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!

Tuesday, 28 October 2014


Part of me wanted to post a list of what I wanted, like a manifesto, and I was even toying with the idea that I ought to put it as a page rather than a post. But I already did this, in Adrenaline earlier in the year. Of course.

Nothing's original, I stole this flow from the creator and some others too, can't think right now I'll name 'em later. If I say 'fuck' a lot well that may gain me more attention ... nothing's original, now I'm just repeating what I say. Thank you Scroobius Pip (still an awesome video, see below, thanks, Dee).

Anyway, point is, not a lot is different. Let's look at this point by point, because I like depressing myself.

1. Physical and emotional intimacy from a single, female, partner.

Yeah, well. Some. We shared a discussion last night about her novel, I guess that counts as intimacy of a sort. She still couldn't show me any of the novel itself, nor really describe it, everything was at one step removed. It has been read by others, just not by me.

2. Security of need - to know that I will be supported and desired.

In fairness, she does support me. It is clear and it is earnestly done. I am not desired.

3. To be loved for who I am and to love in return.

Tough. How does one define love? I suspect that I cannot ever know this. An unrealistic 'want'?

4. To be complimented once in a while.


5. When I say things like "I'm fat" to be told the pointless lie "I still love you".

Nope. Isn't this point 4 repeated? Nothing's original. Ziggy tells me that there's an 80% chance that if I keep writing this shit, Al can make it a pop hit. But Al's an alcoholic and I'm semi-schizophrenic. Also, less like Scroobius Pip, I think I can safely say that I don't do much to make this happen. An asked for compliment isn't worth anything, it is what is done unbidden in which you see things as they are. And I don't do anything unbidden these days. Even the novel thing last night was at her request.

6. To have playful and experimental experiences that may, or may not, lead to sex.

Have a humourless laugh.

7. To leave with a kiss goodbye, arrive home to a kiss hello. Hell, to kiss once in a while.

At my instigation, sort of. We did hold hands on a walk for a bit today. But like friends, you know, no frisson or anything beyond affection. Is that so base? I suspect that it is base.

8. To come first once in a while and be able to allow my partner to come first too. And no, not in a sexual sense.

Latter part done. Done. And still being done. We are hammering her novel because, in my words, it is part of Tilly's self-actualisation.

9. To dress safely and be able to talk about that fully. To have someone understand the liberation it brings to me and accept it, even if they don't want anything else to do with it.

As far away from that as I ever was. Same as it ever was, same as it ever was.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Just a video

I shan't keep you. I'm just posting a video.

It seems pretty appropriate to things. And, well, it's a halfway decent song. Enjoy?

On another note, I am increasingly coming to the opinion that cis gender males who are transvestites are not terribly sought after by cis gender females. Or, put another way with less white male tears (they are the tastiest), I'm rather thinking that my adolescent musings on this subject were closer to the truth than I realised. I am not the sort of person that is wanted by the sort of people that I would want in return. My own outlook and feelings on the matter preclude the possibility of having other options too.

My Mad-Ex summed it up rather well: although my clothing choices and sexual mores would suggest that I am interesting almost everything about me is boring - so that fringe is out, they really don't want the Man, the Default-Man that I represent. My first girlfriend showed that my own devotion to Christianity is lacking for the devout Christian (or my other aspects are too much for those who wish for a simple and uncomplicated life). My wife shows that I am not particularly sought after by the more level-headed or intelligent crowd (I should point out this only works for high-level distinctions of intelligence, all of my three relationships have been with very intelligent women by most normal measures and the fact I can draw any distinctions at all is a good method of showing my own intellectual snobbery).

Goodness me, I am incapable of easily written sentences. I am not the sort of man that the sort of women I find attractive are interested in. This has been well shown multiple times in my life. Tilly has just proven that I can fuck it up with someone who starts out attracted too.

Human Again

Ah, playing nice.
It's been a week since the last post and nothing much has changed. There's lots of 'playing nice' and not a lot else. I don't know that I can bring myself to have the discussion again, that is, to spell out what it is that I want. Especially because I'm not sure what it is that I want myself.

My mother visits today and the hour has gone back. It should be 'fun' as she's said she wants to go and paint pottery. I already know how this will go down; Tilly and I will be on duty looking after our children painting pottery and my mother will sit and have a tea in the coffee shop and call it a good time out. We'll have to go out for lunch, at somewhere we've never been (Tilly and I don't eat out) and my mother will tut at our children not sitting still at the table or eating their meals slowly (if at all).

