Our marriage upon us, my (now) wife and I planned the honeymoon and our subsequent life together. As man and wife. As he and she. As a couple that had made love enough times to know eachother very well — and to know what gave eachother pleasure. My regrets at ridding myself of the trappings of a crossdresser were not to be short-lived. Or so I thought.

Chapter 19

We secured the buying of a house with the benefit of our saving her wages and a (for the time) huge mortgage of  £4,500. We had no money after we had paid for that, and the food, and the petrol, insurance and repairs for the car. No money at all. No new clothes, certainly, for either of us. In my case, no new boy things or girly things, my girly things having been thrown in the trash.

We both started new jobs within six months of the wedding. Local jobs — friends all dispersed about the country, so few local friendships; these would take time to build. Mainly through workplaces. With nine hours a day at a desk, the distractions were few. For me, working in a little town outside London — where we could afford to live — didn’t have many beauties to admire.

In my idle times, though, my thoughts wandered and inevitable returned to my dressing, and my love for the feminine. Feminine what? Anything!! I was in limbo in the sense that my conventional life was full, and busy, and enjoyable. But the limbo came from there being little or no fantasy. Love? Yes. Fantasy? No! It would go on like this for months and months.

Memories came back of the difficulties and insecurities that I had experienced. In particular, the shopping excursions I had made. Where did the courage — if that was what it was — come from? Was it the naivety of my youth? Or was it blind stupidity that I got away with? Probably the latter. I had been naíve and so hadn’t let the fears overcome me. Fears of discovery. Of ridicule. What would have been the torture from school-mates if they had known that I wore panties most days? Would I have found a girlfriend if it had been common knowledge?

Would I have been branded a poof or a queer? — probably , no, certainly. This was the 1960s.

But I had done these dare-devil exploits and survived. I had bought female clothes in a female department of a major retail store. I had bought cosmetics in a major high street drug store. I had been to a hair salon, eventually nearly a dozen times, and had my hair set in increasingly curly or back-combed styles. I had gone out in public like that — before running home to drown the styles in a flood of tears.

Just being in there, in the shops and in the salon, with several women who were being served the same way, was absolute bliss. It was being a girl.

My home had been both a refuge and a potential disaster area; what if Mum had found my stash of clothes? But she hadn’t. She might have said “Are these yours, young man?” I would have been forced to confront myself…. And give an honest reply. I never needed to have that conversation that I had practised many times. How I would admit that I did enjoy dressing in such clothes. That I did feel girly at times. And that, no, I wasn’t a homosexual and, no, I didn’t want to fuck or be fucked by a man. I would admit only my love of women and confess I loved them so much, I could identify with them more than the males around me.

The only difference, now I was married, was that the clothes were gone. The cosmetics were gone. The hairstyling was gone. But now I had a Wife, instead of a Mother. There was nothing for her to “discover”, except perhaps inside my head.

There might be clues. I had to guard against that. I could easily read the ‘Cosmopolitan’, the ‘Seventeen’ or the other girly magazines, but I shouldn’t express opinions about their subject matter — unless asked by my Wife what I thought. The classic questions were unwinnable: “Do you think I’d look good in that one, or this one?” “Yes, the first…..” “Why? …don’t you love me in the second one?” “Would my hair look good like that?” “Oh, yes, I like that..” “Why? …. ..don’t you like my hair the way it is??!”

The real honest answers — that couldn’t be spoken — would be: “Yes, the first, but I’d like to try the second for myself.” Or, “I love your hair the way it is, but would you let me try that style for myself?” Dead give-aways they would be. Don’t even think about going there!

There was so little published material about crossdressing in those days. Articles on homosexuality would have covered the topic — as though queers all want to pick up girls, or lookalike girls? There were a few publications about sex changes, usually male-to-female that had their origins in gender dysphoria; a term that didn’t exist until twenty years or more later.

Simple adoration of the female form, its clothing, its styling…….. came in the form of Playboy magazine and its derivatives. Top shelf stuff. “Brown paper packages, tied up with string…. These are a few of my favourite things….” (apologies to Julie Andrews!)

