The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Follow me, follow you, proposal — November 19, 2018

Follow me, follow you, proposal

As if crossdressing couldn’t get any more intense.   Before I get into the nitty gritty of yet another rambling, at least partially repetitive blog entry, I absolutely must share with you what is probably one of my favourite ever tweets posted by someone else and one that have already retweeted twice.

You will probably be aware of the phrase “less is more” and this post is the epitome of that phrase as it says so much in few words.  With full credit and appreciation to @sabinasabique, that tweet was as follows:

‘#Crossdressing: this loveable sickness just keeps getting intense as time passes’.

So true Sabina, so true.  In fact, it pretty well sums up how I feel about crossdressing, both in what might be described as good times and bad.

In my last blog entry, I recapped on the appearances of Fiona and that of her own alter-ego, a total slut able to involve herself in all encompassing, totally dominating, provocative, and quite filthy sexual provocation whilst wrapped in Fiona’s lingerie of choice.  Hold that thought.

My Twitter followers have been ticking up rather rapidly for a time of late, probably helped by the use of hashtags for the subject matter, me then being found and followed as a result, but then again, having ditched many pictures in previous years, I’ve restarted posting pictures on line of me in my crossdressed state, usually at work which have since adorned my feed for some time.  It’s undoubtedly risky, but I’ve done it nevertheless.

Those pics were also added to my webcam site of choice, not that it matters.  Clearly, through this continual obsession for webcams, I must long for some sort of recognition and appreciation perhaps.  Perhaps?   Are there some inner insecurities somewhere?  Perhaps?

Around a week or so ago, I struck up a conversation via direct message with a person who goes by the Twitter name of Safia.  These DMs – or direct messages if you like for the purposes of clarity – showed gentle and warm appreciation for Fiona.

Safia has Twitter sisters and I was honoured to be added to the sisterhood ‘family’ via DM.  What had I done to deserve that I wondered.  As I have said before, those who see Fiona on their screen, see her as she is but with their own eyes and mind, not as I might see her.

I might well see her as frequently untidy, in need of at least some element of body waxing across some part of her body or another, of slim build and what, to others, seems to be an appreciated bum and legs but otherwise, a rather annoying sign of a mild hernia which makes my belly button push outwards into a deformed shape, my side profile usually requiring me to pull my belly in to look as good as possible in my continual embarrassment about the condition.

None of this seems to matter to those who want to message me for whatever reason, and the same applies when I appear on Skype, less public (just checking I haven’t unintentionally typed ‘pubic’ there!), many following me seeing as though I make no secret of my presence on the platform on my other social media presences. Me, her, whatever.

But with Safia, I was quickly promoted in the bosom of her Twitter family to the status of ‘wife’.  This was frankly mind blowing.  What on earth my temporary sisters would have thought about this rapid rise through the ranks, I have no idea.  I know who the sisterhood are through social media identification, yet I have not asked them how they feel about me achieving almost instant promotion to ‘wife’ status, nor for that matter, have they contacted me asking “Who the hell do you think you are you bitch” or something like that.  If I’m honest, I wouldn’t hold it against them if they did.  (You make your own innuendos up!)

As I asked without necessarily seeking an answer – what had I done to deserve this honour, something of a type I have never experienced before?  Sure, efforts had been made by the odd individual to become my Mistress and perhaps bring about remote feminisation, but nothing ever lasted and I couldn’t tell you who they were now anyway, so quick was the dalliance.

What had I done to deserve this honour though?  Safia shows nothing but a form of love for Fiona, even though we have never met, much though she would like to.   Safia has pledged her troth via pinned tweets and I, as Fiona, could do nothing more than reciprocate.  She even changed her Twitter name to include my other pseudonym ‘Lynn’, me reciprocating my adding hers – ‘Foxx’ – to the end of mine.

We have spoken at great lengths by DM at all hours of the day and night in the last few weeks.   I have more than engaged with the thread of conversations, openly receiving the warmth of evident love communicated by direct messaging.   Take it as you will – I have.

DMs have led to more than just messaging.  Both Fiona’s sexuality and the man beneath the lingerie have been explored by both parties through provision of exclusive photographs, naked, wearing my skimpy day-to-day g-string and also more recently, somewhat unusually, whilst showering.

In this short space of time, Safia has come to know a lot about the man beneath the lingerie – well, enough anyway – how the immediate family is set up, my age, duration of residency in the closet and has told Fiona how much she is seemingly increasingly loved and desired.

‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’, goes the phrase – something I said in my last blog entry.  I warmly accept this adoration for Fiona and all that she is, even with her own alter-ego likely to strike at any time.

I mentioned that DMs in written form have been accompanied by the sharing, by me, under the at least partial guise of Fiona, of my naked unclothed self, and in my own day to day men’s g-strings, something that has never happened anywhere before, other than perhaps before I resumed crossdressing, when I did appear in g-strings on cam.  I digress.  The conversation was allowed to move onto a desire by Safia to own my daily underwear.

I have seen many women prepared to sell theirs for money on various platforms, but this week, Safia has become the owner of the underwear I was wearing one recent weekend and is evidently thrilled by it.  That’s nice – and no money changed hands either – I mean really!  The analyst within is still mulling over the act of freshly worn underwear being sent by post, and establishing just how stimulating it is to have done that.

Safia has provided her address at which it is easy to receive items.  Fiona is not so lucky.  Fiona must rely on collection points such as Post Offices and street lockers – unable to trust Postman Pat to arrive at a time when mail can be intercepted without question or risk.  Safia is aware.

Wish lists have been talked about between us.  Safia has shared her wish list, on which already sat the same lacy three piece as I own and who am I to deny when the price, if not the delivery time, is more than suitable?   Of course, buying for someone else from their wish list comes with no baggage for the buyer.  In these days of GDPR regulations, the buyer isn’t party to the recipient’s personal address, but the recipient will probably know who has bought something for them, based on the conversation, but nothing more personal than that.

Safia’s love for her new found ‘e-wife’ has led her to yearn for Fiona to be with her, find a way for a long weekend, via what would probably be a four-hour journey, eight hours round trip for – well, you don’t need me to go into detail.   Despite stating wishes and desires for Fiona to actually be part of her life, Safia seems to acutely understand why this can’t happen in reality.

In any case, having opened Fiona’s eyes to another first – buying from another’s wish list – Safia will also be able to wear the same outfit as her ‘wife’ in the not-too-distant future.   Of course, Fiona has built a wish list on her toys and lingerie site of choice but the mechanics of sharing that wish list, and the subsequent delivery options being a home address only are so far prohibiting the list from being shared with anyone, Safia included.

Talk of ‘ownership’ and of Safia’s control achieved though typed word on a DM screen, has been allowed to turn to how that evident ‘ownership’, nee e-commitment to Safia can be made more formal somehow.  Sexually stimulated at the work place as DMs continued, Fiona declared how much Safia was controlling her.

The use of the likes of ‘own’ and ‘control’ coupled with the ongoing exploration of inner sexuality as never experienced before led to the sudden response of: “We should try a chastity cage sometime” from Safia.

Now, I’ve seen such things on-line before, and probably driven by dislike of the word ‘sissy’, had been nowhere near contemplating such a move, but Fiona’s mind has been opened further by Safia, allowed to be introduced to further elements of sexual exploration, curiosity of the man within allowed to flow through to the alter-ego.

Readers to my blog will know that I have a borderline hatred for the terms “sissy”, “faggot” and “bitch”, (there may be others) particularly if being talked to but being ‘en-femme’ or ‘femme’ is a preferred descriptor. Safia also dislikes the word ‘sissy’ – at least she has told me as such.

Ownership of cage keys has been discussed and those cages perused on line were found to come with three keys, feasible then for at least symbolic ownership by Safia of a key to my chastity cage.  Like the day-to-day ‘real’ me, Fiona is impulsive, so hopped straight on line in a pique of sexual euphoria and bloody well ordered a cage of Safia’s choice.

Safia reciprocated by identifying a cage into which she would also be happy to be put into reciprocal chastity.  Safia may well get her third sexual gift in a very short space of time and she knows that!  Symbolically, one of the keys could also be retained by me, whilst both retain control of their own cages, yet somehow disciplined into remaining caged for good periods of time unless it is simply not possible to do so.

Distance, practicality and the fact that Fiona is deeply closeted and otherwise committed in life mean there is really is little other option.   Fiona cannot afford to have her cover blown and her closet doors torn from their hinges due to any form of sexual urge or inconsiderate action on any side.   Some things absolutely must remain secret for all the right reasons.

