The months pass after any cataclysmic situation that a couple like us endured, if you’re lucky. And I count myself as lucky. Christine’s demands were met. Her limitations imposed on me concerning my life. If I wanted to stay married, this was the end of my dressing. Could I meet that demand, of all of them?

Chapter 27 — Never trusted

We did go back to living together, although sharing a bed was out of the question for now. That was probably no loss, seeing that my “performance” (still hate that word) in bed had by now waned to insignificance. I would have gladly engaged in what women do for eachother if she had been willing.

We never did speak of this whole affair with any other living soul. It’s not something that is casually brought up in polite conversation, after all! We did not speak of it between us, either (It was the classic case of ‘the elephant in the room’ that nobody wishes to mention.

I did keep my clothes closet open to view at all times. So no hiding place at all for anything I might be tempted to buy for my own pleasure. And I did allow inspections of our private spaces at any time the other decided. And Christine did her inspections, I have no doubt.

Literature on crossdressing, of any kind — even the odd newspaper article continued to be forbidden
and we never went to the theatre or see films or television programmes where crossdressing was shown, for factual or entertainment reasons.

Deep down inside, my hope was, one day, maybe, we would explore eachother physically again. And we seemed to survive the following months. My dressing was on complete ‘hold’, indeed, it was completely eradicated

--oo00oo–

If we were to get back to some kind of intimacy, it would be possible only with a very long process of rehab in our personal relationship. For years, sex had been something we had “done” when I initiated the idea. Years ago, I had made the mistake of shunning Christine’s advances when she did, just a few times, make the first move. Even in those days, I guess, I was worried that I might not be able to “perform”…. Geez, how I hate that word….

So, I chose my times very carefully and, not always, but sometimes, we got closer together and a warmth seemed to develop in our co-existence (for that was all it was). Nothing heavy. In the very olden days, it would have been called “petting” and that’s what seemed to be acceptable.

Little did I know, realize or suspect, Christine was waiting for this to develop into something more and, in my unconfident way, that wasn’t likely to happen. So, maybe she got bored — after all I had learnt about how women should be coaxed into receptiveness, I was falling short on the urgency stakes! (It is impossible to please some people, some of the time).

“Enough of that…. I’m tired. Goodnight..” was a frequent ending to a promising start.

What means could I find to make sure that, when “the time” came, I would be prepared for “performance”? Wanking was enjoyable but most of my fantasies were - not surprisingly — concerned with dressing or being that “other woman” that would make love to, or with, Christine. The result of that was an unsatisfactory preparedness for a good old fashioned fuck, “when the time came”. So, it was petting…. Endless petting.

This was, dear Reader remember, before the days of Viagra or Cialis or other therapies for my problem. They were being talked about. And certainly joked about. They would not be something that people, men like me, would go to their family doctor to discuss.

Choosing the time to “go south” even proved nearly impossible. Even fantasizing about wearing girly bedroom clothing was only partially successful. But it was a start. And that’s how it began. Petting turned into the long-lost art of tongue-fucking.

As joyful as ever, it became possible to get Christine to lie back and lose herself in her private delights (whatever they were — we had never discussed what our private fantasies were…….

In fact, the more I think of that, the more I honestly believe that there might have been a way for me to introduce the whole idea of crossdressing……. Who knows? We might even have found that it became part of “us”??)

But it was sufficient for me to treat her to the delights of the intense orgasms she was perfectly capable of having with my tongue where it now found itself again after many years. For me, it was enough. In fact, more than enough. I could be the woman in bed that I wanted to be. OK, without the wonderful underwear, or nightwear that I so desired.

But that was all in my head now. Locked in there. With no key. It was like a chastity belt.

In fact, until I wrote those words, I have never thought of it like that. But it was true. I didn’t need a chastity belt for my dick — it wasn’t performing well enough. But what I was living with was s a chastity belt for my brain and my emotions.

No wonder I couldn’t let go.

Many times, in those days, I felt Christine reach her climax and found myself totally detached from the experience. I loved the fore-play. I loved giving her the pleasure. But it somehow wasn’t me, in there with her.

For the first time (remember the title of my serial?)………….

I gave myself the name by which I now, and still, know myself. I thought of myself as “Ginger”. And in my fantasies, that’s how people would talk to me. That’s how I would call myself when my dreams turned to picking up girls for woman-to-woman sex.

Ginger was a lesbian from the very start!

