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, 5 January 2017


I think this is a decent enough representation of light.

Lovely cardigan too though, which I can't help but comment on
because I am fickle and a bit obsessive.

In my last post I talked about lights and shining them. And I stand by that, there are so many people with light, however small and however much they ignore it or do not recognise their own, that guides me and reminds me that the world is not as dark as it sometimes appears. Many of those links are over there on the right. But, to name names, we have Dee, Rhiannon, Terri, L M Williams and so many more. I shan't name all the names, it takes too long.

And in my own life I struggle to see any light I may have. Every time I think I've found some, things happen that either shadow it or reveal it to be naught but a reflection in burnished bronze as the elements take hold and some distant light source is being shrouded from me, the wink of a setting sun in the glass on the table.

Which leads me to peer into the darkness, looking for answers and pondering the deep black. Sometimes the black looks back.

Sometimes one puts on the blindfold oneself.
I heard last night the shock news that a couple of weeks after I visited a friend and ex-colleague Oop North his wife left him and the children, it was known but the whole affair was completely demoralising. It was three months ago. I heard last night. Today I was asked if I would like to step aside from my position at work, take a lower one (same pay) and make way for an up-and-coming colleague instead, against previous conversations where I was being asked to step up to allow that colleague to take responsibility. That is, a sideways move was being mooted instead of an upward one, and a sideways move to something more precarious, which is already known to be a creation based on aspects that may not last. It was delivered with a smile but the person delivering these questions is a man who revels in his reputation as 'the smiling assassin'. His words. One of the suggestions made was that I would not have to look over my shoulder regarding results (to report the words almost as they were spoken). I wonder what that exchange says to others.

Intense loneliness of the sort described in the drama actually
sounded less existentially dreadful and more almost hauntingly
and achingly beautiful. To commune with the woods and the
birds and the lake in the silence with that sharp tang of the
cold wind and the knowledge that in the firelight one could
drink and sing. That, to me, would be heavenly.

It's probably part of my autism that the concept of being able
not to talk on long car journeys and find that it is acceptable
to be direct and use few words, to be precise, is something akin
to real happiness. It was framed as something awful.

A language without shades of meaning? A language that relies
on being direct? Wonderful.
I listened to a drama on Radio 4 on the way home, after spending two hours helping a student who ought to have been expelled (no, really) but who the school has agreed to provide provision for through me. I get paid for this, extra, but it was hard work - the student is somewhat averse to writing and recording information. Yes, this is being done as mandated good will. Anyway, the drama was about someone having moved to Sweden and feeling intense loneliness (and being an utter knob-end) due to differing customs. That feeling of being alone around other human beings, of being isolated and not really knowing why or how; of not being able to read emotions and customs and rituals always with the faint feeling that one is being set up and laughed at for trying so hard - so that one is never really aware of what is really a ritual and what is a set up to make an ass of you. I know that feeling well and have noticed it increasingly the more I read and understand Asperger's and my own variations on those themes which increasingly turn out to be related to Asperger's.

And, tonight, I type these words rather than working because I am tired and the lights are going out again. No, not out, they are being shadowed and hidden by my own blackness. I know this.

There would have been a gag if I'd have owned one.
Also, I only had one pair of handcuffs.

Still, she looks happy here. Genuinely.

It's why I used this image.
And there are the dreams. I greeted the New Year with a vivid dream about the time I handcuffed myself to my old bed in my flat in my nightie and bra and knickers. I had apples in the cups, the straps were a smidge too tight and my ankles were tied to the bottom of the bed. I wore a wig and make-up. I had tied myself face up but, after five hours, I had got too hot and bothered and had wrestled my way face down by crossing wrists and ankles so I could hump the mattress. Of course I climaxed, eventually, in one of the biggest moments of that kind I've ever had. I laid there afterward, back in 2005, for another hour before I slowly raised the keys up with the shoelace and freed one wrist. Then I locked it back up, dropped the key and slept until morning like that. It was a holiday. And, in the morning earlier this week, I remembered it all. But the sensation was brief and gone when I woke and roused from the bed.