Last night we went to a firework display, it was a really good one too, plenty of big rockets and a pretty awesome bonfire. My Boy and I were watching them together and Tilly watched after the Girlie with our company for the evening.

It was a bit like this one.
A couple with their own children. The younger boy and ours don't really get one (he's a bit physical and wild and our Boy is terrified of him) and the elder girl, older than ours, is okay but a bit given to loudness. The wife is sexless, like me, and the husband doesn't really care about it (hence the sexlessness). Anyway, on the way back, our Girlie had a blow-up and did her usual. Luckily the fact that she was so tired meant that she ended up asleep easily enough. Tilly and I ended up sat together - she fell asleep on the sofa and I had a beer and some cheap noodles.

In bed we attempted to snuggle but my left arm is still weak and I had to break it up later on. And it wasn't as comforting as you might imagine, it was actually pretty depressing - we were in contact for so long and there was nothing from her at all. I got some faint stirrings, but she kept perfectly still in my arms. Nothing. When I had to move, I apologised but there was no movement on her part of keep anything going, she turned over and, I assume, went to sleep whilst I ruminated for a bit. And, come morning, that hurts a little.

This morning, the Girlie was watching this
on DVD - a routine for when Tilly stays in

I'm sorry, this place isn't doing a terribly good job of living up to the title.

Monday, 20 October 2014


Laugh? I thought I'd die.

It exploded. Well, no, I made a comment to Tilly about being frustrated with the children behaving like ill-mannered animals, something like "when did basic stuff become a battlefield?" and got told "That's what you were like with this headache". Non-sequitor? I called it and got a further lambasting for being irritable and angry over the last few days. I responded that I was bored of having throwaway comments responded to with how I have a problem.

Is this how it ends? Pools of glass and four thousand years of

Tilly was angry back. I lashed out with a "once every 7 months as an average is probably a root cause for frustration and anger". Eventually we started on that. In the course of a long discussion she suggested I just "find someone else to have sex with" and maybe I ought to "consider getting it somewhere else". She then had the temerity to be offended when, after these comments, I suggested that she might have what she wanted in children and have never really wanted sex with me anyway. It gets better. She offered non-coitus actions, I queried this and, eventually, got the answer that she was just offering a hand-job. When I posited that this was unlikely to do the job she responded that I had previously said that sex wasn't all about the climax. I was angry. I said, honestly, that if she'd offered a hand job two years ago then maybe I would be interested, in the meantime, I'd be more likely to get release from myself thanks very much. At this she cried. She fucking cried.

The effects of my self-loathing. Let's just ignore the part where
Tilly claims to be compassionate is to build up the self-esteem
of others and skip to the part where she never does with me.
Because I'm a fucking doormat, apparently.

I was the bad guy. Apparently my low self-esteem and self-hatred had killed "us" back before we were married and then any sign of anything like that caused Tilly to retreat ever since. I called this in my last post on this subject. I hate being right.

She ended up making it a choice between her dreams and my needs. She can't write and self-actualise; be a parent to our children and do anything romantic with me - we get two of the three that's all. She admitted that she had cut down time with her writer friend online to spend more time with me but had then committed that time to her novel instead, a conscious decision she said. By the end of the conversation, I'd agreed to sit down and work through her novel with her and the offer of a hand job was off the table. She wins. Again.

I'm a fucking doormat.

Saturday, 18 October 2014


I'd say "isn't it odd" about compassion being two
women, but, actually, perhaps it isn't.
One thing I would never have expected to be called is 'compassionate'. There have been attempts to be compassionate to myself on this very blog (look for the posts on compassionate letters here and here for example) and they haven't fared terribly well. Indeed, one may be forgiven for thinking that I hated myself and am incapable of compassion. Certainly, I have always doubted I have that compassionate flair within me as I don't really know what it is from my childhood - hence the thoughts that I may well be autistic. It is, therefore, somewhat surprising to be called compassionate by three separate people in two separate places in short order.

Hell-fire. If I could dress like this for the
day I wouldn't mind so much.
Okay, not that short an order as two of these instances took place on the blog of Rhiannon (lovely selfies there at the moment, by the by, and I confess to being jealous of that bracelet) around the 14 October and the other took place on a forum about Sexless Marriages earlier today. However, in each case I am shocked to discover that people found what I said compassionate. Of course, positive feedback forms a loop and so I have tried even harder.

