The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Genetically so but still searching for answers… — December 25, 2016

Genetically so but still searching for answers…


I’ve been promising a blog entry along these lines for a while, but the truth of the matter is that I’ve been building up to even laying some words down for this entry as well as finding other things to talk about in the meantime.

I have mused on many occasions as to how long I’ve been a crossdresser.  When chatting on line, it has been a frequent question asked by others. Well, that and those such as “What made you start? “ Do you wear women’s clothes over your lingerie?”, “Have you ever worn clothes on top of your lingerie?”, ‘Does your wife know?” and perhaps one of the most popular: “Yours or the wife’s?”.

The answers to those questions are ‘I don’t know’, ‘No’, ‘Only once or twice and it’s not really for me’, ‘No’, and – well, it’s depends on what I’m wearing – it’s either mine or from the wife’s never worn collection.

There are markers in my life that inform me how long I’ve been crossdressing – secretly – the term is ‘closeted’ I have come to understand.  Whilst I won’t go into detail, I can turn the clock back at least ten years, and if I’m brutally honest, it’s probably longer than that.

In fact, having stopped typing for a while to consider the more precise facts, I’d say it was 11 years – which is not far off my estimate.  There are little moments in life, quite ordinary, everyday sort of stuff during which time I remember being crossdressed underneath male clothing as well as at home too, amongst them, key stages and moments in life – you know the sort of things.

But before I go on, let’s go back to get to more minutiae of the detail.  The memories are cloudy, but from my childhood, I vaguely remember dressing up in clothes from the grandparents’ ‘dressing up’ box but I don’t remember in exactly what.  It was what kids and their siblings did back then amongst other conventional, less technical things.   I also vaguely remember (in secret) trying on some of my Mother’s clothes although again, I don’t remember exactly what, but what I do know is, it didn’t really last long anyway or happen frequently at all.   Nor do I ever remember reaching any conclusion as to what I got out of it.

I suppose I was an average youth.  I had a few lads mags stored away in a place I never considered my mother would find them, although she probably did find them.  I remember getting off on Inge from Pinner in an edition of perhaps one of the more classier top shelf mags, but in my innocence, thought that Inge was some Scandinavian beauty from a place in Scandinavia called Pinner.  It certainly seemed far more exciting as a train of thought!

From then on, there’s no real clarity on my path towards becoming a crossdresser.  I certainly didn’t crossdress before I left home.  I wasn’t doing it when I got married but some way, somehow, along the way, I started.  But I don’t think I started because I was missing something else from my life.  This was just another facet of my life and I had to embrace it or let it embrace me.

I will freely admit to buying lingerie ‘for the wife’, over the years, both on-line and on the high street, and very genuinely so, but equally, I also later remember buying lingerie ‘for the wife’ but knowing that it would actually be for me or worn by me too.

It has been a long while since I bought her anything – a couple of Christmases ago I suppose – the reason (other than the chosen shop not having her size and I had to take the bra and knickers back for a refund) is that she just doesn’t wear anything other than day-to-day bra and knickers – never has – nor would it occur to her to do so – apart from on a blue moon of a blue moon of a blue moon of a …well you get the idea.  And usually, on those very rare occasions, hanging large in my mind despite the intimacy was the thought of how much I had in fact worn the item however nice it was to see her in it – but even then, there was one vital piece of clothing missing – stockings / suspenders.  She’s not into them but I am.  It does make me wonder why she has belts in her lingerie drawer as I’m sure I didn’t buy them, although one of them I may have done for probably completely bizarre reasons.

Generally, the lingerie items that she has languish in a bottom drawer or a wardrobe and there’s an element of almost military level strategy being applied when something of the selection becomes an outfit of choice for me, i.e. things go back as near as damn it where they were, cami-suspenders hanging in the correct way and order from a coat hanger in the wardrobe, heels put back as they were, g-strings washed and hung somewhere secret to dry before being returned from whence they came at some point later.  As she is adjudged never to go in those drawers, the items are never discovered as missing, which makes things easier all round before, during and after.  The stockings, not something she has, and therefore being mine are secreted in the man cave until they need replacing.

This week, having always been searching for answers but rarely finding them, I have stumbled across a few blogs that seek to answer the age old questions as to what a crossdresser gets out of crossdressing and why they do it.  I’ll snip a few key elements out for a future blog entry (that’s if I can find them again!) but for now, back to my timeline.

In truth, I don’t know how, why or when I started.  A lot of water has gone under the bridge since 2005 when I conclude I started to crossdress.  Why lingerie only?  Why not the full crossdress?

I think I see lingerie as being something I would want to see whilst I’m wearing it and covering it up almost seems to be a waste.  Addicted to appearing on line in my finery, equally, there have also been occasions when I’ve worn it under PJs and a dressing gown just for me.  I know I’m wearing it and having had sight of the fact, including the odd sneaky peak before covering up again, I’m then content at just knowing and of course, feeling that I’m wearing it.

I’ve worn it to work in an act reportedly described as ‘underdressing’ but until my return to crossdressing in October 2016 after almost twelve months off, hadn’t done so (for probably all the right reasons) since October 2009.

Why am I a crossdresser?  That’s a different question to why I started and there’s a bit more clarity now.  I have a transgender relative.  I won’t go into too much detail, but it won’t go into too much detail and give anything away to say that it has caused and continues to cause a fair old bit of family disharmony.  What I can say about it is that I used metaphorical smoke and mirrors to deal with it.  When my relative ‘came out’, I was, completely separately, already a crossdresser and had been for a time but when I started, I had no idea about them and any thoughts they had about their true feelings.

I was beginning to find methods of hair removal, and so were they but, in discussion, the pretense was solely one of for ‘manscaping’ reasons and that was it.  The actual facts were that we were on completely separate, undisclosed journeys with our feminine sides, completely unbeknown to each other.

The family are dealing with their transgender member in all the ways you can imagine.  Some accept, some don’t and won’t – that’s just the way it is.  Everyone is entitled to their stand point but people must still be allowed to be who they want to be even though it might come at a cost.

In all that time, my relative and I have been on our own separate paths (for a long time as it stands) and we continue to be.  But whilst she is ‘out’ and blossoming into her new life, transitioning and developing in all ways that she has seemingly always wanted, that is not my desire to any extent. I am happy with who I am, I have no desire to transition, but I do have a desire to remain (albeit secretly), in touch with my feminine side through my crossdressing in lingerie.

