Being such a deeply closeted crossdresser and for such a long time too, there are times when I feel that I am screaming on the inside over the whole thing.  It has been some time since I fully underdressed for work – but after the odd day of wearing stockings, suspenders and a g-string since resuming crossdressing in October this year after almost a year off, for three whole delightful days this week I have done just that – underdressed but fully – with deep-set stockings, suspenders, and a small cup black lacy bra on one day, a (favourite) spider basque, stockings and g-string on days 2 and 3.  With the feelings of being wrapped in everything, clasps and straps, hold-up stocking tops etc. underneath all of the male clothing, this has been sensual euphoria on a scale I have not experienced since that point in late 2009 when I last fully underdressed to work in that same spider basque.

Full under-dressing has been a risky thing to do I know, but as I have said before, I have the ability to strategically plan, if not ensure that I am entirely safe from the occasional odd faux pas.  Thin trousers keep nothing secret, so out came a pair of baggy PJ shorts which, I feel, masked a variety of strap lines.  The spider basque was tight fitting, the straps thin and less likely to show the lumps and bumps of the deep set suspender belt I’d worn on day 1.

I’ve read up a bit on under-dressing for work and equally, there’s that strategic element to my crossdressing to run in parallel, so the shirt was not tightly tucked in around the belt line of my work trousers for example – but instead, pulled out loosely.  Over the top, a dark baggy jumper with the occasional vertical line in the pattern which is capable of diverting the eyes and masking any vertical lines running beneath.

With my own casual touch, it was possible for me to personally feel the basque suspender straps doing down from the breast, over the stomach, beneath the waistline, underneath those PJ shorts and to the lacy topped black hold ups beneath the trouser legs.   Earlier in the week, the bra was, I feel, equally none-distinguishing.

Or was any of it?  Anyone who has underdressed will have recognised yet probably largely ignored the risks in order to satisfy their own desires, but will have probably have spent the day with a conscious radar scanning to pick up on any knowing looks anyway.  My desk is in a corner in an office, and once I’m there, I’m usually there for the duration unless nature calls or I go for lunch and no-one passes behind me to get anywhere.  Sometimes, others make a round of drinks removing the need for me to get up even further.

But although I have continually reviewed my state of dress whilst underdressed, attending to anything untoward momentarily or otherwise during trips to the toilet, I have been fairly contented that nothing was being given away – well that’s what I’ve concluded anyway – although part of me didn’t care anyway!

Out of both peripheral and more obviously direct views in all parts of the office, I have perceived there to be people looking my way, occasional glances, that kind of thing as people passed me by in the common room or corridor.  In the main, these were people I don’t know and in any case, everyone is getting to know everyone else at the moment – so perhaps it was just a look along those lines – or perhaps it wasn’t!   Perhaps I am the subject of talk in corners.

For those that do know me well, they are probably unlikely to suspect a thing.  But then again, maybe not.

There was however, one moment with a female colleague this week on a day I was underdressed.  A need to forage about for a note in the top pocket of my shirt led me to reach in beneath my jumper.  The female colleague comedically remarked how I had extracted it from my left boob – in a way that I suppose a woman might pull out something hidden in her bra.

Ever the joker, and always up for a spot of innuendo and double entendres, I merely responded with a witty acknowledgement in keeping with the moment.   And so the day went on.  However, maybe it was me being paranoid, but as she prepared to leave the office, as I sat there focusing on my work, my ‘being outed’ radar was still scanning for risks and signs of being spotted.

I felt that she was, whilst getting her coat on, perhaps lingering  little longer than she usually would to give me a little look up and down from the side.   This was a day on which I was wearing a spider basque and were this outfit worn by a well-endowed woman, she would be displaying plenty of cleavage and side boob for which the wire of the basque did protrude outwards on my right breast around the nipple area, the left breast not doing so as evidently as it was covered by shirt pocket clutter.  Was she clocking the faint outline of my underwear choice for the day and, as a result of me being less careful than I thought I’d been, was busy trying to put two and two together to get four?  Either way, it changed nothing the following day when, again, I was fully underdressed.