At the moment I have a cold, nothing too terrible, but enough to give me a massive headache and make my nose run all night. Joy. It has also meant a day in pyjamas, not something that I normally do, and feeling rubbish without getting the mountain of work built up from the week done.

And why is there a mountain of work? Simple. I'm lazy and I've been incredibly angry since about Wednesday.

Ah me.

Wednesday, 15 October 2014


Not quite this bright or transparent, but
close enough. It's been... well, lovely
I wore the cami for the night, because I felt so much more... hugged with it on. And then I wore it all today too. In fact, I didn't take it off at all until tonight because we were out and I got soaked and it soaked through. It didn't smell, didn't feel weird at all, just nice. I looked a little to see if I could find a floral cami online - the one I was wearing was pink - but didn't have much luck. I shall have to look around in some actual physical shops.

But why wear it? Why did it help? In the midst of reading about GamerGate, attacks on females online and general rising misogyny I have been getting angry. A debate the other night on the Book of Faces with someone who was always just a few words from "I'm not a racist but..." when discussing the 'problems' of immigration left me riled too. At work some students behaved badly and like, well, like GamerGate style trolls but in real life. In the wake of that Grayson Perry article and the assembled pieces in the magazine I bought that was hard to deal with. Basically, I'm feeling a bit rubbish. I haven't marked properly. Wearing the camisole and feeling embraced by it helped. In the absence of any real loving contact from Tilly it did the job a little.

Like this. Obviously.
If I thought I could get away with it, I would wear my nightie to bed. I'd order a full length one with sleeves for warmth, and flowers on it because I like flowers, and I would wear that for winter. But even with separate sheets (Tilly wraps hers around her like a cocoon) I know I can't get away with that. I may end up wearing a purple cami tomorrow beneath my shirt. I'm almost tempted to wear my purple tights too, but that may be a step too far and I need to concentrate on marking. And other aspects of my job.

In many ways I'm feeling more Joanna now than normal, but with less ways to indulge that part of myself.

And, finally, I may share this blog with someone I know and respect IRL. We'll see. Probably not, as usual, there's too much whining about my marital situation at present for me to seriously contemplate letting someone who knows both of us in real life read the blog. Not because anything I've said is untruthful, rather because there's honesty here. And, if I were to share this place, I would probably feel the need to prune things back, maintain a few paper walls and fences.

At the same time, I did tell an ex-colleague about what's going on. Oh, I don't know.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Love is a bourgeois construct

Labels. Validation.
When I read the essay by Grayson Perry, having watched his documentaries on taste in the UK covering the middle and working classes, I was impressed and thought he had some good ideas about what the Great White Male - Default Man - was and how he had captured the keys to the kingdom. As I read further through the articles that he had gathered under his banner, Perry, not Default Man, I realised that I was barely scratching the surface of what had been brought up and it, in turn, was a mere microcosm of all that I have discovered myself regarding Feminism, the role of women online and my own journey without a definitive box for myself - something I find hard as someone who rather likes to use labels.

And speaking of labels I realised something. I am a Default Male sympathiser. That is, the desire has been very much planted in me to be like Default Man. Statistically I am white, heterosexual, middle aged, middle class, educated and male. I serve in a professional environment that is as close as one can get to the establishment without necessarily being an active part of it (as close to the beast as to feel the breathing as my own) and uphold a series of societal rules that have little or no relevance beyond enforcing certain cliches and preventing social mobility. Ken Robinson has my profession pegged as one that seeks to perpetuate society, to tamp down the need for change and create an anaesthetised youth. Someone that seeks to send young people to sleep, concentrated and serious sleep in a suit, rather than wake them up. And I wear a suit quite proudly, even if I pretend to subvert it with my cheap jackets, cheaper trousers and old shirts. I uphold the use of a tie to express limited personality, tell students not to give in to emotion and remain entirely rational.

Deviance. Validation of a different sort.
My objectivity is male subjectivity, my normative behaviour shaped by the Default Man. I am the Default Man, anxious to camouflage myself and live in the background, to be ignored by the mass and left to my own devices. I lack the courage of my convictions and I lack the courage to be myself. Yesterday and today I asserted a little of the one thing I do that distances me from the norm - I crossdressed underneath my suit in a camisole. I have enjoyed this two day experience slightly more than wearing knickers last week. For a start the camisole feels more supportive, closer. It hugs me close, makes me feel warm and happy, and it doesn't get in the way of going to the toilet. It is functional and invisible and nice. Also, the camisoles are better quality than the knickers, being fewer in number and better made.

