A quick cast back of memories, blog entries and Twitter posts reminds me that the last time that I crossdressed in whatever lingerie took my fancy, the turn of the year had just occurred, and all the things that New Year tends to do to the mindset, to me at least, led to the ‘pause’ or maybe ‘stop’ button being pressed on all such activities.

Somehow, I have remained, in the past eight months, free from any motivation to recommence – well almost.  The other week, I had an almighty wobble when the trials and tribulations of life were weighing heavily upon my mind and somehow, I needed something to counter the negativity.

I was back at a point that I’d been before – standing still in one room or the other, probably the bedroom, head in hands or with my arms wrapped around over the front of my head, wrangling and fighting with myself to resist when something was driving me to carelessly indulge.  Somehow, I was able to come out the other side with enough motivation to get over whatever it was that was gripping me.

There have been other momentary wobbles, but other than that, I have somehow told myself that I do not need it and have found other distractions, necessarily, or deliberately.

The dressing was of course, fine, but the sneaking around, and was ultimately the perceived waste of time, concluding that I could have been investing my time in doing other that things seemed to outweigh the reasons to dress.

But of course, since the end of last year, I have been immersed in an alternate kink which kind of goes hand in hand, or should that be cock in panties, with crossdressing, that being chastity.

Now, the one thing that I have maintained through my addiction to crossdressing is that I am no sissy.   Of course, there are some people on line who are quite content to hold titles of ‘sissy’ or ‘faggot’, but I have never considered myself to be either – and in fact, I dislike the terms quite considerably, but as I have said before, each to their own.

Anyway, seeing chastity as another kink to occupy my time, most of this year has seen me in chastity of one form or another, a cage or, as was later requested by my then symbolic keyholder with whom I only communicated on-line via DMs, a holy trainer.

My generosity coupled with my evident submissive nature, led me to equip them similarly over time, and there was even some lingerie purchased along the way.  After they blocked me following my sudden stop of all things crossdressing in the New Year, collateral damage you may call it, either they have thrown everything I ever bought them, or they have not and have a constant reminder of a comparatively short journey and voyage of discovery.   It was probably my fault that I was blocked anyway, having deleted copious amounts of explicit images from the more recent months of the DM timeline.

Anyway, I digress.  Chastity.  I love(d) it – I’ll be honest and the sexual training I have had by a male friend and confidante over the years has allowed me to describe myself as bi-curious, and whilst, at one time, I would never have considered such a thing, anal play has been the thing that has been part of the chastity journey.

But there have been moments recently when even that sent me spinning into dismay at those actions too, mostly after I brought myself to climax.   I asked myself such questions as ‘Why was I doing it?’,  ‘What did I hope to achieve from it?’,  ‘What was I achieving from it?’  and ‘Was this just another addiction?’   ‘Don’t know’, ‘don’t know’, ‘don’t know’ and ‘probably’ are the relevant answers there.

On one recent occasion, I took it upon myself to remove everything bar a cock-pump and fleshlight to remote storage where the lingerie resides.  No cage, no holy trainer, no dildo, no prostate massagers – just straightforward heterosexual toys, albeit still hidden from my significant other but arguably more justifiable if the ‘you know what’ hit the proverbial fan.

Recently though, I relapsed and merely found myself driven, hell bent in fact, to the storage facility and recovered everything bar the holy trainer, indulging in yet more lock up time, more anal time and even going so far as appearing on line on my web cam sites of preference.  However, it wasn’t long afterwards, probably after achieving orgasm, that the regular day to day me was allowed to come to the fore once, the sexually driven deviant again suppressed after reaching the point of sexual satisfaction.

Explicit images posted on Twitter were later met with a compulsion to delete them instead – because, well, just because – it seemed the right thing to do as paranoia set in.

I remarked on my Twitter feed recently of my evident surprise that, one day, my ‘kink’ had switched back on, almost as if I was not control of my own behaviour, and although it might sound borderline insane to say as such, when I’m hell bent on indulging, I can hear myself saying don’t, but more so, a no-holds barred ‘why the hell not?’ approach overpowers.

