First time…..

Musings from WannabeGinger

For all of us, there are many “first time” for many things in our lives. Here are a few of my own.

Chapter 1

The first time I realized I was in love, I was six years old. Her name was Susan Moore. Really, Susan May Moore. She had a middle name which stuck in my mind. I thought she was wonderful. I sat in class and looked at her endlessly. I wanted to hold her hand.

That proved to be easy. Her home was on my way home from school. In those days, parents didn’t always come to meet us at the end of school days. As there was no major road to cross, we could walk home. Us, together, with group of other kids. One day, for the first time, I took her hand….. And she didn’t let go until we reached her garden gate. Next day, it was easy……

My next “first” was wondering what it might be like “being a girl”. I didn’t ask anyone….. But I did think about that. I was about eight. I had no sisters, only two brothers who were much older.

The first time I was unfaithful — to Susan — was when I was sat next to a new girl in school. Her name was Riva and she was Jewish and she had brilliant red hair. Susan’s hair was mousey-blonde and not well-shaped. Riva’s was blunt-cut in a pretty swingy sort of style.

The first time I tried anything that might make me understand what it was like to be a girl happened when I was nine. We were at my brother’s girlfriend’s house near Christmas. His girlfriend had a sister…. Angie. I excused myself for the rest room but found my way to Angie’s bedroom next door. A pair of panties of Angie’s found their way into my pocket. I wore them that night.

The first time I thought it would be nice to be a girl was that night. Not for always. I was, and still am, a boy. But I liked the feel of the panties. They made me feel somehow relaxed. I thought it would be nice to wear other girly clothes…. And have girly hair like Riva’s… or Susan’s for that matter. I was hooked.

The next day, for the first time, I started to look out for girls’ hair styles and colours….. and their mothers’ too. I started to imagine how it would be to wear other clothes of theirs, and how it would be to have my own hair styled the way theirs was. A lifetime’s fetish was borne — female clothes and female hair!

The first time I went out wearing panties was when I was twelve. It felt good. I kept wondering what people might say if I was knocked down by a car in the street and I’d be taken to hospital…. And discovered! That I wasn’t 100 per cent a boy, but maybe 1 per cent a girl. I got this very pleasant warm feeling when I let those thoughts wash over me.

By the time I was thirteen, I was wearing panties regularly. For a first time, I went shopping for girly things. I had been to Marks & Spencer and bought some…. They were nice little lacey knickers that held “me” in quite tightly.

Chapter 2 will take me through puberty……………..

First time.......

Musings from WannabeGinger

For all of us, there are many “first time” for many things in our lives. Here are a few more of my own.

Chapter 2

How did I have the money at age 13 to buy myself some panties? Simple: the first time I needed money for that purpose, I decided I would get myself a job. It didn’t take long for me to find myself getting out of bed at 6am to go delivering newspapers. The pay was crap but I didn’t waste a single penny. The first time I set up a savings scheme, it was my “pantie fund”

The first morning I delivered the newspapers, I spent most of my time just thinking of what I should buy with my wages…. And how would I feel going to buy girls’ underwear? That was easy — I would feel great! I would be promising myself hours of comfort with nobody knowing I was wearing such girly things.

The first questions I had trouble with were more speculative. What would people think? What might they say? I rehearsed my answers to their improbable questions. “They’re for my Sister who’s not well at home….” “I just have a list of things to buy……” “Can you help me make sure I have the right size?...... yes, she’s two years older then me.”

I didn’t have a Sister — so this was the first time I had to invent someone to help in my dreams. What if I did have a Sister? Would she understand my feelings? I really had nobody to talk to…. Imagine talking to other boys at school about liking the feel of lacey panties?!

The first time I did venture into Marks & Spencers, it was dead easy. A busy Saturday in town. Everything was on display. I only had to get past the Matronly woman who was on patrol… but she was behind the cash des serving customers. I was safe away from there and looking intently at the available underwear. So intently, I didn’t sense the approach of a young Assistant who asked quietly “Can you find what you’re looking for?”

The first time I used the lies I had rehearsed, they worked. It proved to be very easy… which built my confidence to go back another time. The ill Sister, the list, the size advice. The girl Assistant smiled a wonderful smile - what she was thinking I have no idea! She took me to the sales desk and served me, my purchase going into an anonymous bag.

I left the store with my hear soaring. I had underwear of my own… for the first time! Four pairs in a single pack. That took a month’s wages! But they were worth it! For the first time, I whispered to myself “Because I’m worth it!”

The first time I went out wearing my own underwear, that very same day, I went back to town and hung out with a few guys from school. I knew what they didn’t know… that I was somehow a little different. I had to admit it to myself — for the first time it dawned — I wasn’t 100% like them.

On the way home, I pondered, silently, for the first time: what would a bra feel like?

I also thought that I perhaps wasn’t quite the same as my two Brothers. No way would I talk with them either; they were several years older then me and had girlfriends of their own of course.

Washing my panties proved to be a very much more difficult thing to do. No chance to put them “in the family wash” of course. No chance to get at the washing powder in the utility room where the washing machine lived. For the first time, I had to think laterally — and the answer was there in my room; the liquid soap used as a face wash. I looked in the mirror as I washed my panties…… How could I get rid of those damned acne spots!? I had begun to hate my face.

I dried the panties secretly behind the heating radiator in the bedroom. Easy. By just 13 years of age, I was left to my own to clear and tidy my own space. My bed wasn’t due for a change of sheets. This was my home within the home. I felt safe — safe enough to wear my panties every night as well son those days when there was no sports lesson at school.

I knew that was risky. What if I got injured in the school yard or damaged my clothing, …and had to strip off? The risk was a strange catalyst to continuing thoughts that I might need to buy some other underwear.

Being 13, I was late in developing sexually. Most of my class mates were putting on inches in height almost every week. But I knew my time would come. For that time-being, I was shorter than most of my peer group, and a little over-weight. And I had a spotty face. I didn’t love myself at all. I knew that girls wouldn’t love a spotty git like me. I wasn’t happy.

