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. 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 "Story So Far" Page above this and the "New Readers" 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!

Friday, 30 December 2011

Tales from a sick mind

So, my youth was fairly misspent.  I had an inordinate amount of time spent studying the girls that were my peers so that I became one of those horribly creepy little boys, you know the type, but at the same time I remember noticing that things were very different for boys and girls of these ages.  In primary school I remember realising that girls got it better in terms of expectations, they were expected to have behaved better and so they recieved the benefit of the doubt in cases of unclear wrong doing.  Boys, on the other hand, had guilt assumed.  In maths the girls were praised more and I remember one teacher memorably saying that girls did better because they had better brains for it.  I never really forgave her for that though, if I'm honest, the data would support that assumption.

The oddity of this is its longevity.  This is the sort of scene,
with different hairstyles, that I remember from my own school
experience.  It's a powerful thing that, look at the gender identity
in the clothing.
I guess I felt hard done to on some level as a consequence of my gender.  Yes, I know, a male in the patriarchy complaining about treatment at the hands of other people.  But there was something to it all, the girls had more interesting forms of expression in terms of art and in terms of clothing throughout my youth.  They had access to more styles, it was assumed that they got poetry and could sit alone in fields with flowers.  Colours were a girl's preserve and empathy and understanding seemed to be showered on them from all adults in authority.  I, on the other hand, was not understood, no one really wanted to hear about my inspirations or my hopes and dreams.  Honestly, I suppose I didn't really feel confident in sharing them eiether, some part of me was fascinated by girls and all of the attention.  Some part of me wanted to share that but I lacked the vocabulary to put that into words.

So, seriously, not the logo of the writing club at my school.  We
only had three members, so I doubt we warranted a logo.
It wasn't until my first year of secondary school that I was able to present some of the thoughts in my head in a coherent fashion, combining that, appropropriately enough, with the onset of puberty.  I joined a writing group after school and, in the course of other violent formative moments when the teasing by the girl there reached the point where I did stupid things like throw furniture and start fights, I wrote a fairly tame story entitled 'Boy to Girl'.  In that one short story of vague shitness I had articulated what was actually going on in my head, and it had taken until I was eleven years old to do it.  We'd moved house by that point and I can remember even then being fairly cagey about the story.

Most of my useless screed and novelisation attempts I shared openly with my family.  It was usually the same sort of progress.  I'd write some rather poor prose, my mother would read it with thinly veiled incomprehension, tell me all the spelling mistakes and grammar errors before pronouncing that it wasn't really to her taste (in fairness I would push her on this, to get a comment beyond proof-reading) and then it would be forgotten.  If I showed a second draft then it would be dealt with in the same way along with protestations that I was showing her a piece I'd already shown her and what else could I expect?  Anyway, the point is that despite these rather negative associations I would nevertheless show my work to my parents proudly each time.  Regardless of topic, regardless of how long it had taken I was a whore for commentary on my work and the only people I could really guilt into reading it were my parents.  My father usually took three or four weeks to read anything, it still takes him a while to read stuff, and so I usually plumbed for my mother who could at least read at something approaching a pace.  I always showed her what I'd written.  But not this story, not 'Boy to Girl'.  I showed it to my Dad, once, but never my Mum.  And I did not ask my Dad what he thought about it.  I simply asked him to read it.  He read it.  I then took it back and hid it in my wardrobe.  Dad made some kindly remarks about the way it was written and then I simply... left it alone.  I knew it was there, burning away like some dark secret, but I never did anything with it.

The cover of the copy I bought had
a red head in a red corset.  She was
clearly older than she wanted to be.

So what's the point?  Well, I suppose it's that this story marked my earliest realisation of my addiction, the earliest point that I knew what I was about.  The behaviour in hiding it and keeping it from view tells me that at eleven I was aware of what I was doing and that I attached some shame to the whole emotional roller-coaster that it brought on.  The onset of puberty had the effect of combining this realisation with other aspects of growing up, the more physical ones, and that too brought with it some amount of shame and guilt.  These were not things that I discussed with my parents, with anyone, and they were yet the closest I'd come to what made me unique and me.  Indeed, it was planning this post that brought it all to mind and clarified things in my head.  It would be several years until I bought a copy of Forum from a newsagent in the shopping centre in town and read a story about cross-dressing in there - where I traditionally marked my realisation that cross-dressing was a sexual act that I was interested in - and so this would be from somewhere else.

And that's a pretty big bombshell (thank you Clarkson) to end with.

Wednesday, 28 December 2011

In the Beginning...

Or, to put it more Biblically: Genesis.  One of the things I always come back to when musing on my addiction is when it started.  Not because this is some kind of large event that shaped who I am and therefore something I'm still recovering from nor even is it the traditional series of events that most people who blog or who write fiction over at that one site seem to suggest is the beginning of such a journey.

No, the reason I come back and back to this like a moth to the flame is because I don't know what that beginning was.  I have a memory, but by this point I've gone over it so much that I'm not even certain how the thing originally went down and how much I've modified and rationalised it over the years: to the point where I can't even say for certain when the memory was laid down.  In my head, I was six at the time - which would mean the house in which I remember the memory being laid is set out wrongly
This is one of the closest images I can find to illustrate what I
mean, it would have looked something like this.  The woman,
the mother, was brushing a pony tail.  I have no idea about clothing.
Did I mention I was blonde until the age of about five?
for the memory to take the form it does.  The other option is that I was walking from my brother's room (which, at the time, may not even have been my broher's room) to the bathroom.  Anyway, the exactitudes aren't important.  I simply remember glancing into my parent's room and seeing my mother brushing the hair of a young blonde girl at a vanity we didn't own.  Now, this may not actually have been my mother nor even our actual house.  At that time I did know someone called, oh I don't know, Phyllis Longbottom (note: names have been changed, in case that wasn't obvious) who did have a mother and blonde hair and did own a vanity.  It is eminently possible that I saw this at her house.  But that's not all, I also remember looking into that mirror at the same time and seeing the blonde girl looking back and the feeling of having my hair brushed.  Now, I have had my hair brushed so I know how that feels and, yes, it felt like my hair.