Consider this.  I continue to blend in as part of the family, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year, family event to family event.  They take pride in the things I do and I merely fit in with things, keeping under the radar as a general rule whilst the family continue to adjust to one member being transgender and all of the furore it seems to cause.

I have no intent to declare that I am a crossdresser.  I can’t anyway as that would be the end of life as I know it.   I must remain firmly in the closet – as I have done for over a decade.  I’ve done it for this long and according to what I’ve read on line, crossdressers can remain closeted for three times that, or more.  That inner most secret never comes out to anyone (even those closest to them) whilst ever they live.  (Although it worries me that should I have to leave this life suddenly, that I wouldn’t be around when things begin to be found and what stress that would cause – but that’s not something I should really worry about right now I suppose!)

Imagine the confusion anyway and the misunderstanding if I did fling the closet door open, climb out with a large hammer and smash it to smithereens and just open up.  Just because I am a crossdresser, it doesn’t make me any different as to who I am and who I appear to be to those close to me.  It is just a side that they don’t know about – not even those I am closest to, but it’s not as easy as that is it, much though in an ideal world, it should be.

What we have here is plain and simple.  Genetics.  Something in the way that both I and my relative were made has made us the way we are.  It’s no one’s fault – our parents didn’t do anything wrong, there was no issue with the way we were brought up. We weren’t made to dress in clothes of the opposite sex, no dis-satisfaction at having boys in the family etc.- we had a good upbringing (perhaps slightly strict at times but that’s not necessarily a bad thing) and our family has always been a tad dysfunctional as are many these days, but that’s it.

But perhaps most interestingly of all, is that our paths through life have always been and continue to be separate, yet have such similarities at the same time.  Interesting isn’t it?  In previous years, it troubled me – I suppose – and led me to try and seek answers where there were no questions in the first place but I’m long since over that.

My relative lives elsewhere, away from the nucleus of the family, and has done for a while, so there has been no influence from me on them and them on me.   It’s just genetics – we’re wired similarly only different.

There.  I’ve been meaning to write about that for a while.   Why I am a crossdresser?  Because, as you probably could have told me before I even wrote this and in fact, as many have told me before during on-line chats, you can’t change the way you as it’s the way you are.  For me, after some periods away from crossdressing, I have become ever more mindful of the fact that I need it and it is part of me.

There are times when I’m not happy with myself as per my last more dis-satisfied blog entry, but some time away from it all and the application of some control usually helps put me back on the ‘right’ path, whatever that is.  Just within the last 24 hours, I have dressed again, contentedly, albeit going on line again but I still did it for me in my own personal space and time but with control applied.  And I enjoyed it too.

Time to pull the closet door shut once more.  Thanks for reading.  Until the next time…

A battle of two minds… — December 22, 2016

A battle of two minds…

You’ll have to excuse me on this occasion.  They are usually long blog entries, but this one is probably more of epic proportions.

For some reason, It seems like agony at the moment.

It’s the festive season, ‘tis the season to be jolly’ and all of that, and whilst to others, I appear to be simply plain old me, as busy as ever, tired, but otherwise fine overall, inside there’s a bit of a struggle going on right now if I’m honest.

When the opportunity arises, much as a closeted crossdresser might do, opportunities are acknowledged, planned and seized.  When might I next have an opportunity?  When will I be home alone?  Opportunities are sometimes thwarted – parts of the week when, habitually, it might be a regular occurrence, can be knocked out due to changes elsewhere.

But, the consolation is that there will be another opportunity, and, much as I’ve acknowledged before, and particularly more recently, there’s nothing wrong with applying a little self-control from time to time.

Last week, whilst there was probably just a day of underdressing, equally, there was another where it just didn’t feel right to do so.  There was also another where it just wasn’t right and there wasn’t an opportunity to dress before work anyway.  After the day of underdressing, items were removed before returning home, stored in the man-bag and sneaked away on arrival at home whilst things were busy downstairs.

One morning over the last week, somewhat unusually, I wore a black lacy bra, deep set suspender belt and those new stockings I bought the other day in the supermarket – one pair of them at least.  A sheer pair, probably 10 denier, but I was quickly reminded about what the denier grade meant as even the gentlest of handling led to a ladder before I’d even put them on.  Prepared for the bin at the earliest opportunity, the second pair from the pack was pulled out as back up as the investigative side of me just had to see what they were like on this occasion.

Compared to my trusty home and hardware store pair, these had less of a hold up stocking top, probably half the depth, and despite the returning hair growth (albeit admittedly less this time around I’m pleased to say), the bra (rather than a more covering cami-suspender outfit) made for a welcome fit and helped me realise that, in my refusal to buy some tape (I don’t think I could ever put them in exactly the right place anyway!), a bra was a more welcoming, suitable item to hold my breast forms in the right place.

The webcam site of preference had its profile tweaked – elements were updated, switched on (in the case of previously captured galleries) and a day or so later, a quick check noted the appearance of some photos of the most recent session which had been auto-captured, which I found to be oddly quite satisfying.  The glare of the desk lamp diffused the evidence of hair growth in the images and made for a more en-femme look to my slim body and long legs.

But there is one of the problems.  I really can’t stay off cam (much as before) and, although it’s a slim chance, my current train of thought allows publication of those photos within the profile (as I’ve said before) and for sight of the geography immediately around my body image to be spotted by people who might recognise it and subsequently ‘out’ me from my closet.  Those captured images are not available for cropping and editing – they’re either switched on or off.

As well as the colour of the carpet and wallpaper, position of light switches, shape of walls etc, things like body scars (damn ingrowing hairs!) , body shape, jewellery and rings are a giveaway to the right person, and I continue to dabble with the ‘on/off’ tick box in the profile settings.  However, one might ask why someone I know who might ‘out’ me, might be looking at such a site anyway!

The other day saw me toy with which outfit to wear that weekend morning and on this occasion, as soon as I was home alone, I hatched my plan and on came the recently acquired red lacy bustier and matching stockings.   Visitors to my webcam are, in the main – men – straight men – as well as fellow crossdressers with whom I’ve struck up a rapport.   There is also the odd female, their visit of which I find somewhat intriguing and fascinating – those who appreciate a man in lingerie.