In correspondence, Safia made it clear that she wanted to call Fiona and a Skype session was established as a priority for the following day, the mutual urge to be in as close contact as possible eventually satisfied.   Safia saw virginal white as the outfit of choice for Fiona who readied herself both on the night before and the morning itself, responding to Safia’s desire to emulate and affirm a form of marriage of two people with common interests via the power of the internet alone.   New territory for Fiona but territory she vowed to explore.

Fiona was very much up for this, so much so in fact that when her unnamed alter-ego came in, ready to barge her out of the way, it seemed to be more like a mutual sharing of the platform in those early moments.  Both shared that moment which had become quite erotic as it turned out.   After a while, it shuddered to a ruined climax as Fiona’s alter-ego grabbed the proverbial bull by the horn.

The come down afterwards was OK for the opening few minutes, but from then on, it quickly became like both Fiona and her alter-ego had stepped out of the room quickly, leaving the day-to-day me, standing there in Fiona’s lingerie.

So there it was – it had happened again.  I couldn’t wait to be out of that lingerie, I just couldn’t get out of it quickly enough, I just wanted it packed away, out of sight, get tidied up, and jump into the daytime civvies.

What the hell was I doing?  What was I doing to my life, my family, my conscience, my well-being, my time?  And now this acceleration in my sexual development.   I couldn’t see myself getting back into any form of lingerie any time soon and since that morning, I haven’t.  Nothing has been further from my mind, and I have since busied myself with other things, despite the subject matter continuing to flash in my mind like a neon sign.

I threw myself into the working day, allowing the regular me to stand as if he was the only element of his inner persona, when in fact, the reality was much different.   Safia doesn’t talk much on DM – just a couple of words for answers or messages, whereas Fiona rambles – perhaps not surprising given the extents of blog entries.

Fiona wonders whether she is doing something wrong and bores Safia who may be merely tolerating her endless ramblings because of other perceived values and desires.   But Fiona constantly wonders whether there will come a point where Safia becomes bored and moves on.  Will that matter?  Today’s news is tomorrow’s chip paper goes the phrase.

In the aftermath of the Skype session, items ordered for collection from a suitable remote point – the cage and replacement stockings – became worthless.  As far as I was concerned, they could stay there until they were returned to sender by an overloaded Post Office.  The no interest approach to all things crossdressing has been sustained since then.  There has been no underdressing, no dressing at all, and no intention to do so.  Of course, I’ve spent some time on social media, but Skype has remained vacated, the cam site similarly.

But strangely, my mood towards the chastity cage has come back into focus this last few days.  If nothing else, it would be another tick on the sexual bucket list of life – I would have tried it. Tick.

I have also mulled over how I might make that part of my heterosexual life.  The significant other has constantly indicated her objection to my nether regions being touched during waxing, claiming that area as her own and rightly so all respects, me reassuring her that all along, there is a necessity for those areas to be touched to complete necessary waxing but in a purely professional manner.

I could bring in some role play by perhaps, at least initially, asking her, tongue in cheek, whether she’d rather I be locked up.  Madness?  Perhaps, but bordering on quite a lot of fun no?

Which brings me back to the come down after a ruined orgasm.  Back to my senses, and even in those moments when I exchange ordinary conversations with my significant other about the most mundane elements of everyday life, the Guilt Monster lets out a distant roar audible enough for me to take notice of it.

What am I doing to her?  Why am I am doing it?  Why can’t I stop for long enough to stop for good?  Why have I allowed myself to be in this parallel life which has now taken a new turn?   What risks do I continue to stare in the face?

What can I do to stop?  Honestly?  Brace yourself for this.  I could cut out the middle man and just masturbate to a conclusion every time I get the urge and when sex is not an option.   I say that rather bluntly because, I know that, once a bout of masturbation is done, I’m done, I don’t want anything else.   The fetish that I have for lingerie can lead to orgasm, but sometimes it doesn’t and perhaps the fact that it occasionally doesn’t is because I seek to remain in the feminine moment, hopeful of asserting control throughout and keeping Fiona’s alter ego locked outside.

Do you follow me?  Can I follow this?  What is my next proposal?

No man’s land. — November 16, 2018

No man’s land.

By way of update, a few weeks ago, it got to a point where I was wondering quite why I was bothering with any form of crossdressing.  I really could take it or leave it.  I didn’t see why I needed to bother, but if I did?  Well, whatever.  It has felt rather odd.

I remember a point in history where it was suggested that if a crossdresser didn’t feel like crossdressing, the honest option was to quite simply not bother and there was nothing wrong with that at all.