Unless I was wearing my underwear.

There were girls at school that I admired. I secretly dreamt of being with them. When they were girls together. I wouldn’t have minded being the “Ugly Duckling” — nowadays, the “Ugly Betty” — if I could just spend time with them instead of the guys around me. I didn’t have close friends among them. These thoughts brought my first awakenings of sexuality. I felt more than warm when I thought about the girls and being with them.

I had been growing my hair, despite being told I needed a haircut almost every week by both my Mum and my Dad…. and even my Brothers. “Leave me alone” I would say. Truth was, I had for the first time wondered what my hair would look like if it was made to look girly.

The “pantie fund” was now the “undie fund”. I had thought more and more about the feeling a bra might give. So, I resolved to buy one, perhaps two. Lacey ones, to match the panties. That meant another visit to Marks & Spencers. For the first time, it meant going in and handling bras with all their mysteries of size and cup shapes. Soon I had the money.

My newspaper deliveries were accompanied by distant thoughts…… Bras were so much more feminine…. That was a first too — “feminine”…. What was that all about?! When could I wear one?! Of course, I had no idea. Only under thick sweaters or fleece coats. Only when everyone was out of the house — Mum, Dad, Brothers.

The first time an opportunity presented itself. I had not got the time to get to the store and buy myself one. Home alone. Panties on. Standing in the bathroom. I looked into my Mum’s make-up drawer, to see all the cosmetics that she used so well. For the very first time, the word “feminine” came back. Before I knew it, the lipstick was in my hand.

I didn’t apply it well, but I did enjoy the experience. So much so, I found myself with the most huge hard-on that I had ever imagined possible. It was impossible to contain within my lacey panties. For the first time, the panties and now the lipstick had an effect on my body. In a haze, with no premonition, I turned to walk into my Mum and Dad’s bedroom.

For the first time, I searched out where she kept her bras and found them, in small drawer in her dressing table.

Chapter 3 will take me through puberty, with all its set-backs and broken dreams, to a more comfortable time.

First time…..

Musings from WannabeGinger

For all of us, there are many “first time” for many things in our lives. Here are a few more of my own.

Chapter 3

There I stood, lipstick tasting creamy on my lips, with one of my Mum’s bras in my hands. It was black and lacey. It was quite a thing of beauty in my teenage mind. How did it fasten? How would it fit? Why was it so attractive? What would anyone say who walked in now…?! Mum, or Dad, or a Brother? How could I explain what I was doing? I had no answers. And yet, I had this compulsion to put the bra on myself. To feel what a girl feels.

Of course, girls think nothing of it — the experience is an everyday thing, so it’s unnoticed, no doubt. But the first time?? This was my first time….

Girls get their first time experience of wearing a bra with their Mums, I’m sure. Then it’s special. They’re growing up into young women. I couldn’t feel that. I had no Mum there to share it with. If she were there, what would she say if I asked if i could try a bra on? I'm a boy, for Chrissake! I couldn't ask... of course, I couldn't. I’ve read stories about young men who have had understanding Mums to share a first wearing of a bra and panties with. Some have even been the driver of the idea. Mums who wanted a daughter.

I’ve always thought these were excessively unreal….. but maybe such things do happen. Lucky boys, I say.

I struggled with the bra. It seemed to have a mind of its own. My arms went through the straps over the shoulders ok….. but the cups where my tits would go turned inside out. My tits? What tits? Oh, if only…. For the first time in my life, I wanted tits!

How many times since that moment have I wanted tits! Of my own!

Off came the damned thing and I turned it inside-out, or inside-in I guess. Arms back through the shoulder straps. Now there it was, hanging loose with the chest strap flapping down either side. How to get them to join up, behind my back? I grabbed at each one in turn. Why hadn’t I looked at them before putting it on again? They felt like snakes.

(I later learnt the trick of fastening the bra at the front and sliding the strap round to the beck before putting arms through the shoulder straps. Why doesn't anyone tell you that when you're a thirteen year old boy!?)

I looked over my shoulder and saw that the bedroom door was wide open…. What if someone came up the stairs? They would see directly in to where I was standing…….. I crossed the room and cautiously looked outside, and listened….. Nothing could be heard. Nobody about….. the bra continued to flap, the cups staying across my chest.

I could do this…… I was sure……….

I reached behind me again, this time in front of the mirror. I was captivated by the scene. There I was, my panties looking perfect, my bra looking a total mess, and my face smeared with lipstick. My hair was tousled around my face. I must do something with that….

I thought then for the first time how important hair is in my appreciation of a woman’s beauty. How much I felt it was important for my hair to be right if I was to play a girl in my secret dream.

What a dream.

That bra strap in my left hand was more difficult to grasp than the one in my right. That was ok because the right side had the hooks in it. The left side had the eyelets that needed to be located by the hooks.

I had to stretch the fabric of the chest strap. The elastic had plenty of ‘give’ in it. The bra was also quite a bit larger than my slender body needed. After all, Mum was a 5ft 7inch average woman whose size wasn’t as small as she would wish!

Good for me… to get this beautiful lacey creation on to my back.

Getting my arms behind my back was awkward — unusual for sure. I never had cause to put my hands right up behind my back. If I was a girl, I realized for the first time, I’d have to do this every day. I continued to struggle. My mind was focused on nothing else.

Success! For the first time, I caught a hook into an eyelet behind me.

Damn! It was a top hook and a bottom eyelet. I could tell it wasn’t quite right. The strap across behind my back cut into my flesh a little. It wasn’t flat across there like I knew it should be. What should I do? Un-do it and risk not connecting again…. Or risk it? I decided to risk it……

Success! Second time lucky….. or thirty-second time more like it. The bra felt snug across the front but now there was too much slack in the adjustment for it to fit well. After all, Mum had a larger frame than me. But it was good enough…. Good enough for me to stand and look in the mirror again.

