It started with what was deemed the most explicit material – videos on an explicit XXX website. I signed in, I deleted the videos, I deleted the profile and in feeding back for the reasons, merely said that it was ‘time to go’ but ‘thanks’.
Next, Skype. Logging in soon revealed that the program had changed. It seemed that, by default, a user was automatically hidden until choosing to make themselves visible. I reasoned that this was useful under the circumstances and, having taken a quick look at the missed messages from a wide range of anonymous folk from the opportunistic to the friendly, I stopped only to take momentary objection to the fact that I might be unfairly ignoring those with whom I had valued apparently genuine, time, interest and friendship.
My focus though was on a thread where I had shared more video. The hatchet was wielded, the videos were removed, and I very quickly logged out. That seemed enough for that particular day and I busied myself with something else.
The next day, I ventured on to my favoured web cam site, logged in, took an almost reflective spin through a few uploaded images I’d spun through and had seen many times before before switching off every single element of the profile bar the account itself. Off went former captured images, off went the gallery, off went the ‘about me’ profile, off went the questionnaire, off went the link to Fiona’s Twitter account, and having wielded the hatchet there, all that was left was the avatar and basic details.
That was enough – I took a quick browse through the latest timeline posts doing my utmost to avoid being overtly drawn in any way, shape or form, and almost celebrated the fact that the entries from those being followed were, at the time, very heterosexual rather than being more bisexual or overtly crossdressing related.
I had spent only brief moments in recent days wondering quite whether the DM box would be full of inquisitive ‘where have you been?’ or ‘where are you?‘ messages from my chastity keyholder, or anyone else for that matter, me not having left any tweets, or made any DMs, or having even accessed the social media site for fear of being drawn like a moth to a flame.
How vain was I? What did I REALLY expect? There was nothing but a few notifications about new followers or ‘likes’ to previous posts. Somehow, I’d expected something from my symbolic keyholder, but there had been nothing. Nothing. Nothing despite having lavished hard earned cash on all manner of things for them, having lavished vast amounts of my valuable spare time, home and away, on communicating via direct messaging. See? I was as unimportant to them as I had perhaps always been – I’d allowed myself to be used perhaps. After all, I had usually opened dialogue, 99.9% of the time anyway and if there was nothing to respond to, why on earth would they want to open any dialogue with me – especially given that I’d apparently vanished?
There had been warnings of my disappearance and silence anyway. I’d previously but recently said in no uncertain terms that the turn of the New Year had caused a monumental wobble and a serious bout of questioning one’s self. Having taken momentary objection to no one giving a damn on my self imposed almost full Twitter exile, I brushed any disappointment away by simply logging out.
There have been occasions when my browser of choice allowed me to see my DMs, yet this was another occasion when the virus software, no doubt having done another of its off peak updates, seemed to decide that it would not show me the various DM threads this time around.
This prevented me from going through them and deleting what is probably a vast amount of imagery of me, dressed and undressed. I supposed that it was therefore a deck to be cleared another day and moved on.
Earlier in a week racked by the return of the ill health that plagued me in the run up to and over the festive season, I surfaced one morning, stripped out of the pyjamas to my birthday suit, prepared the dildo and took some naked anal, the suction cup dildo against a wardrobe mirror and with the smart phone filming away, the file only staying until the clear up afterwards.
Overall, and certainly in retrospect, it wasn’t great for all the usual reasons associated with such sexual activity, apart from the fact that, at some points during, it was. Having seen a Twitter post about which muscles to use to grip, I revelled in the feelings caused by that sexual exploration and feeling that it was pushing the right buttons further than they had been pushed before, pressed the proverbial fast forward button and brought myself to climax whilst still feeling full penetration and applying what seemed a rather uncomfortable withdrawal. For the first time ever, I was not crossdressed whilst I enjoyed this period of sex, and during the experience, spoke out to myself that, despite everything going off right now, it appeared that I STILL loved a bit of anal.
Since then, I’ve not craved it again. Far from it. In fact, as indicated in a previous blog entry, I have since given more, brief thought to finding a box large enough for everything bar perhaps the cock pump and Fleshlight to be put into a box and remotely stored away.
Conversely, there have been times when my mind has projected images of stockings and suspenders, reminders of wearing a bra, the feelings of pulling on those stockings and admiring the stocking tops. Perusing the many blog entries and Twitter accounts that I follow, I have been confronted by images of women wearing lingerie, bras, stockings and suspenders but there has only been the briefest of sparks of interest of taking things further.
Nothing has sparked a desire to dress, although there have been moments when I asked myself whether it was worth dressing before deciding firmly against. I have also asked myself whether it was worth putting on a chastity device, but after the two months or so of exploration and indulgence, other than concluding that prevented guilt as it prevented or at least discouraged orgasm, I have been left questioning exactly how and why I was doing it, other than for some sort of evidently unexplainable sexual kick.
The man bag has been carried around for days with two chastity devices packed away within (read ‘hidden away’ if you like’) and the remaining elements of my own lingerie, the suspender belt and stockings, taking up valuable space with no intent of being worn yet best left there in the absence of any secure plans to be put elsewhere.
Ill health means that elements of medication carried with me are more yearned for items, but I have needed to snap myself to my senses in the midst of feeling distinctly off colour and reaching almost desperately for it, by reminding myself to avoid leaving the man bag with the top open, and, in my mind at least, open to the casual investigation of others for things to be discovered that I don’t want to be discovered.
One day this week, sitting at my desk at the day job, I decided to pick up my bunch of keys, locate the two chastity keys retained in my possession, that had previously put me into and taken me out of my partial lock up, and merely removed them before casting them into the bags in which the chastity devices resided, in the dark depths of the man bag – this was another step towards an evident and all encompassing desire and drive to clear the decks.
Crossdressing hasn’t been on my mind. Sexual activity hasn’t been on my mind. Prioritising more deck clearing hasn’t been on my mind really either. Other things, other people, the day job and, unfortunately, right now, ill health have been somehow refreshingly at times, keeping the mindset more focused away from the former. Ill health has been at the forefront of my thoughts – and when we are ill, we can rarely concentrate on anything else anyway, as we fight our way through it all.
The sex toys remain in their various stored locations, the box of lingerie and the breast forms is hidden where it has been for sometime, and the man bag continues to have my chastity devices and lingerie remnants as necessary squatters for the time being until I decide upon and/or fashion something else.
Having recently benefitted from a partial body wax, I’m not in bad shape, yet occasional observations acknowledge or even expect that it is all coming back through again and right now, I’ve almost given in, conceded defeat to body hair even though I will continue to have it removed as I have been doing so for years as I don’t want it. My dysphoria continually sees me finger tip search for and pluck in certain areas of my body recently waxed whilst critically analysing the areas next up for waxing, hatred pouring over every glance and stare.
I have carried out the day job without worrying as to whether my lingerie was properly covered up, whether anyone suspected that day, whether anyone was talking in corners, paranoia a-plenty perhaps, now no longer an issue. No more was I checking and double checking browsers, whether everything really, really, REALLY had been put away properly at home, or whether I’d left tell-tale signs to finally burn all bridges. This peace of mind was somehow massively comforting and reassuring right now.
All good? Right and proper? Something to take comfort from? Not really. Relapse and resumption are still very real possibilities. I know that – you know that. It has happened before after all. I could quite suddenly and easily snap out of the current mindset tomorrow, the next day, next week or even next month.
However long it lasts, whether it is for good, for a medium to long term or otherwise – for now, the decks continue to be cleared. Make of that what you will – because I can’t.