What I’ve been struggling to cope with is the opposite extremes that have applied.  I’ve gone from one, where nothing else mattered and I quite simply had to dress in lingerie at every possible opportunity to the following day or days of abject apathy.

Of course, I’ve logged into social media, cam sites and e-mail, and on the very odd occasion, I’ve dressed and gone on cam.   One morning was just plain weird.  I got up having spent some time the previous evening and during the waking hours of the night wondering what I might wear were I to decide to dress in the morning, not that I was definitely going to.

I threw on my dressing gown, meandered around the house a bit and then decided that I would indeed dress.  White was the colour of preference but rather than elect for the lacy bralette combo, I longed for my current fixation – an actual bra and rummaged around the washing and the significant other’s lingerie drawer.  The search proved fruitless in the fresh laundry pile, and I reasoned that the s/o was in fact wearing a favoured lacy bra but that there was another plain bra that, to be fair, is a little too big for me.  But I wanted it on, I wanted the feel of the bra around my midriff, shoulders, back and waxed chest.

Although nowhere near big enough, the 38c breast forms were put in and more or less rattled around like a pea in a box!  Soon dressed, the knack of dressing now having become almost instinctive, even with stockings and suspenders, I decided that I would log into Skype and my webcam site of choice.

There has been one driving force that has pushed me more towards crossdressing of late than not doing so.  I’d recently struck up a very pleasant conversation thread with a woman – a conversation in which there was no suggestion, no innuendo, no sexual demands, just a nice chat from what was seemingly an appreciative viewer seeking to strike up a conversation with someone not so in touch with the gutter side of sexually driven conversation.

Exchanges have happened without us being both on line at the same time, and we have yet to converse again since the first time, but the pleasant nature of the chats urged me to avoid ditching absolutely everyone on my ever building contacts list, whoever they may be, due to the nature and value of this particular conversation.

Anyway, with that more than optimistic hope, the chances of making direct contact being very slim indeed, I’d logged on to Slype but it was more or less seconds before the first ‘ping’ of contact came.  It wasn’t the woman I referred to above but instead another person with whom, let’s just say, things had historically got a little steamy and had the benchmark set.

The invite to open a video conversation, albeit the chat in typed form meant that I was soon logged out of the web cam site of choice as if I’d been reeled in like a fish on a line, as the Skype session ensued.

With no offence meant to the other party, my whole approach to the session was one of ‘whatever’, yet I immersed myself in it until a peak had been reached.  Soon after, as is often the overbearing urge, I was completely out of the lingerie, the session ending after the peak, everything packed away, dressing gown back on the naked body before I simply prepared for the working day, when otherwise, I might well have underdressed in whatever I had already put on or something else.

As I have inferred in another blog entry, there is the usual me, there is Fiona, the crossdressing alter-ego and the third person, the inner slut if you will, who has a vice like grip when the opportunity is seized.   If Fiona is allowed to dress and be herself, she can put herself before a cam, strike up a reasonable, if perhaps often naughty and explicit conversation, busy herself with other things at the same time, enjoy the chat, show off a little bit but can put a stop to things, assert control, cover herself up for the day and provide the basis for a day of underdressing for the day job.

But allow the third – as yet still unnamed – person to really turn the wick up and…well, it can become rather too much…and she’s had her way again.

It is a sort of no-man’s land.

In, off, on, out. — October 31, 2018

In, off, on, out.

I count the days down to my regular body wax appointments.

They are the most intensely private periods of ‘me’ time that I can ever enjoy – yes, even more private than…well, you know…that…and that too.

My life seems anchored to those regular points where I visit the trusted salon, strip off, lie back, and allow myself to be subjected to the pain that is having a large amount of body hair torn out by the root all in one go, yet perfectly able to get through it thank you very much.

I go in, get something or other done, pay the bill and go about my other business, getting myself through it, however good, bad or indifferent the waxing session might be, because the end result is very much worth it for me, my unsuspecting other, and for Fiona.

I’ve harped on about the long-standing hang up over my body hair, my long-standing hirsutedness, the fierce and angry objection to even the merest first signs of growth after about two weeks of being smooth, and that the various types, strengths and thicknesses of body hair coupled with the amount of time I’ve been going for appointments now, means that the growth really is showing signs of dying off, permanently perhaps?  Well, yes, maybe, but as a cynic and pessimist, I’m not prepared to acknowledge that right now, despite seeing positive signs.