Yes, but in a pub. And with a fourth figure, a man in woman's
clothing watching and smiling and keeping track but making
no unsolicited comments. Just... being.
Then I woke another morning with the sensation of having dressed as a schoolgirl for Toby's birthday, again in 2005, with the memory of where I had stored the clothes when I moved into my own house in 2006, where they had moved when Tilly moved in and eventually been dumped into the bin in an abortive effort to get some kind of reaction from her later, whilst I was writing this blog actually, before we moved. I recalled the sensation of the glasses and the tights, the wind on my legs and bare arms, the feeling of trying and failing to focus properly when I removed the glasses and the desire that I had to let it never end. The feeling of being home when dressed and much more comfortable with the circle I was in when dressed. That ability to be more passive, to listen to others talk, mainly females, and to let them talk. To be included but not expected to take part. Simply to listen to women talking to women about things that women talk about and to be allowed into that world. Not submissive nor subservient but unnoticed and quiet. It was beautiful. It was, well, home.

In both cases I do not claim to have been any more feminine or womanly than I am now, sitting useless on the sofa with a beard that is unkempt and a near Hitler hair-style (sorry) and sweating all over the place. My feet stink, my pubic hair sheds, and I am feeling very lazy and fat in a very male way. One of the discoveries I have made is that I am not transgender in that way and I know too many wonderful people who are to claim to be part of that identity. No, in these cases I was a man dressed in women's clothes operating in an androgynous way. And, crucially, I was happy in both cases. Intensely happy. At peace. And there was no question in my mind about what each episode meant - I was living in the moment. I suspect that is why the feelings and sensations were so vivid and so unexpected.

Androgyny guaranteed.

Also self-bondage.
There, in that androgyny, is the crux of my own fascination, and it is still there, with chastity. Self-chastity. I would not need a key holder nor would I need to deliberately remove the keys. Like the self-bondage in the first memory I would indulge because of the feeling and finish when I was ready. No need for denial, just the feeling. And that is not something that is easy to explain, even to myself, for the feeling is something that I do not have the vocabulary to express. I have spoken many times before about bondage and my feelings associated with it and I would posit that this post proves nothing has changed in that since I first wrote about it all that time ago. Years ago now.

This darkness is rich and roasted, careful and cool, like a fine stout at Christmas or during the dark night. Velvet and soft like a delicate choker, swirling and big like the ocean at night. It is a safe and powerful form of positive darkness.

And then I find myself smiling when watching clips of the Joker in Gotham on youtube. Genuine happy smiles, rueful ones and almost breaking into genuine laughter. Not at him but with him. It's like this portrayal of madness has struck a nerve - the thread of "oh now you've done it haven't you" that runs through it calls to my sense of that. It calls to the troubled little shit at school who throttled a girl for laughing at them, throttled and lifted from the ground by her neck against a wall, and never (still doesn't) felt remorse for that action. The one that took revenge on a bully and still feels no remorse for making that pustule like face bleed. Who threatened to beat another girl with a chair for poking fun. Who enjoyed the heat of the anger in Sixth Form when stabbing with a metal pen into a friend's hand and only felt ashamed that no one cared nor noticed. The one who got confused that they were being taken to task for having students who were fucking rude and lazy be 'scared' of him before the Christmas holidays. It's a different kind of darkness.

And, with that Radio 4 drama, I got to thinking: what does it feel like to be a murder victim? If killing and infliction of pain is wrong, if one cannot physically attack or use voice to berate or even defend from the smiling assassin's blade then what about letting the attacks happen? I was once beaten up by three ne'er-do-wells on the way home from school in another anecdote that I have probably related on here before. I let it happen. I had plenty of warning and, by the time I decided to run for it, it was already too late and I sort of knew that. When they started the attack I recall being passive, realising that I was going to let them. I made no move to defend myself, didn't even struggle against the choke hold nor seek to move away from the attempts to kick me repeatedly in the groin or elbow-drop my back. It was the same later when I was assaulted and my belt snapped by girls, and probably boys but I don't remember, trying to rip my trousers off on the school field in an attack I never even bothered reporting. The same when I let myself be attacked mercilessly and repeatedly at work by people who did not know nor care the effect they were having. Why? Because I deserve it. I know I do because of all the things in the previous paragraph. This is the darkness that shrouds the light of others.

And yet the fear is different. It is the fear of being found out.

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