Part of all of this is the death of my eleven week old sister
some time around my second birthday.  It meant twice yearly
trips here with the family.  There's no record, of course, beyond
an entry in a book.  I believe that has been moved now, or the
entry removed as no longer relevant.  This may explain my issues
with death.  Spend time playing here as a three to twelve year old
and you'll see what I mean.  Displacement was obviously a big thing
in my family.  Could it be I subconciously knew that my parents
were jonesing for the daughter they no longer had?  It's
a little too 'neat' an explanation for my tastes.  I never knew her
and I don't believe I felt any ill-effects beyond my rather cold
method of viewing and dealing with death.
I suppose that the content of the memory is irrelevant beyond the point being made that at the age of about six I was aware that there were differences in the way that boys and girls were treated and there was some part of me that really wanted to be treated like a girl.  I sincerely doubt that my parents were dressing me as a girl and treating me in that manner, equally unlikely is the idea of anyone else's parents doing that.  In all probability the events about which I have a memory are a complete fabrication or some form of dream (I used to try and document all the dreams I had where there was a certain gender dysphoria but I, frankly, got bored and stopped).  From that moment on, and probably beforehand, I was pretty fascinated with girls and how they played with each other and boys.  I suspect it was one of the reasons that I was a pretty lonely boy myself and why I never really 'fit in' to a social group.  I had no love of football (always a bad sign) and wasn't really into 'rough and tumble'.

Of course, part of my aversion to 'rough and tumble' was more an aversion to dirt, which, in trun, stemmed more from my mother than anything else.  She didn't like mess in the house (we rarely painted
A random playground.  Apparently no one plays 'kiss chase'
any more.  Not because of Health and Safety, kids just don't
see much point in it.  Perhaps those gender barriers are already
falling and I'm the old fart keeping them around.  I'll be after your
brandy next!
and even had to have newspaper down to play with playdoh in the kitchen - more time was spent setting up these play sessions than was had in the playing, also lego), didn't enjoy the feeling of mud or water or sand on her feet (and so, as children, we weren't really allowed in it because she would have to fish us out) and usually complained about laundry if I came home muddy.  All this combined to make me a little aversive to muck and grime and that probably fed into the already slightly creepy way I watched girls playing.  The fact that I can remember being ever-so-slightly obsessed with a female class-mate at my first Primary school between the ages of four and five marks me out as a bit of an odd-fish all things considered.  I'm fairly certain that most five year old boys did not look on in wonderment at games of kiss-chase in the playground and wish to be caught by the girls even though they weren't playing the game in the first place.

There's the bondage element to all of this as well.  The love of feeling and being helpless in the thrall of someone else, and that someone is usually female in my memories.  It wasn't my mother though.  Being helpless with my mother was, and remains, a source of primal fear - there's no enjoyment there.  The helplessness that I craved as a child was firmly fixed upon my peers, or younger girls (usually a school year younger, they could be quite close to my own
Apparently there aren't any easily accessible shots of Penny
being all captured.  In fairness I did get a few episodes on DVD
and there were no examples of this particular fetish.  Maybe I made
it all up.
age, I'm a late birthday so this was quite common actually, the difference could be as little as a few months), and usually not overt.  That is, I sought situations where I would be doing things for these girls and entertaining them (not sexually, I was between the ages of five and eight here!  I had no idea what sex was).  If I played a hero then that hero would be caught by the bad guy.  I used to love the sections of Inspector Gadget where Penny would be caught by agents of MAD and tied up.  These were the bits that made me watch more.  When I moved and was being looked after by a family of a friend the pair of us used to play as puppies left in a pet shop, unloved and whatever, and I was always the one chained to a beanbag (out of choice and not actually chained and left).  He had short-sightedness and I remember being fascinated by the concept of having sight limited in some way, something that I do return to in some of my darkest fantasies and in trips to places like this.

I suspect I'm babbling, I'm not sure whether any of this is relevant, interesting or just plain stupid.  I suspect the latter.  I'm not even sure who I'm writing this all for.  None of this seems to be written for me, it's not like I'm ever going to check back.  A readership?  If I have one I think I'm slowly turning it off.

Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Mid Holiday Season

And things are going relatively well...

This is the thing that broke me on Christmas Eve.  It had me weeping in pain,
and yet... It was actually not the fault of the house.  I've looked it over now
that I don't have that headache and it's actually pretty simple: even I can do
it.  What concerns me about it all is that it took five hours to get this done!
I had my last therapy session and I was asked to record something, but I've completely forgotten what that was.  That splitting headacher got much worse and by Christmas Eve I was attempting to put together a doll's house for our children and weeping.  It was a relatively simple build but every five minutes I had to sit down, close my eyes and massage my temples, it hurt to even bend down to look at the screws, let along actually make my hand screw the dang things in with the tiny screwdriver I own for the purpose.  Whatever else can be said about my manliness, owning tools was something I made a pretty bad deal of.  I wasn't able to help wrap the rest of the presents for my children (the hour long task of doing the doll's house took about five) nor make up the bicycle for my daughter from my mother.  I essentially wimped out and went to bed.  Then I rolled from my pit (the sofa) about half eight the following morning, failed to get ready in time to take anyone to church, miserably failed to prevent the children opening a present my wife wanted to see them opening whilst she had a shower and fell asleep on the sofa again until about midday.  It pretty much sucked from my point of view, but at least the children had fun.

Because this is how it 'should be'.  God forbid
that the children should be allowed to mix.
Don't girls have cooties or something?
My Dad came over on Boxing Day, which was nice, and I did feel better, and today we went to the park and observed a family of three children whilst there.  The two boys were playing football, natch, and the girl was riding a pink bike.  So far so much the gender identity thing I was babbling about.  Then the girl wanted to join in.  At first the boys were simply openly hostile to her playing, which was fine and sibling rivalry I guess, but then it turned nastier.  The youngest simply asked her, repeatedly and with venom, if she was a boy, saracastically, as though the answer should obviously disqualify her from playing the game.  This wasn't such a terrible thing, I suppose, we're told that this is normal and that this is to be expected from boys and girls when placed in a social situation at a young age (the girl would have been about six or seven, the boys about eight and ten).  What shocked me was the reaction of the mother of this brrod who not only did nothing to prevent it but almost reinforced the behaviour when the older lad checked her first before joining in.  Her silence effectively set the roles.

