How ironic! While looking for something in my files the other day I found I have been writing about crossdressing more than ten years now. The problem is, I now realize I am completely unqualified to be a crossdresser, let alone a writer on the subject. Think about it - just what are the qualifications for a crossdresser? Surely you've read a multitude of "true life stories" in the crossdressing magazines. Perhaps if we were to distill all these stories we can come up with a set of qualifications for a true crossdresser.

Bookstore

At the auditorium, Autumn was holding her keys, and everyone was sitting around and waiting. I came up and said “Hey,” and everyone said “Hey,” and Bree gave me a hug, and I didn’t know why. They were waiting for me.

They were waiting for me.

“Sarah wants to go to Cornerstone,” Autumn told me. “Do you want to come or go home?”

“Oh, I can just take the train home, it’s not a problem.”

“Don’t be such a little bitch, come to the bookstore with us.”

(Since I no longer have access to the article that got my dander up, I have let the author be anonymous in my response. You can probably figure out just what she said from the context.)

Pardon me, but my dander is up. I know that is a difficult, and potentially embarrassing to raise a dander while wearing a skirt, but by golly it's hoisted and flying in the hot air of opinion.

Betty wakes-up laying on her back with Karen laying between her legs and using her abdomen for a pillow. They had gone to bed last night after she had breast feed Karen. Karen was still a little upset about what she had told her last night. She knew once Karen drunk her breast milk, it would put her asleep. Which she was right. As soon as Karen finished drinking from her, she had fallen asleep.

Chapter 1

Can you stand to read one more personal story about a sister coming out of the closet? I know that every CD newsletter uses these stories as fill when there isn't enough other stuff to put on the page, and that you have read a million of them, but this time I'm the one telling the story. For that matter I don't care if you read it or not, I'm gonna tell it anyway.

“Why did you have to die?”

“Why couldn’t you live long enough for you to see me?”

“Why couldn’t god give you a longer lifespan to see me as I am now.”

“Your daughter.”

“The daughter you never had. The daughter you dreamed of.”

“When I talk to daddy, he always tells me that you would love me for who I am.”

“I don’t know if it’s true. I mean, I’ll never truly know.”

“I just know I wish you stayed alive long enough to see me.”

“Not the little boy who you used to see running around the house. Playing with his toys.”

A Blank Page
Chapter 20
By Flummox

It's not a date, it's BBQ!