Equally so, and perhaps this is one of the most interesting disclosures of this blog, the other day, I was mistaken for a woman – so I must have done something right.  The viewer had obviously been drawn by visual stimuli, not the facts behind the profile – there being obvious markers that I am male on it.  The conversation continued with a remark that my husband was a lucky man.  The equivalent of the computer screen egg timer went around in my head for a few seconds until I concluded that this person was mistaken.

I was far too busy concluding how well I had done first and foremost before replying by echoing the words of the correspondent.  “Hubby?” I said.  After about a minute or two (the viewer was probably double checking my profile) came, not a sudden disappearance from the list of viewers, but more interaction.  After the use of the initials “OMG!”, there was an exclamation of the fact that they realised I was actually a crossdressing male, but the question was asked as to why they found it intriguing and a turn on.   Clearly, I had lit a spark somewhere in the back of their mind.  The conversation continued for a while before it came to a natural end somehow and they signed out.

Anyway, back to the red outfit session.  Throughout the hour or two that I was on-line, I was constantly on very high alert for every car that drew up outside for someone returning home.   I need not have worried as I reached my own comfort zone and closed the session with the intent to undress in good time before the house returned to hustle and bustle elsewhere.

With my Skype log in active, and having confirmed I still had some time in the bank, I embarked on a 1-2-1 session on it with a certain individual as the teaser within set about their business.  Hearing the audible thrill of the male viewer as they talked to me and although my mic was on, I corresponded only via the keyboard.  Their thrill at seeing me in my lingerie moving around the room was enough for them to find their peak as my provocative nature set their excitement alight.

With some sort of smug satisfaction that seems to be held by my en-femme persona, that being of having excited yet another guy to orgasm through a heady mix of chat and provocative imagery, this was more than enough to conclude I’d had and done enough for the day and, having ended the session, was back in what I call ‘civvies’ in good time and slipped back into normality with everything tidied and cleared away, web sessions closed, log ins emptied, web browsing history deleted.

But here’s the thing that is causing me so much anguish in my head at the moment.  I seemingly have no intent to ease off on my webcam sessions to a significant extent and though I have no intention of purging any outfits, I remain mindful of my ever building collection of owned lingerie – and that I’m somehow playing a dangerous game overall.   But the hidey holes of the man cave and its annexes are far better than a box in the damp cold loft I have reasoned.

Equally so, the daily pleasantries of life and a loving wife plus all the bonuses of a busy job, hustle and bustle of life, family time, hobbies and just the home environment trigger a mush of thoughts, tainted significantly by what might well be described as guilt.

I know what you’re going to say – it affects all crossdressers and whilst I’ve talked about purges before, I have absolutely no intent on going there again as I’ve just said.  This is a battle of the mind of which I can’t say I’ve felt before in exactly the same way.  Whether you or I like it or not, this is a form of deceit, living a secret life for so long, doing it in secret, hiding away in corners, year after year on average and somehow, it just doesn’t seem right.

I’d admit there are periods when I just don’t care – a conclusion has already been stated on a previous blog that this is who I am and whilst I would continue to subscribe to that, i.e. that I still love crossdressing in lingerie, there are times when it might seem that I come to my senses a little.

Yesterday, I underdressed for work in the wake of an on-line session that admittedly made me late to get going as the exhibitionism had a vice like grip over any other form of motivation.   I remained in the outfit in which I’d dressed earlier – black bra, breast forms worn on the car journey to work,  deep set suspender belt, hardware store stockings (which have seen better days) and a semi-transparent g-string.

Every now and again, it being a plastic hook, plastic clasp configuration on the belt, and wearing hold up stockings for more sensation of wear and through choice, one of those clasps would ping and the OCD in me would just have to go and sort it out at the earliest opportunity.  I didn’t do too bad over the course of the day but as home time approached, more pings made for evidence that it was time to get back into ‘civvies’ anyway.

Heading for an office toilet at some late hour of the day, I undressed from the covering male attire, and stood near a full length mirror to ‘admire’ the appearance one last time for the day.  I say admire but the paunch and body hair awaiting another waxing session didn’t exactly satisfy me.  Conversely though, the lingerie did and I felt compelled to seek relief before I dressed for the car journey home, hiding the lingerie in the man bag as part of the process.

Immediately afterwards, I had one of those ‘coming to my senses’ moments.  Was THIS what my life had come to?  Seedily and secretly changing in an office toilet? Hiding lingerie to sneak back away or prepare for washing when I got home?

Wracked by several weeks of a lack of sleep caused by an active mind, busy job, a focus on crossdressing, general issues of the family on my mind, other commitments and of course, the pressures of the approach of the festive season, I was in a form of shut-down on the way home, flat, quiet, exhausted and reflecting on where I was in life right now.

I returned home but left the man bag in the car, the lingerie hidden within as if it had been flung into some dark distant corner, as if I was somehow ignoring, semi-discarding that side of my life at that point.  That man bag was NOT coming in the house – not until the morning at least.

The wife read the signs on my face when I walked through the door – I was genuinely exhausted but I had already ridden a wave of emotions over the weekend, watching emotive TV programming that set a few tears rolling in the dark, Christmas light-lit karma of our living room, the glare of the TV further hiding my emotions as I sat.

Last night, I decided that I could do without crossdressing for the time being. Normality was needed – at least for a while.  As I recall, in the period approaching my return to crossdressing in late October, I said that I needed to assert some control yet in all honesty, I have been somewhat back on the same hell-bent, all indulgent path which has probably more than edged towards the debauchery I referred to in previous blogs.

Yet, like the crossdressing itself, I am heavily drawn to going on line – whether that be the web cam site of choice or on Skype – flirting and being an exhibitionist to anyone and everyone on line. What IS that all about?!

Whilst not really on a path to putting a stop towards my crossdressing, neither am I that contented to indulge right now.  Maybe that is the control I need, however, the ability to assert that control is about as regular as a motorway service stop on the M25 – few and far between.

A few days ‘off’ might do me some good and I may well feel better about it in a few days.  Maybe I just need a rest.

I’ve not yet sent that e-mail to the on-line counsellor for an initial consultation and whilst I don’t know what might come of that, equally, I can’t say that such an opportunity wouldn’t do me any good.