Meh, I'm getting all worked up about nothing I expect, it's the Christmas season and tempers get frayed.  The girl was riding a pastel pink bicycle and the boys had crew cuts, what exactly was I expecting?

My ire on this issue is interesting to me though, something I'll no doubt reflect on later.

Friday, 23 December 2011

A conundrum

There's loads I want to say here, but it is close to Christmas and perhaps not the time.  Also, I have a more festively linked question that I'm turning over in my mind.

Warning, doing this in front of your own children will not
only scar them but may harm the development of their own
gender identity!  This may lead to all kinds of psychological
problems that seeing a woman in trousers or a shirt will not
because that would be sexist!  Selfish male crossdressers,
hide your shame!
When I was doing some light reading over the whole issue of cross-dressing back in the Summer I noticed that most psychiatric papers on the subject that were freely available enough for me to find and read without paying for it, even the sympathetic ones (the ones that did not advise the wives of cross-dressers to leave them lest they be left when the men had sex-changes or revealed further secrets that were even worse), advised against sharing any aspect of the behaviour with children.  It was claimed that men sharing this side of themselves (but, not, interestingly female to male cross-dressers) with their children at the wrong moment could harm their important gender identity in their formative years.  The article I linked in the last post gave me more ammunition to fire at this than I had at the time, but still, I wonder what all this gender identity is about.  Even the Bible is silent but for one verse on the subject and the translation of that implies that men should not pass off as women for the purposes of deception and women ought not to seek male roles (which, if you think about it, makes sense, but that's a topic for another time about what male roles actually are).

So who does a clearly defined gender identity actually serve?  At least, who is served by the current prevalent views of gender identity?

This is, of course, perfectly safe.  Not at all
sinister in how it protrays the roles of women
and men.
However, there was no mention in any of this literature, nor most serious looks at the topic, of pantomime dames or rugby club cross-dressing barcrawls.  Why?  If children are going to be scarred and damaged for life because a male parent sometimes wears clothes originally designed for the opposite gender (though even that is fraught with historical difficulties) won't they be scarred by these activities?  I mean, okay, you could argue that the fact that these pantomime dames etc aren't their parents but... what if they are?  Should fathers not participate in any cross-dressing activities of any kind?

Or is it that men in women's apparel are figures of fun and derision, that women's clothes in general mark them out as somehow less deserving of respect, and that women ought to dress more like men to be taken seriously in the hard-nosed society in which we live.  Therefore, anyone seriously wishing to swim against that tide, women expressing femininity or men expressing the same, should be seen as less worthy.  Women can't help it, of course, they were born that way, so the derision is lessened, but 'effective women' don't dress like that or express their femininity all the time, that would be weakness.  Men, on the other hand, choosing to take that weaker and derided role must expect hatred and derision.  Ergo, no child needs that psychological burden of uselessness placed upon them by their parents, but can quite happily partake of 'fun' in controlled circumstances.

Right now I have a splitting headache, any more I have to say will have to wait for another time.

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

An interesting article

There's not a lot else to say, but I found this interesting.


Think that I may have been saying too much of all the wrong things on here lately, may have lost sight of the purpose of this record.  Certainly I think I ought to do more than I do in my line of work about gender variance having read that article.
Is it really so strange, odd and otherwise unsettling?  My boy is
absolutely convinced he's three and a half and is basing that on
my daughter, who is.  Should I do more to break down the gender
divide at home than I do?

Monday, 19 December 2011

My addiction and my life

This is a theme that I may return to, but I'm not sure.  The purpose of this record has changed and continues to take on more and more aspects that I wasn't expecting, but the fundamentals remain, I suppose.  One of the things that I often wonder about the most is why.  Why do I find such happiness, such freedom and liberation, in wearing clothes that were primarily designed for women?

Not sure about the earrings
but seriously, who wouldn't
be confident dressed like
Back in July I was having a pretty bad time of things at work and, if I'm honest, it was all getting a bit on top of me.  I wasn't coping with things well, I was rather depressed, very stressed out but also keen to move on and do better.  I had recently gained a new part to my role at work and was very happy about that but stressed that it wouldn't turn out as I wanted it to.  I mean, it was the sort of thing that I'd been helping out with for a very long time but now it was officially my responsibility and so it became frightening, like I might drop the ball at any moment and now it would matter.  That, I think, is the root cause of most of my stress and issues: the feeling that once something becomes expected of me I am more likely to mess it all up.

In an effort to stop myself focussing on the negative and, instead, to focus on making the changes I wanted to make now that I was officially in charge of this new role I decided on an experiment.  The first day I was a hive of activity, I've not worked at that rate for a very long time!  I spent the day networking, preparing and otherwise making my presence felt in a way that I haven't done since I started in this job - and by 'this job' I mean since the beginning, not since I've been working at where I am this time round (long story, basically, I worked harder and more effectively than I have for at least seven years).  However, the come-down from all that activity was massive and the evening became difficult.  I was tired.

It was actually my first Relentless, possibly
my first energy drink, but I can't vouch for that.
The next morning I decided to use an energy drink.  Now, I don't usually drink energy drinks and my usual liquid intake is fairly minimal.  I've taken to skipping breakfast due to the stress of last year and this was no exception, I didn't have a breakfast and that was not unusual.  Furthermore, I don't drink hot drinks, for some reason, and I'm not that partial to cola or anything like that.  This means that caffeinated drinks have a singular effect on me and can keep me buzzing for most of the day.  True enough, the energy drink allowed me another day of phenomenal work-rate and gifted me some confidence to deal with some of the obstacles that had been thrown up the previous day.  However, once again there was the massive come-down in the evening, thankfully after the children were asleep, but it was clear that I could not maintain this level of work by the methods being employed.