There I was, just me, being the ‘me’ I could be in my dreams.

I went back to the bathroom, where Mum did her make-up. I wiped the lipstick from my lips and took time to re-apply it, avoiding looking at my acne-marked face as best I could. Geez, how I hated those zits! The lipstick went on smoothly. For someone with no practice, I think I did better than could be expected. the colour was deep burgundy red. The outline of my lips, taken slowly, was easy to follow.

I took Mum’s hair brush and spent some time moving my hair around. I had washed it in the shower that morning so it was easily shaped. I divided it with a central parting, allowing each side to fall down to my ears, and a little beyond. I made a transverse parting in front of the crown and brushed the hair back from there, leaving a raised crown Satisfied, I returned to the bedroom.

For a moment, I was conscious that time had been running by so fast. I had over-stayed my welcome in Mum’s private space. The bra had to come off…….. I paused for another long appreciation of the image in the mirror. Yes, for a first attempt, this was really a girly me.

Off with the bra! Easier said than done. The whole process in reverse. Undoing the hooks and eyelets was a nightmare. It seemed to take for ever.

Once removed, the bra had to go back in the drawer where it had laid before my attack! I put the bra back in where I had taken it from. I laid it as flat as I could, remembering that the cups had been folded in ‘spoon-style’ and the straps had been under them. Now, was that drawer open or shut? I couldn’t remember. When I had come in… could I see in the drawer? I had to know — to leave it as I had found it.

To get that wrong would invite suspicion. How did Mum usually leave that drawer?!....Panic!

I had to make a decision. All of the other drawers we shut. So I shut this one. Only time would tell if Mum thought there was something unusual. And maybe I’d never know, because, probably, she would say nothing.

I walked back to my bedroom wearing only my lovely panties, determined that the next purchase with my wages would be a bra, as I had already planned.

I sat in my room for a while before getting dressed, covering up my wonderful panties with my boy clothes. All the time, in the mirror above my desk, the lipstick looked good. It tasted so gorgeous. Surrounding my face, my hair looked really nice.

My thoughts went back to that little Jewish girl, Riva, whose ginger hair was so beautifully styled in a bob cut. For the first time, I wished I was a redhead, not a light mousey-brown.

Chapter 4 will take you on to my mid-teens and the many first times that come at you like a tsunami when you're 15, 16, 17......

First time.......

Musings from WannabeGinger

For all of us, there are many “first time” for many things in our lives. Here are a few more of my own, from the time I had realized……… I was a little different

Chapter 4

As I sat on my bed, wearing panties and lipstick and not much more, my thoughts were miles away. I was back in Junior school. I was with Riva, my little Jewish girlfriend. Well, she wasn’t my girlfriend really. She didn’t know that I was in love. I was, now I know it, in love with being like her. Looking like her. Having a Mum like hers, a Mum who would take me out to have my hair cut as nicely as Riva’s was.

For the first time in my life, I just escaped from being ‘discovered’. I heard footsteps on the hall floor. Solid pine floors make noise the way carpets don’t It was Mum, or was it a Brother…. Quick! I had to remove the lipstick and remove the panties…. Quick! The footsteps were gone. The feet were climbing the stairs.

I smeared the lipstick off my lips with a handkerchief….. That would have to be binned. I could never have it go through the wash. I tore the panties off my legs. I threw them into the corner of the room, under the bed. They could be retrieved later. For the first time in my life, I felt my heart banging in my chest, rattling my ribcage. I was stark bullock naked when I heard Mum call “Are you in, son of mine?” She always called me that. And then, the door opened. In those days, privacy wasn’t a right enjoyed by teenagers.

In those few seconds, I had grabbed underpants — boys’ underpants — and a pair of trousers. My top half was naked. All was well. We talked briefly as I finished dressing, but not before Mum had looked a little closely at the marks across my back — where the bra strap had been when improperly fastened — “That looks uncomfortable..” she said, her sentence hanging in the air.

I can recall it, even today, fifty years later.

“Oh, yeah…. I fell on the sports field yesterday…” I answered.

Off the hook? Yes! She seemed content with the explanation and we moved on to what was happening the rest of the day. For the first time, I knew what a “narrow escape” was.

--oOo--

The buying of a bra was uppermost in my mind. I couldn’t use Mum’s underwear because she was all the wrong sizes for me. Wrong chest size, wrong tits size, so wrong cup size. I now know I would have been a 34A when she would have been a 36B or 38C. I did, in fact, buy a 34B bra the next week, when my savings allowed.

After school one day, I went back to the same Marks & Spencer store. To the same department. To the same aisle of merchandise. To be met by the same young lady who had helped me previously. At least the old dragon Supervisor was nowhere to be seen. The young lady clearly remembered me. “Hello again.” she said. “…..Is your Sister still unwell?” she continued, recalling my excuse….. “What’s on your list today?”

Did I detect a touch of mockery — as if she knew really why I was there? Was her smile a little sly and ‘knowing’? Thinking back, it might have been. But that passed and she helped me to find the range and the size of bra that was needed. “Matching the panties, I remember now…” she said. “…Did you get it right last time?” She was in fact being very helpful, with no different ‘agenda’.

She was, perhaps, seventeen or eighteen years old, taller than me, with a slim body and small tits under her company uniform. She wore no make-up but her eyes sparkled. Her hair was long; touching her shoulders and it was sleek. Beautifully kept, considering her ‘day job’.

For the first time, I fell in love with an ‘older woman’!! She, of course, didn’t know that.

She led me to the pay desk and I stood in a queue. The garment in my hand was almost burning hot! Well, it felt so. How soon could I get out of the store, get home, and get wearing this beautiful thing? “Are you alright?” asked the Assistant. She had seen how I was distracted, I guess. “Oh.. yes, oh, definitely.” I replied. “Well, if you come back, do ask for me if I’m not around”, she said — and was gone! I paid as quickly as I could, hoping not to be spotted by anyone I knew, and left the store. My heart was pounding again.

