Think of the largest closet you could ever imagine, think of the most secure lock on the front of it, and then imagine my crossdressed alter-ego lost somewhere within. If you ever got through the lock, you probably wouldn’t find me in my closet – that’s how far I am lost inside and must remain.
And do you know what? That’s all well and good to be honest. However, still hell bent on something or other crossdressing wise, I am perhaps as equally aware of a trail of deceit littering every corner and crevice of my life.
I was acknowledging the wife’s black lacy bra hanging casually on a hook in the bedroom the other day – knowing that I’ve worn it and how it feels and arguably wanting to wear it again rather than any other more natural observation. There hasn’t been a viable opportunity to crossdress since last week, but that doesn’t mean to say that there’s not been something driving me on to do so ASAP.
In the last few days, I have found myself indulging extensively in crossdressing and trans videos on-line, fascinating myself with the female image but the male genitalia as well as the lingerie. But this isn’t with any intent or desire to change gender, call it curiosity and investigation if you like.
Just today, having been out earlier, I hid myself away in my office and indulged, feeling quite excited and ultimately reaching such a peak that I needed to find relief in the bathroom, just as people arrived through the front door! I was relieved, yet felt naughty, yet felt stunned at where I’d allowed myself to get to over that period of time.
I’ve previously blogged about the effects of guilt, particularly of the type which has followed an on-line dressing session in one set of lingerie or other that reached a peak. That guilt has included an overall awareness of what is at stake. I’ve been busted once before and once only, but I am here to tell the tale, everything intact, the reasons for that remaining forever untold, but much to relief of another kind.
Family, friends, people, hobbies, work, car, how and where I live and who I live with. I can’t contemplate a single life, one where everything implodes, explodes – both infact – a total loss – living alone, finding alternative accommodation, finding another job even, losing all the good things in my life that I’ve helped build and have contributed so much to.
Social media bombards you with reminders from years gone by but those reminders have a undercurrent for me personally, one where I know that, even back then, one, two, five years ago, I remember crossdressing at that time, I remember holidays where I looked forward to returning home for further opportunities to secretly crossdress, times when I know that I’d be managing inner guilt, times when I had recently been crossdressing.
There are those loving moments when my wife looks into my eyes, tells me she loves me and I reply accordingly and meaningfully whilst inside, there’s a voice screaming ‘CROSSDRESSER!’ – even having had a night out over the weekend, as bizarre as this sounds, and as lovely as the night was, there was I standing against a urinal in an otherwise empty mens room going about my business, reminding myself that I am a crossdresser. Yes – I know – all I was doing was torturing myself.
Yes, I may be beating myself up, but conversely, I remain receptive to comments on relevant social media about my crossdressing, stats on my blog, opportunities when I may be able to crossdress again, and thoughts have even turned to buying more lingerie, some way, some how, what I’d like to buy, how I might remind myself of my ‘other’ size, measuring up, shall I buy in person or on line, shall I buy at all? Yes. No. Perhaps.
Everything that I’m doing that is the normal heterosexual me as everybody knows me comes as if there is the ‘other’ me – one watching appreciatively at what I have in my life, noting what I stand to lose if I continue and/or become careless.
Careless can include the very existence of this blog, the evidence of my alter-ego psuedonym splashed about on-line and the extent to which those presences exist, from those stripped back on Literotica forums to various sites with cam imagery and/or photographs. Conversations at home day-to-day have focused on male celebrities who dress as females who members of my family either find acceptable or intolerable – outbursts which remind me of how closeted I am, how much I need to remain closeted, and whether or not there’s a need to get a proverbial grip, climb out of the closet, lock it behind me and throw away the key.
There is just the little matter of ongoing clarification within my own mindset of late as to just how long I’ve been crossdressing in lingerie. Those social media ‘this day in history’ jogs back through my timeline have no reference to crossdressing to any extent, yet I am personally and quietly, secretly reminded how I felt about crossdressing back then.
My god, have I really been a secret crossdresser for that long? I’d almost been in denial that it had been going on for so long, almost as if dipping in and out made it more manageable. But with the acknowledgement of the timescale, comes the acknowledgement of the duration of deceit running alongside. I still haven’t worked it out for definite, but it’s got to be ten years at least. Sure, if no-one knows, no-one is being deceived right? Perhaps so, however, I am in a game of roulette with my life.
One which sees the wheel turning, the ball bouncing between red and black, opposite extremes, closeted crossdresser, decieving family man, an addict, unable to wrestle control of the fetish and addiction long enough, yet with eyes wide open to the risks. I am acutely aware of the one and only time I was caught, how I felt then, how, having steered through the dangerous waters, determined not for anything like that to happen again, acutely aware of what I stood to lose, how sad and unhappy I felt about it, emerging safely with those valuable life elements intact, only for the spark to ignite after what was, back then, the end, but since proving to be a mere hiatus.
Those who have told me that I am who I am and there’s no changing are not telling me I don’t already know, yet I seem determined to fly in the face of all of that and set a course for proving folk wrong that I can get over this at some point. It is as if, in everything I do nowadays, there’s someone (another me perhaps) standing there with a big pointing hand, a flashing neon sign, reminding me that all those things I hold dear and of such value, are at stake.
Yet I feel sure that something will drive me to crossdress again because something feels right about it at the time, something drives me on, I drive myself on, and then I’m back where I was, staring back at the things I stand at risk of losing in one careless moment – a trail of deceit trailing in my wake.
Why is ‘it’ such a draw? Why does it have such a hold on me yet I have such a frequent blatant disregard for what is at stake as I indulge. Why do I tell myself that none of this is that good, then simply ignore it and carry on with the same cycle?
I’m deceiving no-one because no-one knows, and I’ve kept it secret for at least a decade, but acknowledging the timescales is telling me something about myself I don’t seem to recognise, nor, at times, want to recognise. Whether anyone knows or not, surely, it is still deceit in some form, and if I’m not happy with it, something has to change. But how, what and when?
I have frequently got into situations where I can see the danger ahead yet plough on. If I do something or other one more time, I tell myself what will happen, yet despite the warning, I plough on and sure enough, it does happen. If it can happen for other things in life, if I fail to heed my own warnings, then t can happen with one careless moment, one hell bent moment when I exploit an ill thought out opportunity to crossdress, one which gets me caught with no-way out than into nothing but loss and despair. It has happened before, but I don’t think I could get myself out of it next time.
Food for thought for me, if not for you as a follower of my blog – for which I thank you. This one has been a deep one.
Until next time.