Ginger was, and remains, a glorious redhead. The author’s name I now use was developed then. We’re talking about the time of the Spice Girls’ popularity and what more appropriate for a (now middle-aged crossdresser) than to be named after “Ginger Spice”.

The wonderfully pneumatic breasts, the tightly-corseted yet ample figure, the powerful thighs beneath a ‘pussy-pelmet” the beautiful red hair with the blonde stripe streaks…… And the “come to bed with me” eyes that Geri Halliwell had were a perfect fixation in my chastity-belted mind.

So, in my mind, I actually became that glorious redhead.

She would be the girl who would make love with Christine.

She would be the lipstick lesbian that I always dreamed I would be, dressed in chic feminine business-like wear, usually skirts with flowing blouses and high-heeled shoes, stockings and delicious underwear. She would have make-up that was expertly applied and most certainly of the most expensive brands available. They would go shopping together and stop to eat meagre organic food with a bottle of slightly intoxicating sauvignon blanc. They would be very obviously a little more than just girlfriends.

She wouldn’t have a dick, this girlfriend. I would tuck my boy bits away if I could….. Oh! No! That would be a grave mistake. Christine would be alert for anything like that. No. she wanted a dick. She would want penetration… well, at least sometimes.

How could I give her that, given that chemical help was still some years away?

Answer: buy one. Buy her a toy. Buy her a dildo (strange word, I always thought) and fuck her with that. I could do that. It would be a bit embarrassing the first time it was introduced but, there had to be a way. After all, there were plenty of stories about girls giving eachother a very good time without either of them having a dick, but with them sharing a dick.

So the purchase was made — but it wasn’t a dick-shaped one at first. It was a smooth and quite thick tube with a vibration device. Very acceptable. In fact, I didn’t really need to introduce it in the middle of a love-making session and find Christine not objecting at all. I could have wrapped it up and given it to her as a birthday present!

The vibrator served us well. Or rather, it served Christine well. She was soon accustomed to the variety of uses; from deep deep sensual burying, to fleeting teasing external touching. What girls would do for eachother.

Our love-making remained infrequent but, when it was good, it was very good. I remembered the times when it was bad — and it was awful!

The dildo came into our lives a few months later. By this time my performance had suffered greatly — primarily from my own obsession with being “the girl with the girl”. I had never been an assertive lover or a macho kind of a guy. Now I was nearly neutered. I’m now aware that other medication I took starting about this time would have been the cause of (what I hate, as another word to call) impotence. I couldn’t have fucked even one of my fantasy females from the previous thirty years even if I had tried or had the opportunity.

So, I felt that it would be right to buy a toy that had more shape for her. Christine would enjoy something like that, I thought. And I proved to be right…… I did buy a toy that had straps which could be used to simulate a good fuck. But I never had the emotional strength to bear the humiliating reaction that I feared I would get, once I had bought it. The thought of being there shafting away with a strapped on dick distresses me even now.

So I removed the very realistic toy dick from its straps and threw them away. Why I ever thought to buy such a thing, I cannot imagine. But the dick that remained was more than realistic enough to be very different from the vibrator we had been accustomed to using. It was long, it was round and the surface was threaded with what were evidently engorged blood veins. The head was heavily shaped in such a way as to stimulate every corner of Christine’s “within”.

She adored it from the very first moment I used it. I found a way to lick her pussy while the dick was in her and the result was ecstasy… pure ecstasy.

But it was me, her girlfriend taking her to these heights of pleasure.

She didn’t know it, but she was now married to Ginger, her lesbian husband.

And this is how it has stayed. We enjoy the love-making. She, for the physical pleasure. Me, for the mental imagery within my chastity-belted head.

I no longer dress, dear Reader. I know that to do so would kill off what remains of my marriage — which you will appreciate is quite a substantial part of what we had before the calamity.

My exploration of the world of crossdressing is now within myself. The regrets I have for not having found the right way to introduce Christine to my desires are strong and will never go away. But to come out with all of the baggage once again would kill the relationship stone dead. And for what?

For me to let loose the ‘real’ me inside???

What a penalty there would be to pay.

My heartfelt recommendation to anyone who has these emotions in middle age, or even later, is to resist them firmly. Find ways in which you can be true to yourself within your head…. But let go of the dreams of physical manifestations of your femininity.

An old age spent lonely and isolated, no matter what the impulses drive you towards, is a penalty not worth paying.

Live your dreams within your self.

Be happy.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here.

With thanks to the author of “Desiderata” a poem from 1927:

--- Max Ehrmann, 1927