I do remember the launch of a top shelf booklet titled “Forum” which was designed for the discussion of all sorts of sexual preferences and practices. It sold for an affordable price and I did buy a few copies. Rarely did crossdressing get a mention, but when it did, the reception was favourable and understanding.

Meanwhile, we had to put up with the good old British practice of the “Pantomime Dame” every Christmas, on stage; grotesque parodies of even half decent drag queens. Hardly the characters that would encourage those who don’t dress in the clothes of the opposite sex to understand those of us who do.

Then, maybe three years after — three years after marriage and one year after the birth of a child, there came a ‘first’ that led, albeit after a long delay, a turning point in our love-making. Abilities to ‘go down’ on eachother were well established. Indeed, essential for the completion of satisfying fucking between us.

We were quite good at that. But I did sometimes have a loss of a hard-on, which was taken as a lack of ardour (I think that’s the word) on my part. Taken personally, those occasions inhibited us and made me worry about my ‘performance’ (again…. How I HATE that word!)

The turning point came one evening, returning from the theatre, or a dinner out somewhere, we embarked on a fuck when quite tired. Both of us. And not a little drunk. Both of us. Quite why my hands did what they did, I’ll never know, but as we undressed eachother, I reached out to her vanity unit where her cosmetics were laid out. And I took her lipstick. Carefully removing the cap, I artistically traced the rich creamy colour across my Wife’s lips. Top and bottom. Even making a Cupid’s Bow in the centre of her top lip. In the full light of a single bedside bulb, eye-to-eye, with what can only be called seduction going on..

I think of that night now and am certain that I had tasted her lipstick when we kissed earlier in the evening and I was struck by the wonderful taste of a new Dior. I wanted to taste it again.

Freshly applied, then urgently kissed, I ended up with lipstick all over my face.

By then, I was more than ready to kiss her pussy and drive her into oblivion. Even more enthus-iastically than usual, I plunged my tongue deep between the folds of her pussy, seeking out the places where I knew pleasure would be real and easily built, and the perfect final button which would be easily pressed when the time came. The taste of the lipstick drove me. Drove me to greater and greater experimentation.

Or was it that I ended up wearing lipstick as much as she and her pussy did?

Of course, I know now that it was that. The taste was from my own lips, or could have been. Whatever, the love-making was sensational. I had never, literally never, cum so intensely or for such a long-lasting time.

I didn’t do then what I did some weeks or months later, which I shall come to soon.

The next time we made love, I repeated the initiative and, as the saying goes, a star was born! The next time, and the next, I traced the Cupid’s Bow upon her lips and the love-making was just sensational.

We didn’t talk about it but we both knew that something had happened that night. No complaints!

Actually, we didn’t talk about what gave eachother pleasure sexually, ever. The conventional wisdom today is that couples should…. Talk. Preferably with the bedroom lights ON! Most nights, our lights were firmly OFF!

Perhaps it was weeks later, after another evening out, returning home with both of us ‘the worse for wear’ from good wine and good company, more seduction came into play at the bedroom door, or perhaps it was downstairs. Wherever, it doesn’t matter.

I took a risk.

Opening her purse, I took out her delicious Dior Addiction stick in a shade I recall was “Bordeaux” and I put the creamy concoction over my own lips first, carefully mimicking the shape of her lips, before applying the same to them. I must have thought about it many times… but I made it seem spontaneous — a “carried-away-on-the-spur-of-the-moment” thing. Our eyes met and the gaze became fixed. We were unable to break the spell. She knew instantly just what I would do with my wonderful lipsticky lips.

The rest is history. Indeed, in a thousand moments of elation and also of sadness, there’s a fabulous song that brings that moment back. It goes like this…..

Red, red wine
Goes to my head
Makes me forget that I
Still need her so

Red, red wine
It’s up to you
All I can do I’ve done
memories won’t go
memories won’t go

I just thought, that with time,
Thoughts of you would leave my head
I was wrong, now I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don’t let me be in love
It’s tearin’ apart
My blue, blue heart

Thanks, from the bottom of my heart, to Neil Diamond who wrote the song, and who sang it for us at London’s O2 Arena this summer…. And to all those artistes who covered the song. Apart from Mr Diamond, UB40 were probably my favourites…. With a reggae version. What a stunning and powerful song, to prompt such deep-seated memories.

