The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

I’ve lost my mojo — September 13, 2018

I’ve lost my mojo

Well, this is a turn up for the books.  Two quick blog entries.  The previous one was something that had been being penned for a while but merely not posted.  This is something entirely different.

This week, rather than driven by the total and utter motivation to get up and dress, one morning this week couldn’t have been further from the truth.  There was no inclination whatsoever – in fact, quite the opposite.  It offered little interest.

The previous morning was probably a step on the way to today.  That morning, I decided to dress in a white cami-suspender, g-string, matching white stockings and breast forms and somewhat lethargically and half-heartedly put myself before my web cam once more, signing into a few more social media presences, one of which was the base for a conversation and invitation to go on a private 1-on-1 session within a matter of only a few minutes.

Retrospectively at least, I objected to what I had allowed to be a distinct lack of control on my part during that session.  I don’t necessarily like to control any conversation but I allowed myself to play second fiddle in this one, objecting from within, yet going along with it for some bizarre reason.

After a while, I began making at least partial excuses to go, citing a need to get to work.  It was true. I did have to get to work but not as quickly as I might have inferred on-line.

I’d already stalled the breakaway once, but having sat uncomfortably for a minute or to and arguably in actual need of a nap(!), reiterated a need to start preparing for the working day – which was accepted – and I ended the conversation.

At that point, I couldn’t log out of everything quickly enough. I couldn’t get out of my lingerie quick enough and bundle it all away.  At that point, I didn’t really care if I ever saw it again and truth be told, right now, as I write at least, I still don’t.

Have I topped out?  Is this a result of the periods of guilt that have been washing around my mind and that I talked about in my last blog entry?  In the aftermath of the time on line that day, I seriously contemplated returning everything back to remote storage – lock, stock and barrel.

Yes – that remote storage – the one that was in no way tempting to get to for the best part of 16 months yet was easy enough to get to when crossdressing began again in June this year.

Right now, there are a multitude of things that I’d rather do, and should really do at the moment, people that I’d rather, and in fact, should be focusing on   Perhaps that lack of inclination is a good thing.  Perhaps it is time for a bit more moderation.

I don’t honestly know what I seek to get out of the endless churning of using the early part of my day to dress and go on line but after early mornings and long days, I’m actually really tired now.  I suppose I could convince myself that crossdressing is ‘me’ time.  But, then again, as I had concluded in the run up to when I last stopped crossdressing,  I didn’t want to become what I might conceive to be a ‘dirty, sad old lonely man – no offence meant.

Before I turned in for the night last night, having done a few things around the house, I  looked around at the materialistic elements of my life, trinkets, surroundings, evidence of my achievements in life, people close to me, places I’ve been, things that I’ve seen, items that I love and cherish.   Yet here I am, running a gauntlet of risk and deceit.

I know what you’re thinking.  I’ve been here before – many times.  I’ve said this before and look where I ended up.   Sure.  Crossdressing is a fetish for me and when in the zone, I allow myself to plunge to whatever level my inner self wants to get to whilst more closely in touch with my feminine side.

However, psychologically at least, I have absolutely no confidantes – bar anonymous people I come into contact with on-line, those to whom I might open up to certain extents, but not on what you might call a more counsellor-style basis.  What might I expect from a counsellor I might be the first person to actually open up to?  How long have they got?!   To put me right?  To give me an answer of finality?  To help me find and stay on another path or perhaps just to listen and allow me to talk about it in a way I’ve never talked to anyone in all of this time?

Ebbing and flowing, repeating as this blog entry is very likely to have done in moods and statements, this blog remains my only way of  ‘talking’ – this is how I find some sort of tangible way to manage the closely guarded inner-sanctum that is the closet.

Give it a couple of days and who knows?  I might well be back on a level that I’m content with.   But for now, I’ve lost my mojo.

All over the place —

All over the place

It has been a while since my last blog entry, and that might have something to do with continuing wanton abandonment of inhibitions and copious amounts of hours dressing and going on-line, buying new outfits, collecting from pick-up points rather than having them delivered for potential home interception and the resulting challenges that would undoubtedly arise.

