The last blog was something of a motivation it seems.

Shortly after penning the last tome, I logged into one of my very little used on-line crossdresser website profiles and merely found the relevant button to cancel my membership.

This was an easy step to make as the site in question was one I signed into whilst on a quest for info and research.  I don’t honestly know what I hoped to gain from it but for whatever reason, I didn’t gain much from it.

Besides, I did get a slap on the wrist from the administrator for a rather risque profile pic, well at least for them anyway, and to be fair, it was – but it was the only one I had.

So that left the ‘other’ couple of profiles.  On one, the more personal details were set to default, the one I’d removed the pics from whilst on what I may decide to call my site of preference, the analyst in me decided to switch on the section that shows images from my previous web cam shows.

This was a dangerous dalliance. I was immediately confronted with the imagery of the most recent session, in one of my all time favourite outfits – a black and red cami-suspender.  My, my it looked (and to be fair, I looked) so good and it was quite a turn on, with all my various poses and positions.

Then there was the other session in the pink outfit and a session in which I’d ‘toyed’ around.   Somewhere, a little spark flickered within.  I flicked back and forth through the pics before going back to the settings and switching them off again.   There was a need to assert some very immediate control and to do so, I sought relief which washed away any driving thoughts to wander back into the territory I had no intention to wander in.

So with the profiles softened and the relief still evident in a number of ways, I abandoned that aspect of my time on-line and moved on.

In my last blog, I remarked on how purging was a pending step to take.  I had previously agonised over how I might react in fishing out the stockings and pink outfit I blogged about first back in April time.   One day last week though, home alone, I decided to just do it.  Out came a bin liner, I forcefully entered the hidey-hole, whipped out the black stockings, fished further back for the lacy skin coloured ones, and without another thought, thrust them into the depths of the bin liner.

Next up, the other hidey hole.  I knew that if I started appreciating the lacy pink material, the thick wide suspender straps and the way the outfit looked overall, I’d be in dangerous territory.  Like a cold-ridden soul might keep a tissue tightly in a clasped fist, I grabbed for the outfit which was already tightly folded, and focussed on the bin liner, it’s gaping darkness swallowing up the pinkness before the other muted ‘me’ could gain any advantage.

The problem then was how and when to get rid.  What public bin and where?  Thoughts rankled on what would happen if someone intercepted it immediately afterwards and linked it to me.   I passed a local shop outside which a bin evidently sits and decided to pop in with the bin liner of purged lingerie still hidden in the boot.

I took a few steps then decided that it was a time of day when no-one was around and would likely be too distracted by their own affairs in the houses around.  I returned to the boot, reached within, tightly scrunching the bin liner by grabbing the items within, I thrust it into the bin with a care free disposal as might apply with any other type of rubbish and thought no more of it.

There was no second thoughts, no thoughts about what I’d done, why I’d done it, whether I should fish it back out again.  To hell with the consequences anyway, and I’d contented myself with the fact that there weren’t going to be any.

And all of that within a day or three of the last blog.  I’ve quite surprised myself, but sitting here now, reflecting on the imagery I’d seen on those hidden cam session pics, I know that I can go and look at and appreciate them right now.

And do you know what?  I might just do that too – for reasons largely unbeknown.  Just because I can. But there is a part of me that is acutely aware of the proverbial dangling carrot before me, one that I’d been lucky enough to be able to take more than a bite from before and ultimately, it left a bitter after taste.

However, there was another carrot being dangled and it was one that didn’t tempt me in the way it had done so before.   But the fact that it had done before per se, is a warning sign all by itself.

Note that I haven’t deleted those ‘other accounts’ on those ‘other’ sites.

I’m not there yet.  But for now, it’s all a bit gung-ho.