By the time I met my wife, Jean, just out of college, I had been dressing since I was a young teenager, but only in the privacy of my own home. However, when we got engaged I wanted to be rid of the “hobby,” and swore off doing it. For a long time I really thought I had beaten it. But after twelve years of marriage, and the occasional urge, one thing led to another, circumstances presented themselves like the most delectable temptation, and I started to gather a wardrobe again. I only dressed, I didn’t go for the whole try-to-pass-as-a-woman thing, since I knew I never could. I just liked the feel of the clothes. (Think Corporal Klinger trying to “pass.”)

The day Jean discovered me was truly awful. She came home unexpectedly early, saw me, and just started yelling. She never gave me a chance to say a word. I was frozen, hearing all this invective; I really hadn’t the slightest clue that she was so… bigoted, after the years I had known her. She said some really cruel things—I can’t bear to repeat them. She made it clear she wanted me out—really wanted to throw me out dressed as I was, and with nothing but the clothes I had on—but I didn’t see why I should obey her. A part of me had turned numb and shut down when she became so nasty, and a wall went up. This was the woman I loved and who I had thought loved me. After all, it was just clothes. How was I harming anyone? How was I being unfaithful? I felt sorry about our marriage vows, but I just emotionlessly thought, “so be it. If she really feels like this, then why should I grovel, and try and ‘repair’ the damage?” This ‘shoot first and ask questions after’ attitude just didn’t go down well with me. I wasn’t going to pretend what I was doing was a big crime.

So I calmly went and changed back to my male clothes, packed a couple of suitcases and started out. She had calmed down only a little, but was still acting as if I had stabbed her through the heart. This really hurt, as I had been a loving and supportive husband, and I thought we had a good marriage. She was disregarding everything she knew about me in favor of this one new fact.

Part of me was still numb and in shock over being discovered, as well as the attack on me, but another part—the part in charge—was calm and collected, and did what was necessary in order to leave the house. Between some of her ranting I managed to get a word in. “I’m sorry to have been such a disappointment to you. I will leave you in peace, and wish you well.” She just stared daggers at me, and said “Just Get Out!”

Piling my things into the car I drove off, thinking about where I should go. My job allowed me to work from home, so I could do it from anywhere. In order to mull things over I checked into a motel about twenty miles from “our” home. That night as I lay there I went over and over what had happened and how I felt. There seemed to have been no indications of this attitude in her before; we had even watched Mrs. Doubtfire, and there was no vitriol. I cried over the rift in our marriage, especially over such a harmless thing.

As time passed I found myself an apartment and resumed my life. I kept waiting to be served with divorce papers, but it didn’t happen. There was no one I really wanted to ask about what was happening with Jean, and I was in no hurry to contact her. I kept going back and forth in my mind how I felt about her. I thought we had loved each other unconditionally, but evidently that was not true on her side. That thought left a hole in my heart, and the abusive language and anger just made me sad. I really didn’t see how I could go back to her.

About three months into our separation she e-mailed me that she would like to talk, face to face. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to do it in a public place, in case she started yelling again—I was really in no mood to be yelled at—or in a private setting, so I suggested we meet in a park we were both familiar with. She agreed.

Two days later we met at the park and found a picnic table to sit at and talk. She had tried to investigate (online) what she now referred to as my sick perversion, and had questions about it, which I answered as well as I could. I told her I found it relaxing and that it felt nice, and that it wasn’t a sexual thing. She didn’t understand, and said she really wasn’t happy with it, although she couldn’t say exactly why. To me it seemed as if she had found the very worst websites possible, anything that would support her negative opinion. She wanted to know why I didn’t mention it when we met, and I told her I had thought I had beaten it, but eventually—after twelve years!—realized it was a compulsion that would not be denied. To her ears that sounded as if I was too weak-willed. She claimed she still loved me and said she wanted me back home—but only on her terms. I thought about it a minute, and then told her that no, that didn’t sound like an equal partnership to me, and that I was not causing anyone any harm by what I was doing. She had said some very hurtful things, and that now that I had seen this side of her I didn’t know how I could trust her not to blow up at something else. I didn’t throw in the bit about unconditional love, which might seem like waving a red flag at a bull. I said all this in a calm way, but I could see she was getting angry again.

“I’m sorry you feel so wronged. I will talk to an attorney about a divorce,” I told her as I got up. Her eyes went wide at that. I couldn’t understand what was going through her mind. Did she think we’d just go back to our life as it was before her discovery, as if it never happened? Why did she think I would cave so easily? “If you don’t mind there are a few more things I’d like to get from the house, and I’d be happy to do it while you are at work,” I offered. She was still kind of speechless, but nodded. I walked away.