There have been days of underdressing to work, hours of being crossdressed in lingerie from early morning to early evening – some 12 hours in fact, photos uploaded of key moments along the way, significant periods and increasing numbers of followers on social media, visitors to my webcam, and in depth conversations about my alter ego, sexuality, leanings, and where the conversation extends, erotic moments where I accede to certain requests.

Along the way, I have taken a dislike to certain words and have made my feelings known about this on social media.  Words such as ‘slag’, ‘faggot’ and ‘bitch’ are, to me at least, deeply, deeply offensive. How anyone could allow themselves to be called such a thing is beyond me but it is a case of “whatever floats your boat” etc. I suppose.  Each to their own!

However, perhaps conversely, I have not objected to the use (my own and those communicating with me) of the word ‘slut’.  Strange is it not?  I have experienced the open desires of those watching me, what they say they’d like to do with me, particularly as I continue to openly declare my virginal state – toys being the exception, something else I have revelled in and continue to explore.

One recent visitor to my web cam opened conversation with ‘Hey bich’ [sic]. That opening gambit was met with the first time in all of these years when I have actually kicked someone off, having been previously unaware of how to do so but quickly finding out.   I hope I got the message across succinctly to that particular individual!

Nevertheless, counter to this, the numbers following me on my preferred cam site plus Skype and Twitter have ticked up.  There will be a daily feed full of other persons, but I am grateful that I interest others enough for them to want to at least try and keep up with what I’m up to.

What have I been up to?  Well, virtually every night I have gone to bed and lay there planning what outfit I’d wear in the morning.  Then, having sprung out of bed the split second that opportunity allowed,  have usually been dressed within minutes in the desired outfit.  Equally so, I have acceded to requests to change into something else whilst on cam, openly discussing outfit options and in some cases, with followers already aware of what they had seen me in before, requesting a change somewhere along the way.

As far as outfits are concerned, I must keep a watchful eye.  I have plenty of my own and plenty others to hand for me to plan, pick and pull on, from blue, red, black, white and mixes, but I continue to recall a pink basque and how much I used to enjoy wearing pink – the epitomy of femininity perhaps when it comes to colour options.   That outfit went along with the last purge I said to myself that I’d ever do unless I’m forced and like the other purges, the type of which many crossdresser has experienced on repeated occasions – I regretted every single one retrospectively – some absolutely lovely, irreplaceable outfits which probably cost a small fortune when totalled up.   So, shopping habits might well begin again when the finance and right items come up.

On-line, I have been and remain open to conversations at all levels, but tend to appreciate the more respectful, calm, reasoned, friendly, inquisitive, but not necessarily over-invasive conversations about my alter ego Fiona a lot more.   The focus of dressing has remained on stockings and suspenders, and usually with breast forms.  I have taken great delight in a new lacy white three piece including a bralette, suspender belt and skimpy g-string which allows breast forms to sit, clearly on show and bouncing due to no support of any kind.  Similarly, a long since discarded, wrong sized black lacy bra is a perfect fit for me and my breast forms – so much so that I must check the size on the label next time I put it on, commit the information to file and get a better understanding of my femme sizes.

When underdressed for work on select days, naturally, residing so deeply in the closet, I have undressed before returning home, often forgetting my own replacement underwear and having to return home commando, secreting lingerie back where it needed to be, then removing work attire only to discover that the short time on the commute coupled with the long duration that lingerie had been worn, had not been enough for tell-tale marks on my skin where stocking tops and other garments have been to have cleared as skin elasticity returns to normal.

With another suspender belt from the other half’s long since discarded, merely stored (rather than thrown I suppose!) supply draw having suffered irrepairable damage from over user by me, and having become dissatisfied with having to use a cami-suspender strap from a favourite outfit from the wardrobe as a makeshift repair, I went about ordering some new belts of my own – only to misjudge the size (see above!).  Although frustrated, I convinced myself to follow the returns process and take a smaller size, safe in the knowledge that I had plenty of other things to wear in the meantime.   Yes, I am still to really understand sizing but to be fair, I haven’t got it that wrong before.  You learn a new thing every day.

So, from June to now, utter indulgence at all levels, frank statements on social media, overtly sexual at times.  The day to day me hides an alter-ego who can be very (and ever increasingly) naughty, flirtatious and provocative.  All of this overtly sexual behaviour flies in the face of a string of blog entries and feelings before I yielded once more after over 12 months away from the crossdressing fold..

