Well, this is a turn up for the books.  Two quick blog entries.  The previous one was something that had been being penned for a while but merely not posted.  This is something entirely different.

This week, rather than driven by the total and utter motivation to get up and dress, one morning this week couldn’t have been further from the truth.  There was no inclination whatsoever – in fact, quite the opposite.  It offered little interest.

The previous morning was probably a step on the way to today.  That morning, I decided to dress in a white cami-suspender, g-string, matching white stockings and breast forms and somewhat lethargically and half-heartedly put myself before my web cam once more, signing into a few more social media presences, one of which was the base for a conversation and invitation to go on a private 1-on-1 session within a matter of only a few minutes.

Retrospectively at least, I objected to what I had allowed to be a distinct lack of control on my part during that session.  I don’t necessarily like to control any conversation but I allowed myself to play second fiddle in this one, objecting from within, yet going along with it for some bizarre reason.

After a while, I began making at least partial excuses to go, citing a need to get to work.  It was true. I did have to get to work but not as quickly as I might have inferred on-line.

I’d already stalled the breakaway once, but having sat uncomfortably for a minute or to and arguably in actual need of a nap(!), reiterated a need to start preparing for the working day – which was accepted – and I ended the conversation.

At that point, I couldn’t log out of everything quickly enough. I couldn’t get out of my lingerie quick enough and bundle it all away.  At that point, I didn’t really care if I ever saw it again and truth be told, right now, as I write at least, I still don’t.

Have I topped out?  Is this a result of the periods of guilt that have been washing around my mind and that I talked about in my last blog entry?  In the aftermath of the time on line that day, I seriously contemplated returning everything back to remote storage – lock, stock and barrel.

Yes – that remote storage – the one that was in no way tempting to get to for the best part of 16 months yet was easy enough to get to when crossdressing began again in June this year.

Right now, there are a multitude of things that I’d rather do, and should really do at the moment, people that I’d rather, and in fact, should be focusing on   Perhaps that lack of inclination is a good thing.  Perhaps it is time for a bit more moderation.

I don’t honestly know what I seek to get out of the endless churning of using the early part of my day to dress and go on line but after early mornings and long days, I’m actually really tired now.  I suppose I could convince myself that crossdressing is ‘me’ time.  But, then again, as I had concluded in the run up to when I last stopped crossdressing,  I didn’t want to become what I might conceive to be a ‘dirty, sad old lonely man – no offence meant.

Before I turned in for the night last night, having done a few things around the house, I  looked around at the materialistic elements of my life, trinkets, surroundings, evidence of my achievements in life, people close to me, places I’ve been, things that I’ve seen, items that I love and cherish.   Yet here I am, running a gauntlet of risk and deceit.

I know what you’re thinking.  I’ve been here before – many times.  I’ve said this before and look where I ended up.   Sure.  Crossdressing is a fetish for me and when in the zone, I allow myself to plunge to whatever level my inner self wants to get to whilst more closely in touch with my feminine side.

However, psychologically at least, I have absolutely no confidantes – bar anonymous people I come into contact with on-line, those to whom I might open up to certain extents, but not on what you might call a more counsellor-style basis.  What might I expect from a counsellor I might be the first person to actually open up to?  How long have they got?!   To put me right?  To give me an answer of finality?  To help me find and stay on another path or perhaps just to listen and allow me to talk about it in a way I’ve never talked to anyone in all of this time?

Ebbing and flowing, repeating as this blog entry is very likely to have done in moods and statements, this blog remains my only way of  ‘talking’ – this is how I find some sort of tangible way to manage the closely guarded inner-sanctum that is the closet.

Give it a couple of days and who knows?  I might well be back on a level that I’m content with.   But for now, I’ve lost my mojo.