--oOo--

I reached the safety of my own room at home. The bra was still wrapped in the plastic M&S bag I had been given. The house was empty. Dad was still at work. Mum was out at friends. My Brothers were both later coming home from school than me.

Did I have enough time? Surely not. Best to keep it until I was alone for half a day… minimum!

--oOo--

Later the same week, again after school, but before I had tried on my bra, I heard voices downstairs. One of my brothers was talking — to my Mum. “I tell you, Mum, there are a girl’s panties under his bed…. Honest” “No, you must be mistaken….” She replied. “Well, you see — he’s too young to be messing about with girls, Mum. You have to check him out.”

Bastard! I thought…. But of course, that’s one thing my Brother is not. We have the same Father. But why would he “grass me up” as the saying goes — why would he “shop me” to someone I trust and who trusts me. Bastard!

My mistake was leaving those panties in my room — down by the back of the bed. Shit! Why did I forget to pick them up!?? I went back to my room, retrieved the offending item and put them with my bra in the bag at the back of my closet — where the sun never shines!

Mum never did say anything — but maybe she looked to see if what my Brother had said was true. The Bastard — I found a niggling stream of hate for him — he’d always been the one who’d bully me if he got the chance……. Bastard!

The panties were retrieved. They were never mentioned again. But then nobody knew why they were there. Nobody suspected that they were MINE! Not for the first time, I was very relieved indeed to be alone I my room. I still had to wait for a time to wear both my bra and the matching panties. Another warm feeling, another hard-on. This time it needed attention!

Chapter 5 follows — can you guess what happens?

First time…..

Musings from WannabeGinger

For all of us, there are many a “first time” for many things in our lives. Here are a few more of my own, from when I knew that I was a little different.

Chapter 5

Over the following few months, and past my fourteenth birthday, I gradually added to my store of girly underthings. How I treasured them! I grew confident in going out whilst wearing both a bra and a pair of panties. The danger of discovery seemed to shrink as my confidence grew.

The first time, I simply went back to the M&S store and looked around in the undies department. No sign of my friendly Assistant, but the Dragon Supervisor was there! I took delight in passing her by on my way through the racks of nighties and negligees. Her raven black hair added to an almost Goth image. She must have been 90 years old! I was so scared walking by. Delighted to ba able to, but scared nevertheless.

I grew accustomed to finding times and days when the rest of the family would be busy doing other things. I adopted the ‘Nerd’ image that every 14-year-old is allowed to adopt. My older Brother — the one who had “shopped” me over the panties — was seen less and less around the home. Good riddance, I said to myself.

At school, we were given the first sex education lessons….. Can you believe that? At 14 years of age. It was all about frogs bonking and making little frogs to start off with. Wham-bam-thank-you-Mam. It explained, and I knew by then, why a hard-on was hard. It didn’t explain what to do with it. But, by then, I knew. It explained where to put it… if you wanted to make another frog. But I hadn’t been sure about that Girls’ anatomy had been a mystery. We boys joked about them having “fannies”, without knowing what a “fanny” was. For the first time, I wondered what it would be like to have a “fanny”.

It wasn’t long before — for the first time, and very much not the last — I went to the make-up counter in the local department store; John Lewis. A place where the major cosmetic houses all had beauty “therapists” waiting for customers to submit to make-overs and stuff like that. They also had a free-to-pick section, where the Maybelline lipsticks and the Max Factor lipsticks could be found. Maybelline looked more teenaged. Bigger choice of colours. Some wild colours too! That would be the range. The purchase that day was one to remember. I grabbed the first Maybelline one that I could get my hands on.

I literally ran home, knowing the house would be empty for the whole afternoon, and got those panties and my bra out! No more risking Mum’s cosmetic drawer. I had my own! Hidden away. A hard-on came on soon, with that warm feeling I so enjoyed. And the thoughts of the pretty girl in the M&S Lingerie department. I’d love to find her fanny!

The sex education moved on swiftly. We reached the stage of STDs — even then unpronounceable words were used…… all of them sounded very nasty and suggested that putting your thing in a fanny could get you into trouble. Better to play with it yourself really. We were told we were all “heterosexuals” — which was difficult to say, but here was also a part about people called “homosexuals” who were dangerous, people who wanted to play with eachother but were both boys…… Eeeee-yuk!
Playground games became full of “poofs” and “homos”….. Instead of “Catch” or “Tag” or “It”, the poor sod who was “It” became the “Poof” who could clearly infect the rest with his wish to play with eachother. Eeeee-yuk! For the first time, those games became “edgy”. What we now call “social exclusion” was common — especially if anyone showed the weakness of hating being called a “Poof” or a “Homo”, even in fun.

I knew that, if anyone … anyone at all…… knew I wore panties and a bra when I was at home, I’d be branded for ever as one of these outcasts. I resolved never to get caught, or to tell anyone about my secret. That was the first time I felt the need which I have felt many times since, to be absolutely secret in what I do with my clothing.

By now, age 14, coming up to 15, I started to add to my collection of girly things. I wondered about getting some stockings.. or pantie hose perhaps. I wondered about the feel of the nylon on my legs. What would it be like? I didn’t have much hair on my legs at all, so it would feel smooth.
Back I went to M&S, but this time to the self-select racking for pantie hose and stockings.

Decisions! Stockings needed suspenders. They were over with the bras and panties. …. Maybe another time? But what size to get? S.? M.? L.? XL.? XXL.?........ What colour? “Natural?”, “Bronze?”, Misty Grey”, “Midnight?”.

I went for “Midnight” in size “S”… spot on! No need for advice. Advice on how to put them on might have been helpful! I laddered the first pair in minutes. Never got them above my knees! That was expensive. How to do that?! Nobody to ask. Perhaps a sly watch while mum put hers on would have to do.