Of late though, I will confess that guilty feelings have begun to creep back in again.  Things are good at home, in life, settled.  Nice things are happening, time is nice, there is household harmony and these moments including tender ones contribute to those moments of more intense guilt.

But the levels of guilt tend to fluctuate day to day, hour to hour, night to night, week to week, between seriously thinking about stopping crossdressing yet again for what might be all the right reasons, to contemplating the consequences of a slip of my guard and being outed however well I might have done by residing in the closet for so long, and the far less caring wanton abandonment and indulgence referred to above.

Different days, different thoughts, different conclusions, different outcomes.

I have a hang up that has manifested itself in my inner psyche once more.  This time around, I have had the most bizarre form of body waxing.  I went for an appointment, and rather than perhaps do a top half or a bottom half of my whole body, the session had led to me being waxed on my front, armpits, and front of my legs when things came to a sudden halt.

The reason?  Insurance issues.  Sample cases (they are apparently well documented on line but I’ve never hunted them out) in the States apparently cited instances of full body waxes where the client had suffered ill health at the appointment.  From knowledge and indeed experience, the body is reacting to having copious amounts of hairs pulled out in one go, the reactions of pain receptors and adrenaline, which can cause some rather unpleasant feelings.  I have only suffered that once – the uncontrollable shakes, a drop of core body temperature irrespective of how warm it might be in the local environment – it ISN’T nice and it should be a mild warning to anyone considering having a body wax instead of shaving etc.

So, insurance means that a professional salon will not perform a full body wax in one session, more so, over two probably closely set appointments.   That is how it is for me.  You lie there with the waxing being done and you’re almost waiting for a quiz show style buzzer to go off signalling “that’s all we’ve got time for this week, tune in next week for more”!

When you just want to get your body smooth and tidy all in one go, when you step out of clothes or out of the bed or the shower and see yourself, when you consider that hair across the human body grows at different rates and strengths, and when you throw in that I am naturally hirsute (although not as bad as I used to be admittedly), that makes for a rather frustrating point of when time is called at an appointment.  Sure, you can pleasantly say “I’m alright”, or words to that effect, and try and encourage them to press on but no-one in their right and professional mind will risk their own business or their client’s well-being.    I am quite used to having my body temperature checked through touch during a waxing session and it is reassuring.

Since my front was done the other week, I will admit that I have obsessively begun tweezer plucking as the first signs of regrowth push through, much to my utter, total, 100% frustration.  It’s a fruitless exercise really – I’m not even scratching the surface so to speak.  Exfoliation in the shower might remove the odd hair, all of it generally weakening through repeated removal, but as I said, hair grows at different speeds and strengths, the chest being one of the areas where it remains more resistant to dying off and where it can be seen doing so of course.

It is a total hang up – I would admit and I was absolutely terrible at my first few waxing appointments which must go back several years.  I’ve said this before but whilst I know I am making progress, somehow, it still rankles with me when growth seems to return so soon.

Waxing is something I indulge in for two reasons for me, and one within the inner circle of the family.   One?  Well, you can work that one out for yourself, but two, being smooth is cooler – it certainly has been during the UK heatwave experienced this year – and much more comfortable, allowing the skin to dry rather than retain moisture in a mat of body hair.   This latter reason is the public face if you like, of my waxing experiences – quite real, quite factual, but shrouding the need to feel more en-femme too.  Being more hirsute in between appointments does influence how and indeeed if I might dress and what I might dress in lingerie-wise too.

So there you are – a rather long winded snap-shot of where I am – off to work now – stockings and suspenders and a g-string, secreted underneath work attire.

Brush strokes — August 6, 2018

Brush strokes

It is fair to say that since my return to the lingerie crossdressing fold, there has been some considerable indulgence including daily dressing sessions, new outfits, acquisition of a new toy, underdressing whilst out volunteering, underdressing to work, social media updates, on-line cam sessions etc.

However, it all came to an abrupt halt this week – not a complete stop – more like a pause I suppose.

