An extract, by WannabeGinger

To do what? To let a loving wife find confirmation that her husband did in reality indulge himself in dressing in girly things and enjoy make-up and hair, all in secret. What you are about to read did happen to me.
m>You may not have read it as the latest parts of my serial First time…..Musings from WannabeGinger. What started off with first hesitant steps in my dressing has turned into a life story. Now it has reached a crisis which warrants separate description and hopefully to a wider audience.

Being discovered

After years of my secret being readily, and carefully, concealed, we had reached the stage where we were blessed with some of the best love-making Christine and I had ever had. After a ‘turnabout’ party, we had explored ways for both of us to be in control in bed. The serial found me - in reality - taking the chance to dress in public for the very first time. I asked myself if that was betrayal. I was to be proved right that it was seen to be just that.

A sit and a walk in the park gave me confidence. I may not have looked better than a bloke in a dress (and I may have been risking a mugging) but I felt good. My evening in full femme attire proved to be a great experience. I did walk ‘on the wild side’ by purposely encountering other people, though not speaking to them. (I wasn’t ready for that!).

The feel of the shoes and the stockings was intensely feminine. The practising of walking in stilettos was hugely challenging, but ultimately euphoria-inducing. The sensation of my hair brushing my neck and surrounding my face was just an answer to prayers uttered so many times. The feel of my painted fingernails was like claws ready to pounce…. albeit on another woman. I sat in a motorway service café drinking coffee before going back to watch television in my budget hotel room.

The following day, I did my fieldwork with the Company’s employee and set off for home at around 4.30pm. It took four hours to drive home. I had worn the underwear from the previous day to keep my own illusion of femininity alive… never mind how I would manage the arrival home and the disrobing before bedtime.

I had destroyed all the outerwear from the previous day — the business suit, the shoes and anything else, except the wig. I could NOT give up that wig, it was so wonderful. It was, you’ll not be surprised to learn, an auburn tumble of curls that reached just below chin length. Its colour was lighter around the bangs and fringe. Perfect. It looked fabulous in the photograph that I was given by the ladies in the ‘Transformation’ salon. (One free with every ChangeAway session, more available at a price). I looked just like the business woman I was portraying in my own mind — not a slut, not a tart, not a hooker, not a French maid, not a dominatrix… a normally-dressed woman-about-town.

As I set off, I loaded my lips with colour and put on that beautiful wig. So what if people in other cars — in traffic jams especially — looked across and saw a guy in a big hair wig?! Indeed, in a couple of traffic jams, I did purposely refresh my lipstick in the car’s rear-view mirror. As I drove home, I re-ran the previous day’s experience in my mind. It had been worth every penny of the  £135 it had cost me, not to mention the cost of the shoes, the cost of the business suit and the cost of the beautiful wig.

All I was left with were the panties, stockings, suspenders, the wig and the lipstick. I would have to find another place at home to hide them.

Arrival home found Wife-y sitting at her computer, doing more working things. She was working 12 hours a day having found herself promoted into ever more senior jobs once the kids were settled at senior schools.

Everything went well and the evening closed with our settling in bed together, as usual.

The following day was just as normal. She went off to business and I “worked at home” the whole day, finishing my report on the fieldwork experience.

There was enough time for me to put everything away in a box in the garage where there would be no need for her to ever go looking.

There was nothing left to chance. Life was good and I didn’t want anything to disturb the situation.

--oo00oo–

Life went on with ease for several weeks thereafter. My thoughts occasionally — no, frequently — returned to the stash in the garage. Especially the wig.

The lipstick I kept accessible because there was the chance that it would figure in our love-making, just like before. Just making us both feel sexy. Adding a taste to my tongue-fucking. I was obsessed with that, I know it now. That’s what girls do for eachother. That’s what I do for my wife.

Apart from that — my crossdressing in my mind, I began to read. I began to read stories about my ‘special interest’. The ‘Transformation’ store had some books — all very poorly presented but they gave an outlet to my imagination.

--oo00oo–

Everything came to a sudden crisis, however.

At the age of 42, with a family of teenage children and a wife that was increasingly successful in her job, I had survived the trauma of losing my job as a Marketing Director and finding myself pushed into a poorly-managed service sector business where I was tasked with starting a new division for anew market. I gave that my best shot and made a success of it. The problem was not the business, it was the people. They were a very unco-operative bunch of men who would say one thing to the business owner and another to me. They would ‘slag off’ my efforts to the owner and refuse help when I asked for it from them. A recipe for a short-term fix; income, but unhappiness. A travelling time of two hours to and from home at both ends of each day didn’t help. I was fu*cking crazy by the time I got home each day.

I was therefore not prepared at all for the day when I got home and found, for once, my wife not working at her PC. Not working. She had a drink in her hand.

It was clearly not the first drink of the day.

She sat there, simmering.

She sat there with a small square of something on the table in front of her.

I couldn’t make out what it was.

“Who the fucking hell is she?!”

I didn’t know what she meant — quite literally, and so I said so. I can remember every word of this conversation. In fact, it has helped me recall many conversations with others since that time.

“Who is this?” she shouted……. “Who?!” Throwing the square of card across the table, she spat the words “Who the fuck is it?”

Holy shit! I thought…. It’s the photo from my ChangeAway day. It was ME…. Dressed. Dressed as a woman, with all the crossdressing clothes and accessories I had enjoyed so much that day. In a flash, my secret was out. She knew!!!

