Regular readers of this here blog entry will have recognised that it has been some time since the last one was posted.
You might suggest that this is because little has changed – and you’d be right. In fact, you are more than just right as nothing has changed.
I have spent the odd few moments, usually when the day or night is still to cast a brief train of thought over things. The main focus has been on the fit and feel of stockings and suspenders, for so long, the focus for everything that then followed, the catalyst to dressing, the most erotic element of the eroticism of crossdressing. I have spent a few moments imagining the art of rolling on a pair of stockings, usually hold ups, before attaching them to suspender clasps and making things just so.
For the very briefest of moments, thoughts not so much touched on, more so brushed against the benefits of returning from whence I came These thoughts have been launched through momentary dissatisfaction with the chores of life, as if getting back into crossdressing was an escape from the bind, the norm, the daily drag, and that is quite true – it would be. I would often step into that parallel universe before allowing myself to be somewhat unceremoniously dumped back out of it when the whole thing was over for another outing.
But these moments of thought have been fleeting, though full and evident of fact, but the overriding factor is one of contentment at where I am now. Whilst reflective of where I’ve been, and what I’ve done, and the length of time over which it occurred., I remain reflective of the overburdening weight on my mind at the same time that I was dressing, the guilt, the recognition of the fact that I was involved in crossdressing, even when I wasn’t actually dressed – immersed in a World of deceit, only no-one knew about it – I covered it that well.
Here I am then – on the straight and narrow – merely slotting in as just another member of the public, going about his business. Mind you, who would know about a crossdresser going about their business? The truth is that, it probably happens more than any of us might thing – only we just can’t see to know about it.
The other thing that I remain mindful of is the elephant in the room. No-one else talks about it, as they don’t know it is there – but I do. Somewhere, stored in that secret remote location that I’ve not even disclosed here, lies the remnants of my life as a crossdresser – lacy cami-suspenders, stockings of various kinds, and a pair of breast forms.
Let’s just say that I decided to recover and dispose of them. Let’s just say that I don’t bother. Those items are stored far enough away that no-one will be going anywhere near them any time soon, nor have cause to do so. I remain fearful that upon any such occasion that I might decide to go and recover and dispose of them, I might be tempted to look at them rather than merely shove the box under my arm, and stride away with a glimpse of any of the contents and storm through the process of disposal, whatever that might entail.
The obsessive compulsive in me may well be completely and totally unable to resist opening the box and taking a look and more besides, for reasons of nostalgia or something else. In that very moment, the rational, positive, forward looking person that I have become, the recovered crossdresser could, I fear, be sent spinning back towards one of two paths.
One – of merely closing the box and putting it back where it is stored, being content with it being in storage, content at the extremely minimal risk of it being discovered by anyone, any time soon, and leaving the elephant in the room.
Two – being drawn in by the fabric, style, colour, shape and above all, memories of being worn. To allow myself to fall off the proverbial wagon by even taking a look, would be more than a backward step I feel.
The very reason that I used the drive of the moment to recover the items from being close to hand, collect them together, shove them in a box and get to that remote location to complete the job, is that, after leaving that location, it would be far enough away for even me to get to that easily. Therefore, the process for even me to get there, recover and dispose of everything would need a lot of strategic planning.
That still leaves me in very much the same position – one of paranoia that events and situations will conspire against me somehow, and lead to discovery and outage long and inconveniently after the event because I haven’t taken that final step of eradication of any evidence, and in another, contentment that there is minimal risk of discovery because of the storage location, but also that the elephant remains in residence – an indication of where I’ve been, but also to where I could return – it would be, I feel, oh so easy to do that.
For now at least, out of sight, continues to be largely out of mind, but not fully. I can’t see it, so it can’t have its hypnotic influence on any aspect of my usually very active mind.
I suppose, somehow, full and final disposal of the stockings, suspenders, outfits and breast forms is, for now, still one step too far and, given that my last outing of crossdressing was only in March of this year, perhaps I’m not quite far enough away to be convinced that I can trust myself to avoid a relapse.
I am very able to enter a period of deeper, more prolonged thoughts about crossdressing, but equally so, periods where it really is no matter but with reminders of the elephant in the room from time to time too. Yes – nothing has changed then.
I began as, continued as, was and remain the recovering crossdresser.