One morning, I put on a new three piece lace outfit and enjoyed some time to myself for a couple of hours, well, on-line really, but there came a point when I knew that there would be other people in the household, so I covered up in a pre-planned, pre-prepared (largely as back-up) dressing gown, pyjama trousers and socks, stockings, g-string, suspender belt and bralette hidden beneath.  (It’s a three piece that came without stockings – just in case you’re doing the maths!)

Whilst the clothing was quite reasonably thin due to the Summer heat we’re experiencing, the dressing gown in particular, was vulnerably so.  I contemplated not wearing the bralette for the time being, but with the urge and desire to maintain the three piece on my body for later, I left it on.   Really, I should have taken it off for the short time it would have been necessary – it really wouldn’t have mattered!

One individual making their exit from the household leaving me to my own devices, made their way into my room as a sat apparently and actually busying myself with other things.  A brief partial embrace to say farewell, ended with a brush of a hand casually dragged across my back as the embrace broke and in particular, momentarily across the clasp of the lacy bralette underneath the thin dressing gown.

I maintained my apparent calm whilst inside, the flame of paranoia had been lit once more.

Whatever happened in the immediate aftermath paled into significance as yet more recognition of yet more carelessness enveloped my mindset, the extent of indulgence in my fetish having found a new and previously undiscovered level in recent weeks.

I reasoned to myself that, if I was to be pressed, the ability to flippantly deny anything would be easy – it was material underneath that had ruffled up, a PJ top at worst perhaps.  Futile?  Perhaps!

In any case, I immediately began worrying about every possible conceivable negative thing that could happen from this, and immediately set about removing everything bar what might be acceptable sex toys from my little hiding places, everything else bundled away with my lingerie to the previously remote, never ventured to place, that is now far easier to get myself to.

That brush stroke was not so much a spark, more an explosion to bring about a halt to things ever since.  Of course, as has been suggested before, the paranoia has been of my own creation.  One could argue that a conversation of any kind with anyone, about what might have been felt through the thin dressing gown might have been along the same lines as the smart phone image referred to in the last blog post – i.e. not really possible to rationlise, easy instead to dismiss as not being anywhere near feasibly possible, whatever it was, and in any case, not something perhaps worth discussing for fear of breaking up a settled household.

There hasn’t been any issue, no discussion, no confrontation since about that moment which now draws around to be about a week ago.  You might well say “Of course, there hasn’t been – you’ve been and are being paranoid!”  It hasn’t stopped me thinking about, but it has stopped something.

Either way, I haven’t crossdressed since that moment and have no plans to do so for the meantime – although I know I will.  I even found it difficult to even indulge in checking alter-ego social media presences or browsing subject matter.  It did instead focus my attentions on other things that needed doing in my life and that isn’t a bad thing really.  Everything in moderation!

Of course, my tendencies to crossdress, and in what, have always been driven by the state of my body – the hair growth really.   Hirsutedness remains a part of my DNA and whilst I am much less hirsute these days due to regular waxing, I continue to take issue with the return of hair growth across my entire body, the growth spoiling the look and feeling of lingerie on skin and the preferred look in general – I usually get about a fortnight of contentment before the objectionable looks at my own body and the wait for the next waxing session begin again.

Once I do put on some more lingerie – and I will – it is likely that I will merely cover up more and possibly in darker colours until I am once more body waxed in a (far too many) few weeks , wearing outfits that provide optimum coverage, likely dark colours I suppose.  I probably need counselling for these negative feelings and arguable partial self-hate towards hair growth.

I have been asked why I don’t shave.  The answer?  It apparently encourages hair growth and in any case, for me, when I used to shave in the shower a long time ago, it took an absolute age and I emerged resembling a shrivelled, steamed prune.   You know what happens if you stay in a swimming pool for too long right?  Besides, the waxing sessions are worth it in more ways than one, offer some genuine indulgence in ‘me’ time and give the result I desire, however short it might be in totality.

Whilst I’m arguably self-counselling over a very long period of time as hair growth gets less, it is easier to self-counsel and coach from within, than contemplate the potential fall out from things such as carelessness and brush strokes.

A victim of my own paranoia — July 24, 2018

A victim of my own paranoia

Picture the scene if you will.  As documented on my last blog entry, I recently spent two working days underdressed in lingerie, on one day from the waist down, on the second in exactly the same way, but this time, with a matching bra too.

