Having a subject such as ‘crossdressing’ in your head without ever having told anyone bar anonymous and usually pseudonymed others online, a blog is the only real coping mechanism.
I’ll be honest. No – I’ve not crossdressed again. I am still what might be described as ‘on track’, but what I have done instead is logged on to what I might, historically, call my main site of choice for webcamming in lingerie.
I’ve logged in to the behind-the-scenes mechanics and briefly switched on and viewed the last few galleries of pics that the site secretly takes and posts on your profile if you allow them to. I know exactly what is in those images, yet I am and have been tempted, from time to time, to log in, switch them on, view a few times, switch off again and log out again.
I’ve also searched online for crossdressing pics but not live feeds or clips (as some of the latter seem so seedy, and only the odd few, sexy) and yes – some were a bit of a turn on to be fair, but as with the site logged into as referred above, without knowing exactly what was going on in my mind.
There are no urges to start crossdressing again, although walking past (but not into) the homeware store today, I acknowledged where the black lacy hold up stockings were inside and how I’d frequently bought pairs along with other day-to-day stuff.
Another trip to the ‘sells everything’ supermarket the other day saw that since Christmas, the displays had been moved around and those red cami-suspenders were no longer in sight – that I do know, but equally so, on that occasion, my eyes were NOT drawn by what else there was.
What is beginning to perturb me is the swarming mass of thick hair enveloping virtually every part of my body as days go by since my last waxing appointment and long before I am due to go again. Two options have sprung to mind – book an appointment ASAP, or stay strong, stay on track and go when I’m rebooked to go?
I have wavered towards the first option but am largely focused on the latter, but this is not as a pre-cursor to being crossdressed and looking far better en-femme with a smooth body. I am merely reminded of how much dislike I have for being hairy. It’s just not comfortable for me despite the testosterone which clearly enables it within my metabolism and build – it’s itchy, a bit warm, very hot at times and not pleasant for me to look at although the wife doesn’t mind.
Analytical as I am, I am trying to work out where my head is at with things in general. I know the multitude of reasons why I stopped crossdressing yet the subject matter per se remains in my mindset every single day.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t yearn for it – I don’t need it or want it – yet I think about it so much. That fact that I did crossdress, the number of years that I did, how it looked, how it felt, what I wore. What would be an ideal situation to enable me to be crossdressed? There isn’t one.
Oddly, I continue to take issue with the amount of lovely stuff that I have purged over the years. There’s so much, not every item can be recalled except a lovely red Gingham cami-suspender, a lovely soft satiny ruffled cami-suspender with a sparkly glittered front.
I know why I purged at those various times and on one occasion many years ago, even went as far as removing the (usually much appreciated and encouraged) images in various outfits from a self built page on a forum site and then smashing a CD (no pun intended) ROM up containing the pics into tiny pieces. Disposing of the evidence and conscience clearing indeed!
So, I’m regretful at the purges, relieved at the retrospective reasons why, yet somehow retiscent about the whole thing.
At least I would be if I knew why I had such illogical thoughts. I have never been able to work out why (or for that matter – when) I started but perhaps that is something I will never know unless I seek some kind of therapy or hypnotism, neither of which I have any desire to do.
I do have vague memories of crossdressing as a child, possibly from a dress-up box because that’s what children and siblings did back then however ridiculous you might have looked in whatever garb came from the box and I do recall other occasions when I tried on female clothing yet I don’t feel anything was gleaned from those moments – no conclusions, no thoughts, no desires to be anything other than who I was – a growing lad who viewed and purchased the odd porn mag.
Yet about what must be over a decade ago – long after leaving home, getting married and those innocent days – I started wearing lingerie.
Then stopped as a previous blog reports (having been caught). Then (much later) started again. In each instance of starting, I don’t recall there ever being a rationale as to why – I just did – the urge to was far greater than the reason. I just seemed to have gradually picked up the mechanics of dressing, learned how to put things on, take things off, in what order, researched and drew conclusions from what I’d read and seen in such innocent things as catalogues, magazines and on television.