Not so any problems with lipstick. I got lots of practice and soon became quite good at it. I loved the “cupids bow” that models in the fashion magazines Mum had. I remember the first “make over special” that was published in “Woman” magazine. A woman with Rita Hayworth hair tumbling all down her shoulders. She had the most beautiful shape to her lips. I followed the example, time and again. Gradually, I got the outline right. I filled in the rest with that lovely creamy colour.

Her eyes were bewitching. Beautifully outlined with what I soon knew to be liquid eye-liner. Darkly loaded lashes with what “Woman” told me was the latest in mascara. I sat in my bra and panties at a mirror and worked on my lips, planning one day to work on my eyes… and my hair!

My hair was becoming much better than I could have hoped. It was still relatively short but this was the decade of hair getting longer. Nobody commented. I made a point of washing my hair almost every day. I got an evening delivery job, with a local tradesman, that added more to my disposable income. I bought my first bottle of hair conditioner.

Whilst buying that, for the first time, I took time… time to see the range of hair colours that were on sale in the drugstore/chemists. Box after box after box, with alluring smiling women’s faces looked back at me, saying “go on, give us a try!” I should think not! All the boxes said “semi-permanent”, “lasts 6-8 washes”, or “permanent”, “contains ammonia”. Don’t be stupid!” I told myself. But these women’s hair was fabulous…..

By the time I had mastered (or misstressed?) the technique of slipping my legs into pantie hose, with my panties and bra, and my lipstick, I began to feel ready for something to bring it all together. No outer clothes. I wasn’t planning to go out dressed, but … something was lacking. Obviously, I couldn’t afford shoes. But they would be wonderful… and I promised myself… one day, I would buy myself some strappy sling-backs with pointed heels like Mum wore…… What size were we both? Was Mum the same size as me now……?

The temptation rose again, like it had with her panties the very first time. No worries about disturbing the way they were stored. I could put them back undetected in the racking in her wardrobe. I knew I was a size 5 now; but had no idea of Mum’s size. But I did know she had a fabulous pair of heeled black shoes. But before I could move, I heard a Brother's footstep in the hall.

I looked for an afternoon when I could go in to Mum and Dad's bedroom and try the shoes out.

Meanwhile, my shopping at the drugstore went on. I went back to the hair colours. Was there anything that would wash-in, wash-out? I looked and looked. I hoped nobody was noticing me. And they weren’t I looked all along those boxes again. No luck. They were all unusable by someone like me.

Then, right at the end of the shelf, there were some small packs with sachets tumbling out of them. “Hint of a Tint” it said on every sachet. "Lasts 2-3 washes". well, I could ash my hair three times to get rid of it...........

Chapter 6 finds me in a much safe place, with all my elements so far in place.

For all of us, there are many a “first time” for many things in our lives. As I grew up, I encountered many choices; whether to do, or not to do, certain girly things. Here are a few more of my own dilemmas and experiences, once I knew that I was a little different.

Chapter 6

At school, I was the butt of many jibes. All were to do with my spotty face. None were to do with what I was “inside”. Inside, I was both a boy and a girl. I wanted desperately to be liked by the other boys. I played their games with energy. I wanted to be liked by the girls, so I tried to talk with them, not in the way other boys did. I wanted to be like them. Like a girl. I kept that hidden away, deep inside.

My wearing of a bra and panties, occasionally and always in secret, was an expression outwardly, of some turmoil internally. My wearing of lipstick, at the same time, brought me closer to my real self. But I knew I was a boy and had, for the world, to be seen to be a boy, a young man.

“Scabby” I was called. “Poxy” was another nice one. I had to swallow it and not show that it was getting to me. Which it was. It hurt. And all the more I wanted rid of those zits. I wanted clear fresh skin. To off-set my girly side. I spent hours under ultraviolet lamps to rid myself of spots.

I went back to the family doctor enough times to get referred to a Specialist at the hospital. Hence the UV treatment. Did it work? Not so far as I could tell. I did get sympathy from several of the girls. That was great — for the wrong reasons — but great nevertheless. I was a spotty boy who wanted to spend some of his time as a girl.

At no time did I find myself thinking of boys and all the kissing stuff that girls spoke about. Eeee-yuk! No thank you! At times, I was surprised how they talked when boys, apart from me, weren’t around. The idea of “tongue tennis” for example, was a common theme. None of them had kissed a boy yet…. But they knew all about how to do it!

(We are talking the early 1960s here…. When young people like me matured later than today’s generation.)

One of them, my girl friends, tried to help me, in an unsuspecting way, when she suggested that my spots would at least be hidden if I used some of what she called “concealer”. I was at her house with a couple of girls one afternoon. Concealer? It sounded right to me. It turned out to be her Mum’s “foundation” crá¨me. She found the jar and put a finger-full over the worst of my spots, slowly, almost lovingly….. (in my dreams!)

It did work, although it may not have done the spots any good….. It made my face look better in the mirror. Maybe I should buy some at the drugstore, I thought. I needed a new lipstick anyway.

When my next shopping venture to the drugstore was possible I went back to the hair colours. Again, I hoped nobody was noticing me. And, of course, they weren’t. I looked for the small packs of “Hint of a Tint” as it said on every sachet. They all looked the same. The writing was very small because the individual package was small. One wash in each sachet. One wash that would infuse my hair with obvious colour. Would I dare? Could I get rid of it, if I did?

I wished I had worn my bra and panties out shopping that day. It would have felt right…. I needed a new lipstick so paused in my search for hair colour and went to the lipstick ranges where I had been before. The same shade as before? Maybe something a little redder! I chose and added the first item into my wire basket.

Back to the hair colours. I knew I'd not be able to go through with the colouring, but, hell!, a girl can dream! “Raven Black”, “Blue Black”, “Burgundy”, “Warm Auburn”, “Wild Cherry”, “Rich Chestnut”, “Golden Brown”, “Honey Brown”, …. The list went on and on…… The names were quite seductive. “Buy me, buy me!”, they seemed to say. Perhaps i could just buy a pack and keep it in my secret stash...!