I’ll be honest – this week, I have been asking myself what I would say if someone took me to one side, maybe a work mate I’ve known for a while, probably female, and asked me outright whether I was crossdressed underdressed?

Ideally, I’d have probably openly said that I was – in actuality, I’d have probably somewhat crazily denied things in the spur of the moment.  Hell, I’ve not even disclosed anything about my crossdressing to a male confidante.

This is 2016.  However, we’re nowhere near being the fully tolerant society when it comes to matters of a sexual nature.   In the right moment, I may well have openly admitted it, but with that comes the risk of being talked about in corners – and that’s not something I can contemplate – for a start it would shatter the long relationships I’ve had with colleagues – at best, it would change it for good.

If anyone did suspect, suspecting is far different to knowing.  Being unsure means there’s a risk of the enquirer getting something awfully wrong perhaps and embarrassing themselves so discretion is the better part of valour I suppose.   Each of the three days of being underdressed this week was ended only because of a need to remain closeted, so home time meant disrobe time.   The man bag was the place to hide things ready for them to be returned or prepped for the next dressing session.  I will admit to thoughts that wearing lingerie has, of late, started to become almost normal and I have been quite sad at the thought of having to take my lingerie off, more so wishing to wear it most if not all of the time.   However, were I to wear bras and panties alone, I don’t think this would be enough for me – stockings and suspenders are a must – wearing anything without those two elements else just doesn’t seem to be indulging enough and instead merely a half hearted waste of time.

Anyway, with this heady mix of euphoria and indulgence flooding out of me at the moment, I have found myself screaming inside again this week as conversations on a night out with some friends turned to matters relating to health, weight and for the people that we were with, losing enough weight to get into the lingerie their other half might want to see them in for the first time in a long time.   “Lucky them” I thought.  I’ve not been that lucky and many of my on-line sessions have led to use of the phrase “That’s probably why I wear instead”.  (There is so much lingerie at home available to me that I have worn far, far, far more than my wife who quite simply, just doesn’t wear and hasn’t worn that sort of stuff, irrespective of the fact I’d perhaps once bought it for her.   Unfortunately, on the odd occasion she has worn it for moments of intimacy, (not the killer element of suspenders and stockings – just the cami top or baby doll) the only thing I have had on my mind is that I’d worn that same outfit recently and/or far more than she has.)

Part of me wanted to enter into the moment of banter and discussion – much as I would traditionally do I suppose.  There were also the odd moments where the women alluded to their husband being open to wearing certain garments – this of course, played along the line of humour and adult banter.   But how much of this was true for them?  I have no idea – that’s their personal business, but whilt personal to me too, it was also quite true.

Dragging myself back from the edge of uttering something to join in the banter, I merely kept quiet and inwardly squirmed, screaming from within as the subject matter resonated so clearly with me in actuality, not just humour.  For me though, that moment of self-induced silence was tangible and the complete opposite to my usual witty banter interjecting type persona.

Then there have been the moments that I myself have used the line “only at weekends” when a supposedly tongue-in-cheek conversation amongst women I know well has touched on subjects such as female clothing and make up.  I have frequently been party to conversations between women in my company who were, for example, going to put their heels on that day but hadn’t.   I have frequently piped up such responses as “Yes, so was I but I couldn’t be bothered today” or “it wasn’t my colour” etc. etc.  Oh how we laughed?  Not really no, but that’s all part of the cover up for a closeted crossdresser.

I usually squirm and scream inside at those moments too.   As I said at the end of my last blog, there’s a process of rationalising going off at the moment, a process of trying to find longevity and total contentment for my crossdressing because it is a part of me and has been for some time, an acceptance of some form of genetics which makes me the way I am – and there is a very strong example of that, for which I need to find the words to talk about without giving too much away.

The internet is a great source of information if one can find the right credible sources and filter out the facts from the waffle and outrageously wide of the mark claims.

It’s enough to make you inwardly scream.