Untiil next time – thanks for reading and seasons greetings!

Distinctly patriotic… — December 13, 2016

Distinctly patriotic…

It is certainly time for another blog update but this is one of those rare occasions where there is little driving it. Usually, there’s a particular subject matter that fires me up but on this occasion, there isn’t, so apologies for any perceived lack of direction.

Let’s recap. A year ago, I stopped crossdressing as I’d concluded that I’d dropped to a level of what I described as ‘debauchery’ with my webcam appearances – something I was not happy with – but also that nothing else seemed to matter, material things and people too.

Having put an end to it, from then on, for the best part of twelve months, I strode contentedly through life, always keeping in touch with inner interests, yet refraining from any actual crossdressing activity, chalking up the days one-by-one when I had not pulled on any lingerie, and seeing every day as motivation to maintain that progress and a day further away from when I last did.

But this was not total removal from the world of crossdressing.  In the Summer of this year, I was encouraged to set up a Twitter account for my en-femme alter ego.  The person that encouraged me seems to have disappeared without trace since – I follow them, they follow me (or at least – they did), but they may well have got lost in the many feeds that I now follow.

Mind you, I don’t remember seeing them on my followers list, so maybe they’ve done a ‘Gerry Lynn’ of twelve months ago and have gone into hiding themselves. Over those twelve months of actual abstinence, I was still viewing crossdressing on line, I was eventually on social networking of course and there were other things I was reading about crossdressing including other people’s blogs as well as maintaining my own too.

Of course, the subject matter was always somewhere floating around my thoughts irrespective of what I was doing.  The Summer saw me sexually stimulated by very warm UK sunshine, sunbathing in nothing but my short shorts, when out, going commando and even stepping outside naked in the cool and dead of night outside the holiday home.

I was on a sexual euphoria trip and somehow, found myself gripped by the draw of a Crystal Ice Fleshlight male masturbator, i.e. transparent – this after reading up on their use on line.  I was, it seems re-awakening sexually, driven in part at least by occasional full body wax sessions which made me feel even more charged, the feelings less so as the hair growth returned in between times.

I returned to crossdressing in the wake of webcam failure, encouraged by another on-line contact to do so by applying control, allowing myself to dress just for me, unable to get on cam anyway. Only, as some of you may recall, I found a way and returned to view.  This has been on an increasingly regular basis – evenings, early mornings, weekends.  I have also increasingly frequently underdressed – that is, wear lingerie under male clothing and have gone out to quite a few places – to work on a regular basis, albeit carefully covered..

Amongst all of this, I have continued my on-line shopping.  Having spent a good few years having new outfits delivered home, knowing that I would be home alone to intercept any parcels, over recent years, this has been no longer viable over more recent years, but again, the strategist within found other ways – locker facilities, local post offices.   First to arrive was a white bridal cami-suspender, then a delightful lacy red bustier basque with stockings to match.

Of course, the familiar outfits of old have had their time – I go with how the mood takes me as far as lingerie of choice – but most recently, a blue version of that lacy bustier although finding blue stockings to match has proved difficult from the same supplier and I have instead reverted to ‘Rainforest’ services to order a set of nylons to match which arrived last week – so, retrospectively, it seems my choice has been distinctly patriotic but that was completely by accident – white, red and blue in that order.

Of course, I’ve needed to buy new accessories – stockings in white and my trusty black lacy hold-ups. Stockings do get caught, ladder and with a particularly smaller white pair, end up getting a little more ragged sooner.

Discussions on-line have openly talked about breast forms.  Previously, I’d very much veered away from buying breast forms, seeing it as a step too far towards femininity.  Only, along the same lines that I had to have and try a Fleshlight, so too did I finally succumb and with on-line advice, ordered a silicone pair of suitable size.   Clearly, it was a case of ‘not what you know, but who you know’ when it comes to taking advice from fellow crossdressers etc.

I have had my first close sexual encounter with a man where I have orally attended to him.

At the time, I was just returning to crossdressing and, that very morning, had been crossdressed before removing the outfit, but the heady feeling of sexual euphoria made for the right place, right time, right person, much to their surprise.  I surprised but did not disgust myself.  This was another tick on an unwritten, undocumented bucket list.

I have begun embracing Skype, adding contacts, taking time out from my webcam site of choice to have more personal encounters on-line.   I have, to all intents and purposes, given myself to an on-line Mistress who told me in no uncertain terms that I must do everything she asks me to.

Opportunities on-line with my Mistress have proved to be very few and far between, largely due to her availability and mine, but perhaps it’s a case of ‘slowly, slowly, catchy monkey’.

I have also subscribed to an e-mail feminisation account although I really cannot see me totally indulging, but the fact I am exploring is, by itself, of much interest, that along with the move to ‘give myself’ to a Mistress.

All of this is very much closeted, as I have been for well in excess of a decade.   On the surface, I am exactly as those who have known me for some time continue to know me.

Underneath, I have, as my blogs would indicate, inwardly agonised over my feelings from time to time.  I have in fact, drafted an initial e-mail to an online counsellor but am yet to send that message to take up a paid initial on-line consultation as a coping mechanism.

I remain acutely aware of the things I need to do in my life, yet, it seems, absolutely must accept my feminine side and have that private ‘me’ time whilst maintaining cover, meticulously covering my tracks in all ways, from removing breast forms from the car whilst it went to the garage, to continually assessing where I should start hiding my building lingerie collection.

It’s not easy and I am still to open up to you about a very clear reason why I am the way that I am.   Evidence has been very clear, very recently.

It explains – to a degree – how I am the way I am.   However, waving my patriotic range of red white and blue lingerie, I remain the recovering crossdresser, but not recovering to stop, more so recovering to continue.

Until the next time – thanks for reading.

Inwardly screaming… — November 26, 2016

Inwardly screaming…

Being such a deeply closeted crossdresser and for such a long time too, there are times when I feel that I am screaming on the inside over the whole thing.  It has been some time since I fully underdressed for work – but after the odd day of wearing stockings, suspenders and a g-string since resuming crossdressing in October this year after almost a year off, for three whole delightful days this week I have done just that – underdressed but fully – with deep-set stockings, suspenders, and a small cup black lacy bra on one day, a (favourite) spider basque, stockings and g-string on days 2 and 3.  With the feelings of being wrapped in everything, clasps and straps, hold-up stocking tops etc. underneath all of the male clothing, this has been sensual euphoria on a scale I have not experienced since that point in late 2009 when I last fully underdressed to work in that same spider basque.