There is a first time for everything though and with an appointment booked the other week, I made my way, arriving on-time despite the traffic and getting myself undressed for the session that lay ahead.

That ‘first time for everything’ moment came when the job in hand stalled at the very beginning.  I’ll be honest.  I’d been sub-consciously making observations about the extent of hair growth across my body in the preceding days.   There didn’t seem to be as much in quite a few places, yet there I was, due for another appointment at the salon.

Still, I wasn’t the expert, and there I was, at the appointment, naked, flat out, ready to be have done whatever it was that it was deemed needed doing.  It wasn’t long before the question came up in conversation.  There were suggestions as to what could be done, yet none of it seemed even remotely necessary at the time, instead effort being made to find SOMETHING to justify me getting and being there.

I stood up off the massage table and did a sort of naked twirl in the brightly lit private room, as if that was going to help somehow, and I guess it did really.   Here I was, naked, not even a watch or ring on, arguably in a state of vulnerability whilst the person who does my waxing carried out the inspection to help reach a decision once and for all that would be agreed and confirmed by both.

Their eyes did what they needed to, whilst the light-touch of the palms of hands wafted gently around my upper torso to sense hair levels, thickness and mass, aiding the type of decision making process that had never necessary before,  hands softly brushing, breezing perhaps, so, so softly yet so quickly over my already hardened nipples at a time of year when things were getting a little parky outside!

For a fleeting moment of a fleeting moment of a fleeting moment, a spark of sexuality was lit and as equally quickly snuffed out as one of my erogenous zones was touched, the snuff-out coming despite my evident sexual vulnerability and overarched by the professionality of the person and environment I was in.

After a minute or two of deliberation, tinged with surprise at this first ever situtation, it wasn’t long before both of us conceded that it just wasn’t beneficial to do anything and that a new appointment should be arranged.

So, as quick as I’d undressed, I was back dressed again – and ready for the journey home.

In, off, on, out.

A wasted journey?  Yes, but apart from costs incurred in getting there, no real inconvenience really.

I mused as to how I could have avoided the waste of time.

If you’re ill, you’ll consult a medical expert, if there are dental issues, you visit a dentist.  If your hair is too long or untidy, you’ll visit a hairdressers or barbers, if you’re unfit, you may well get a fitness coach.  In all of those scenarios, there is an end product to resolve the initial problem or a route towards resolving it at least, but for a professional to adjudge as to whether a body wax is necessary, I see only one solution – to let that professional take a look, and that means going to their place of work surely?

Yes, I didn’t think I was ready beforehand, but not with any real conviction and not based on any previous experience.  As far as I was concerned, I must have been ready because another regular appointment on the calendar had come around, much like it had before – the type that sets those prominent points on the timeline of my life.

On-line consultation perhaps?  Some industries do just that, however, given the extent of detail to be examined to reach a decision, that’s not feasible, reliant on good quality IT, and in any case, very much open to misinterpretation etc.  I mean, going on line before a webcam?  Really!

On-line sinner, TV dimmer (part 2) —

On-line sinner, TV dimmer (part 2)

I finished my last blog entry with a hint as to what the next part was to be about, and for those that saw TV as ‘transvestite’, shame on you for being so presumptuous!   TV is in fact short for ‘television’ – of course!

I do like a good British TV soap opera and whilst these programmes do have gay and lesbian characters as part of the norm, there have been none that I am aware of that have tackled the subject of any part of the trans spectrum.  Please correct me if I’m wrong.

However, what soap operas do cover is many aspects of other every day life from financial hardship, unemployment, child birth, illness, murder, rape, extortion and other general misery, as well as injecting a bit of humour too from time to time – well, some so, whilst some seem permanently dark and miserable.

I digress.  I have been doing some binge watching to catch up but doing further immerses one’s self in the storylines and characters rather than simply getting a reminder of what was happening when the next episode is screened.

But as a closeted crossdresser, I have been forced to take a mental back step again by certain situations which centre around deceit.   On two occasions recently, script lines have swirled around the two elements of love and trust.  One character said: “What good is love if you haven’t got trust?”

Here emergeth the Guilt Monster to plague me once more.  There was I, cuddling up to the other half – the one against who I have been secretl indulging in something she knows nothing about and nor can she or would she being able to deal with it if the truth ever came out God forbid.  “What’s new here Fiona?” you may well ask, and you would be right to ask that.