During breaktime at the day job, I had busied myself adding a banner pic on my alter-ego Twitter profile.  Returning to my desk, I asked a question of a colleague which needed them to view my computer monitor and instruct me through a particular process.  Having casually discarded my smart phone on the desk, it was actually still on, the display in the edit option through which it was probably possible to see the profile images, albeit slightly greyed out.

We are, as humans, somewhat like moths to flames when it comes to screens of any kind and for a fleeting moment, I felt as if my colleague had somehow caught sight of the screen, elements of the profile etc. etc.  In a moment of part panic, part trying to carry on as normal, I did whatever it was that was necessary, flipping the case shut or pressing the button to close the screen.  For whatever reason, the screen timer had not gone off by itself after a short period of time – probably some clever retinal scanning app to avoid the user being inconvenienced.

At the end of the day, before making my way home, I prepared to take off my underwear in all its glory, but stripped back to just that, decided, for whatever reason, that I would take some pics and share them on my Twitter page.  The time elapsed, the deed was done and off I went, euphoric with the amount of time I had spent underdressed, from dawn ’til home time.

This journey home was to be the last for a while ahead of some time off, something I was looking forward to, some time away, some time to relax, and a holiday too from crossdressing.

My inner mindset was going into overdrive though in the time I was off work, the strategist scrambling the possibilities.  What if my colleague had clocked enough to mull things over enough to report what might be construed as gross misconduct in the work place.   I know – ridiculous eh?

I’d gone too far this time.  I’d been careless.  I’d been ‘outed’ surely?!  I meticulously played back the events, and in the main fearing and planning for the worst.   Disciplinaries, union reps, meetings, or just plain and simply, a P45 waiting for me on returning home.  Maybe they were waiting for me to return to work.  Maybe I’d get to work and my entry pass wouldn’t work, or maybe it would so that I could enter to then face the music.

Although on leave, although enjoying my time off, there was another dimension I craved, the ability to get to the point in time when I would find out once and for all, to have that moment of discovery., to know either way whether all was normal on returning to work, but really, REALLY fearing that the worst was about to happen.

I must have gone back through everything at various points through every single day of the break, whilst out and about, whilst driving and whilst sleeping.  I pawed through every conceivable negative – being sacked, having to tell everyone, yet trying to perhaps find an alternative reason – futile though that would be, the people I’d hurt, the reputation that I’d lose, the ties that would be cut.

The week wound on, the need to enjoy the break was clouded, not fully by the extent of paranoia washing around my mindset.  I rang the office on two occasions to ask a question about something to do with my hours.   One colleague sounded distinctly tentative in how they talked to me – that didn’t help my paranoia and again, things washed aroud in my mind.  Did they know something?

Had my smart phone display error led to the need for the person who might have seen it having felt that they had no alternative but to report the matter and in turn everyone else knew.

I rang on another day with the hope to make a casual conversation with the colleague who I thought had seen the smart phone screen, only to have the phone answered by another colleague.  I went through the motions of the call and ended it still none the wiser.

I took the opportunity to go through my Twitter account in the week, reasoning that the photos I had taken might be identified as being the location I work in – and would thus confirm a level of gross misconduct – so those were removed and the profile was also deleted, reasoning that those elements might have been seen and then looked at to collect evidence for what I concluded to be my imminent downfall.

Whilst I was at it, a lot of other historic posts and other clutter were also deleted.  The bizarre thing is that a lot of retweets weren’t – however, I felt the need to follow my gut reaction and clear the decks a little, late and after the event it definitely was.

This was the single most awful period of prolonged worry and paranoia that I have ever experienced and throughout the week, I told myself that I would never forget it, whilst vowing that, if, in some miraculous coming together of circumstances, luck and other factors, I was able to return to work as normal, I would be far more careful next time and would be far less complacent and foolish as my passion for lingerie crossdressing and everything else hung in the balance.

On the first day back to work, I was awake early, a mix of mindset and the warm weather having cut down the extent of sleep experienced over night.  I felt the need to get to work as quickly as possible, I couldn’t get there quick enough and the rush hour traffic was out early to try and delay my quest for the answer either way.

