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, 24 July 2014

He Dreamed of Machines

Pet Shop Boys in Prom Number 8. Awesome. Seek it out, have
a listen. It's worth it.

I went to see the Pet Shop Boys at the Proms last night with my father. It was a belated birthday present. I like the Pet Shops Boys, it may be apparent. It was my father who got me into them in the first place, he bought their early singles and albums and I had them on tape as a consequence. It was his buying, and playing, of Miracles that got me back into them after University. I had been looking forward to it.

On the drive down we had a deep and meaningful. My father believes I talk too much, listen too little, have a problem with authority and a wannabe rebel. It was not a fun discussion. He believes that the Boy has serious communication problems, that he is behind his peers, that he ought to be fully potty trained by now and that we give too much choice and freedom to both our children. He violently, and I realised how violently on this journey, disagrees with our decision to home educate. He believes that education is failing students trying to get a job by being too supportive and, as a teacher, that's mostly my fault. With my nervousness, it came up, I should just buck up and be more confident. I mean, jeez, what's the problem here, right?

We reached London. I decided to derail yet another go-over of how the Boy is deficient and how concerned he is about what we are not doing to help the Boy (you know, by labeling him with problems and talking about how he has issues in front of him to complete strangers) by coming out as a cross-dresser. His response was as predicted. Some factual questions: do you still do it, are you doing it now, what does Tilly think, do you do it at work (what the hell?) and is it because you're gay? I answered them. Much was said of my father's relationship with his own gay father (we were going to see something about Alan Turing, it seemed quite appropriate actually). Then it was gone and not brought up again.

The concert was brilliant. Then we came home. The journey back had some allusions to the Boy, to home education, to my job but not to my little bombshell. Mostly my father spoke about his relationship with his wife and fears about eventually retiring. Yes, my father spoke the majority of the time. He usually does on long journeys but I have a reputation for talking too much. I suspect my revelation has been filed away and is unlikely to be spoken of again. In a few years my father will be hard-pushed to remember me mentioning it. What else is there to be said of it anyway?

In the morning, I stopped over at my father's, I spoke to his wife (he had a meeting) at length. She shared concerns about the Boy (spotting a pattern?) and home education. I learned that her own experience of education was mostly negative and that when her learning began "after school" she did it the way we are trying with our children. I thus questioned why it was so important that our children went to school. "Because that's what everyone does" I was told. Right, stellar argument there. Then there was quizzing about my job and why it is that education (for which I am responsible) fails to prepare young people effectively for the job market. Why are things getting worse? I had grown a little bored of this by now, I was a bit more officious and dismissive. We discussed my parents' divorce and I told her how sorry I was for being such a bastard to her and my father at the time - it wasn't their fault - and assured her there was no ill-will from then remaining. There isn't. It was never really real ill-will, it was anger directed inward at my own inability to deal with it on my own. I did not seek support or sympathy from anyone, let alone my parents, and pretty much supported my mother rather than the other way around. It was fine, I wasn't getting divorced. I didn't share all of that with my father's wife.

Then I returned home. I was texted that the Girlie was being awful. Sure enough, on arrival, she was... odd. The Boy ignored me. Last night, Tilly had been up with the Boy until gone midnight and then woken by the Girlie around 6am. I left again to sort out the car (the alarm was going off randomly) and, on my return, the Girlie went mental. Eventually Tilly needed my help, and I misunderstood her instructions. I thought she was suggesting that a smack may be required as she was too far gone (like slapping someone's face in the films) and so, when faced with her getting hysterical, I did that. I was wrong. A deep and meaningful followed about our attempts to be physical. I was to blame for the cooling and should expect slow pace. All I want is sex, I should find a woman to open her legs and have done with it because she is fucking sick of trying and putting in effort and it not being enough or recognised. She does all the fucking housework, I never do enough because I do it when asked and she shouldn't have to ask and I should just do it but not reluctantly. And if I can't do it happily I shouldn't do it. She's sick of dealing with the children, maybe she should just send them to fucking school and have done with it. Or quit doing things for herself because doing things for herself never works. It's why she had to ditch her magazine, because I wasn't satisfied, and there's too much that I need - it cannot ever be filled by a wife. I am being unrealistic in my expectations.

She ditched the magazine due to stress with the printers and difficulties in organising fund-raisers for it as well as a static readership. I tried to get her to keep it going, actually. I called her on the housework thing as well. I used to do it all, actually, and drew back in anger when that wasn't enough and she told me it was her way of punishing me. And yes, I did threaten that if she wouldn't do the pet then we should get rid of it because I had never wanted a fucking pet.

We reached a positive impasse. Then she decided that she was worried that she wasn't as upset about the smacking incident as she thought she should be. I was getting bored of things by this point, I'll be honest, I used the slapping face analogy. It mollified a little. We have spoken with the Girlie about it and she didn't enjoy the experience but I don't think it was the same as the last time (in many ways). Besides, since then, the Girlie has been sick (probably due to consuming a large amount of sweets in a very short space of time before any of the incidents this afternoon). Tilly has retired to bed to do some blogging so I am doing the same.

Honestly? I'm struggling.

I don't have the space to dress and she doesn't want me to do it around her (or with her knowledge); it is a chore for her to try and be physical with me and it is my fault for that. She knows plenty of women online who resent having sex with their partners and that's how she feels it would be with me. Most women feel resentful at being forced to have sex, actually. Well, okay, but how often is this and do their husbands know? I've spent two full days under attack and I'm fucking fed up of it.

I'll just listen to this for a bit.


  1. The detente with Tilly didn't last long, huh?

    1. It's a hard thing to quantify at the moment, hence the long silence. I shall try and explain what's happened since then.


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