What was the net result of having this script line not so much delivered to me, more so having it slapped around my face?  Crossdressing stalled again, yet not for long and one might say only momentarily so.  It wasn’t long in fact before I’d even returned to a day of underdressing at work which happened late last week and to be honest, as I sit here on public transport penning another blog entry, I am underdressed in a full set of lingerie, bra included, these being the undies from the man bag, stashed from last Friday, having emerged again to be put on before a journey to work.

I remain resolutely involved in crossdressing, yet am constantly reminded of the deceit that I continue to apply through my own actions.  It is such a difficult situation, yet it is quite simply something that I must do or at least, cannot stop myself from doing somehow.  Although I have previously had the willpower, right now, I just don’t have it in me to stop myself, and it will take something big to jolt me away from the cravings I seek through dressing and the wish to flaunt myself on-line n front of a web cam.

The feeling of my favourite black lacy bra – that in itself is ridiculous as it belongs to the other half but albeit s no longer her size, so I’ve merely seized it as my own  – is just, somehow, amazing, especially when filled with breast forms that are just the right size.   Being clad in stockings and suspenders clad is the essential part of how I dress. I feel incomplete without those accessories – they feel so nice, and additionally, nice and warm in the colder weather now starting to wrap itself around us all.

My mood changes, my urges to dress might diminish, but they never go completely and, ridiculous as it might sound, there have been occasions where I have almost forced myself to dress, somehow reluctantly dressing yet wanting to do so.  As I have said before, I would be ideal material for a case study for a psychiatrist – of that I am sure.

This morning was a prime example.  The lingerie remained in the man bag having been taken off on Friday, so despite an early start, it made the perfect opportunity to don it all again and attack the day.   It was rather pleasant to feel so warm and comfortable in the chill of the morning with my lower half wrapped so snuggly in black lace and stockings.

Whilst I have been on this path, there was yet another section of script on the TV soap that talked about trust in a loving relationship.  I would subscribe to that, but clearly not unconditionally.  Whilst it resonates, and opens the door to the aforementioned Guilt Monster, it might seem that there is the stubborn part of me that just refuses almost point blank, to take any notice whatsoever.

The biggest clouts of guilt come during periods of closeness with my other half or in the immediate aftermath of a really hot, steamy and prolonged web cam session where ejaculation is allowed somehow.  In those tender moments with my significant other, she clings to me and I warmly and genuinely hold her back, lovingly, exchanging words of undying love.  I feel like I need to stop within those moments and savour them, yet outside of those tender moments, I plough on, tantamount to pillaging the relationship for what it gives me yet giving what I genuinely give to it in the same vein.

I am still the same person, yet  over the years, I have allowed myself to become addicted to a fetish/connected to my feminine side (delete as applicable) – something I cannot put down despite the risks I’ve experienced first hand before when stepping too close to the proverbial edge, and a fetish that no-one would and could tolerate in my inner circle or slightly outside of it.  It is as if there is a crunch point that will come at some point whilst I continue to indulge in moments of risk and that is a constant worry really, but still I press on.

Wearing lingerie is fast becoming the norm, an everyday part of me in a way, and that brings it sown dangers of complacency.   Losing everything because of this, doesn’t bear thinking about, yet I do, outside of the moments of indulgence in the art and act.

The truth is, whilst I remain addicted to crossdressing in lingerie, I also remain addicted to my favourite TV soap opera, which like the effect of crossdressing, is a turn-on, but also puts things into contrast and dims down the brightness of every moment of indulgence when I pick up my burgeoning supply of lingerie.

On-line sinner, TV dimmer (part 1) — October 22, 2018

On-line sinner, TV dimmer (part 1)

To paraphrase the name of an old TV show that was on-air long before I was born, ‘that was the week that…’ wasn’t.

For such a long time, the temptation to dress and go on-line has been uncontrollable, and the actions of Fiona’s appearance on-line have, on occasion, been largely uncontrollable.

Fiona likes a chat.  She’s the person those closest to me, know, but with the feminine side – chatty, friendly, helpful, willing to talk on a respectable level, detail the journey, talk with appreciation, understanding, and empathy if not sympathy.  That’s nice.

However, =it is, at times, like my eyes are seeing what someone else is doing yet is powerless to stop it.  Credit where credit is due, transretrogurl has done what she does best, using her blog to bring me, repeatedly, to my senses, rationalising many things that I’ve been doing, and giving them some sort of level, position, type or descriptor rather than them merely being occurrences.