Here they are again, amazing how much mileage I get out of
these, I bought them for a fiver on eBay way back in 2005.
The third morning I tried something different: I wore my favourite knickers.  It worked.  I wasn't really sure what I was expecting and being cross-dressed at work, even something as private as knickers, was something that I've resisted since first starting in 2004.  The effect was, well, for lack of a better term, electric.  Once again I had the energy, granted not as much as the previous two days, but, most importantly, I had the confidence to deal with people.  I stopped fretting about how I would come across and whether or not I was being 'nice' enough and, instead, just got on with things.  It meant that, by the end of the day, I had organised pretty much all of the global concerns I had with the new post and begun to plan for the beginning of my new era.  And, the main difference, there wasn't the same massive come-down at the end of it all.  By the end of the day I still felt confident and happy, okay, I was also considerably more tired than I had been on the evenings of the previous two days but I put that down to the artificial effects that I had used.

There was only one fly in the ointment.  I hadn't told my wife, and that made me feel pretty guilty.  It also meant that I didn't wear the knickers again the following day, or the next.  I felt that I wasn't being totally honest with Tilly and it was something that I felt needed to be shared.  It was something that I believed was necessary.  I should point out that we hadn't had sex since our son was conceived and, before then, since our daughter was conceived.  This had included our wedding night.  Okay, there's more there, but this is not the time.  We had discussed things and come to the conclusion that she wanted to be 'wooed', she wanted some emotional connection - something I was eager to supply.  One of my complaints about the week where our son was conceived was that the sex was, well, sex.  It wasn't that loving, it was almost purely physical, and I wanted more emotional content too.  Part of that, to me, appeared to be honesty.  I couldn't so very well 'woo' my wife if I were keeping something this momentous and important from her.

After about a week of wrestling with it, I told my wife.  We had had a number of conversations throughout the summer regarding my depression and my struggle to cope at work and the cross-dressing had come up a number of times.  We had discussed it in some depth, focussing on my motivations and the feelings and I honestly believed that she and I were getting to the point where we could make a breakthrough.  I wasn't so sure about whether or not it was an aspect of myself that I wanted to keep around, given how much antipathy she had for it, and so this event seemed worthy of discussion.

I was stroking her hair, something she likes a lot, when I brought it up.  She clammed up and shut up.  It was frosty.  Her mother was over that week and, well, we just didn't talk.  At all.  I broached this silence once, but got short shrift.  Of course, appearances were maintained and in front of the children it was business as usual.  When it was just us, she would find something else to do or go to bed.  Where she would fall asleep.

It was a week after her mother left that I broached it again.  It was then that we had the arguments, when she told me that it was all very seedy, when she got even more angry and upset because I couldn't understand why she was so angry and upset about everything.  And, as I've said, I still can't.  She wanted me to stop it all, wanted it all to end, wanted the cross-dressing over.  She said that it was fine to discuss things when it was something that was in the past, but when it was the present, when it was actually going on, she just couldn't think straight about it.  She told me that if I felt shame and guilt then it was probably something worth feeling shame and guilt over, something that was dark and private was probably dark and private for a reason.  I genuinely worried for our relationship.  I went to a therapist, I started therapy, and I explained that I wanted the cross-dressing to stop.  My therapist's reaction was similar to my wife's, though more muted.

I saw my vicar.  Surprisingly he was more supportive.

That was the beginning of the present journey.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

An Episode

Hurrah, I took a picture.  Not sure this does them justice but
at least I don't have to keep poorly describing them.  My
favourite pair of knickers - now there's a phrase I never
thought I'd be typing.
This is not a first: at a computer when dressed; but it is a first for this blog and certainly since I started thinking about it all again more clearly and with some kind of aim in mind.  I'm in my silk effect (for it's entirely artificial) candy pink chemise from ASDA that I can't seem to find a picture of online, sitting on the sofa that is set up to be my bed.  Beside me are the knickers I keep banging on about and, just before I go to sleep tonight I shall put them on, but the physical effects of dressing are such that I'll probably hold them in reserve for now.  The chemise, if that is what it is, is unironed and it really does show.  The knickers aren't terribly well cared for either.  They were once, I owned both before my wife moved in, and they didn't get a great deal of use.

I've spent a long time thinking through what I was going to write here and, I have to say, this wasn't one of the things that I envisaged.  At some point I'm going to have to tell the story of how I got to be here, because that's the sort of thing that I do: I'm honest in all the wrong ways!

Naughty naughty, I didn't check where this image actually came
from, but I would so love to wear this number to sleep.  It
looks awesome and like it would be really comfortable.
The material feels lovely when I brush my arms across it and warm against my skin, so much nicer than the normal pyjamas that I have on standby near my feet: they are rather old though.  The plan was to throw them out when I bought new back in 2005, but I'm frugal to the point of fault and so I still have them and use them.  Pathetic really.  I can happily spend the money I do on this addiction but I can't upgrade my pyjamas.  On that note, I really need to get some presents for Tilly in the coming week, from the children you understand (being quite young they're not really at the stage of doing it themselves, nor helping to choose, my daughter is still at the stage of revealing any such endeavours very quickly, which sort of spoils the surprise).

After the discovery, on the following Monday, Tilly texted me at work to explain that my daughter was drawing pictures of "Daddy in his dress" and that she didn't really know how to respond.  She elected to simply say nothing and change the subject.  When I got home that night I asked her how she would have responded before the discovery, intending to allay her fears and point out that such a response would still have been fine, but Tilly's answer cut me rather short.  "I'd have explained that Daddys don't usually wear dresses, but I can't now can I?" she looked at me, "Besides, I wasn't telling you to get advice, I was just letting you know in case it came up".  If I was clever I'd have been able to say: "Daddy doesn't usually dress in dresses."  But I didn't, and that wasn't really the point anyway.

Thursday, 15 December 2011

My addiction and my wife

I think it's worth pointing out a few things.

These are not the handcuffs that I took to the four poster
bed but they are rather similar.
Firstly, the fact that I did tell Tilly, repeatedly, about my little addiction long before we were married.  We had set up a long weekend in a hotel to consummate our relationship about a month and a half in, saying a lot about us as people I suppose, with a four-poster bed and breakfast in our room.  I prepared for this, it was to be my first full-on sexual encounter that would involve penetrative intercourse and I was excited and looking forward to the experience.  I bought rose petals to scatter on the bed, roses to present to my beloved and a pair of handcuffs.  Another of my predilictions is bondage after all.  Now, Tilly knew about the handcuffs thing already, we had experimented a little with the whole tying up thing a little at her flat - mainly me tying her and usually with no real aim to incapacitate or to restrain, just to feel the binding.  Tilly was not impressed and did not venture forth with the handcuffs.  Made the four-poster a bit of a waste in my opinion.  There we did discuss the cross-dressing urges I had.  Briefly, she didn't want to talk about it.  I had mentioned it to her before then too, and there was no further discussion.

