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!

Saturday, 4 January 2014

While the cat's away...

I don't think this is at the O2. Nevertheless, the stories they
saw were Cinderella, Snow White and Rapunzel.
Girlie returned with a model Rapunzel, through the lens of
Tangled, and the Boy got two cars from me.
Well, he likes his cars.

So do I actually.
Our cousins, well, Tilly's cousin's husband, Pik, had managed to nab some tickets to see Disney on Ice at the O2 Arena in London. They offered them to the Girlie (and the Boy too, but we decided that he wasn't quite at the point where he could cope, we took him to see a play in a theatre and, though he loved it, he couldn't quite cope with the overwhelming stimulation) and so she and Tilly went down to London with Tilly's cousin and watched it. This meant that I was on Boy duty, alone, for two whole days. Shock Horror! Anyway, yes, I was actually looking forward to it. Tim and Emily were up, Tim being an old friend of mine from school and Emily being his wife, and they would be with the Boy and I whilst the rest of the family were gone. Basically, Tilly and the Girlie left at about 9.30 and they were due at 11. They would leave that afternoon and Tilly and the Girlie would return around midday the following day.

Heh, it's cross-dressing in a 'cross'
dress.

Well, I laughed.
As you can probably imagine, my mind went to the one place you would expect. The evening would be mine and it would be mostly free. I had previously managed to do most of the marking that I've brought home, there was the small matter of the chinchilla but then, oh, well, the world was my oyster. My oyster with some clothes that Tilly is not 'throwing out' just yet, but which are now variously several sizes too big or just plain abandoned. I had planned to get a new top when out but this didn't work, the Boy and I went to run some errands and there simply wasn't the time to look properly and nothing jumped out at me anyway.

Sure enough, Tim and Emily were slightly late, having travelled up from her parents' house, and we sat and had a convivial chat. My beer, brewed myself, was partaken in small quantities (it is very small beer, less than 4% and probably lower than 3%) and then we went out to my local chain pub for a meal and, in my case, a pint. It was a good visit. Tim, Emily and I had good conversation and, when we returned, the Boy and Tim played happily whilst Emily and I discussed feminism at length, as we are wont to do. They left before tea and the Boy and I had a good evening of convivial (that word again) companionship and some food. Then he played with his wooden train track for about an hour, very happily, with me doing some small matters around the house (he likes to play when I watch, he gets put out if he's left alone too long), before we went to bed and he was fast asleep by 7pm.

The hairband looked nothing at all like this.
It was a thin Alice Band style with a small
bow. Both were in pink. The wig was a
ginger and blonde mix and straight.
Seeing that in the mirror, even framing my
hideous visage, was pretty damn' powerful.
Naturally I dug out my dressing hoard and began. Wig was used properly for the first time and the feeling was brilliant. I can't accurately describe any of the sensations except to say that it felt 'right'. I felt completely at home with strands of hair keep falling across my face and ears and getting in the way generally. It was, oddly, a most liberating sensation. Then there was the hairband I found. Oh, it stopped the hair dropping where it wasn't wanted and the feeling of it on my head was amazing. I have no clue how women actually cope with these sensations on a daily basis, I really don't. I tried on a strapless dress that tied round the neck and fell to past my feet. Wonder of wonders, even with my boots on, the skirts of this wonderful dress fell below my feet. I had to lift the hem to walk! I added an overshirt of Tilly's (now far too big for her and slightly too large for me) and I just walked about a bit. I made it downstairs to look in the mirror and have a drink. But the sensation, I will admit, was too powerful for me. I was actually, genuinely, overwhelmed by it all. So I changed out and briefly tried on the oriental dress I have spoken about before now. Then I stopped. This was all after having the chinchilla out for half an hour. The time was 8.05pm.

It's a combination of what happened to Evie, the music,
and the story written on toilet paper.
Reading the graphic novel of that section is usually enough
to bring out the sadness in me but the film just magnifies it.
Okay the political message of the film is significantly watered
down from the graphic novel, but the emotional power of
Evie's development is amplified by Portman's acting.
Bravo.
Still feeling the emotional power of the dressing I ended up watching V for Vendetta and crying at the sequence where V removes fear from Evie Hammond in one of the best filmed sequences I have ever seen. Brutal, powerful and evocative. After that I was able to calm down a bit before the Boy woke with a nightmare and I took him into our bed to get the rest of the night's sleep.

And that's it. Not sure what I mean to do with this entry except to record the immense power the dressing had this time. Far greater power than this time last year (though that was in a different life in many ways) and much more lasting in emotional effect than the first time recorded in this blog. No, last night was very short but arguably the most powerful emotional experience I have known in about three years. I wish, earnestly wish, that I could share that with Tilly. That I could explain to her the feelings that coursed through me and thus show her that my dressing is not a vile, secretive and dirty thing but a thing of great healing and intensity. Basically, that it was safe and as much part of me as is brewing my own beer, reviewing said beers or writing bad fiction.

Also, later that evening, I happened to read Calvin's comment (last night's entry was set up a few days ago, sorry, I couldn't post it on New Year's Day and I wanted to say nice things first so I put it back a couple of days) and had a warm fuzzy feeling for the rest of the night. Of course, now I want to track down who the model was in the picture, see if there are any more, and rashly change all of my profile pictures to that model. I am... well, I am very flattered. Which is very silly, given the fact that I have a beard, a gaunt face, pallid complexion (I think pallid is the right word, it may not be) and hair in all the wrong places. My smile is more cartoonish (in that there are many wrinkles, have been since I was a small person) with proper British teeth (they really are naturally yellow - many dentists will attest, no whitening toothpaste has ever changed that, apparently it means that I have uber-strong enamel) and a pointy annoying nose. Anyway, yes, if I were to be a woman I would happily look like that!



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