Safety. Anonymity.
But even by doing that small act of apparent rebellion I am very much Default Man - I have successfully placed all that is me being me into a box so small and compressed that no one can tell. Then I wear black and grey socks, ties that barely stand out from my shirts (mainly blue shirts, mainly reddish plain ties) and my suit. I speak of grand things but do nothing. I drive a car that is not electric, I vote at election time, I read the social media blogs, I inwardly support groups without ever actually taking a risk. Exam results drive my behaviour at work, although I don't believe that examinations actually serve any purpose I will drive students through a mixture of blackmail and social manipulation and emotional manipulation toward a goal that I know is useless beyond telling them that they are always one step from failure and only worth what other people tell them that they are worth. And I do that because, deep down, I believe that of myself.

More follows, but we're into TMI territory. Hence, a line break.

Sunday, 12 October 2014


It was recently Tilly's birthday. It has been bittersweet. Certainly it was better than last year and certainly there have been positives. Tilly arranged for some of her friends to come round for a lovely evening and I gave up trying to surprise her with gifts, instead giving her a budget and letting her buy her own gifts - she seems to have really liked this more than anything I have ever managed to get her, even things she specifically asked for. It's a bit pants for me, but I'm not going to argue with a happy wife.

One of the guests invited for the birthday bash was a woman in a sexless marriage. Let's call her Florence. Well, ever since I heard about this (Tilly regards her as mental, because most of the women she knows wish they could just not have sex with their husbands and are sick of being pressured into it - how often this is the case and whether it's just less sex that they want is neither here nor there in Tilly's world) I thought that I could pass on the address of the support group over at the Experience Project (still overrun with MRAs but I'm getting good at blocking them so I don't have to get involved). At the party, I did, via a note. I hope she goes and gets some help. It's clear that she and her husband are not in a good place - he wasn't at the party and she spent most of it stone-cold sober and musing on why she had married him and referencing old boyfriends, the attractiveness of another woman's husband who was there (beyond looks) and the like. Oh, and practically sexually propositioning most of the females present. It was... an odd evening. No, none of this was directed my way, I'm not naive enough to assume that sexually-starved woman looks at me and sees anything other than shit-head unattractive cunt-face.

Also, Grayson Perry has been stalking my life, I found that he has recently guest edited the New Statesman, a left-leaning journal in the UK. It's worth a look, his topic of choice is 'default-man' and his satire on the front cover alone is striking. Like, uncomfortable striking.

Friday, 10 October 2014

Two days

I wouldn't mind knowing. You know? I mean, it's no
cake-walk. I get that. But I'd like to know.

I'm weird, I know.
Realising that I haven't dressed and that I have little opportunity to go the full nine yards at home, I was feeling morose. And then, yesterday morning, I was out of boxer shorts. Again. And not deliberately either. So, obviously, I plumbed for my briefs and then found a pad that I'd squirreled away at some point. Naturally, I've worn both yesterday and today. Now I have boxers again. I shall return to wearing them.

I have also watched some documentaries that Grayson Perry has done on Channel 4 oD. And he is not what I had assumed. I now suspect that his use of 'tranny' was playing into the role that the interviewer cast him in, he was gently mocking the interviewer. Because these documentaries (a series of three, called In the Best possible Taste) show Perry to be adroit at intuiting culture and outlook in social situations. He is terrifyingly quick and open to anyone and their point of view. The matter-of-fact way that he cross-dresses means that people sort of take him at face value, the same way that they take him when he is not cross-dressed (which seems more often). In other words, he's so at peace with what he does that no one really has a chance to take him at any other level than theirs. He doesn't alter his voice, he tends not to stand out, and he doesn't play act at all. He's simply the same as he is when not dressed but, well, dressed. I think my previous article about him may well have done him a disservice.

Struggling to keep up at work again, getting tired, mainly worried that depression may be stalking in the wings. Tilly's birthday is coming up. Doubt she'll want anything more romantic or 'couple-y' than... well, whatever it is we have at the moment. Nothing new to report on that since the last conversation. Why would there be?

It's a short entry tonight.

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

The more you dress

...the less you stress.

