The worst possible scenario had happened. Why oh, why had I not explained about my dressing before now? Before marriage even? Too late to control the way the news was received. Life in ruins. How can anyone possibly recover what is so precious after such a stupid mistake?

Chapter 26 — Once discovered, never trusted

“I’m not having a bloody pervert in this house with my kids….” The venom in her voice!!!

“I’m not, and I’m not a danger to them… Please, please…. Don’t ever think that I would harm them. Really, you can’t…… Don’t imagine……” The pleading in my own.

Silence fell on the pair of us. She, too furious to speak more. Me, too panic-stricken to move.

She curled up on the sofa. Me standing, helpless, wanting to gather her up, but scared to move in her direction. The first time in my life, I now realize, that I experienced true FEAR.

A thousand thoughts rushed through my confused brain. What was she thinking right now? What could I possibly do? How could I convince her that I was not (indeed, still am not) a pervert that she so much loathed. Convince her that I wasn’t a danger to our kids. That I wasn’t likely to be a child molester, just because I enjoyed dressing in female clothes? That I wasn’t homosexual? That I actually felt sick at the thought? Of what? Of sex between two men. That I still loved her, and always would. That sex was something I wanted to be better at. More assertive, but couldn’t be, for some reason. Why? I didn’t know (and still don’t). How could I make amends? How would she accept my promise — which I had yet to make — that I would throw away any vestiges of my dressing and never ever dress again? That I would put it all behind me? That I wanted to be with her more than anything in life? That I just adore her?

The thoughts rushed on and on through my head, as I stood there.

The pieces of the photograph were still strewn about my feet. It was so ironic that she had first attacked me because she thought I was secretly seeing another woman. Hadn’t even looked in detail at the picture. Hadn’t recognized me as the woman she saw. Dressed in the business jacket and skirt, the blouse, the stockings and shoes that were all regulation business-woman’s wear. Topped off with the wig that was more her colour than many I might have chosen. There, in that choice, was the reflection of how much I loved her. So much that I chose a wig that could have been hers. OK, it was a little bit lighter and sexier, I thought, but it was HER I was in some way emulating.

Her eyes were closed and she was sobbing quietly. The tears were tears of anger. Of resentment. How could I? How dare I? She must have been thinking. How fucking selfish I was.

Fucking selfish would have been right. After all, it was MY secret……

“Why did you lie to me?” was all she said, quietly now.

“Darling I didn’t lie….” I pleaded again……

“Oh yes you fucking well did. You lied every time you went out like that…”

“It wasn’t like that…. And it’s only been a couple of times…..” I tried to excuse myself, but she believed not a word of it.

“Fucking liar! FUCKING LIAR!....” she shouted again. “I don’t want to see you… Get out of my sight! Go… Go, NOW!”

I reached down to put my arm around her, in a gesture asking for conciliation.

Only I was met with a barrage of fists and a shout of “Don’t you come NEAR me!, You hear? Don’t you try to touch me!”

I was beginning to fear she would have woken the kids who were sleeping upstairs…. So I left.

Where would I go? Where could I possibly go at this time of night? I began to wish I was back in Manchester in that grotty Budget hotel where I had gone back after going out dressed for only the second time in my life…… Well, it was the First time really. The turnabout party couldn’t be counted. That wasn’t ME, or only me, going out dressed. That was a party. And she had enjoyed it. And she had been dressed as a guy. And she enjoyed that. The sex had been wonderful… There must have been a connection. What was the harm. I had only dressed this once to go out. As a woman. In the street. In the park. Driving the car. Arriving back at the hotel. In the motorway services. Not being noticed, as far as I knew. Not trying to pick up men for sex like some whore or other.

Yes, it was totally selfish. But we all do selfish things at times. Don’t we? Of course we do.

She does selfish things….. My Christine. She’s not a pure bloody saint.

I felt a rush of resentment of my own, albeit briefly, when I felt that my sins were small compared with many people I knew of or read about every day in the newspapers. What had I done that was so BAD? Nobody was injured or died. What I did wasn’t perverted — in my own eyes at least, nor in many people’s eyes. This was the 1990s now, not pre-war England, not pre-1960s England. For fuck’s sake, it was legal for men to have sex with eachother almost ANYWHERE now! Even more, it was natural for two women to be attracted to one another.

And that was how I felt, when I was dressed, or when my mind was in my feminine mode. I couldn’t readily explain how that occurred. How it was a strong urge sometimes, and yet easy to put away at other times. I didn’t try to explain it (to myself, even), that I was a man locked up in the wrong body. Gender reassignment wasn't ever, and isn't now, on my agenda. I had long before accepted myself for what I am. Accepted that I would never transition, never be transgendered.