Full under-dressing has been a risky thing to do I know, but as I have said before, I have the ability to strategically plan, if not ensure that I am entirely safe from the occasional odd faux pas.  Thin trousers keep nothing secret, so out came a pair of baggy PJ shorts which, I feel, masked a variety of strap lines.  The spider basque was tight fitting, the straps thin and less likely to show the lumps and bumps of the deep set suspender belt I’d worn on day 1.

I’ve read up a bit on under-dressing for work and equally, there’s that strategic element to my crossdressing to run in parallel, so the shirt was not tightly tucked in around the belt line of my work trousers for example – but instead, pulled out loosely.  Over the top, a dark baggy jumper with the occasional vertical line in the pattern which is capable of diverting the eyes and masking any vertical lines running beneath.

With my own casual touch, it was possible for me to personally feel the basque suspender straps doing down from the breast, over the stomach, beneath the waistline, underneath those PJ shorts and to the lacy topped black hold ups beneath the trouser legs.   Earlier in the week, the bra was, I feel, equally none-distringuishing.

Or was any of it?  Anyone who has underdressed will have recognised yet probably largely ignored the risks in order to satisfy their own desires, but will have probably have spent the day with a conscious radar scanning to pick up on any knowing looks anyway.  My desk is in a corner in an office, and once I’m there, I’m usually there for the duration unless nature calls or I go for lunch and no-one passes behind me to get anywhere.  Sometimes, others make a round of drinks removing the need for me to get up even further.

But although I have continually reviewed my state of dress whilst underdressed, attending to anything untoward momentarily or otherwise during trips to the toilet, I have been fairly contented that nothing was being given away – well that’s what I’ve concluded anyway – although part of me didn’t care anyway!

Out of both peripheral and more obviously direct views in all parts of the office, I have perceived there to be people looking my way, occasional glances, that kind of thing as people passed me by in the common room or corridor.  In the main, these were people I don’t know and in any case, everyone is getting to know everyone else at the moment – so perhaps it was just a look along those lines – or perhaps it wasn’t!   Perhaps I am the subject of talk in corners.

For those that do know me well, they are probably unlikely to suspect a thing.  But then again, maybe not.

There was however, one moment with a female colleague this week on a day I was underdressed.  A need to forage about for a note in the top pocket of my shirt led me to reach in beneath my jumper.  The female colleague comedically remarked how I had extracted it from my left boob – in a way that I suppose a woman might pull out something hidden in her bra.

Ever the joker, and always up for a spot of innuendo and double entendres, I merely responded with a witty acknowledgement in keeping with the moment.   And so the day went on.  However, maybe it was me being paranoid, but as she prepared to leave the office, as I sat there focusing on my work, my ‘being outed’ radar was still scanning for risks and signs of being spotted.

I felt that she was, whilst getting her coat on, perhaps lingering  little longer than she usually would to give me a little look up and down from the side.   This was a day on which I was wearing a spider basque and were this outfit worn by a well-endowed woman, she would be displaying plenty of cleavage and side boob for which the wire of the basque did protrude outwards on my right breast around the nipple area, the left breast not doing so as evidently as it was covered by shirt pocket clutter.  Was she clocking the faint outline of my underwear choice for the day and, as a result of me being less careful than I thought I’d been, was busy trying to put two and two together to get four?  Either way, it changed nothing the following day when, again, I was fully underdressed.

I’ll be honest – this week, I have been asking myself what I would say if someone took me to one side, maybe a work mate I’ve known for a while, probably female, and asked me outright whether I was crossdressed underdressed?

Ideally, I’d have probably openly said that I was – in actuality, I’d have probably somewhat crazily denied things in the spur of the moment.  Hell, I’ve not even disclosed anything about my crossdressing to a male confidante.

This is 2016.  However, we’re nowhere near being the fully tolerant society when it comes to matters of a sexual nature.   In the right moment, I may well have openly admitted it, but with that comes the risk of being talked about in corners – and that’s not something I can contemplate – for a start it would shatter the long relationships I’ve had with colleagues – at best, it would change it for good.

If anyone did suspect, suspecting is far different to knowing.  Being unsure means there’s a risk of the enquirer getting something awfully wrong perhaps and embarrassing themselves so discretion is the better part of valour I suppose.   Each of the three days of being underdressed this week was ended only because of a need to remain closeted, so home time meant disrobe time.   The man bag was the place to hide things ready for them to be returned or prepped for the next dressing session.  I will admit to thoughts that wearing lingerie has, of late, started to become almost normal and I have been quite sad at the thought of having to take my lingerie off, more so wishing to wear it most if not all of the time.   However, were I to wear bras and panties alone, I don’t think this would be enough for me – stockings and suspenders are a must – wearing anything without those two elements else just doesn’t seem to be indulging enough and instead merely a half hearted waste of time.

Anyway, with this heady mix of euphoria and indulgence flooding out of me at the moment, I have found myself screaming inside again this week as conversations on a night out with some friends turned to matters relating to health, weight and for the people that we were with, losing enough weight to get into the lingerie their other half might want to see them in for the first time in a long time.   “Lucky them” I thought.  I’ve not been that lucky and many of my on-line sessions have led to use of the phrase “That’s probably why I wear instead”.  (There is so much lingerie at home available to me that I have worn far, far, far more than my wife who quite simply, just doesn’t wear and hasn’t worn that sort of stuff, irrespective of the fact I’d perhaps once bought it for her.   Unfortunately, on the odd occasion she has worn it for moments of intimacy, (not the killer element of suspenders and stockings – just the cami top or baby doll) the only thing I have had on my mind is that I’d worn that same outfit recently and/or far more than she has.)

Part of me wanted to enter into the moment of banter and discussion – much as I would traditionally do I suppose.  There were also the odd moments where the women alluded to their husband being open to wearing certain garments – this of course, played along the line of humour and adult banter.   But how much of this was true for them?  I have no idea – that’s their personal business, but whilt personal to me too, it was also quite true.