This is the look that I was aiming for, I
guess.  Needless to say I didn't even
come close!
She moved in a few months later and I mentioned it again, more insistently.  Tilly asked if I'd done it since she moved in.  I hadn't.  She nodded and that was the end of that.  We prepared to be married and, as part of those preparations, we went to our local vicar and he asked us to fill in some sheets about ourselves that we could give to one another - to ensure that we had shared all we wanted to and to try and avoid secrets between us becoming a problem.  This, I felt, was a pretty laudable aim.  Again, I mentioned the cross-dressing on the sheet and, again, Tilly did not really want to discuss it.  She asked if I had done it at all since last she asked, and I hadn't, so she dropped it and nothing more was said.  I got the hint this time and didn't try to bring it up again for another three years.  I did dress though, but in secret, when Tilly was out at work or something.  I would get all dressed up and sit on the internet in the kitchen, usually viewing porn sites if I'm honest, and getting my 'kicks' from that rather than from being dressed.  It didn't really evoke the same feelings as the events that started this record as it was so rushed, so forbidden.  Of course the over-riding feeling was a sexual one followed almost immediately by guilt and shame.

So, with all of this in mind, I confess to being confused, to this day, by Tilly's angry reaction to my broaching the subject again in July 2011.  I had mentioned it in passing in 2010 whilst she was in therapy and I was having a crappy year but I really brought it up as a discussion in July.  She finally read a conversation that I'd had online years ago about the motivations for dressing and was angry, upset and non-comprehending of any of it, having previously seeming quite supportive when assuming, and I stress assuming for I had given no indication of it, that my whole habit was in the past.

Perhaps iconic films like Psycho have much to do
with the demonisation for cross-dressing...
Secondly, I am an angry person.  I don't deal well with being challenged because I- No, a better way to put this.  I do not respect myself, at all.  I do not like myself: I am selfish, self-obsessed and all round venal.  Cross-dressing is the most selfish thing I do and I do not have a valid reason for my doing it.  More to the point, the nature of it leads me to behave in a secretive and dishonest manner.  There is an assumption on my part, perhaps by society at large, that cross-dressing is somehow awful and evil, twisted and strange.  Homosexuality is generally more acceptable than cross-dressing because people see a kind of honesty in it, in that people are acting out in a particular way their own sexuality and they are honest in pursuing their feelings.  There is love, there is affection and there is trust.  All of these things are positive and healthy and so homosexuality, practised in the open, is seen as honest and healthy.  Most homophobes seem most scared of the secretive homosexuality that might somehow infect them with 'gay' when they aren't looking - the ridiculous fear.  Ergo, it is generally accepted and acceptable.  Cross-dressing is not.  People seem to fear it because of the implied dishonesty and the fear of being fooled.

Tilly's dress is like this, but green and fastens
in the back with a zip that's practically
invisible.  It was nice, but it was hers, so not
something I could actually wear!
I've said before in this record that I don't think I would be fooling anyone.  However, I do feel shame and I do try and keep my habit secret and private.  I say in my profile that I rather like the anonymity of this blog to allow me to speak freely.  Were I proud of what I do or in some other way comfortable with who I am then I would not need that cloak of ridiculous anonymity, a pseudonym and a picture culled from another site which, in itself, was culled from somewhere else.  I would amalgamate this blog with the one I also try to run on parenthood.  The two would be fine.  When Tilly found my wardrobe in front of the children I would have come clean to them and explained that sometimes their Daddy likes the feel and the freedom of clothes essentially designed for women.  I was going to type 'women's clothes' but they're not - mostly they were bought by me.  I think I could assert ownership over all those items discovered, though I have borrowed my wife's jacket and tried on her Chinese style dress, and some jewellry.  All of those latter things are bad because they are, to all intents and purposes, theft.  I digress.  The fact is that I did not 'come clean' to my children, I still hide that aspect of me from them.

Okay, this is mainly focussed on the cross-dressing, but it could go for other aspects of my life that I dislike about myself as well.  The point is that I do not hold myself in terribly high regard.  This leads to a problem when dealing with people whom I consider my equals or betters - I find it hard to deal with challenge in an appropriate and healthy way.  Instead, I get angry.  And I resign myself to failure before I even open my mouth.  This leads me to say and do some pretty hurtful things to my wife, my family and my work colleagues.  Part of me wants others to feel the way that I have created in my head that I was made to feel.  Of course I wasn't really made to feel in any particular way, this is a layer that I have placed over everything in order to ameliorate the guilt.

So, whilst I technically haven't lied to my wife and I still can't understand, much less forgive, her angry reactions to my cross-dressing; I remain deeply convinced that she is right: it is sick and perverted in some way, something to be ashamed of and to seek to end.  Something that I cannot share with the woman with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, ever, and something that she will never be able to accept.

So much for the title of the blog...

Wednesday, 14 December 2011


There was a long rant that I wrote after the last entry but I've decided that I'm not going to update that here.  mainly because the rant is self serving and it is rather negative.  The upshot is as the last entry has it: I lied to my wife and I paid the price.  Perhaps as a result of that we had a silly argument about lunch (of all things) on the following day, which was a Saturday.  Essentially I have a lot of anger in me.

However, the point of this blog is to talk positively about my habits and life in general and so perhaps this is not the best place to wax lyrical about all of the negatives.  Besides, I found this post on Sex Addiction on another blog that, scarily, accurately sums up the entire cycle I have with dressing and checking other blog sites.  Right down to the reasons, or potential reasons, so I found that independent verification fascinating, full credit to Kristina X.

