It was a while ago. A good while ago now.

The wife had just gone out somewhere, and like a coiled spring released, having planned what I’d be doing and when, I bounced into action.  As quickly as I could, (I’ve got quicker at it over the years) on came a cami suspender set, stockings, her heels, into the wife’s finest I went once more.   It hadn’t been long, but I was probably dressed as sufficiently as I wanted to be at that point.

Then came that noise.  For all the right reasons, undocumented here, plans had changed and the wife came back.  I panicked.  Tearing things off and lobbing them in any old crevice, this was going to be as long as it took her to get upstairs and in our place, that wasn’t going to be long at all.  Whatever I did do, I actually knew that it wasn’t long enough by a country mile, yet somehow I hoped above all hope that it would be enough someway, somewhow.

In my panic, I kind of knew that I’d really really really been busted this time.  If I remember correctly, perhaps I was naked, but not when I should’ve been naked – just not that time of the day.  As it remains a blur for all the best reasons, I don’t remember that the scenario or my very demeanor or the fact that I was probably due elsewhere myself fairly soon perhaps (I don’t remember) was something that warranted me being naked.   Not even ‘I’m just going to have a shower’.  My panic – the fact that I was doing something I knew I’d be in trouble for – was not so much etched, more tattooed on my face, and it it were possible, in massive neon signs above my head too.

Perhaps things had been lobbed in a cupboard bottom, but the fact I was naked was enough under the circumstances.  As I said, it’s a blur and that’s probably the best way for it to stay.  Were they her stockings I was using, never actually worn by her?  (Probably bought by me for her!) Did she have some then even though she never wore them?  Quite possibly. As I don’t remember the fact that I’d been wearing stockings being a point of argument or discussion in the aftermath.

In short – in any case, I’d been caught – for the first and only time.  And whilst all hell broke loose then, I am still here now.  How I am still here is most definitely best left in a very, very dark corner of my mind, never to find its way onto any form of media.  An inner most secret?  Definitely.  But put simply, there was sufficient mitigation and discussion to get by and still be here now.

Either way, on that occasion, it was enough – that was it – I’d pushed it too far for too long, I’d been discreet, careful, meticulously so and for a long time in retrospect, but something had gone horribly, horribly wrong on this one occasion.  The clouds continued to circle – things needed to heal and the atmosphere clear however long that would take.

As we both circled the house avoiding each other, me tearing myself apart from within and looking for any shred of normality, I did what I do in a crisis.  I busied myself in a way that was in no way befitting the moment.   I was in a cupboard feigning tidying it, (but I was actually tidying it too) feigning keeping out of the way (but I was actually keeping out of the way!) – but with a bin-liner to hand.  I am known for having sudden clear-outs of all manner of things, and often at the strangest of times.

What I was actually doing was emptying my bulging secret stash of lingerie.  As far as the wife was concerned – I’d had a mad moment and it was a one-off and that was sufficient.

But that was it for me.  I knew the monetary value of what I was clearing out, and I knew the types of things I was clearing out, but that paled into insignificance and what was at stake otherwise personally.  In any case, a domestically necessary trip to the supermarket coincided with me somehow slipping out of the house with that bin-liner.  And it was very quickly up-ended into one of those supermarket recycling bins – the ones in the far corner of the part of the car park that nobody uses as it is far too far away from the main entrance.  The type of recycling bins where you pull the bucket forward, empty in to the top, push the handle forward and in it falls into the vast metallic cavern within until some unsuspecting helpful soul sifts through it to help those less fortunate than ourselves and finds my dispensed set of lovelies.

I later did the same thing as I’d done before – wondering where it might have ended up, but right there and then, at that precise moment, at that very recycling bin – to be honest, I was past caring – this was me dealing with a reality check the size of a ten-tonne truck and some.  This had all been too much, too close, too awkward, lesson learned and that purge was enough for me to feel that I’d put it behind me – once and for all.

It was another purge, but it was the end – a recovering crossdresser – most defintely – this time…

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