--oo00oo–

We have made love countless times — literally thousands — with my lips, and hers, coated in wonderful deep, deep colour. Why? …because it makes us… well, to be honest, it makes me… feel sexy. And her too. I have no doubts at all. The doing of that is a fetish thing that works for us both. And for me? It does have the faint tinge of being someone I know I am inside.

Other firsts were few in those years of my twenties. Crossdressing, or the love of it, never left me.

Many of my gifts to my wife were given with my own fanciful idea that one day I might wear them. Nightdresses, in particular silky ones or shiny satin ones, were a recurring offering. Blouses too, especially feminine ones. Just going in to the stores where they could be found, like M&S before, when I was buying for myself, the lingerie collections always were attractive and I bought my wife many over those years. The new High Street chainstores, especially Next, always had good selections, as did some of the London exclusive stores, like Debenhams and Selfridges on Oxford Street. There was also a new chain that sold girly clothes for the “taller” lady, called Long Tall Sally; I never did buy in there but browsing was great fun!

I eagerly read the occasional article in magazines, or on television. But there were so few.
I contented myself with some mild pornography, I have to admit. And in this, I have to confess that my self-interest probably hurt my wife a lot in those days. For a first time, I bought a magazine when travelling on business.

Working for a Scandinavian company, I found every street corner shop sold magazines in a very open fashion. Men and women together, Men and women with very interesting “toys” to play with. Women together. Where else could I find some quality-produced anthologies of “lesbians” having sex sessions together.

I knew they weren’t lesbians. I knew they were being exploited. But the pictures were nicely presented and perfect to imagine myself in there with them… as one of the girls.

The first time I came home with one, I thought we might talk about sexy things. Instead, we “read” them together before I got aroused. It was insensitive and I should have apologized. She never complained but they were obviously for me, not for her. A “bad” first if ever there was one.

In another direction, my work took me into central London regularly. I recall more than once going out of my way to pass by a wig maker’s salon that I had seen in London’s West End. Crawford Street I think it was. Their range, mainly sold by mail, was magnificent. A range of the most gorgeous highly-styled wigs, all intended for everyday wearing. The cheaper ones were made by welding the cheap Asian hair into plastic caps like bathing caps — easy enough for a woman to wear for a short time, but incredibly hot, even on a cool Spring day.

The more expensive ones were made with better quality human hair — most probably Chinese where girls at that time sold their beautiful heads of hair to pay for their limited education (which the State did not provide). This hair was woven into continuous bands that encircled the head, attached to an elastic net which allowed the wearer’s head to breathe naturally.

The store sold several branded ranges of wigs, some attributed to celebrities. My favourite was Dolly Parton’s range. Advertized as blondes “of many colours”, there were also superb blacks, browns, chestnuts, even greys, and most attractive of all, spun gold and auburn; the red collection.

I could see that Shoppers were allowed to try the wigs on, ostensibly before making a purchase. The place was empty of customers.

Clearly, I remember standing outside the shop, adoring the displayed heads in the window onto the street. Surely, I stayed too long and the Receptionist caught my eye through the window. She waved her hand very discretely, beckoning me in.

My hesitation was natural. Never having been inside before. But then, I figured, I wasn’t known there. What possible harm would it do to browse?

There was an array of mirrors to sit in front of, plus a quiet fitting room, where those of us who wanted some privacy were encouraged to go for fittings. It was perfectly possible to try on a dozen or more in half an hour before making up my mind to “come back another time”. A return visit drew no recognition from the person serving, though it was she who had beckoned me in the first time.

The third visit came soon enough and then I did the unthinkable — I bought myself a lovely lovely thick bobbed-style in that dark burgundy colour that I love so much. If I had my time over again, I would buy a lighter auburn, still bobbed-style, with blonde highlights. (…there I go, into dreamland again!)

When I got home, I had to do better than hide it. I walked in, brass-faced, and announced that I had won it in a sweepstake at a customer’s offices, explaining it would have been rude to refuse. As the salesman I was, one could never rebuff a customer.

So now “we” had a wig in the house! And temptation!

Chapter 20 will move us on to the time when, inevitably, my dressing began again. In my deepest dark secret. And then there was my first visit to a Transgender store; Transformation.