Would my security card fail to let me in?  Having made my way very quickly and as quickly as possible to the office door after the commute, success – the door opened – I was elated – I was in.  I made my way to my desk and was first in, and revelled in the fact that my desk was exactly as I had left it – there was no sign that anyone else had moved in, everything was where it was.

I cautioned myself that there might be a rather nasty shock about to unfold as people arrived, and cautiously switched my computer on and set my stall out for the day.

It wasn’t long before people started to arrive and a normal day then followed.  I was feeling quietly jubilant and disciplined myself to get on with the business of the day, returning home triumphant that nothing had been thrown away.

On the way home, I stopped off at a collection point to pick up a new outfit that I jubilantly looked forward to wearing the following morning.   Everything was – that day – OK.

If you see this post on line, then day 2 was exactly the same. Everything is and was fine, there was retrospectively no need for the 500% extent of paranoia. What did I allow myself to do to myself and more to the point – why?

I have become and very much am – a victim of my own paranoia

As you were… — July 7, 2018

As you were…

I frequently stop off at certain points of my blog timeline and read the odd entries.  Until recently, they offered a reflection of one of the journeys of life, providing a chance to remember, a reason to remain on the same path, to take note of the reason that I stopped crossdressing again – the deceit of another on their nearest and dearest and that I couldn’t seriously criticise them for their (non crossdressing related) deceit when I was committing an act of deceit myself, and acknowledge what might have been called ‘achievements’ or ‘successes’ in not falling off the proverbial wagon etc.

I’ll make no bones about it – the wagon is long gone.  I must be some sort of hypocrite. Time off and home alone this week has offered more or less total indulgence for extensive periods of time.  Perhaps most critically, a concerted effort was made to recover the lingerie, stockings and breast forms from the remote storage location.

I think I lost count of the amount of outfit changes but at one time, I think it numbered seven on day one.  I dressed in virtually every single available outfit in the space of around 5 hours, often dressing whilst on my webcam, those of my own were wrapped around my body for the first time in over 16 months, whilst the others that weren’t mine were also gloriously prepared and put to good use – hours and hours of undisturbed, total indulgence. I had not so much fallen, more careered off the wagon it seemed, but I cared not.

The piece de resistance came on the second day when my favourite outfit of them all was put on and appreciatingly kept on for more hours upon end.  Sure – there were peaks and troughs of viewers to my cam, and in the troughs, I kept myself busy by slowly getting through some other jobs on the PC, one eye kept on the chat boxes etc. with the intention to avoid being rude.  There were also times when I simply wanted to get up and move around the house a bit, plenty of admiring, appreciative and hugely erotic looks in any mirrors available or simply down at what my eyes could soak up.

Oddly, in the margins of both sessions of both days, when things were done, the tidy up included returning the lingerie and breast forms to the remote storage location that was clearly no longer as remote as it used to be, but still requiring much effort and determination to collect and return things each time.

Day three seemed less erotic, but more sensual – mere silk or chiffon slips with matching undies, one a tie-up at the sides skimpy thong, the other, a matching red and black lacy affair to match the silk slip.  No breast forms, no stockings, nothing more than sitting before the web cam for which I’d found a new way to position.   I did however acknowledge how damned gorgeous those slips would be with the breast forms inserted – that would be for another day, control applied to the third day when I was not entirely home alone.

Over the last few days, there have been those who wish to engage in more direct, extremtly explicit conversations and/or requests, some I have acceded to, others and in fact, many that I have not.   But for all of those types of discussions, the sheer number and nature of them was made to be of little importance due to the kind, reasonable, respectable, friendly, understanding, empathetic and maybe even sympathetic conversations with three individuals – two men and one woman, the latter who very much appreciated a crossdressed male and all that it stood for.  I won’t go into further details than that though out of respect.

I am by no means a man’s man.  I can be naturally effemininate in mannerisms, something I might try to curb at times – ‘try’ being the operative word, mannerisms I might often chastise myself for from within, as if I come across a little too camp.   That is just me though I suppose and I don’t get too hung up on it in the long run.  Take me as I am.

