As I said in my last blog entry, I’ve had a fairly sustained wobble over recent days, and it was most definitely the worst since March 2017 when crossdressing came to an end again.

I’d like to say that my thoughts have been clear, transparent, easy to understand, but they haven’t been in entirety.  How can it be possible to think about a subject matter but without being specific?  Why is it that the human mind can just have the subject per se swirling around?  My head has been something like a bingo or lottery machine, everything loaded in but swirling around whilst there is a long wait for something to be drawn out.

If that ‘swirling’ wasn’t bad enough, the sheer fact there was a melting pot of undefined subject matter in there meant that one’s subconscious was susceptible to being played back whilst asleep and all the utter nonsense that might normally be part of a dream of a person with an active or busy mind, is, under these circumstances, even more of a jumbled up mess.

I’ve had a few days away with the other half and as she was dressing one night, she decided that a particular bra didn’t quite sit well enough with her over garment of choice.  She reached for a rarely worn black lacy bra from her lingerie drawer, that I more than clearly remember wearing myself.   As she flung the first bra off, in picking up the black one, she spent just a few seconds doing what I think was inspecting it.  Were there some ‘tell tale’ signs she’d somehow spotted, something not quite right?

Sitting there in my apparent, evident innocence, my mind rang a muted, brief “What the hell is going off here?” alarm bell until it was concluded that things had moved on without issue.   But those few seconds of inspection seemed like an eternity, but she’d decided it was suitable and put it on.  I helped sort the odd twisted bra strap and admired the view in front of me whilst also remembering just how nice that was to wear, particularly with breast forms and how much pleasure I’d had in wearing it, albeit not recently.

Our few days away took us into department stores on an aimless wander around the city we were visiting, where, as usual, the quick reader that I am spotted signs saying ‘Lingerie’ but without setting about a desire to either be there or not – I really wasn’t bothered either way.  I reasoned that, if we passed, then there would be some covert screening from distance, but nothing more.   In another store, there were the odd racks of stockings and other hosiery, and my darting scanning eyes quickly sought to confirm, for no reason whatsoever, that what I was seeing was stockings, not tights or anything else as if there was a need to tick a box somewhere.

Whilst queuing at the checkout with the general things that had been picked up, as we snaked through those zig-zag marshalling type routes to the pay desk, my attention was drawn back to the periphery and the lingerie area of the floor.  On the top of the stockings display unit was one of those mannequin legs – the ones that are solely to display the stocking only.  One of the legs standing high in the air on top of the unit, was adorned with a black stocking with a lacy black top – as the mental box ticking continued, I concluded that it was of the hold up variety as there was no mannequin body to which a suspender belt might have been holding up the stocking.  Satisfied that I had well and truly ticked that box, the draw of imagery nearby was dismissed and I quite simply moved on.

We had already taken a quick jaunt around the lingerie department earlier in our stroll.  At one point, we were teetering on the edge of the area.  Inside, I was urging my other half to go across the threshold and get a little closer.  Something grabbed her attention and my inner euphoria – for some bizarre reason – celebrated the opportunity.  We trailed a little further in, did a quick circle and, for what was, to be fair, a brief moment, lasting around a minute before we breezed out as quickly as we’d breezed in.

Where does this leave things for me?  Here’s a recap. Other than the Avatar, there are no more pictures of me in any garment on any site under my control, there can be no peripheral geography, body shape or anything that might be seen by anyone, including me, to identify me.   A wave of horror over on-line antics led me to another type of purge in deleting images from a total of three sites as I said in the previous blog entry.

The remote location remains the home to everything that was thrust in a box and stored there back in March – a handful of outfits, a pair of black lace topped hold-ups, a pair of white stockings, a pair of blue seamed stockings and those 38c breast forms.

Those items are so remote, even I can’t really get to them easily at all, although I know I could if I wanted to.  Whatever drive it was that led to the delete button being repeatedly clicked upon to eradicate any archive images of me in various items of lingerie, was the same sort of drive that had previously carried me to that remote location, drove me to grab for those items without making eye contact with them, drove me to find the box and drove me to the extent that I went to , in order to make sure that they were far enough out of even my reach.

The mind is now clearer, more settled once more, but still able to recall, reminisce.  As I have said before, even the silence of making the bed of a morning reminds of that same bed making process that usually preceded an early morning dressing session.  Dressing time was always a deeply personal one, preparing myself was as equally fulfilling as the art of wearing, always co-ordinated, as tidy as possible, always adjusting, making right.

There are many other reminders, as I’ve remarked before, about memories of being crossdressed or crossdressing, occasions in life, places that I have been crossdressed, places where I have been whilst yearning to be crossdressed, journeys home in advance of immediately dressing when back home, stop offs on route to collect mail-ordered outfits and the same rush to get home to try that item on for the first time.

Whilst the acts may have ceased, whilst photographs can be and have been erased, memories cannot.  Although sometimes difficult to bear, the fact that those memories linger and are recalled, is no different to the time over which covert crossdressing acts were carried out.

Wobble overcome, as ever though, one thing remains ever present – I remain the recovering crossdresser.

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