I’ve tried to stay off my Twitter account of late as viewing can often led to some degree of motivation to indulge somehow, the reasons largely unknown, yet the time spent locked up – and it was often for as long as 12 hours a day sometimes – has become very infrequent, few and far between of late too as those questions as to what I was doing and why remained largely unanswered – the ‘because it feels good’ answer, not forming part of conclusions and rationale to continue doing so.

I suppose the absolute need to attend to other, arguably more pressing, normal things, issues and commitments has been allowed to tower commandingly above as  the utmost priority, anything else seen as not necessary, not preferred, and not happening.

But I kind of find myself fighting a need to have a kink of some kind, yet reasoning with myself that I should not need it and that I should get my sexual kicks via more societally conventional methods.

Of course, body hair dissuades too, particularly from appearances on line.  I don’t like my visual appearance when unclothed at the moment and the growth patterns and time remaining until the next waxing/training sessions leaves me hating my own self in naked form – so it has been slightly annoying to feel the need to be naked due to very hot weather here in the UK.  I can plainly see the bits that need doing and the comparatively small areas that don’t.

I had a massive hang up when I first started body waxing after years of trying everything else, the ‘progress’ being something my confidante and sexual mentor has reminded me about.  They said that I was much better now, far less hirsute and had much such progress from yesterday, but whilst I lay face down, naked on the massage table, I found myself trying to make a point to disagree and did as such by making a long questioning ‘Mmmm?!’ sound before admitting that I still did have a hang up.

Despite the body dysphoria, this last few days, today even, whilst penning this end of the blog entry, I still find myself with a mind like a fruit machine yet to settle after a roll, symbols spinning, before giving an answer that will probably be ignored as being non-beneficial before the reels start spinning again – and so on.

Twitter visits continue, ‘follows’ continue, ‘followers’ go up and down at will, I like other comments, I make comments of my own, I relate to things that I see, memes and the like, and of course, yes, I still have a deep yearning somewhere deep down to be crossdressed again.

Reasons such as the last eight months, and somehow a drive to fight the demons of the draw to crossdress or engage in chastity and anal are countered by the body dysphoria and the time remaining before my next (probably almost full body) waxing session, and doing something else.  Once I am smooth bodied again, I will feel more sexy, and therefore likely to indulge and exhibit.

Even now, home alone, I have acknowledged the things I could get up, the time I might have to do it, but I was driven insted to put another rambling blog entry to bed as if it was either some sort of therapy for the soul, or just something I felt I needed to do.

I am yet to dispose of the crossdressing paraphernalia, outfits, breast forms and the like.  There was a point not-so-long ago when I gave some tthought to doing so, but I am kind of glad that I didn’t.  It isn’t time. Will it ever be ‘time’?  Who knows?  It will have to be something I am totally and utterly 500% sure of.   I have experienced the pain of purging all too many times, something I vowed that I would never do again – and I haven’t.   Things just get stored away these days, far enough out of the way.

I’m a hypocrite.  I’ll give all the reasons why I’m not doing something, only to end up doing it all over again when the mindset tells me it is OK to do so.

The all time unanswered question on this blog, one that many people would value knowing the answer for is: ‘How did you stop yourself from crossdressing?’.  I’ve long said that I would love to be able to give an answer.

Something tips me over the edge. I hate myself, I hate what I find myself doing, not before or during, but if I allow the sexual peak, definitely afterwards.  Call it disgust if you like, despair perhaps.

You might say that such a feeling is perfectly natural.  You’re probably right.  At one time, I didn’t care, but now the degree of caring matters, influenced by people most closely around me.  Nobody except anonymous on-line contacts behind psuedonyms and e-mail accounts, knows about the inner me.

I might be someone’s ‘Golden Boy’, the pride of the family perhaps, upholding the family stand with what they see me doing in my ‘normal life’, and if I wasn’t and hadn’t been indulging in what I have been, I would probably more validly accept and embrace it, but I display modesty because the inner mindset insists on it.

Here I am then, an overall quite busy, mixed up, bi-curious, currently former crossdresser, now fighting body dysphoria, the quite real but largely unexplained draw of chastity, and sexual energy ranging from non-existent to torrent and everywhere in between at any given time.

I genuinely don’t know what’s around the corner, but I still find myself looking for opportunities to indulge in the replacement kink et al.

It’s just seems to be a case of two steps forward and three back.  If you’ve got this far – thanks for reading.  It means a lot.  Until next time…