This week, to this one individual, I have opened up about my life and acts as a crossdresser, duration, feelings, experiences – perhaps not reasons though as even I don’t really know what they are apart from perhaps – genes.   I cannot begin to tell you how much value I attached to that rational, friendly, understanding, appreciative discussion and I made sure that I told this person how grateful I was on more than one occasion and through more than one route.  It is good to have what at least I consider to be a confidante, even if I speak as Fiona, not who I really am – it really, REALLY helped.

So what now?  Put simply, I’m crossdressing again despite everything (and I mean everything) that I’ve said and done in the last sixteen months, despite all of that time of arguably self-control, despite acknowledging deceit of my own doing, despite the fact that I acknowledged how crossdressing had previously taken over my life, how nothing else mattered, how things and people got neglected etc. etc. etc.

What is different this time Fiona you may ask?   I think I’m mindful of how I allowed it to become such a dominant force in my life up to March 2017 and the aim is for that not to be allowed to happen again and I suppose that is a good thing.

I cannot be naive, complacent, or blaze about it.  It is early days and I have remembered the feelings of almost being caught and some very close shaves when I have not.   Even this week, I have been like a cat on a hot (at the moment – a very hot!) tin roof whenever noises were heard outside that I even slightly considered could challenge my situation, me jumping up to check.

There was one occasion where a delivery was expected and when it arrived, I meticulously set up and prepared myself for a rapid cover up to answer the door – pyjama bottoms to cover the legs, socks to cover the feet, a dressing gown to cover the top of the favourite cami-suspender set I was wearing.    The knock at the door, the quick kick off of the heels, the socks being the most difficult to put on at speed, but I must have executed the whole thing in record time to dash to the door, unlock it, answer, take the item, exchange the odd pleasantry and reverse the process.   The strategist in me when it comes to crossdressing remains very much alive and well.

There was one occasion this week, when, out of sub-consciousness and an element of panic, I even thought I heard a relative coming, when in fact, in retrospect, they were nowhere near the area due to other commitments.    I said out loud to myself who it was, cursed and removed the whole outfit, stockings, cami-suspender, heels, g-string, in a matter of seconds.

It took seconds to realise that there were no such challenges of any kind. I was momentarily infuriated at having stripped so quickly but took solace in the ability to dress back up again which I did in fairly quick time – again, the practice of old having stood me in good stead having returned to the crossdressing fold.

I have experienced the same feelings of digust in the immediate aftermath of a crossdressing session, but those feelings soon waned rather than them being allowed to escalate in my mindset, which seemed to help me pyschologically.

I know that I may not be able to crossdress again easily in the coming days in the way that I have this week, and that will be a tell-tale sign of whether I can somehow keep everything in check and my general life priorities just that whilst looking forward to viable opportunities to allow my feminine side to thrive and bloom once more for a while.

New web sites have been joined, profiles have been updated, lingerie has been worn, thoughts have been and continue to be processed, the heady feelings of the effects of prolonged sunshine have been and continue to be absorbed.

I am the recovering crossdresser – but as to which way I am recovering, has never been defined.  It is certainly a case of ‘as you were’…

Comments welcome at any time.  Thank you for reading.

Oh no! Not this again! — July 3, 2018

Oh no! Not this again!

If I was to ever come before a psychiatrist, I’d probably be quite a case for any suitably qualified expert to pick apart and piece together again.

For whatever reasons, I have allowed myself back into the World of partial indulgence over the last few days, that being that I had dressed in a black bra, g-string and most recently with a black baby-doll over the top too – no sign of stockings or suspenders, these remaining resigned to the remote storage so frequently talked about in previous blog entries.

I have revelled in the numbers of cam viewers of late – knowing that it was more of a draw to be dressed that way, rather than in just an everyday g-string, striking up quite reasonably, if necessarily subject based conversation, explicit at times, friendly at others.

Having also logged in to Skype, I allowed myself to engage in more private conversations (only) there as well as on the webcam site of choice, and knowing that I had time limits, and with dwindling numbers watching, the exhibitionist within decided to engage fully, on cam, with one particular individual on Skype.

Of the two individuals who expressed an interest in such a connection, I elected to go with the first person who I had invited in the interests of fairness, and I really do wish that I hadn’t.   Whereby, the second correspondent had seemed very friendly and chatty, retrospectively at least, the person I elected to have a one-to-one with turned out to be quite – well, filthy, disrespecting and very demeaning as if I was somehow cheap.   Is that the way I had come across perhaps?   Still, despite part of my psyche having objected to the terminology being used, I allowed myself to push on, the stimuli of being spoken, being able to talk back as well, and being watched did enough to make my emotions peak fairly quickly.