Then my attention was diverted. Further along the shelf. There was another brand, in the same section. I hadn’t seen that these were all called “Toners”. There was a whole shelf devoted to brand called “Born Blonde”. Every one was a different toning colour for blonde hair. If your hair had been lightened… bleached, blonde. Oh.. WOW!

“Baby Blush”, Beige Blonde”, “Wild Strawberry”, “Pink Rose Blonde”, “Peaches and Cream”, “lightest Ash Blonde”, “Ash Blonde”, “Platinum”, …. On and on, the list went.

But those would need bleach. That’s permanent, I told myself. Don’t be stupid! In your dreams, baby. Could I imagine myself as a blonde? Well, if I hadn’t before, I did at that moment. There was no way I would be bleaching my hair — not for a while at least but “never say never” is a good principle to adopt.

So, it was back to the “Hint of a Tint” range. After all, I thought. I’m gonna go for this - one day - and what will anyone say if I mess up? In other words, who cares if it lasts for six washes and doesn’t come out? Answer? I do! i don't think I could bear......

A sachet of “Burgundy” went in to the basket. Should it have been “Wild Cherry”? I wasn’t sure at all.

My homecoming that day was filled with excitement. Mum was out again. Dad was away on business for the week and my Brothers were both staying late at college. The house to myself!! My excitement was uncontrolled. I bounded up the stairs…..

A choice? Dress in my panties and bra first? Or go find Mum’s shoes that I wanted to try on with my pantie hose? Or, maybe, before changing, perhaps I should shower and use the rinse on my hair? Decisions, decisions!

The bra and panties won the day, with ease. I felt most at ease when I was wearing them. A sort of peace swept over me as I fastened the straps of the bra. For the first time, I pushed some scrunched-up tissue paper into the cups to give myself shape.

Oh, if only I had tits! If I was a girl, I’d have tits — just small ones. Not huge melons like I’d seen in those magazines that some of the guys at school wanked with. I new they did. They never seemed to stop talking about it! I knew what wanking was now, though I wasn’t very good at it. Every time I dressed, I found myself with a hard-on. It was a bit of a nuisance, but it was quite easy to get rid of. Not a huge pleasure, sadly. Every time I thought of the girl in M&S who helped me choose my panties, the same happened. I did love her!

I slipped into the pantie hose — more easily now that I had practised how to get both legs in and to pull the stockings up over my thighs and the pantie section around my waist. And how to smooth them over. One day I would get a pair with seams down the back. Seams were very sexy, I recall, I thought for the first time. Now I needed shoes. Even now, I know how I felt.

I ventured into the hallway and through into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. Carefully closing the door in case of discovery, I knew exactly where the shoes would be. I opened the door of the closet where they would be. Neatly arranged in their racking. The black pair. With the heels. The heels that looked so high! I picked them off the rack. I sat on Mum’s side of the big double bed, knowing I had to smooth the covers when I left.

I reached down and for the first time in my life and pushed my first foot into a feminine shoe. All the straps were tricky to control, but I got there with relative ease. Compared with the first pantie hose experience! The second was easy too. I looked down for a moment to admire the look of my stockinged ankles in their strappy shoes. Heaven!

I stood up and smoothed the covers of Mum’s bedside. I took a step towards her full-length mirror so I could see how I looked. I stood there. In my parents’ bedroom.

And then it happened…… That awful dreaded moment when I heard a call from downstairs…. …….I hadn’t heard the front door open and close. No footsteps downstairs. “You in??”

My damned Brother. The younger of the two. The one I knew had ‘shopped’ me over the panties months before. Shit! ………Shit! Shit! Shit!

My door was closed. My bedroom. My own space. Could I get back there? As a family, we didn’t invade eachother’s spaces, unless invited in.. That wouldn’t stop him. He was coming upstairs and he’d come in. For sure, he would come in and find me. Here. Standing in front of the mirror. In my bra and panties, and my pantie hose. With shoes in my hand

All of my last two years of secret dressing flashed in front of my eyes. I was in a panic-ridden daze.
But then, I thought, he wouldn’t come in to Mum and Dad’s room. Would he?

Chapter 7 will tell you and how I coped with the next hour.

A “first time” for being “discovered” is every boy/girl’s fear. The writings in this series are all genuine and true. This was my first time — on that brink. The cliff-hanger cut between two chapters is just “writer’s licence” to add some flair into what was, actually, terrifying!

Chapter 7

I stood motionless in my Mum’s bedroom. Careful not to make a sound. Praying that the door would not open. Praying that my nasty Brother would not come in and discover me. Me, his little bully-taker.

I was wearing my panties and bra. What would he make of those? He would love to tell Mum what I was up to when she was out of the house. I was wearing pantie hose and a pair of her sexy black strappy shoes — the ones with the heels. What would he make of those. He would make life misery for me.

The door between us wasn’t very solid. The catch was only a modern cheapo latch. It would open on a breath. I held mine (my breath that is). Dreading the urge to cough, I swallowed hard. There was a taste of sickness in my mouth. I was even brought to nausea at the thought of his finding me. The seconds that passed seemed like minutes. The minute or two that I stayed quiet seemed like an hour.

His footsteps went on down the hallway, towards his bedroom. “Little shit. Must be out somewhere…” I thought again — for I had thought this many times — what had I done to make him dislike me? My other Brother was a really nice guy. I looked up to him. But this one was always the “one in the middle”. My elder Brother was the guy I wanted to be like when I grew up. He was soon to be married. His fiancee was always nice to me, whereas the other Brother’s girlfriend treated me the way he did — contemptuously.

There had to be a way out of this situation for me.