I found myself studying imagery on-line – cami-suspenders for example. It just wasn’t right for the g-string to be over the top – it had to be underneath and the suspenders over the top, the g-string visible through the material – but what about loo breaks? We’ll move on.
Stockings – the seam at the back – but wanting to attach the rear suspenders so that they ran down the front and back of my legs smack bang in the middle and finding it difficult to equal everything up as a result of that seam.
I loved not only wearing but the actual act of dressing. It felt nice to take time to dress – personal, warm, calming – the preparation, attaching the suspender straps, selecting the outfit – I was always co-ordinated, never a mix & match of this colour & that colour, unless I thought one went with other – red with black stockings for example I found acceptable.
I frequently found myself frustrated at not openly being able to buy anything other than red fishnets for red bras, suspenders and g-strings. I’ve always wanted to be skimpy with what covers down there, never a perceivably big(ger) pair of knickers or pants. Funny that!
I have usually hated fishnets but one occasion, when buying a red set and a white set one year, reluctantly made do with the red fishnets in the absence of the other silk type, it being on offer to get stockings free when you bought other items in a set. The one set of silky red lacy topped hold ups I did once have was purged a very long time ago and I know not when!
Sometimes I would dress, stay in that outfit for a time then change. Other times, I’d stay in the same outfit for hours, sometimes even keeping the items on whilst pulling on a pair of long-trousered PJs and a dressing gown.
There were the odd occasions where curtains were drawn around the house when I was home alone and I’d breeze around the house in just lingerie and a pair of the wife’s heels.
I remember wearing a white bra, g-string, stockings and suspenders whilst vacuuming the house as a promise to the wife whilst she was at work. I remember the gardener being on site that day and going around the back of the house (not a euphemism!) past our frosted glazed (but uncurtained) door and me scampering away on my heels in that moment.
I feel sure that a glance through the glazing (whether he did look or not or was pre-occupied with his work and didn’t) would have enabled a very easy jigsaw puzzle to be put together as to that crossdresser at number such and such.
I had often previously wondered whether neighbours could see anything through house windows, silhouettes through curtains perhaps, brief glimpses – careless moments when I’d not shut curtains or just presumed no-one could see.
There have also been times when I concluded a neighbour might have binoculars so could very plainly see. I know – that would make them a peeping Tom and an arguable pervert whoever they were looking at but I have a very vivid imagination!
The curtains at the back of the house allow clear site into the kitchen-diner, usually lit at the curtain end, not at the diner end. There were times when I’d been crossdressed with the kitchen blind down at the front, tidying crockery away etc and in the back of my mind, wondered whether anyone had seen from the back window into that well lit environment. Only on a very rare occasion did it occur to me to close the curtains!
There’s a window on the staircase, not plain glass and well out of sight from the road, anyway, usually with the car parked in front of the house on the hard standing (again – not another euphemism!) and I often wondered whether anyone could see enough as I zipped by (on the way down or upstairs) to put two and two together and again, establish the existence of that crossdresser at number such and such.
I remember in one of my old jobs, working late on my own in an office on a remote part of the site, sitting at an unused end of the office to file something in a cupboard nearby, feeling overly warm at wearing stockings and suspenders and getting under the desk whilst doing the filing (euphemism – not!) with my trousers dropped, merely enjoying the moment.
Back in the day, I recall the wife had what I’d now retrospectively call a (long since unsused by her) ‘developers’ bra. It was a bra, yet it had no cup to it. I have no idea when she ditched that, but it hasn’t been around for a while – that I DO know. I used to wear that at the same time as it had little tell-tale signs if any at all, especially if I was wearing a shirt and loose fitting jumper or jacket yet gave the feel of wearing a bra too to complete the set.