This is pretty close to the chemise,
mine's from 2006 and George, with
a straighter neck line, lined with cheap
lace effect.  It's a lighter pink too.
Anyway, positives.  On the night after discovery of all my recent wardrobe I had a long rant and then settled down to sleep in a satin effect pink chemise from ASDA that I'd bought ages ago.  This was planned all that Saturday, taking time to find the item (most of my wardrobe remains in a drawer and this particular item was stuffed right at the back of it), then smuggling it downstairs and collecting the knickers that I wanted to wear with it.  These were the ones from the rucksack, my favourites I suppose, as they are elasticated around the waist and legs, with the fabric ruched(sp?) around the elastic.  There's a polka dot bow on one side, the left, that's sewn in place with two long trailing bits of fabric.  It's a light pink with the same purple as the main body.  It took me the best part of the day to make sure that these two items were where I needed them.

That night, after writing my diatribe, I put them both on.  I tightened the straps, spaghetti style, of the chemise and left it to gfall about.  I even managed to avoid the usual physical aspects of dressing and focussed on the 'feel' of the ensemble.  It seemed to work.  I think I recaptured part of that feeling from the first occasion in this account.  I felt whole, I felt like me.  It was tinged with guilt and sadness though.  I knew that I was indulging as a direct response to the events of the previous two days and as a means of upholding some rather poorly constructed sense of self.  It was masquerading for a more permanent and appropriate support for worth and it was a pale comparison.  However, it was hard not to get involved in the feeling of tightness around my shoulders as I moved in the duvet, I've been sleeping on the sofa (it's a mattress really) for a number of months now, allowing me to carry out these night-time excursions with relative ease without fear of discovery.

If I had a bust, I'd like to try something like this.
Because of it's length and the sheer impracticality!
As it happened,  slept lightly as I always do when sleeping dressed.  I usually relax better but it does mean that I get woken by noises and movement more easily.  On the one hand this is an effective defence mechanism as it means that I am alert to anyone that may come in (I'm thinking children or wife) but on the other this does mean that when our children have a night waking, as they did, I get up as well.  Part of the reasoning for me sleeping on the sofa is so that I can sleep properly and function at work (the main source of stress in my life if I'm honest).  Our daughter was sick in the night.  I had to throw on my proper pyjamas over the top of the chemise and the knickers and hope no one noticed.  I don't think that anyone did but after I'd helped with the clean up and wrangling of our son I didn't feel safe enough to keep wearing them, no matter how nice it felt, and so ditched them.  Afterwards, my regular pyjamas felt... less nice.

There's a whole lot more going on, and now it is time for me to cease recording this for now.  I shall return to it later.

Sunday, 11 December 2011


2nd December 2011
Tilly found my bag.  I had been condensing my wardrobe into my rucksack, which I had stored near the backdoor beneath a whole bunch of other stuff.  The idea was that it would be out of the way whilst still being accessible.  But Tilly found it, this morning.  And she looked through everything that was in there.  Which means that she found her old top, and everything else I haven’t written about in here yet – I dressed one weekend and added a sanitary towel, because I was interested, no other reason, it wasn’t anything interesting in the end but I hadn’t thrown it all away yet.
Bag like this, full of my 'wardrobe', had
been lurking in the kitchen by the back
door under a load of stuff.  Safe?  No.
I came home, Tilly mentioned that she wanted a ‘chat’.  She detailed what she’d found.  She was angry at being lied to. Twice.  She’d previously found some of the stash and I had denied ownership, she had believed me.  I had also said I wasn’t wearing her stuff, but one of her old tops was in there, so she felt betrayed.  She felt that if I could lie to her without her noticing so easily then I could lie to her about anything.  And she felt stupid for not noticing the lie.  After all, the first one was ridiculous, she knew that, but she believed it and now she felt stupid.  She was keen not to ‘blow it all up’ but she wanted assurances.  As usual I could not offer them.  I have previously waxed lyrical about my ability to twist the truth, how I do it without realising and don’t mean to lie but end up doing it anyway.  Tilly has never believed that.  Now she has proof.
She didn’t want to know anything else, she had no questions about what she found, apart from the sanitary towel, and was not interested in whether they had been used recently or not.  She did not want to know why they were there, she said she had no demands, she wants nothing from the conversation, she just wanted to let me know and have an assurance that I would not lie to her knowingly.  What is that worth?  She has it, of course she has it, but is it worth when I’ve already done it, twice?
And I feel bad.  Really bad.  She shouldn’t have found the bag.  I didn’t know what else to do on the two occasions, of course I lied, the alternative was great anger and upset and ructions.  The top in question was thrown out by Tilly a good two months before I appropriated it.  It doesn’t matter.  Like Tilly said: it felt a bit weird for her.  No amount of ‘lawyer-ing’, her term, would make that feeling go away, no matter how I twisted things.  She’s right, I have proved my ability to manipulate people and events, to twist words and meanings and to lie with a straight face.
I’ve been sleeping dressed now and again, it’s a habit I’ve never really lost but it’s infrequent, because it’s comfortable, it’s nice.  But I haven’t dressed for two weeks.  Thursday a few weeks ago as it happens, I was on strike and Tilly was out.  Seemed like a good idea.  I marked in my new dress, with the shoes, in tights, the top and a stuffed bra.  I enjoyed it.  It was nice.  Now that feeling is ash, hedonistic pleasure in the short term exchanged for cold reality and guilt in the real world.  Nothing happens without consequence, no action has no effect, and nothing I ever do comes without strings attached or guilt as part of the baggage.  I’d managed to avoid it so far, but it couldn’t last forever.  Today… Today it caught up.  Properly.  And there are no excuses.  No second chances.  No way out.
I’m sick, possibly?  This isn’t right.  It’s never been right.  Being ‘nice’ or making me happy doesn’t make it right.  But lying to Tilly sure as Hell makes it wrong.  Betraying her trust makes it wrong.  The guilt and the ash and the horrible feeling in my bones makes it wrong.  And my continuing desire to engage in the activity makes me wrong.
Tilly’s doing my CBT questionnaire now.  She’s just pointed out that she doesn’t like me or Lauren in the conversation in that.  It’s interesting, when I’m honest about my life, I am the bad guy.  I am.  Confirmation has now been given.  I thought my therapist looked a little differently at me after reading the information that it was carved from.  I thought I would come out as in the wrong, and at least I was right about that.  Further confirmation that I am not a terribly nice person.  I lie, I cheat, I manipulate, I’m incompetent and I have a serious perversion that negatively affects my day to day life.  Is therapy enough?
I started this, I think, to record that odd feeling I had when I first dressed since my therapy began.  I tried to document that feeling of happiness.  As if that could be separated.  Instead, it has become a document that charts how that goes.  It has become a place to confirm that the reasons I have for feeling I am a horrible person are, well, correct.
Fucking bastard.  Fucking, waste-of-space, lazy-arse, shit-headed bastard.  I want an end to me.