Before I could reason with myself, I felt a wave of emotion run over me. Something I have felt several times in the years that have followed. How could I have got myself into this stupid, stupid situation? How could I risk being found like this? How would the people who heard about me react… I hated the thought, and more importantly, for the first time in my life, I hated myself.

Not for the spots on my face, or the fatty tissue that surrounded my stomach, or for the nervous way I dealt with other people, especially girls. I was a really dislikeable person. More than that, it was clear I wasn’t a good looking girl and never would be. Who was I kidding, standing there like this? Fucking idiot. I had to get this clothing off my back and get back into normality. I had to put those shoes of my Mum’s back immediately. And get those panties and pantie hose off…. Or the bra.. Which first? The shoes!

Call it damage limitation. The less I was wearing when finally discovered, the less explaining I’d have to do. “Well, I’ve done it for a dare….” No. “Well, I just wondered what it would be like….” No. “Well, I’ve got a part in a school play….” No. “Well, oh, Fuck!....” I tore at the pantie hose, laddering them a dozen times, I stuffed them into… Shit! Nothing to put them into! I took the panties off and put them with the ruined hose.

Then I tugged at the bra straps. In my haste, a strap pinged off, leaving me with one shoulder strap and the back strap. I tried to reach the back strap but failed….. I pulled and pulled, the straps digging into my flesh, leaving red marks that, even on their own, would take some explaining.

The bra was ruined too. The panties were the only survivors.

I listened at the door. No sound from along the hallway. Should I risk returning to my room. I had to. So, I did. The door closed behind me. Mum would never know I’d been in there….. or would she? Did I shut the closet door? Did I smooth the covers? Yes, I knew I’d done that much… Only time would tell, if at all. I crossed the landing hallway and entered my own room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

- ooOOoo -

Nothing ever did happen from that “close encounter of the third kind”. My Brother never knew. My Mother never knew. But I knew.

I knew that I was going dangerous things. It would be better to put these things away in the trash and forget about them.

But I could keep the panties, couldn’t I?

Life became deadly dull all of a sudden. I seemed to spend all my spare time playing records in my room or hanging about on the street corner with mates. Aimless…. At 15 years of age?

Reading this, you may have guessed my Dad wasn’t around the home a great deal. So my Mum was a much stronger influence on my life. I would have liked him to be around. There would have been questions I would have wanted to ask him. Not about sex, but about relationships. About what he would have done in circumstances that I faced every day. I did get to spend more time with Mum that I might otherwise have done. Being the youngest in the family.

Then again, would I have wanted to be the same? I knew from an early age that Dad was a wayward character. Odd comments about his behaviours before and after I was born revealed a lot. Why was I seven years younger than my brothers? Answer; Dad was “elsewhere”, with other ladies. “He always was one for the ladies”. Such like that told me he was selfish and quite a handful for my Mum. Now I thinkabout it… I was wanting a Dad, but not necessarily that one.

Could I talk to Mum about my feelings about liking girly things? Well, maybe one day… But the longer it went on, and the longer I grew, the less likely it was I could…

She was ‘gone 50’ by this time and beginning to be run down by an oppressive Mother of her own and a husband who worked, ate, slept, worked, ate, slept, went away, came back, worked, ate..…. Their younger days were different. We still have pictures of the pair in the late 1930s when they went to dinners in truly stunning outfits. Mum was truly a glamorous lady in those days.

- ooOOoo -

Back at school, I threw myself into boys’ games. My knees were cut to pieces as I played ball games like never before and injuries were commonplace. I didn’t spend quite so much time with the girls but it was interesting to see how welcoming they were when I did join them to sit and talk. Maybe I had some capital in life’s bank for the future.

By the time I was well past 15 years of age, I think it was, the memory of that nasty afternoon at home was fading. I still had the panties, and oh, did I mention the lipstick? No reason to throw that away really, was there? Not really. I still relished quiet hours when I could use it.

I was taken away on a holiday to Jersey, in the English Channel Islands that summer. My parents took me, but not my Brothers, to a holiday village ( which was ssooooo 1960s! ) for a couple of weeks. Meals all provided on site, no need to leave the campus, entertainment all provided every evening. The campus was nearly on a beach with golden sand. It had a pool too. Plenty of families like ours; some with two or three children. A few with loners, like I was. We slept in “chalets” (of which I had a “single berth” which was as small as the cupboard under our stairs at home!)… The chalets were all in rows, all the same.

I loved the whole experience. Why? Well, for the first thing, my parents let me alone to find my own amusement. Second, there was a family in the next-door chalet and the next one beyond that.

This family was a man and woman, with three children. Three children, all girls, all maybe a couple of years older than me. Maybe 16 or perhaps 17. The oldest one might have been 17. My impression was, in fact, that the two blonde girls were Sisters and the darker-haired girl was a friend invited along for the holiday. They were really quite remarkable.

During the days, they were joined by a gorgeous 17-ish red-headed girl who was just a friend for the holiday. She was rather lovely too. They all paid a lot of attention to their looks. Lots of filing and painting of fingernails and setting of hair and suntan spreading.

I had no idea of their names but, as a four-some, they made delightful eye-candy for a 15-year-old like me. I didn’t even have to go to the pool… unless they went to the pool, to spend wonderful times, behind my sunglasses lenses. I particularly found myself admiring their body beautiful attentions. They painted their nails, they combed and rolled their hair. The old imaginings of looking after myself that way came back.

I really loved the thought of having my nails covered in bright red lacquer and top shine polish. I really admired the way they set eachothers’ hair so precisely that, every evening, they would turn up with immaculate coiffures at the dance hall. They sat around the pool with their hair drying in the sun. Even now, I remember just how curiously attractive they were.