And the more one dresses like this in the woods the less
stress one feels just generally, I would posit.

That is not looking like a picture in which stress would be
allowed within fifty feet.
I was reminded of this adage by someone on another forum and I think it is largely true. I managed to get up early enough on Monday that there was actually time in the morning for me to try dressing again. So, of course, I tried. Anxious not to go over the top or find that I didn't have the time I thought I did (it's been a while) I plumbed for dressing in the dress that I bought a while back on the grounds that it was hanging up rather than in my special box. This went well, I even figured out how to wear the shoulders so that the waist was in the right place and the skirt hung correctly. I thin, because it was cold, donned my dressing gown and headed downstairs. Whereupon Tilly woke up and started pottering about.

Tilly is Grumpy Cat.
A bit of context. Tilly hates mornings. With a fiery passion undying. She has steadfastly refused to rise before 7.30am since the birth of our eldest child in 2008 (and, of course, was never up at that time before then) come Hell or high water. Our children can be awake and in need of input but if it's before 7.30am that ain't happening. I have come home to tales of ruined days based on the fact that the children were awake after I left but an hour or two before Tilly decided to actually get up. Why was she up? Writing.

She heard from a friend something I have suggested before: that getting up early may give her some time on her own to write. And so, with that, my time for dressing is gone. I can never do it again. She wakes when I leave the bedroom and will stay writing until I leave for work. We've discussed that I can't dress when she's abroad or in front of the children and, now, that is never. This comes after a discussion in which she asked if I needed to arrange time to dress and I pointed out that I can't exactly ask her for it because then she would know I was doing it and that is what she wants to avoid ever knowing  - it's one of the conditions she has attached to having it happen.

Tilly. But not actually.
I am trying to support her, I really am, because Tilly is writing a novel. She's getting closer to doing so than I think I have ever managed in my life time and that needs some support from me. So, when she wants to go research in the library I come home early from work (like tonight) and take my share of childcare (I'd do house things too, but my hand is still purple and green from my fall). When she needs to spend time with her writing buddy online I back off and let her have it. When Tilly needs an evening with a book to recharge, and her laptop on Twitter to market and plug at the novel that is what she gets. If she needs time on a weekend, I take the house and children, of course. I do want her to finish her novel and publish, I do, and that means I must put in some effort to help her have that time - we're parents, time is not infinite.

Boo this, man - [ghost emoji]

If you don't get that, watch some John Oliver.
But I'm whining. I haven't dressed, apart from the five minutes on Monday (which ended with me stripping out of the dress and carefully bundling it back to the spare room when Tilly wasn't watching), since the beginning of July-ish. Indeed, since around the time that Tilly agreed to try moving towards maybe having sex again. That's a long time, for both things. I am no closer to a physically intimate relationship with my wife (she still doesn't wear her rings, by the by, and that was brought home today when I come home to her wearing a pigging mood ring she bought on a whim over the Summer) than I was in July. And I have no real means to do anything else. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do anything in private now. She goes to bed after I do, insists on going to the toilet before me and regularly times me on the loo. No, really. I can't fuck off to another room without a damn' good reason and I feel pretty awful using time I get for marking work to do, well, other things.

Okay, it's whining, mainly man-whining which is the worst kind. And I'm dropping commas and I really don't care.

Saturday, 4 October 2014

Grayson Perry

Perry wins the Turner prize.

And I am as bad as the interviewer at the Grauniad by using
an image of a cross-dressing Grayson Perry to start my
own thoughts on the article.

It's as though all I see Grayson Perry as is a transvestite too.
So much for me being progressive. Mind you, I love the fact
that the family are together here.
I think I've mentioned the artist, Grayson Perry, before. My teaching friend regards Perry as one of the most down-to-earth people around in the UK today and I'm not sure that I can easily disagree. I saw a link to an article in the Grauniad, the newspaper for people in the UK who are lefty-liberal and consider themselves intellectual, about this artist and took a read. It was worth it, you can find it here, and it spoke much about the interviewer and, with that, about the society in which I feel part in the UK. The interviewer seems a tad confused about transvestism, in that the view is put forward subtly that transvestism is something that can be picked up, an identity that is much like clothing. It was Perry's response that, in these circles, although common still had me paying attention: "you don't stop being a transvestite because you're not wearing a dress". And that, arguably, is the best explanation I've read about how I feel about myself that I've read in a long time.

This is a long diatribe. I'll put a line break in.