Sarah, as she is otherwise known, pens probably my favourite subject-related blog, describing such experiences I can relate to on many occasions, but most recently, giving a valid summary of the alter-ego’s alter-ego.

To clarify, there is the real life me (of course), then there is Fiona, but what Sarah also describes from her own experiences, is that of the third person – do please read her entry via the above link for the details, but the crux of the situation is that, for me at least, I acknowledged that there is Fiona –  the alter-ego who will dress and enjoy, chat and discuss, flaunt and flirt in a wide variety of lingerie outfits and that is all well and good.

But with the right choice of words from web cam viewers, the hypothetical door can be barged open by the arguable total slut that is Fiona’s alter-ego.   Frankly, this gurl doesn’t care one iota.  She’ll get down right filthy, no holds barred, provocative, tarty, exposive, explosive, descriptive, willing to do virtually whatever she is asked with whoever asks, to a group or 1-2-1 on a platform of her choice.

Fiona’s alter-ego currently remains nameless.  She hasn’t got time to come out and admit to who she is by name – she is far too busy smashing imaginary doors down, knocking Fiona aside and waving her overt sexuality blatantly in front of short-sentence one-handed keyboard writing lustfuls and hopefuls, who, in actuality, may present places and circumstances where neither of the three of us would actually want to venture in real life.  Or would one or two of them?

The phrase ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ goes some way to painting a picture of how Fiona’s alter-ego can, will and does react.   What Fiona sees on camera in whatever lingerie takes her fancy, is the control she has over me as my day-to-day self.  What the viewer sees is what the viewer sees – and that goes with whatever then gets ignited and stoked in the furnace of the mind.

This is where the as yet unnamed alter-ego barges in as the temperature soars and sexuality begins to pour out.  Fiona’s alter-ego will, although accepting that there is an appendage not associated with the female sex, sometimes see past that and will let my vivid imagination combine with Fiona’s and then hers to wield a level of overt sexuality with no holds barred.

Fantasies including group sex – male only for example – being nothing more than a sex object to be used and worn out are allowed to be as real as they can possibly be, all protected by the immediate familiar surroundings and apparent safety of a room at distance, a keyboard, computer screen and a webcam which give enough apparent protection to allow virtually anything else to be a tempting possibility within seconds and close proximity.

Such phrases from on-lookers as ‘If I was in that room now’, ‘I wish I was there with you now’ and ‘Where abouts are you?’ act like the proverbial red rag to a bull, the fantasy allowed to play itself out in text speak, exchanges constantly raising the temperature, and even better when Skype is employed, voices and sounds merely adding fuel to the flames.

Fiona’s alter-ego revels in clocking up the on-line trophies at the end of 1-2-1 sessions for example – looking forward to collecting the next one after the previous one is collected. You can work out the rest.   She will however, relish the chance to avoid giving much if anything at all back, or just enough to get what she wants, happily teasing to achieve her aims.

Contrast that, if you will, with the man in civvies at the head of the line – the man who has long acknowledged Fiona as the alter-ego, but now facing the realisation of the alter-ego also having an alter-ego – the third person – whoever she is, but the one-pair of eyes sees everything as it unfolds.

Fiona is struggling to come out of late.  Over the past week, the dressing and exhibitionistic side hasn’t been fiercely driven, it’s almost been a chore.   Fiona, driven by seeing her favourite outfit being worn by someone on Twitter, has revelled in pulling on that same outfit, almost trying to out-wear the woman seen wearing it, the outfit Fiona hasn’t actually worn for some time until then.   That was the spark that triggered odd bursts of crossdressing and on-line explicit behaviour.

Other than that, it’s not been important.  There has been no underdressing for work, although Fiona did think about it, so that’s less crossdressing time there too.   She’s got a good understanding of the use of the washing machine and has been planning, for some time, to take the time to launder some lingerie at strategic moments, only, either there haven’t been any, and when there was, she was far too busy putting herself before any waiting audience on-line or being barged out of the way by her alter-ego.

The Guilt-monster is a domineering force at the moment and serious thought is now being given to whether the deceit can continue at this time, not helped by that little box of pictures residing in the corner of the room.

On-line sinner?  TV dimmer.  More in my next blog entry.

A pick up to put down — September 26, 2018

A pick up to put down

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking just lately, and as it happens, not a lot of dressing.  As I indicated in my last blog post, of late, I have sort of lost my mojo about it all.