In this extremely compromising and, as it turned out, retrospectively explosive and, latterly embarrassing position, all I wanted to do was finish the session and pack everything in very quickly, whilst the other person just wished to push on.   For me though, the rapidly arriving feelings of disgust and objection were as I had experienced before.  Whilst I can quite easily sustain urges, desires and situations however explicit, when a moment reaches its peak, there is one hell of come down and things really can’t end quick enough for me in those situations.

During my conversations with those on line, I revealed that, at least from what I was experiencing, that I had returned – at least partially – to crossdressing and said that, now that I was here, in this position, I could see very little reason why the old remotely stored outfits etc. couldn’t come out, stockings included, the sexual stimuli pushing the mood on.

The aftermath of things though is very different, yet almost not so.  Having remonstrated with myself from within for the remainder of the day, and having found solace and calm in the social, relaxing activities of the rest of the day, the severity of my mood to the subject mellowed, back to a more rational, ‘why not?’ approach to what I had started again.

However, in retrospect, notably in the aftermath of the on-line session, there was the acknowledgement that I was doing what I used to do of old, and that it was a reason why I had to stop it – that being double checking, triple checking, quadruple checking that everything was where it should be again, tantamount to paranoia.  I chastised and swore at myself in the moments that I was easing myself into the day.  I actually called myself a ‘dumb f***’ a few times in apparent fury with myself.

The new (arguably improved) sex toy, by now, ready for collection from a pick up point, the source of a major urge to acquire and then use, seemed relevant to completely dismiss.

With the item dispatched to a nearby collection point, I have also contemplated allowing the two weeks of time to elapse which would no doubt lead to the item being returned to sender. reasoning that a new set of batteries had actually been all that I had needed to use a similar toy already in ownership.   Even today, having felt a little under the weather and tired this last 48 hours or so, I saw no reason to collect the new toy,  but I probably will at some point when I have the slightest motivation to do so in the coming days.

In truth, my own personal peak that I spoke about above seemed to be the key moment that satisfied me, whatever it was I was needing in the run up to the cam sessions which remain such a focus and draw for me.  I remain in some sort of warped state of mind that, because I had not donned stockings and suspenders, none of it mattered anywhere near as much – only somehow, it actually does, not that I’m inclined to fully recognise it in the way that I did in March 2017 – the point at which I had stopped crossdressing before.

Can I really allow myself to succumb to all of THAT temptation again, dismissing everything  and everyone else once more?  For what?  It’s a fetish, but somehow, it has its grip on me and I’m struggling to understand how it started again after I had been so good for so long.

This morning in fact, home alone once more, and with time to spare, I did – for no reason whatsoever, contemplate donning the bra and g-string again before merely going about my own personal business, no web cam session, yet I am sitting here trying not to allow myself to be lured – like the proverbial moth to a flame.

I don’t know what the next few days will bring, but whatever it is, oh no, not this again!

Horror, harmony. — June 30, 2018

Horror, harmony.

One blog finished on the commute, and ready to commit to the net, I came home and exchanged pleasantries and went upstairs to get rid of the daytime work clothing.

To my horror, there, hanging on a hook in the bedroom was the exact g-string I’d been wearing that morning.  The atmosphere in the house was harmonious, calm, nothing signalled a need for panic but all along, I was trying to work out a strategy for the remainder of the evening.

We had some food, watched some TV for a few hours and whilst the other half went upstairs, I busied myself with a minor tidy up downstairs before turning in for the night myself, all the time trying to work out whether I’d somehow inadvertently NOT tucked that g-string back in the drawer when I was actually almost 100% sure that I did do.

When I arrived into the bedroom having made a bed-time drink when, there before me, was the wife, wearing one of her bed slips and, it turned out, as she flashed, THAT g-string which she wore as we nestled in bed – I caught a glimpse of her occasionally playing about down there.

So there you are – horror and harmony in one evening.  So to the weekend and this morning and home alone and on has come that bra and g-string again – for now.