|Go on, are these male or female socks? How the sod can you|
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.
"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
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...