This week, I’ll tell you that I have ventured into my trusty home and hardware store once more for another reason, but for very good reason, I won’t say why and what for.

Suffice to say that once I’d gone in there, my mind turned to the little essentials I buy for myself heterosexually, but with pulse and adrenaline racing, I made a bee-line for that aisle, the one I said I’d deliberately avoided before, the one with the black hold up stockings.  There was, to be frank, no stopping me on this occasion.

There was I – ready for the day, a man in a home & hardware store, this, that and the other from the ordinary and in the handful, the box of black lacy-top hold up stockings, fresh and in the box.   Of course, the many possibilities were racing through my mind on behalf of the assistant at the till, who was merely chatting with an acquaintance whilst ringing my items through.

“He was buying them for someone” – a sort of ‘whilst you’re passing/if you’re going by ____, can you pick me up some…’. that might be asked of a modern man or just anyone might do as a helpful, considerate soul that I am.

Did I want a bag she asked? No. I already had a carrier and this was in the week in which England started charging folk 5p – ‘…how good was I’ I clearly asked seeking some sort of praise.  My carrier of contents went in my man bag and off I walked, man bag sealed, asking myself what the hell I thought I was doing.

There I went again – split personality arguing with myself in my head in the shopping centre, however the conversation in my mindset soon came to a halt as I made my way to work and instead the pressure pot of longing, urge and excitement began to boil up.  All day, and with the odd glance into the bag in the man bag to remind myself I’d really got those black lacy-topped hold up stockings, the planning crossdresser went into full pelt for the first time in a long time.  I knew what I’d be wearing when I got home but I had to get through the entire working day, albeit with an early finish.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything that day, other than getting home and donning another of my favourite cami-suspenders from the wife’s range that she doesn’t wear.

Eventually, it was time to go home but still, I couldn’t get home quick enough on the public transport and distracted myself with some work and reading until I got to the point of destination.  I was quickly through the door and upstairs, as that voice from the shopping centre again asked “What the hell are you doing”, as I whipped the stockings out, added the suspender straps to the outfit I’d planned to wear, selected a lacy black g-string from the wife’s unused set, pulled on the heels which fit like a dream and appeared on-line, cavorting, strutting, sitting, posing, appreciating the appreciation, the attention, the comments, the questions, the discussion – that’s when that dratted webcam wasn’t freezing and dropping out everytime I moved it, causing a need to restart and a loss of those watching, all bar the most hooked who returned each time.

Gosh, I felt sexy and turned on in that outfit I so love and had so long planned to be wearing, so much so, let’s just say things went just a little out of my control very quickly, not fully but just a little, having been stood there with legs spread and horny as a dandy – but there was still a need for a tidy up and although the cam session was still running, I was all of a sudden largely out of shot whilst questions were left unanswered as to why things had reached such an abrupt end.  Besides, it was food time anyway, the evening meal was ready but to eat it, I pulled on a pair of long-trouser PJs, the t-shirt top, some socks and a thick winter dressing gown covering up, whilst still being dressed underneath.

Having sat for a while, plate on lap in the living room, I had become increasingly more uncomfortable with how I was feeling after that peak, I could no longer tolerate being covertly crossdressed and, throwing my plate back in the oven to keep it as warm as possible, dashed back upstairs, hastily getting changed into the PJs only, everything else, including those new stockings, removed, thrust away or tidied away where the cami-suspender etc should be but still with a clear up to do.

I later cleared up the war zone that was my secret playground, put the cardboard box in which the stockings came, strategically through the shredder and proceeded to mince up some old paperwork on top of it.  I settled into evening contentment having completed the clean up, yet the devil inside grinning smugly about what had just happened, the angel managing the guilt, the devil muting the angst though.

It was one hell of a blow out and an enjoyable one at that.  But that is, it seems, where my crossdressing is at now.  It is no longer at each and every possibility, it is like a service station on the M25 motorway – few and far between.

Since that instance, there have been no urges, no desires, no desperation, no planning, no thoughts to cross dress again, more so that I’m OK now – done thanks very much – quite content.  All day, I had suffered what was probably the fiercest, most difficult to manage urge that I’d had for a long time – there was no stopping this train until I stopped it myself, stopping short of (and excuse me whilst I go with analogies and symbolism) the final destination but getting off a stop before.

I needed it, I craved it, I had it – boy did I have it, then I simply didn’t need it anymore.   This is not really something I’ve experienced before that being a pattern of ‘stop, binge, repeat’ and to be honest, I can’t quite work it out.

Why haven’t I identified and seized other opportunities since?  What exactly did I gain out of the instance this week?  Evidently, satisfaction but yet it seems that there was something else I took out of it.  Was it a form of recovery, a form of progress – whatever that is?

Before this week, there was the week before.  I’ve moved from any and every opportunity to binges.   But it has become clear that I’ve stopped again.  That means that there will be another binge at some point – I just don’t know when or how it will happen.  Then again, perhaps it won’t!

I get a sexual kick out of crossdressing.  There – I’ve said it – although it’s probably clear from my blog.  I have no urge to change gender or need to come out, but I can be very naughty or merely calm and collected as my alter-ego.  I’ve identified it as a fetish.

Right now, I feel apologetic as a result of the above, empathetic for those battling issues to be accepted and to be allowed to be how they want to be in a society still intolerant of such things, but on the strength of my own observations, perhaps slowly making progress.  But I’m sorry if the way I am offends – we are wired the way we are wired, good, bad or indifferent in some ways – but I am much love and appreciation for transgender folk who go about their business discreetly and merely wanting acceptance in a still unaccepting World.

This week, the wife was watching a TV programme about trans folk – part of a series on Channel 4, which this week focussed on the younger trans generation, those still reliant on their parents, a ‘girl’ born by all accounts, a boy, but allowed through choice and feeling to be a girl by the parents.  This little’un was very clear in her gender and identity despite her tender age.   Her parents were prepared to accept her as she is, but equally so if she woke up one day, asked for her hair to be cut and to be bought boys clothes.   The little’un remarked in a supermarket aisle that that was never going to happen.  Fascinating to watch.

As I entered the room, my closet door not so much closed and locked, more welded shut, she asked if I minded watching the programme (and, who knows, the rest of the series).   No. I did not – as I relate – here lives a modern [metrosexual] man – but also recovering crossdresser.

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