The divorce was finalized, with equal distribution of assets. She got the house. We both worked, and had similar salaries, so there was no question of maintenance. I got on with my life, and I assume she got on with hers. With nothing to stop me, I resumed dressing on a regular basis, in the privacy of my home.

-o0o-

I led a rather solitary life, what with working out of my home. Exercise and grocery shopping were the main things that took me outside, and yes, I was a little lonely, but I didn’t know what I was going to do about it. If I started another relationship with a woman, I’d have to tell her about the dressing, and I couldn’t imagine how that would go well, not after I’d been burned the way I had. There were probably online support groups for this sort of thing, but I really wasn’t interested in meeting someone in that way. There were only ever a few friends while I was growing up, and we had fallen out of touch. So I stayed alone.

Three years passed, and I was in the same situation. I thought of Jean now and then, and I would wonder just how close a relationship we had really had. Had I been kidding myself? But I didn’t want to start second-guessing to figure out how I might have done things differently. Judging by her attitude, even if I had brought the subject of cross-dressing up, she would not have been receptive. It was okay for actors to cross-dress, but not someone she actually knew. Oh well. I was just happy we hadn’t had children, who would have been traumatized by all this.

Part of my exercise routine was a long walk every evening, and I became familiar with people along the route I usually took. One woman in particular became a kind of waving friend, since she walked as well. More for company than anything else, one day I asked if she would like to walk together, and she agreed. Her name was Ellen. We got along well together, discussing only a bit of our personal lives, as well as mundane things, and not bothered by any silences between us. We did admit to each other that we were both divorced, but although I found her very attractive I never made a move on her, since I just didn’t know how to breech the big problem.

After about six months she invited me to join her for coffee at a café we passed on one of our routes. Surprised, I happily accepted and we walked there, got our drinks and sat down. She began talking in a way that suggested she would like to move our relationship to the next step. She looked at me expectantly. I wasn’t ready to bring up the Big Deal at this point, so I wasn’t sure exactly what to say. I took a deep breath and said, “Ellen, I do find you very attractive and really enjoy spending time with you, but I’m just not sure about a relationship. I’ve been badly burned, and it’s made me very leery,” is all I managed to say. She didn’t look mad at this, I was glad to note; more sorrowful.

After a pause she said, “Maybe we could just start small.”

I thought about that; I still wasn’t sure. But then, maybe non-intimate dates would be okay, kind of like a Plus-One.

“Okay, we’ll start small. No expectations?”

“It’s a deal,” she smiled.

So we did start dating. We went to movies and museums, on picnics and once we went on a ferryboat ride. We shared more about our lives and interests. In spite of myself I was really starting to fall for her, and I could tell she was just as interested in me. We hadn’t been in each other’s homes, so there was no way she could have accidentally discovered my female wardrobe.

On one of our excursions we were eating at a mall food court when who should see us but Jean. She had put on a few pounds and didn’t look like a happy person. She came to our table and I introduced the two women. The next thing out of her mouth was, “So how do you feel about him prancing around in women’s clothes?” The blood drained from my face and I just sat there, mortified, expecting Ellen to get up in disgust and leave. Instead I heard her say, “Oh, I think it’s fabulous. He looks very cute dressed up.” Jean’s jaw dropped open, she sputtered, and then stalked away. [and what’s with the “prancing” bit? Who prances? Not I.]

This sentence had trouble finding its way into my brain. Had she peeked through my curtains and seen me?? I finally got the courage to look up at Ellen, unbelievingly, to see her smirking. “You gave me enough clues that what she said wasn’t a surprise,” she said. Was I really that transparent? What had I said to her? “Plus, from what I knew of her from you, she deserved it, whether or not it was true,” she added.

“You’re not repulsed?” I asked.

“No, should I be?” She asked in return.

Speech eluded me as I sat there with my mouth still open, trying to process what had just happened. I consider myself kind of a stoic person, but a tear started down my cheek. She hadn’t rejected me.

We got up and started walking. Since the subject had been broached for me, I explained how long I had been dressing, and how Jean had discovered me, flown off the handle and kicked me out, and that was why I was leery about having another relationship.

“What a bitch!” She said, taking my arm. “No, I have no issue with cross-dressing, and you’re not the first one I have known. I have actually found cross-dressers to be more in sympathy with women, and better listeners than the usual macho man.

My whole body kind of relaxed, and a weight I hadn’t known I was carrying seemed to lift.

Life was good!

The End.