Where to start?

Now seems like a good place, but I will go back.

The urge had been striking for a few weeks and I suppose, a few months, and as it happened, at the beginning of the week, an uncontrollable urge hit me to dress up in a set of white lingerie and get on not one but two webcam sites at the same time.

I donned one of the wife’s white lacy bras, plus my own recently acquired white suspender belt, white hold up stockings and one of my white g-strings and did some cavorting for those that liked what they saw, chatting with them, often to explicit extents, often no holds barred but it ended when it was time and I jumped back into civvies and stashed the stash away – ’til morning.

The following morning gave me the urge to change to black, and get back online as darned quickly as possible.  Out came one of the wife’s lacy black bras, my own black hold-ups, and on this occasion, a black suspender belt from her drawer which is a perfect fit for me.

There had already been a problem at the beginning of the week.  My stash had been kept in the back of the car and had been there for several weeks as it had been some time since my last lingerie cross dressing session and I’d previously decided that I couldn’t keep it in the house because – well, just because.  The stash was damp having sweated it out in the tyre well in a plastic bag, but I’d dried it out having been hidden in the house for a day or so.

The ‘black’ session was, let’s just say, one which developed and peaked.  And that’s where it seems my problem has been of late. Able to cope whilst dressing and dressed in the lingerie per se, I became instantly disgusted with what I’d done and vowed this time to do what I’d threatened to myself that I’d do – get rid – purge. End it.  Stop it.  Once and for all.  Focus on family, important other matters elsewhere too.  Getting to work on time or earlier, distract myself.  Anything!

Out came a black bin liner, in went the stash – red suspender belt, red fishnets, black hold ups, white suspender belt and white hold up stockings, and as I set off for work, into the bin liner, and into a bin outside my local shop, even reaching in to stuff the air-filled bag down as far as I could.  I knew it was there but my conscience was clear and I was determined – that was it – never again.

Still my own personal digust raged into the working day. Once out of the house, I logged in to both my on line accounts and cancelled – erased – the membership, one of which I’d already gone on before to rejoin having stopped before, one which I’d had to go to great lengths to get back on to via site admins having been a bit careless in rushing to apply.

The week wore on.  The following morning I returned to that same local shop for the usual morning bits and bobs, casting a sneaky eye into the bin as I passed.  By now, the remnants of yesterdays takeaways etc were covering that still  slightly visible black bin liner.  It began to rankle.  How could I get it back?  Could I get it back?  When could I get it back?  A whole wave of totally irrational ideas flooded my mind set, late night or early morning trips out to go rummaging.

This morning came the clincher – the local council had been and emptied the bin.  It really was gone.  Again. I daren’t imagine how much I’ve spent buying, then purging before and it was enough last time around.  It’s been definitely more than twice and now it’s definitely three times I’ve purged in what must be the best part of a decade?  I still remember taking a car load of rubbish to the local tip and knowing what was in one particular bin liner casually swung into one of the general waste skips.  I knew how many quite simply gorgeous and irreplaceable chemises had been lost before in that one trip to the tip and still it rankled deep within from time to time.

Had I done the right thing this time.  I’d been so, SO angry this time.  But was I ignoring the fact that I’d been doing this sort of thing in secret on and off for more years than I care to remember?  Absolutely no-one else knowing, I’d been discreet, careful, meticulously so – for years (except one instance I’ll mention in a future blog).

Today, yet more rational (or perhaps irrational) thoughts.  I could get more lingerie. I could quite easily buy a cheap set of hold ups from Wilkos and soon be back to black.  Still fighting my every thought and having laid awake last night, or suffering the most complex of dreams when I was asleep, I turned to the internet and found blogs about recovering crossdressers and read with much interest, it seemed somehow so reassuring.  Safety in numbers clearly in front of me – as plain as the nose on my face.

And that’s what I’ve been reading all day, so much so, that I registered here to leave my own blog, reassured by the wave of similar experiences, that I’m not alone, but that there are people who seek to recover, to stop, to never forget but never get over, but assert some control, some karma, refocus on things and people I’d neglected. And equally were there folk who’d given it some thought but rationalised it as not being that significant all things considered for them either way.

So anyway, I’d stopped. Again. But after a day or two of comparative anguish, a lot of sighing and feeling sad and/or reflective of what I’d thrown away, of how I could somehow set it right (whatever ‘right’ actually was), but equally, a coming to terms with the last few days.  Did I have to suffer this cold turkey before it would get better.

It had happened before. I’d purged, I’d stopped, but I’d started again, and I’d bought again, I’d left it a while, and I’d started lingerie cross dressing again.  This was just the way it was and is.  But then there’s that recently experienced disgust with myself after THAT moment at peak.  What is that disgust all about, where did it come from this time and of late and why didn’t I react so dramatically at the peak before years ago? What has changed in recent months?

Will I be able to renew that website membership again, for what will be a third time?  What if I can’t.  Perhaps I shouldn’t.  I love my wife, I love my family and none of them know a thing.  I love my life but there’s that occasional, sometimes controllable, sometimes uncontrollable urge, one I can ignore, one I sometimes can’t or embrace easily and fall back into it partially or fully, quickly or for a short burst.  Am I weak?  Is it really doing anyone else any harm being shut away enjoying the experience, or secretly cross dressed in lovely lingerie under my civvies?  Is my fetish affecting my family life and the people closest to me?

Can I stop? Must I stop? Shall I stop this time?  Can I actually continue as I had done before and manage my disgust out, dismiss it more quickly than I had been doing or once and for all and get a grip?  This is me after all.  Perhaps stop myself from going too or so far?  My head is full of questions.  I know I shouldn’t, I think I shouldn’t, but I know I like it, I know I liked it, I knew I wanted to, and I am now quickly swinging back round to wanting to just to feel better again for this moment in time.  Some way, some how.

This is an addiction alright – I know that – but there are worst things.  But what could I be doing instead and what greater value could it be all things told?  Quite a lot, but nevertheless.  I’m still rationalising it in my head, I was back then and I am right now. How did it start, when did it start, what fuelled it, what fuels it, when did it escalate to where it is now?  Do I need to ask so many questions of myself and put myself through this honestly?  Does it matter that much either way?

You’re up to date. Now it’s time to go back.