi-sneering tone of disgust one usually reserves for finding out someone is turned on by some unspeakable fetish or for revealing that there is bird poo down your back or dog shit on your shoe.

"They're socks," I repeated, "I was chucking them out."  In truth I wanted to make an issue of this, they're just socks and there's nothing untoward about that.  Mind you, this was in front of the kids.  As it was my calmness allowed the situation to dissipate, though I did have to actually chuck them out to make up for the lie in my own head, and theyt are now well and truly gone.  Tilly calmed and we haven't discussed it since.
Actually, yes, yes I think it is.  I am so confused
and I'm no closer now to understanding Tilly's
response to my addiction than I was back in
December!

But part of me is still pretty angry about the whole thing.  I mean, it was a pair of socks.  Knee-high socks for shorter people than me, granted, and striped white and red socks, but still just socks.  Tilly stole all of my black socks when she moved in (no, really) and I had to buy an entirely new selection in a slightly different design to appease that part of her own strangeness (coloured heels and toes as it happens) so it's not like she's not fully involved in the cross-dressing through socks.  And, in the end, these were bloody socks.  I don't get the anger in this situation.  I get the fact that I don't understand, if I did I perhaps wouldn't have the addiction, but I can follow some of the train of thought on skirts and dresses and the like - it's the presentation of it all.  I'm not sure my autistic little brain can follow that down to wearing knickers rather than boxers (but being prepared for me to wear bikini cut male briefs or silk boxers) but... These were bloody socks.

Answers on a postcard...

No comments:

Post a Comment

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