This is nothing new – this sort of thing has happened before.  I’ve often talked about how the urge to crossdress can vary from massively uncontrollable urges through to not inclined in the slightest.  Daily chores need doing of course, for a multitude of reasons, but just lately, whether it be sorting the pots or washing to cleaning the car, and even as far as the commute by whatever means, going through the motions allows time for thought processes to wash across and around my mind, perhaps nothing precise or directional though, just thoughts.

The other week, whilst neither bothered nor not bothered to crossdress, but somewhere in between, I stumbled across a pink bustier/cami on line which I deemed suitable to replace one binned in the last (ever) purge.   As with 99.9% of all of the lingerie I’ve ordered, it was arranged for dispatch to a collection point, the risk of it being delivered home at whatever time the Post Office deem these days, being in no way compatible to the days when you could rely on the local postie to be at your door at more or less the same time every day – perfect for interception as required.

With my apparent apathy towards crossdressing at the moment, it was somewhat of a bind, a chore all by itself to have to go to the pick up point in the wake of receiving an e-mail telling me that the pink outfit was available for collection.   Still, there was no point in leaving it, considering what it cost, and with that in mind, I went through the motions of collection one morning recently.

I had all the time in the world to do so as it happened, and the minute that package was in my hand, there was still the OCD-esque motivation to peek inside – reasons largely unbeknown to me.  Continuing the commute to the day job, I used a marginal opportunity to open it up and persist in fighting my way through the inner wrapping until I glimpsed a merest sighting of the colour pink.   That done, it was duly wrapped back up again and stored away ready for…well, whenever.   I have no idea what motivates me to do such silly things.

Prior to that, I’d been preparing the man bag for the day ahead, and suddenly realised that the last pre-home time undress out of lingerie at the office had been followed by a period of abject apathy as stated above, and as it turned out, I’d somewhat carelessly not even got around to, or even remembered to remove the items and put them back to safe storage.   They were stored within a bag within the man bag anyway, and the man bag is never ventured into by anyone else but me, but still, there was a risk factor here that I’d ignored and/or forgotten.

Before I set off for another probably frustrating Monday, I decided that I really ought to return the items of lingerie – a black waist covering suspender belt and the stockings – back to the lingerie storage hidey hole.  I practically forced myself to do it there and then – doublng back and therefore delaying myself to do so.   It really was seen as somewhat of a chore, but the paranoid element within decided that it was best to get it done because the alternative – that I would somehow be undone – was too much to contemplate, even though the chances of being undone were extremely slim.

However, the irony was that I later replaced one set of lingerie with another having visited the collection point. Work that one out!

The last few days, call it a week if you like, have been a mixture of lack of time to do anything else, motivation to do something else, and all out fatigue.  Honestly, being up and about from as early as 6:45 and dressed for the best part of two hours and often then for the duration of a hard day’s work until virtually twelve hours after I surfaced for the day, and then being up late for one reason or another have gradually led to a period of being quite tired.  Repeat.

Of course, getting tired can lead to being run down, and being run down in turn leads to being susceptible to picking up all manner of nasty bugs, particularly as Autumn gets a grip.  As I alluded to in my last blog posts, life is quite good for me at the moment, and the harmony of my personal life is probably at an all time high.

Enter the Guilt Monster to scowl and point the finger, reminding you in glorious technicolour what you have been doing in total and utter deceit to nearest and dearest who are in blissful unexpecting ignorance, probably likely to be unable to deal with the truth if it were ever put before them.

Whilst the signs may be there, many if not everyone I know would find it difficult to marry up the prospect of me as a person being me a crossdresser.

I’m sorry.  These blog entries just go round and round, me undoubtedly repeating the same sort of thing at some point or another from entry to entry.   I like crossdressing one minute, I don’t the next.  I plan to do this, that and the other one minute and would rather not the next.   As I have said before, a session before a psychiatrist or such like would be one hell of a case study for them, hours of their time, and pounds of money with someone credible.

But the wallet and bank contents are safe, and a blog entry is the cheapest and indeed only way to talk about my ebbing and flowing feelings – there is and can be no-one to talk to in person.   Therefore, with the encouragement to leave comments below, and anywhere else on my blog for that matter, thanks as ever for following and reading.

I must now contemplate what I now do with a few tenners worth of pink lingerie.  Part of me thinks that I must try it on because I have now acquired it, and who knows where that will send my mind spinning.  Pick up to put down or pick up to put on?

Until next time…

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.