I remember trips to work and, having long been uncomfortable with wearing a bra, usually went out in stockings and suspenders and a g-string (all matching of course), a large pair of baggy boxers to hide any suspender strap lines under thick trousers and then what I used to call ‘disrobing’ in the office toilets before coming home. I also remember pinging suspender straps during the working day, particularly with a cheap suspender belt with plastic clasps or just when a suspender detached and having to do nothing else but prioritise a trip to the loo to reconnect only for it to ping again within a short while!
There were those moments when I’d be in the throws of the workday (in meetings and whilst at the desk) and casually putting my hand on the top of my leg, feeling the suspender strap and lacy suspender top underneath, with only me knowing what lay beneath.
I remember other moments too where I’d been crossdressed, those when on the way home from work, NOT going into the toilet on route to ‘disrobe’ instead wishing to stay en-femme as long as possible but instead then trying to work out how to then get undressed before I got home when the wife was there.
Getting changed back into what I also called ‘civvies’ in a seedy, smelly public toilet cubicle on route was something I only ever did once, but that was how desperate I was that day to remain clad in those stockings, suspender belt and g-string for as long as possible.
I’d usually be quite reasonably making a habit of coming home from work, going upstairs alone to get changed whilst rapidly whipping items out of my man-bag, trying to put the wife’s stuff back where they were always kept (apart from the occasions when I got them out), or in my case, hiding the stockings which only I ever had apart in the main. There were never any dangerous moments, just of making haste to hide the evidence and get the urgency over before settling into the evening.
I remember the hours I must’ve spent dressed and/or changing but using an automatic digital camera, setting it up on whatever, floor, corner unit and posing before editing out or changing the surrounding images to avoid being detected, painting out giveaway moles and other body marks before posting the ‘neck down’ shots on a forum.
I remember the missus going away for a few days and me being crossdressed in lingerie for most of the time she was gone (including overnight), ‘disrobing’ as late as possible the day of going to pick her up, smug inside as to what I’d been doing yet giving nothing away other than genuine pleasure to see her again and carrying on ‘as normal’.
There were other moments doing ‘other’ things out and about when I’d been crossdressed underneath whilst I was doing them, ‘disrobing’ as late as possible in private before returnng home and hiding things, sometimes before the wife was home from being at work or out.
Talking of putting things back, although there was no danger in such instances in what was an empty house, I’d usually find myself in the depths of paranoia of a morning or evening – home alone – in the aftermath of being crossdressed and being on-line too sometimes, checking, double checking, triple checking that I’d put things back, logged out of sites, deleted cookies or stopped the history from being retained, closed browsers, deleted any tell-tale evidence, cleared and cleaned everything away and up. It was probably sometimes something akin to a warzone whilst I was focused on the act of dressing and not where stuff might have been somewhat chaotically hidden and that had very clear and present danger. There was a risk of making a careless mistake at all times and I was usually acutely aware of the danger.
I did however have to return home on the odd occasion (having just left!) just to check, check and check again, or go about my daily business telling myself I had defintely done everything yet still worrying as to whether I had or not until other things distracted me.
Throughout all of this, particularly the more riskier moments, (apart form the moment when I was caught yet live to tell the tale (again for reasons which won’t be documented here or anywhere)) there have been no offensive remarks, subtle digs, knowing looks etc in public – that I know of. But I have still often wondered whether I had been careless at anytime whilst assuring myself that I had been careful. But all seems well and over a sustained period too.
My previous blog entries document the driving force behind stopping crossdressing a few months ago – it had taken over my life. Everything else paled into insignifance – things and people were neglected to great extents. As the ‘switch off/onable’ images to which I referred to earlier suggest to me, I descended to what I had concluded to be retrospectively apparently abhorent levels of debauchery and arguable depravity, sexy as hell as they were at the time and still are from time to time I guess.
But here I am. Right here – right now. No crossdressing. No urge to crossdress, no wish to crossdress. Recovering. Remembering. But without any real train of thought or conclusion, quietly contemplating.