Friday, 9 December 2011

Time Out

This blog has the potential to get rather too serious, and the last entry was pretty serious.  The next one is also pretty serious, and this is supposed to be documenting some of the more positive aspects of my life.  So, I'm going to break into the 'catch-up' here and list a few things that bring me pleasure on the intarwebs: webcomics!

http://www.sinfest.net/ - surprisingly effective theology and debate
http://www.reallifecomics.com/ - I'm not sure I like the underlying parental philosophy but it is funny
http://www.sheldoncomics.com/ - It's just good, really good
http://www.pvponline.com/ - again, it's a laugh, innit
http://www.penny-arcade.com/ - I'm not a gamer geek, but I do like the humour and it keeps me up to date
www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php - awesome, that is all, want the main character's wardrobe
http://www.drmcninja.com/ - it's just about as stupid as you can get and remain funny
http://www.dilbert.com/ - never been a cubicle dweller but my old Uni used to contribute
http://www.scarygoround.com/ - off-beat and British, an oddity
http://www.questionablecontent.net/ - off-beat and Statesian, which is fine
http://www.schlockmercenary.com/ - sci-fi space opera with guns and humour, yes please
http://www.sluggy.com/ - not so good these days, but I was following in '98...
http://www.shortpacked.com/ - I like Willis...
http://www.dumbingofage.com/ - See?
http://www.skin-horse.com/ - recent discovery, start from the beginning to see why
http://www.megatokyo.com/ - I really like the art
http://www.misfile.net/ - I feel I can identify on some level, or rather, I would like to

Well, that should do it (and break up the steadily rising tide of guilt and whatnot on this blog).

Thursday, 8 December 2011

The Guilt Arrives

28th October 2011
A short entry.  The guilt has finally arrived with this whole thing.  In two instalments: one, handing this record over to my CBT professional for some reason that I can’t really fathom (I’m fairly certain that’s not why I was writing it) and two, I own the dress referred to above, at the cost of £8.

I so own that dress.  The heels,
not so much - can't find them.
On the first; I don’t quite know why I wanted to hand it over, I know that I did or I wouldn’t have done so.  In the event I quoted from this record to help explain a point and then handed the whole damn’ thing over before I had time to think twice about it.  I’m not sure what reaction I’m expecting but I don’t believe that any good will come of it.  I read a little of my last coded attempt at a diary as well and have discovered that, yes, I’ve been circling the issues here for a while now.  The only difference being that back then I hadn’t dressed in any female clothing, I just fantasised about it.  I guess I’m living those dreams, but what will the cost be?  I’m sure it won’t be cheap, apart from the monetary cost (of which more in a moment).  No, now that I have passed this record on, and ranted about how no one actually reads anything I write, I’m going to have to deal with the fact that someone else has read it and will have read it carefully.  I may have to face questions on it.  And that’s not all, is it?
No, today I’ve had a major trigger and I’m back in the stressing zone again.  I haven’t dressed.  I want to, but any time spent on that (or this) is, of course, time I am not spending being productive for work.  Another day spent being a taxi for my wife and her magazine, another day of family stuff that is necessary, is good for my spawn but another day in which I can’t actually focus on work.  And a day in which I receive an e-mail asking for more from me in terms of work.  I’m not sure what it is that I do wrong at work, why it is that I cannot anticipate such demands and actually have everything done that I need to have done.  The fact remains that I never am prepared enough and that I never do have all the things done that need to be done by the time they need to be done by.  For that reason I find such extra things and reminders to be exceptionally difficult to deal with.  Especially when it is my job and all and there is no getting around the fact that I ought to have done more.  When I was in the place of the colleague who complained I would have done the job, regardless of whose job it was supposed to be, but this colleague is doing the right thing by shunting it upwards.  And I care.  Which is, of course, the problem.  Also, the consequences of not doing more have been spelled out, my worst fears have been realised and they were just as bad (worse in some cases) as I feared.