Dragging myself back from the edge of uttering something to join in the banter, I merely kept quiet and inwardly squirmed, screaming from within as the subject matter resonated so clearly with me in actuality, not just humour.  For me though, that moment of self-induced silence was tangible and the complete opposite to my usual witty banter interjecting type persona.

Then there have been the moments that I myself have used the line “only at weekends” when a supposedly tongue-in-cheek conversation amongst women I know well has touched on subjects such as female clothing and make up.  I have frequently been party to conversations between women in my company who were, for example, going to put their heels on that day but hadn’t.   I have frequently piped up such responses as “Yes, so was I but I couldn’t be bothered today” or “it wasn’t my colour” etc. etc.  Oh how we laughed?  Not really no, but that’s all part of the cover up for a closeted crossdresser.

I usually squirm and scream inside at those moments too.   As I said at the end of my last blog, there’s a process of rationalising going off at the moment, a process of trying to find longevity and total contentment for my crossdressing because it is a part of me and has been for some time, an acceptance of some form of genetics which makes me the way I am – and there is a very strong example of that, for which I need to find the words to talk about without giving too much away.

The internet is a great source of information if one can find the right credible sources and filter out the facts from the waffle and outrageously wide of the mark claims.

It’s enough to make you inwardly scream.

Very much on form… — November 22, 2016

Very much on form…

It has been some time since my last blog entry, but I have been keeping myself busy and occupied with my return to crossdressing.

I will freely admit that some of the time, it has been on-line, other times it has not but I am currently content either way. My new lacy red basque and red stockings have become my new favourite outfit, worn most of the time. An opportunity home alone over a recent weekend allowed me time to be dressed in that outfit practically all of the time except when I had to take it all off except the g-string, whilst attending to some family commitments.  Naughty!

However, once back home, it was covers off, lingerie back on again.   One night, I remained dressed all night and slept in nothing but the outfit.

I say ‘slept’, but more dozed, inebriated with the heady feelings of sexual euphoria.  Having got into bed alone, flat out, I revelled in the feeling of being so provocatively dressed under the sheets and caressed my body over the top of the lovely lace more than a few times.   I have revelled, both on-line and off-line in the way the basque feels running down my back, the boning touching virtually every bit of my back.

It being a basque, there is nothing from the waist down, allowing the matching g-string to take pride of place, the suspender straps and gold clasps running down my thigh to the red non-hold up stockings.

In short, right now, I need my crossdressing time – more than I think I have ever done before and I have yearned for it at every opportunity.   My plans were changed last week when I could not pull on my black suspenders, hold-ups and lacy g-string to go to work in under the office attire.

The black g-string was to hand.  Taken from the wife’s never worn collection, and worn to work, there was a need to launder it the other day and the only viable opportunity was whilst I showered, before finding a hidey hole for it to dry.  Frustrated at being unable to dress in exactly the way I planned, I remembered the g-string hanging up and available to me – so pulled it on to end the week.

And what a week. I have previously heavily baulked at buying breast forms – largely because I wasn’t really sure where I’d hide them – and I still don’t really have the answer for that, or where I might hide my building lingerie collection. Purging is not something I want to contemplate or do again anyway!

Sure – I’ve browsed at breast forms a few times, yet always baulked. The problem has long been to work out a size however, on-line cam time has proved valuable in being able to gain access to help and advice from those following my feed.   In another departure in my developing sexual exploration, there was, to be frank, no stopping me this time.

Reasoning that I can usually find a solution to many crossdressing related problems (as in where to store stuff), and knowing that I can order for delivery to another place is a carte blanc for me to indulge.   Lingerie to a post office, breast forms to a local locker facility nearby.   So the order was put in.

I was like a cat on a hot tin roof, a child in a sweet shop if you like. I was like a coiled spring, I couldn’t wait for the opportunity to try them on.

I did nothing but track that package last week and it eventually arrived ready for me to collect on the journey home. My advice had been to go for a 38B size and the silicone breast forms arrived for me to collect and I duly did so – having to open and view the minute I’d extracted the package from the locker.

Before I’d even left the car park in which the locker facility was based, I had used any implement possible to split the tape holding the box down.  Already, the weight of the box was sending signals as to what was within. In the murk of the evening, back in the car, I opened the box like a pirate might open a long searched for treasure chest. (No pun intended).

There they were. I instantly yearned for the hours to whittle away to the actual moment in which I’d try them on for the very first time, the very first time I’d ever worn breast forms.

That opportunity arose the following day, but again, I was unable to sleep, sleeping naked and regularly getting aroused at the thought of what was to come, even though I didn’t really know what to expect – I just knew to expect something.   The following morning, with the house empty once more, I pulled out the same red lacy basque of choice, pulled on the entire outfit and inserted the forms.

They didn’t sit right, the outfit was loose and things just didn’t look in the right place at all.   Reasoning that I’d over-adjusted the over-the-shoulder straps to minimise strap marks on getting undressed, I soon fathomed that those straps needed adjusting back up again and duly did so before reinserting the forms.

Once content, the wave of emotions of that very first time took over and I was driven to find instant relief, without a forethought of the moments after, the feeling of having breasts was amazing.   I erupted into a cupped hand before realising that there was little if nothing to clear up with available.   The strategist within, as ever, found a solution, and I reached for a clean hankerchief.

Not exactly overcome with guilt, I did however feel the need to clean up, undress, dress in the expected male attire and attend to a multitude of things that you usually find yourself doing at weekends. That was no bad thing.   But in those short few moments, I almost felt a little let down.   “Was that it?” I wondered. No matter.   There would be other more suitable opportunities that I would plan to exploit in the days ahead, crossdressing time minimal anyway usually over the weekend unless I am home alone for all of it, which is very rare indeed.

So about that hidey hole. I have an idea as to where to hide my forms and my building set of lingerie items in a place in the house that only I would ever venture – somewhere a little more remote than my man cave may ordinarily be.

Otherwise, regular readers will know how deeply, deeply closeted I have always been, and I have long tried to fathom why I am the way I am, when I started crossdressing – why etc.

But hiding away, coupled with some never disclosed facts about my background, something is now very apparent, and I feel that need to talk to someone about it as it might very well answer why I am a crossdresser – on face value, it goes a long way to doing so, but the closet door must remain closed.