Looking like her… I looked at the photo and I realized, I looked like my Wife. I had created a version of her. Not her, but as much like her as I could have created. The clothes were not dissimilar to what she wore for business. The hair was not unlike hers, although it was a lighter shade of red than hers.

“Who is this fucking tart?!” she said once, then again, then again. I was still dumb-struck.

Then it became suddenly clear. She thought I was ‘playing away’ with another woman. She did, in her purple mist of anger and jealousy, fail to look closely at the face in the picture. She didn’t recognize that it was me… her husband. Dressed.

She thought that this was a rival. A lover probably. A mistress.

I know my mouth was moving but all that came out was a gabbling sound of “…. Er, um..errr… oh… no….. it’s… well, can’t you…. Umm…. Now, can I …. Well….. Oh, shit! No, it’s not like what you’re thinking at all…..” that was all I could manage.

“Oh, no, of course it’s not what I can see it is…..” She grabbed the picture back and she tore it into shreds. She scattered the pieces as she said “You bastard!! You absolute bastard….”

Oh, FUCK!!! I thought in an instant. What the fuck should I do? Tell her the truth? Or go along with her supposition and suffer the consequences? Try to play out the mistake she was making and get over it? Or try to rationalize with her that it was in fact me… doing what comes naturally — and blow a hole in her view of me. Well, having a mistress would do that, wouldn’t it? In a different way….. Fuck… Impossible! No-Win situation.

I chose the disclosure of my secret route. I had never screwed around in our time married. I had never slept (silly word) with another woman. I had always fought shy of the risks in having affairs. I knew most men that I knew had secret affairs. I didn’t

My “affair” was with myself. My dressing.

Would she understand that? Well, I was about to find out.

Her anger had not subsided but the vehement shouting had calmed. Her face was red with rage. Her accusation stood. I was screwing and she wasn’t having any of it.

“Let me explain…” I started……

“Fuck your explanations…..” she cried, as tears began to flood in place of the rage. “Fuck it!”

“Honey, it’s not what you think at all. I’m yours and I always will be…. This is different…..”

“Different?!! How fucking different does it have to be. If you’re screwing another woman, you can go screw yourself for all I care…..!”!

“No, no….. I’m not…… That…. Well, see it this way…. That wasn’t another woman……”

“Well, who the fucking hell was it?” (She never swore.. this was a tirade I had never heard before).

“Who was it? Father fucking Christmas??!!”

“No, darling…” “Don’t you Darling me….” “No, honey, it wasn’t a woman, it was ….. me….”

“What?”

“Yes, it was me….. I was dressed……..”

There was a cold, quite nearly a minute-long, silence. She stared at me…… Her gaze saw me differently now. I could see a degree of hate in there, mixed with incomprehension, mixed with fear.

Quite the worst way to find out how deep-seated your Partner has a secret that you’re unaware of. Or perhaps had suspected but never had confirmed. Or perhaps …..

Quite the worst way to tell your Partner about your own secret.

I realize how much stupidity I had shown in many ways. In keeping the secret. In hiding the evidence. In letting a detail be discovered. In not having opened discussion about my dressing years before. In getting her to see…. Maybe even enjoy….. After all, she had enjoyed crossdressing and going to that party as a guy…..

My hatred for myself was sudden and intense. Enough almost to make me physically sick.

I began to plead…. (quite the wrong thing to do really). “Forgive me, darling. It’s not important. It’s a silly, stupid stupid part inside me that … I promise…. I’ll shut down. I’ll stop.. it was only once. It wasn’t serious. I didn’t have sex with anyone… I didn’t….. Please believe me. It’s harmless. And ……… There’s part of you that will think I’m a pervert.. and I’m not. I’m not homosexual.. I’ve never been that way and that makes me sick to think that you would, or could think I might be, ‘cos I’m not…….”

My gabbling tailed off into her tears and my own now. We were both crying…..

“You will stop… Oh, yes, you will stop. Or you will move out of this house…. In fact, I think it would be better if you did. You bastard… How could you??? What if the kids saw you? What would you say to them. Don’t give me that “Two Mummies” shit…. There will be no Two Mummies in this fucking house…. You fuck off if you think there will be….”

2No,please, darling. There’s no need. I will stop. I will. I’ve thrown away all of that stuff… really, I have (I lied).

“You lying bastard. I bet you haven’t.” Christine again spat the words at me.

“I honestly have…. Or I will, if there’s anything left.”

“How long has this been going on?” she asked, more calmly.

“Since the party….” (I lied). “I got a taste for … well, it’s fun…… to me…. It’s fantasy. I’d just enjoy the feeling of the clothes and the look in the mirror. I know it’s stupid….. I don’t make a convincing woman.. but I don’t ever expect to… I mean, I didn’t… and I won’t….”

“Not before then?” she probed.

“No, not before then.” (I lied again).

“You’re a liar….. I’ve seen lipstick smears on your face now I remember. And I know that my clothes move around in their drawers sometimes….. And I wondered why, but it never crossed my mind…”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I have rummaged a bit….”

“And worn my stuff…. Haven’t you? Go on, admit it….”

“Well, yes, more than once.”

“Are you a fucking transvestite?? Because if you are, you’re history… You can leave…..”

“No, that’s not how I feel about it. I simply get a good feeling from girly clothes and things….”

“I’m not having a bloody pervert in this house with my kids….”

“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……”

Betrayal? I asked myself if Wife-y Christine felt betrayed. As you can see. She did. But there is a way back, as life today proves.

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?

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. 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.