And we know that he
looks better than I do

So, to sum up, I am freaked out by handing something this personal on to someone else to read (someone I have referred to in the record no less) and I’ve managed to do this just before some other major stress hits my life.  To compound the stupidity of it all, there won’t be another session for two weeks.  Great.  I have lots of time to invent scenarios for how this will all turn out all the while doing nothing toward actually setting up an experiment that may actually begin to tackle some of the stupid issues that I need to get under control or otherwise deal with.
On the second, I’ve now spent £13 on female attire for myself.  My one and only fully and truly and undeniably (more importantly the last one I suppose) selfish act.  There is no greater good to be served by my buying of heels and a dress, even the dress that I pictured at the end of the last entry.  There is no greater plan to be made from owning these items apart from wearing them in secret and planning how I can get out and wear the dress, tights and heels for a walk longer than the length of the house.  There is nothing to be gained from that, nothing but my own perverse sense of pleasure mingled with eroticism.  I claim it’s more than the physical but I can’t deny that every session has ended in exactly the same way.  Nor can I deny that I’m extending the scenario every time, like a drug addict who has to keep upping the dose to get the same high, and that I’m now adding handcuffs to the whole thing in my head, plotting out where to leave the key so I can walk away and come back to it unmolested and enjoy the feeling of being trapped.  Yeah, that’s right, a summer dress in the depths of winter alone.  That’s a recipe for disaster if ever there was one and I’m still planning it and liking the idea whilst accepting that it is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought of doing.  What is wrong with me whereby I plan this out and actually consider it as a conceivable course of action?
And then there’s the finances.  I’m skating perilously close to the edge, I’ve already had to borrow one thousand pounds from my wife in order to avoid financial ruin.  Read that again: £1,000!  I only get paid two thousand a month.  We pay £677 on the mortgage.  £1,000!  How am I ever going to pay that back to my wife?  Or the approximately £900 she’s already subbed me in previous years.  I must owe her about £3,000 now.  Looking at my finances, I can’t even pay back the £24 she fronted to pay for a bloody magazine subscription last month.  But somehow, magically, I can afford to spend £13 on female clothing that only I will enjoy, in secret, with lying becoming part of the bargain.  What the Hell is going on here?  Thing is, all of this was a known factor before I got round to buying either of the fuckers and I still did it.  I’m supposed to be creating a situation where I feel better about who I am and about living in my own skin.  Instead, I’m sabotaging this and creating a situation in which I’ll stew in my own juices.  Owning the clothing is better than borrowing it (which is vile and a form of theft let’s not forget) but not insofar as it is costing actual money that we simply don’t have as a family.  Clothing theft is one thing but I have literally stolen £13 from my children and my wife.  As surely as if I’d broken into the piggy-bank and taken the small change, I have taken funds that were for all of us and then used them to lubricate my own shameful desires – the sort of thing I even find difficult to talk to Him Upstairs about.  Indeed, the root of why I’m avoiding church and all things associated with it – because God doesn’t deserve to be sullied by me doing this and then turning up and offering worship.
It’s not worship when you’re selfish, you’re no living sacrifice is you don’t actually sacrifice anything.  I’m not a proper Christian because I can’t ask forgiveness of the sin when I do it in the first place not only knowing that it is a sin but planning the next time I do it as well.  How does that even work?  Where does forgiveness and repentance fall in that line of reasoning?  Why must I type is rhetorical questions when I tell my students that they are crutches for poor analytical skills?
Yeah, he's more convincing than me.
The worst part of it all is that I like the dress.  I do.  When I get round to wearing it with tights and the heels I will probably really enjoy it (though the initial try on suggested that a stuffed bra might be in order to help the hemline fall correctly) and I probably will find a way to walk out for a long distance without arousing too much suspicion or running too much of a risk of discovery.  And I also know that at some point I will spend £9 on some more heels.  Why?  Because I’ve opened something up and, despite everything, I do enjoy it.  And I’m an addict.  Unless there’s a form of rehab, unless I want to end all of this, I not only won’t end it, I will ramp it up.  Until it goes into remission and I wait for the next time.

Monday, 5 December 2011

Going Out

24th October 2011

Today I did it, I went out for a walk in a skirt and heels.  I had to walk a long way to find somewhere to change into these as I couldn’t so very well leave the house thus attired without my wife seeing what I
These shoes would be brilliant:
non-slippy soles and a heel!
was wearing and doing.  Something I don’t think she wants to see, particularly, and not something I feel ready to deal with.  I found a back alley and was caught with my trousers down (quite literally) but with heels on, by a figure approaching, prompting me to run quite a distance into the darkness and to hide behind a bush for a while.  This actually summed up the two over-riding feelings of the experience: walking in heels was everything that I had hoped it would be, being exciting and also feeling like I was being myself; and that keeping myself from being ‘outed’ by strangers was actually the over-riding concern, which was something of a buzz-kill.
Don’t get me wrong.  The purpose of my little jaunt was not to get my rocks off or even to have a jolly, it was simply to walk a long distance in high heels, something I could not do in the house and something that I have been wanting to do since I bought the heels.  This has now been achieved.  At first I walked further down the uneven back alley with a skirt and heels but then I turned down a street and had a walk on a path.  It was actually difficult to work out how to walk in the heels, I’m rather used to taking long strides and hitting my heels down hard, but once I got the hang of smaller steps that was fine for a while.  I changed out of the skirt though, so I could walk along the main road back to the bottom of my street, I would have liked to keep the skirt on, but I figured that I would be better able to hide the heels than the fact that I was wearing a skirt.  This was proved by passing cars and a cyclist, none of whom noted my choice of footwear but who would have noted my skirt had I been wearing one still.
Coming back down my own road was an exercise in trying to avoid being seen, or, at least, avoid my heels being seen by people who live close by.  I don’t quite know why this was important save for the embarrassment that would surely follow someone questioning my reasons for wearing inappropriate footwear (and it was inappropriate, I am ever more confused as to why women wear heels for fun, unless they get the same feeling I did).  My calves hurt, going down slopes was next to impossible, steps were a challenge, I had to walk toe to heel, with heels in and toes out, crossing my centre of balance and I had to take much smaller steps than I was used to.  Running across the road took three times as many steps as I’m used to and wasn’t much quicker than my walking pace – which was actually pretty fantastic – though it made me feel quicker.
I so want that dress and heels!
The noise was also brilliant, the clacking of the shoes actually caused by the toes hitting the deck rather than the heel, as I’d always assumed.  There was the odd crunch that women make on the tarmac, and I experienced it too.  Also, there was the fact that my legs hurt up the back – but it was a soft hurt and one that, even now, makes me feel like it was me that was out there doing the walking.  I even chatted to God once I braved the path in the woods I had originally set out to walk.  This was done due to the realisation that there was nothing to fear in there: I was the pervert in the woods.  In heels, so hardly a threat to anyone.  If anything I felt less secure when I was wearing trainers, that’s when I started to feel jumpy and scared of the shadows, in heels I felt that I could take on the world.  I do, I love my heels.  If I could, I would buy more, but £5 is enough to try and hide at this stage, I would have to save up before buying more and I think a proper long dress is in order first, or some other way of going out dressed.  Changing in the dark with the fear of discovery is a bad plan, and likely to get me reported to the Police, and not without good reason I suppose, one looks rather suspicious crouching in the bushes changing clothing!
No, it was a worthwhile experiment.  I doubt it fills any of God’s purposes or plans for my life, but then I don’t seem to do any of that anywhere else in my life either, and like I said to Him myself: it felt like I was me out there.  I genuinely enjoyed myself, I felt as though I was the one doing the walking.  It was liberating, feeling as though I was constrained, and I loved the fact that I was walking in heels.  I loved the noise, the feeling, the pain even.  It wasn’t pain.  It was muscles adapting to a new way of doing things.
Again, I’m not certain why I decided to do it, nor why I am recording it, but I do know that I enjoyed it, am glad I did it and am planning to do it again.