I just need to find a way to talk about it.  Soon.

Doing it JUST for ME! — November 7, 2016

Doing it JUST for ME!

Firstly, can I just say a massive thank you to everyone who visits my blog anyway but particularly on November 3rd?  On that very day, fom around the World, there were 165 views from 73 visitors.   I am thrilled.  Thank you again to you for reading and following.  My blog is now featuring prominently on a site which promotes crossdressing blogs which is undoubtedly a huge help but that day certainly was record breaking.

And so to the here and now.  The last few days have been merely normal – I am content, have been contented with how I am at the moment since my return to crossdressing after almost a year out.

I say ‘content’, but somewhere within, there is a constant albeit distant view that my antics are something of deceit for everyone who knows me, particularly those closest to me.   I am however stopped from being enveloped by such thoughts by the contrast that, in all honesty, I have been a closeted crossdresser for quite some time.

Whilst I have remain closeted for so long, I have also remained very careful and acutely aware of virtually all dangers.  That’s not to say that I’m not capable of making careless errors which put me at the very edge of being outed, yet somehow, I manage to do what is necessary, even though some moments may be frantic, to settle things down.

Sure – as I’ve recently blogged, I have stepped a little too close to the edge in recent weeks, yet recognised the signs timeously and reined things back.  Good for me!

As I said recently on another entry, I had reached a point of taking crossdressing or leaving it – that’s not being dismissive of my urges and desires, merely that I didn’t think I needed or wanted to indulge.

The two pairs of white stockings I ordered the other day finally came out of the boot of the car this evening.  After another busy day at the proverbial coal face, I merely set off for the public transport, busied myself on my smartphone on the journey with some mundane stuff and merely vowed to return the jiffy bag to the man bag which, on return home to an empty house, I’d be able to do what I needed to do with things.

I said to myself that I would view the new stockings and I would also pull a pair on with my new bridal white outfit over which I would wear a pair of socks (it’s getting cold here now!), a pair of long-legged pyjamas and pyjama top and a dressing gown and merely apply myself to an evening of wearing for myself to enjoy and appreciate whilst attending to some chores around the house.  The packaging was opened, the stockings, one pair to wear, one pair to store, laid out to sort in front of me.

The stockings are those which are ‘one size’ but don’t actually really tell you what size they are.  I found them to be a little small to be honest, despite my slim, slender legs.   These were not hold ups, so needed attaching to my cami-suspender.    How many times did the left rear ping off, particularly as I moved around the house and as I covered myself up?  That was despite the adjustments I made to the outfit as I wore it.  At least half a dozen times did it ping before I finally got it all to settle – darned things.   Once  I’d dressed, there was a little bit of my own housekeeping to do.

Strategically, much as I often am with these sorts of things, I opened the packaging flat from both pairs, folded the card over on itself revealing just the plain card inside, posted it through my office shredder, delivered a few scrap pieces of paper over the top along with some other things that needed confidentially destroying, and reasoning that the receptacle was infact due for emptying, gathered up a black bag and, newest stuff first, upturned it into the dark cavernous bottom before tieing the bag up and taking it out to the bin.

And so to the chores that needed doing.  That was all.  I vowed that I could do some other things for me once these little jobs had been done.  Here, there was no flirting on-line, no web cam sessions – this was a hugely controlled dressing session for me and for me only.   I revelled in the sensation as the material and straps wrapped around and tightly caressed my body.  This was SO nice – women are so lucky to be able to wear these sorts of things daily whilst men are, societally, merely obliged to wear generic and comparatively bland men’s undergarments.

Well, no, they are not obiged in my world and I fail to see why I should comply.

The night was not sexual – but it was sensual, stimulating too, invigorating even.  Calmly, I signed into the same website from which I’d made recent purchases to merely review what I had bought to date but ended up finding something else for my ever building collection.   Note to self – these outfits are all soon going to have to go somewhere other than my current hidey hole!

This time, it would be a red outfit.  I spotted a red version of my old lacy pink outfit and promptly added it to the basket, added some red stockings to complement it and was about to complete the purchase for pick up at a collection point on the journey home from work in a day or two.  I’ll worry about where to store things at some other point.

I reasoned that recent purchases had been a little ‘one size fits all’ and acknowledged that things are a little – let’s say ‘snug’ without being overly tight – equally, the outfits are not uncomfortable.

(I have long pondered how I might get ‘my size’ en-femme but it’s not an exact science from research carried out so far.  Work in progress!  I’m going to need a tape measure and some on-line guidance at some point!)

In ensuring I am not ‘outed’, I am always mindful that any tell-tale strap marks on my skin need time to fade as my skin elasticity settles back into shape so set some time aside or just stay covered up for as long as is necessary.

However, having spotted something in a larger size which tempted me more, I removed one item, added the other and completed the purchase.   Still browsing, I then stumbled across the most divine, gorgeous blue version on a model who was wearing black stockings.

I allowed the mouse to roll over the images for a closer look and savoured wearing something so delightful AND in a colour I’d never worn before, my crossdressing history littered with blacks, a few less whites and only the occasional red.   “Enough” – I told myself – that was to be a shopping treat for another day.

So, with that done – here I am.  Still covered up, still dressed just for me.  The chores done, I took some time out to view some fellow blog entries and catch up on the stats for my own page.   With everything done, the fingers then began typing this very entry.  Watching the time, I am mindful that I must undress, remove my lingerie and hide it away before I am no longer home alone, and cover back up in my manly nightwear.

I am hugely contented with the control applied and that I have not been like a child in a proverbial sweet shop since my all-out indulgence the other week.   It would appear then that returning to crossdressing has made me an all round ever so slightly more contented, happier person.  I wouldn’t say I was miserable during the last year or so but I don’t think I was being fair to myself, not at least retrospectively.

As I might have said before – it’s good to be back dressing – doing it just for me is enthralling and hugely special.  That’s not to say that one day, I won’t return to my deviant side but that part of me seems somewhat quietened for the time being as the thrill of self-appreciating takes precedence.

Strange apathy — November 4, 2016

Strange apathy

The past few days have been something of another unique experience for me but in a way completely opposite to anything else.  In my last blog entry, I wrote how I had, after about a week of almost all-out indulgence, come to a point where I could simply take or leave crossdressing, concluding that it really wasn’t that important and having felt a bit – well – flat.

