OK…so that little on-line purchase that I made (and talked about in my last blog) finally arrived for a new experience and with things prepared, decided I’d share the experience with the masses and reached for the webcam.
I’ve often referred to how fate has intervened with my history of crossdressing, occasions where things just didn’t or couldn’t work out, and had I have been dressed in some lingerie, I’d have been quite disappointed.
As it was, my intention of publicly displaying my first experience with my new purchase was scuppered by the wonders of modern technology. There was absolutely no way – irrespective of how many times I plugged it in, pulled it out (no euphemisms here!) and rebooted, there was absolutely no way that the webcam was going to do anything other than display blackness.
Sure – it was plugged it. Sure, the light was on, but my tried and trusted webcam was no longer going to work on my PC for some reason – not that I was doing anything differently to before.
The instructions were found in the cupboard and were found to talk about old operating systems. I tried to work everything out, whizzing through the virus software incase that was suddenly taking offence. Concluding it was an upgrade to the OS that had now stopped it from working, I looked forward towards buying a new, assumingly compatible one. One for the shopping list then.
Upon trying to broadcast, that black screen and the return message that the quality was ‘poor’ (you’re not kidding!) was repeatedly evident, I figured I’d reach for the driver disc and reinstall but of course, fate intervened and I couldn’t find it – even though I felt sure and had it – but either way, it was also one of those driver discs that doesn’t tell you what it is anyway – just what you don’t need when you’re looking at it years after purchase.
Having heaved everything out of the cupboard of old floppy discs, old cables, IT peripherals, CD-ROMs and general clutter, reaching to the very back recesses led me to a shock discovery that would send me reeling – a pair of bronze hold up stockings that, clearly, I’d hidden away – hidden away so well in fact, even I didn’t remember them being there – which was odd.
These stockings were immediately pulled out and deposited on the table top with a semi-angry, semi-frustrated, semi-anxious thud. However, that moment gave me the tactile sensation of hosiery not experienced since late last year. Here they were – for the taking. I momentarily relished pulling apart the tacky rubberised stocking tops and for a few irrational moments, I felt that there was no alternative but to put them on.
“No, no, no, no NO!” came the voice in my head. “What good would come of that?” I reasoned rhetorically. Reluctantly busying myself with my own private experimental time with my new purchase, the stockings were left to float around my eye line to attend to later.
Having been confronted and stunned by their apparency before me, having been previously convinced that I’d got rid of virtually every single shred of potentially visible evidence of my crossdressing, this was a wake up call of massive proportions, but also a reminder of how very easy it would be to begin crossdressing again.
Where did these stockings come from? I began to search through my memories and remembered being in some retail establishment or another out of the ordinary, and concluded that, unable to buy my tried and trusted home and hardware pair for some reason, had gone upmarket, paid a lot more than usual and purchased some more expensive, bordering on luxurious very silky smooth lacy top stockings. But how often I’d then worn them, I had no idea – I did once wear them – of that I know – some point prior to November 2015, but instead of putting them where I used to hide them when done, I had, for some reason, instead put them in the far recesses of the man cave cupboard.
This, then, was a stark reminder of how easy it would be to be outed, without having actually had anything to be outed over (certainly of late anyway) – that, I firmly concluded, would have been a disaster. How careless I had been!
Also in the back of that cupboard, was another piece of evidence of my crossdressing – albeit one which would draw a wry smile – pink balloons! I’d previously blogged on how I had moved firmly away from breast forms – largely because I had no idea where I would store them safely and securely and because…well, just because. Instead, having found something on line about another crossdresser experimenting with as near flesh coloured balloons as possible, I’d previously picked up two different packs of different shades of pink balloons. Dressed one day in the bathroom in a black spider basque, black g-string and black lacy top hold up stockings, and not being that great at tieing knots, had once entered into a unintended water party of my own, the liquid flying around the bathroom from the flailing open ended balloon, soaking me and my (the wife’s) gorgeous lingerie through until the craftwork had suitably filled and tied two balloons of the same size.
Back to the ‘here and now’ and those stockings and balloons I’d discovered. Whilst the balloons were left in the recesses of the cupboard, the stockings were left here, there and everywhere as I moved around the man cave – in my eye-line, reminding me to get rid.
Get rid I did – there was to be no falling off the wagon here, as hugely tempting as it was for a few moments. Moments when it somehow seemed OK to have pulled them on – oh my goodness, how I almost did!
However, later the same day, no – dressed in my work attire, personal belongings shoved in the pockets – you know the usual – keys, wallet, loose change, hankerchief, mobile phone, but also those stockings. On route to the daily grind, they were secretly and carefully shoved in my man bag and having exited the public transport, I reached into the bag, felt around out of sight, and crumpled the stockings up into my tightly clenched fist.
Intending to deposit them in the first public bin I came across, I baulked at the opportunity, the walkway too tight, the people too present. It being some distance to the next bin, I kept my hand crumpled inside my man bag and mapped out the area in my brain to pin point where the next bin was and strode on.
Moments later, pulling my hand out of my man bag, convinced that the stockings were tightly clenched, I was horrified to see the light material of a toe end flapping publicly out of the side of my fist. Cursing out loud, I allowed my peripheral vision to scan for anyone present and, having satisfied myself that there was no one, poked the toe end in to the crumpled ball in my hand and strode on to that first target bin which had openings on four sides. The by now even more firmly clenched fist was thrust inside an opening of the bin, the hand was opened in an instant and the stockings were cast into waste obscurity.
Job done I told myself – just as I walked past that trusted home and hardware store from which I’d purchased countless pairs of black lacy hold ups. It’s a funny old world isn’t it? Somehow, my refusal to crossdress was still showing me a noticeable way back.
I suppose I really ought to do something with those balloons too. How might I talk my way out of that in the very slim possibility that my man cave might be explored and them found by someone else? Note to self then – if the past is not to come back and haunt me – and I wouldn’t be expecting that either.
All of the above and I haven’t talked about my new toy – use and ownership of which has a whole new set of logistics to face, some not too dissimilar to those associated with crossdressing…I’ll leave that until another blog. These postings are long enough as they are – but thanks for sticking with them!