Sadly, I picked up the overnight case that I had taken to Manchester, still with my dirty linen and a few items of femininity remaining… and I left the house.

--oo00oo–

The bitterness of that night will live with me for ever, as will the few days that followed and the telephone calls that I made to Christine’s mobile number while she was at work.

I decided not to call home, although the kids would be wondering where I was. I wondered what she would have told them. It turned out to be very general and inconclusive… “Dad’s got to stay away for a few nights more… on business”.

My calls were not answered on the first three days — during which time I had gone home and taken some clean clothes to wear. (I had to be back in the office, at work as if nothing were different). So my next attempt was to leave messages on her voice mail. I even wrote out what I wanted to say beforehand. I practised what I wanted to say — and the way of saying it. Putting emphasis in different places.

The main stream of my messages was as I had been thinking it should be. To try to give reassurances. To make is abundantly clear that there had been isolated instances of what I had done and been ‘found out’ doing. That I loved her still and needed her love in return. That there were ways to work things out. That I wasn’t some kind of sex criminal. That I could and should be trusted. That everything I owned had been destroyed. (Which was true apart from the lipstick that I clung to, and wore in my isolation those few nights). That I intended to honour my promise never to dress again. That I wasn’t wishing to change my sex, or my gender, or whatever some psychologist would call it. That I was ashamed of myself and my poor performance in bed……

The list went on, but I kept the messages short, even-tempered, increasingly less “guilty” in tone. Increasingly optimistic that she would have me back in the family home.

And then I waited.

On the fifth day, there having been no response until that time, there was a message:

“I have heard your messages. And we do need to talk… Be at home tonight. Make it after dinner, so the kids will be in bed. Let’s be two adults about this… Bye.” Very business-like. Almost curt but not aggressive or hating in tone.

Born an optimist, like most marketers, I hoped it was a good sign. Tonight, after dinner.

A bunch of flowers. The least I could take as a peace offering.

The whole afternoon found me rehearsing the different ways that the conversation might go.

“Fail to prepare and you prepare to fail… “ I thought, ….not my motto, but true nonetheless.

There was a chance that she had seen the light and remembered the turnabout party and I would find her dressed in male gear, ready for sex with me when she had dressed me in some of her clothes….

Probability?? Less than 1%. (I was joking to relieve my own stress).

There was the chance that she had decided that the marriage was over, that she was so sickened and disgusted with me and my dressing, that she wanted a D.I.V.O.R.C.E. immediately if not sooner.

Probability?? At least 50%...maybe even 70%. (The most likely outcome — it had to be countered).

There were many alternatives between those two scenarios.

Firstly, she might have decided that we would “live together, for the sake of the children”.

Probability?? Maybe 10%. (So, a real possibility).

Alternatively, she might have believed my messages, that all was consigned to the trash and I would never, ever, dress again, and that it was just an aberration.

Probability?? Maybe 5% or even 10%..... (Far less likely than the DIVORCE option).

Other options came and went in my mind. These were the scenarios that I had to rehearse my responses for. I didn’t know which would be the one. But I knew which I hoped it would be.

I clung to the 5% chance — that I could and would do “cold turkey” from my dressing. That I would self-impose my own version of “re-hab”.

--oo00oo__

Returning to the hotel where I had stayed for four nights, in solitary confinement, I sat for an hour drinking the strongest black coffee I could make through heavily-lipsticked lips. I studied my face in the mirror and began to laugh at myself. Who would credit this vision? A bloke wearing lipstick… for enjoyment?! Sad, or what?

I cleaned it all off before leaving the hotel room and driving the twenty minutes to the house.

--oo00oo–

The outcome of the conversation we had that night was much the way I had hoped it would go.

….With several major provisos. Conditions Christine would impose. On me. And my life.

We would go back to living together, although sharing a bed was out of the question for now.

We would never speak of this whole affair with any other living soul.

We would not speak of it between us, either

We would (or rather I would) keep our (i.e. my) clothes closets open to view at all times.

We (or rather I) would allow inspections of our private spaces at any time the other decided.

We would not buy, discuss or keep any literature, magazines or books, on my “special subject”.

We would not go to the theatre or see films where my “special subject” was portrayed (so, no Pricilla, Queen of the Desert then!).

But, one day, maybe, we would explore eachother again. If we survived the coming months.

--oo00oo–

So my 5% wish had come as true as it might have been possible to.

My dressing was now on complete ‘hold’, indeed, complete eradication. I knew I had to avoid any chance of being discovered in the same way again. The only way was to stop dressing, no matter how much it hurt to do so. Chapter 27 will reveal how I have done since.