Although I have come out of that ‘flat’ feeling period, I’ve also entered what appears to be an apparently ‘normal’ period.  Having ordered some new white stockings the other day, the e-mail landed in my inbox letting me know that the package was available for collection but it didn’t really seem to matter to me either way.  Although I know that I can afford to leave it where it landed for a day or so, I almost contemplated not actually bothering at all!    Then I realised that as I’d paid for it, that alone was a viable reason for planning a pick up. More on that later.

Reflecting on the last week or so, I have acknowledged an almost hedonistic approach, an outpouring of unadulterated sexuality, a wanton craving to dress, read about dressing, write about dressing, follow on-line feeds, follow other on-line feeds and perhaps most critically of all – dressing and getting on-line – had all applied in a very short space of time.

Elements of the profile of my on-line webcam presence have been switched back on – previous images of cam sessions, additions of profile elements etc.  But here’s the thing.  Having spoken about a dreaded fear of being outed after dressing whilst doing some voluntary work (see a recent blog entry), this appears to have triggered a more rational view of things and my approach to crossdressing.

Following a web-cam session the other day, I was encouraged, very gently, very reassuringly, by someone I’d corresponded with for a while, not to go purging.  I vowed that I would not.   And frankly, right now – I will not – I have recently concluded that I needed my own very personal ‘me’ time, time that I could use to crossdress if I wanted to and most importantly of all, to do it just for me.

One of the recent realisations is that by going on cam, I am actually going against everything I set out to do when I stopped cross-dressing in November 2015.  Back then, other than the fact that everything else fell by the way side, nothing else mattered, things and people got neglected, I also became somewhat frustrated by the level of what I called ‘debauchery’ that I’d dropped to whilst on-line.  That outpouring of sexuality made me act, talk and behave so provocatively, was of a level I had been getting close to the other day and without much care at the time to be honest.

Yet, having asserted control towards the end of the session, having advised those watching the web-cam session that I really would have to get off to work and merely signing out, applying myself to another mundane working day led me into more of a path of ‘take it or leave it’ that I’ve recently referred to.

It is as if I’ve returned to crossdressing, indulged in a way that somehow, psychologically, has topped me right back up to the brim and having done that, I can return to the more every day me, a more controlled me, not hell-bent on wanton indulgence at every available moment and at the expense of everything else yet indulging when I wish to.

Acknowledging everything that has gone before, I am, right now, at that point where I really don’t need or want to crossdress – even though I know I could if I did.  I’ve recently done ‘other’ things that needed doing, I’ve had some social, down and family time, I’ve fully applied myself to the working day and left perusals of on-line blogs and feeds alone for a change – besides I’ve virtually used up all of my monthly credit on all of my network net time it seems!

Right now, I’m OK.  I’m not going to purge, I don’t have any urge to stop crossdressing again.  I don’t have any significant guilt about being a closeted crossdresser but I do have an urge to continue learning how to apply that control to which I’ve referred.

And that got me thinking that I really ought to think about not being so flagrant with things.  Pics have been posted etc, and although there has been one on a previous blog post, that gives no tell-tale signs as to who I am – the pic could be of anyone, anywhere, however, those elsewhere on certain pages do tend to show background room features, colour of wallpaper, carpet, positions of light-switches, hooks on doors – you get the picture (no pun intended).    On one of my sites of preference, the site, where given permission, automatically takes shots which it then posts as a gallery which you can only switch on or off – you cannot select the photos that are seen and not seen or edit them individually.

There again, background aside, I suppose that there is also the argument that what I am wearing and my body shape could mean I am easily identifiable to certain people.  Then again, perhaps it would only be a slim chance that two and two could be put together.  Or could it be that distinguishing marks – moles, birthmarks, scars etc – could prove to be my undoing?

No – no. I want control, and I realise that the way I have conducted myself over the last week or two has been somewhat flagrant and blatant, borderline careless perhaps.

Control will probably continue to be found along the way – in small steps.   Therefore, it’s time once more to realise the error of my ways and scale back a little – note to self!

However, there is the little matter of those white stockings I ordered that landed for collection recently.  Still in my more controlled, reflective mindset, the other morning, I reasoned that whether it be something covert or something else ordinary – whatever it was that I’d ordered, I’d done so using my hard-earned cash and I couldn’t just let it go to waste at the collection point, destined to be returned to sender.

This morning, I visited the collection point, picked up the jiffy-bagged, discreetly marked package for the attention of the daytime me, and stuffed it in my man bag where it stayed throughout the working day.   But there were no plans to pull out the new items from that jiffy bag – I will instead have no alternative but to secrete them somewhere for another day.

I will confess that, whilst on the journey home, waiting for the connection on the public transport, I did open the jiffy bag within my man-bag, just to see that there were contents inside.  Sure – I knew what they were, and I have absolutely no idea what possessed me to have a look when I knew what was inside!   That is merely another indication of the deviant tendencies, the borderline obsessive tendencies to absolutely have to do something – like I absolutely had to make sure that I put the order in for the said stockings before I could apply myself to other mundane working day the other day.

There was a somewhat humourous moment when I decided to secrete the jiffy bag in my car before returning home – it was a dark chilly evening, the car park lit only by the occasional lights.  Having opened the bag earlier, I was holding it by one end in between my car (parked backwards) and the one parked next door, standing at the back offside,  opening the boot and about to reach in, when I heard something fall to the floor.  I was holding the WRONG end of the bag and the two packages of stockings had fallen to the floor, out of sight of anyone but me.  I cursed at how careless I had been, assured myself that there had been nothing to see for anyone anyway, scooped things back up again, returned them to the jiffy bag and hid it away.   An amusing moment retrospectively, if not at the time!

Anyway, as I said – it is all about taking stock, reasserting control, finding a balance.  I’ve started crossdressing again – I have no intention to stop right now, merely to assert and learn to apply control and I recognise the signs of having not completely done so of late.

The strange apathy I have felt of late is perhaps more a case of me asserting that control rather than any loss of interest or that crossdressing was becoming the norm – although I’ve already blogged about concern over the latter.   Clearly, I’ve had my fix – I’ve binged on crossdressing for around a week or so, but now it’s time to let things settle.

It’s good to talk though.