I was doing my bit around the house the other day, helping the missus with a spot of laundry, and putting a few things away around the house as a result. This was one of those mundane but necessary jobs that might best tackled with a clear head, empty your mind, plough through, get the job done.
I had indeed merely decided that it was relevant to get the job done, make a few trips up and down the stairs and make sure that the job was done to enable us all to settle down in comparative peace and harmony, and relax a little and to avoid any friction that would probably have enveloped the rest of the day, should I have taken the careless decision to ignore what was going off around me and crash on the settee or hide myself away somewhere else in the house.
Needless to say there are now probably things stored in places where they shouldn’t be, but that might be a little covert bit of fun for everyone else around the house over the next couple of days as they try and find things!
Anyway, there were a few things that needed to go in the other half’s wardrobe. I was thinking nothing of it, other than asking myself whether there would be enough hangers of various kinds to make sure that I didn’t suffer the wrath of my other half for scrunching up and taking no care whatsoever with things that she had prepared from the wash to wear once more.
I was sliding the many types of hangers around that had been accrued over the years as the search went on for the most appropriate hanger for the most appropriate garment, to get the job done as quickly as possible, when progress slowed and a dim light came on somewhere in my head.
There, in front of me, were the cami-suspenders and camisoles on a number of hangers. This was to be a trip down Memory Lane. I acknowledged that the suspender straps remained dangling on some of them, whereas previously, they had, in actual fact, been removed and stored separately by my other half, who, as she doesn’t touch the garments, had failed to notice that they were there, nor consider perhaps that they shouldn’t be because she stored them away herself.
I lifted the hangers out and span them around, the light material swishing around in motion, me briefly touching the fabrics, admiring the designs, recalling wearing them and how it had felt to wear them, feeling the sensations at my fingertips and trying to somehow feel and sense in my mind how these garments felt on my body when I did wear them.
This meander down Memory Lane lasted no more than a couple of minutes really, but in those few minutes, I was merely looking back back at where I’d been. There was only the very vaguest of wishes to be trying something on once more, but there was no aim, or plan to do so. Quite the opposite in fact.
I acknowledged that the last time these items had been worn was when I had worn them. As they are, unused and unlikely to be, they hang like a museum exhibit, marking my time as a lingerie crossdresser – nothing more and otherwise, largely pointless and useless. At no point did I consider stockings and their part in any ensemble including these garments – it was merely the garments themselves that drew my attention.
I have commented in previous blog entries that, somehow, I remain susceptible, vulnerable perhaps, to what eye candy might offer and as a result, the potential for relapse.
If you are a regular reader of this blog, you’ll know that the garments of my own were, much earlier this year, not purged. Previous purges and what was thrown and when, continues to rankle with me, particularly a number of items bought from a luxury high street lingerie chain a few years, although the rankling applies far less so these days.
No, those garments were merely stored remotely – far enough away to be, well, far enough away even for me. The routine and lengths I had to go to in clearing the proverbial decks meant that once done, there would be a similar, in fact, a greater extent necessary to even see them let alone recover them.
I would dare say that in that parallel universe, I would still be very much into lingerie crossdressing, but the universe and dimension that I am in is far from parallel – it is a World away, and I continue to acknowledge that my indulgences were largely achieving nothing in retrospect. Sure, it was satisfying for me before and during, but equally dissatisfying – usually after, in another – time wasted, jobs not done. Blah blah, I’ve said this all before many times in multiple blog entries.
I’m still on the path that is very firmly veering away from what was, to all intents and purposes, an addiction, a fetish, but instead of seeking counselling from another individual, I continue to find the mental ability to counsel myself.
What I can’t account for along that, arguably successful road that I continue to tread, is that chance that, somehow, out of the blue, I may be confronted by a spectre of my past – whatever that might entail. I suppose the difference is in how I tackle that confrontation. Not expecting it most recently, with the wardrobe moment, I suppose that I ultimately confronted it. Actually, I embraced it for a few moments and I hung it up again, like the clothes I was putting away.
Moments such as those experienced this week normally end up with something happening afterwards, and, feeling a little under the weather and unable to sleep the other night, a few minutes were spent at some ungodly hour of the night, browsing the internet.
I did some searching for my two previous alter-egos and found nothing more than I already knew, despite knowing that there wouldn’t be anything more than this, but it was an interesting way to take my mind off how I was otherwise feeling. There was the briefest of views of my webcam site profile, seconds only, and before all of that, another quick canter through the blog log in.
As well as reading some of the latest entries from other bloggers that I follow, I checked the stats for my own blog, which continue to tail off, much to be expected I suppose. However, I did spin through the stats for each day and see what particular blog entries had been viewed.
This was an opportunity for me to take a quick run through the chronology of my life as a lingerie crossdresser, occasionally stopping off along the time line as things peaked and troughed. Of course, when the blog was more active and the content more, let’s say ‘risque’ and erotic perhaps, there was more interest.
Now it’s just the often repetitive ramblings of an approaching middle-age forty something no longer having a mid-life crisis perhaps. Of course, those peaks and troughs to which I refer have happened to me, so will naturally apply for you as the reader.
Wardrobe visit and reminisce over, I’m still on that proverbial straight and narrow.
Until the next time – whenever that will be – thanks for reading.