Their one-piece bathing costumes were beautiful — so up with the trends of the 1960s; bright colours, slimline fittings, accentuating their fast-developing figures. This was the time that my male hormones ran riot for the first time. Everything else before had been kindergarten stuff. For day after day, I found the irrepressible urge to go somewhere secret and wank myself senseless. Four times a day, maybe. It can’t have been good for me! As I did so, I imagined being with them, individually, and doing all those things that the boys’ magazines talked of boys doing with girls. Then, on other occasions, I thought of being just like them. Being the fifth one in their circle. Painting my nails, rolling my hair, trying on different lipsticks (did I mention the lipstick?) and wearing a stunning bathing ‘cossie’. So, I can see now, there was a heterosexual side to my thoughts, and a transvestite side.

Chapter 8 will take me back to the end of school and the things I did outside the home at 16 and 17 years of age.

Growing up as both a boy, inwardly at times and outwardly, (and as a girl, just inwardly,) presents dilemmas and conflicts — some happiness, some sadness. “I am fifteen, going on sixteen….” said a daughter in the von Trapp ‘Sound of Music’ family…..

Chapter 8

Jersey was to prove to be my best ever holiday so far. The rest before this one had been dull — in the extreme. Never before had I been close — as close as this — to girls of nearly my own age. OK, these were a year or two older but that was a bonus. To them, had they known of my admiration, I would have been a worm that crawled out from under a stone. To me, they were just perfect… and all so close to hand. If only I could have the courage to talk with just one. To get introduced, maybe.

But no, I wasn’t going to get my hands on them! Nor they get theirs on me!

I had plenty of time to reflect on my feelings now. The heterosexual side of me was running riot. The feelings were all over me. But in the quiet of the night, some nights, those other feelings and fantasies came back! (Did I mention the night-times?). Then, there were times at the poolside.

When had I started feeling the way I did then? I spent time thinking. Regretting?, sure. Glad, sure. Mixed up?, sure!

The ‘no brothers’ aspect of the holiday was brilliant. I could be myself without bully boy number 2 picking on me. He was off somewhere with his girlfriend. That would give him grief. Her parents were very strictly “hands off our girl” and there he was, taking her away….. for what!!?? (Well, surprise, surprise, they ended up getting married four months before their first child was born!) Went into rented accommodation with a job in Birmingham. Served them right, I say.

I rather fell in love with the younger of the two blondes. Her older Sister’s hair was gorgeous and curled over maybe twenty or thirty rollers. It turned under across the nape of her neck, inviting a kiss to be placed there, no doubt. The blonde colour was a mixed honey and dark natural shade.

But the younger girl’s hair was a much lighter blonde, the same curls were everywhere but the nape of her neck was blunt-cut in a way I could imagine being perfect for me, for my hair… if it was set that way. It was so blonde, it was unlikely to be a natural shade, but there was not a sign of roots to betray cosmetic lightening. My previous interest in girls’ hair was now on fire! In those days, it was called a “Gypsy” style. Plenty of height in the curls at the crown. Sleeker below the ears. My hair would have been almost long enough.

The holiday passed and I never did get to talk with these little beauties. I returned home for the next school year to begin. I would soon be 16. Examinations, studies, no social life. Staying in at home. Mum went back to work so was always out of the house during the day. I was often “home alone”. My older Brother got married in September and moved away — just 20 miles but that was it, he was gone. Dad was still working, going away less, but still coming home to eat and go to sleep in front of the telly. 56 years of age. I will not be like him at that age, I thought. (And I wasn’t!)

I still had my lipstick and, soon enough, there I was back in Marks & Spencer’s store, buying some new panties. Brilliant! I had enough to be able, on the days when there was no sport at school, to wear them 24/7 I resisted buying a new bra for all of a further two weeks. My Saturday job was paying quite well (I settled for a job in Sainsbury’s Grocery store, having been tempted to apply for a Saturday boy/girl job at a local hair salon.)

One day, I thought, perhaps a salon job would be for me, but I wasn’t ready for that.

Before long, my cosmetic pouch contained some foundation (or was it ‘concealer’?) which helped me with the lipstick. I could make really a well-defined outline for my lips with hat as the base coat. (We are talking mid-1960s, pan-stick, pale pale pink lips and deep dark black eyes). That brings me to the eyes……. The mascara and the eye shadow. I tried my Mum’s out and made an incredible mess of my face. I almost poked one eye out which brought me to tears. I looked like a crooked panda.

I had fallen in love with Dusty Springfield earlier in the year…. 1965. Or was it the year before? So, I had posters of her all around my bedroom. I literally drooled at the sight of those beautiful eyes and the huge hair she wore. The earliest pictures had her in “country girl” petticoated skirts and frilly blouses, which I loved. Her tits were so small, they could have been mine! Then she became a bit of a drama queen and, with her own television show every Saturday night, became the most glamorous girl I ever dreamed to loving. It was only ten or twenty years later that she confessed to be “moved as much by a woman as a man”. In other words, she was at least bisexual. When I heard those words, years later, I knew I was a lesbian! I’ve not been moved by a man — any man — ever. Billy Connolly once admitted as much — because he “enjoyed doing what they do”. I think he was right!

With the freedom that I was beginning to enjoy, with the regular money from a Saturday job coming in, I was able to think beyond the “stash” of clothes that I had collected together. All underwear. No shoes. No outer wear, like blouses or anything feminine like that. But there was enough for me, and my bedroom. My secret. The risks of discovery were fading. Brothers both gone. Dad away until predictable coming-home times. It was only Mum’s return from the place she worked, each afternoon, that was uncertain. Vigilance had to be my driving force when dressed as far as I dared.

The holiday had preyed on my mind ever since we returned from Jersey. As I did, on many occasions that autumn, stand in front of my mirror with panties and bra on, with lipstick on. Wanting to complete the illusion. Wanting to see myself fully dressed.

Mum’s dresses and skirts or blouses were all too big for me, growing in stature though I was. If I had the joy of having a Sister, I’m sure she would have helped me out. I rather began, for the first time, to imagine myself as my very own Sister, when I was part-dressed. There was no way I could (yet) afford to buy blouses or skirts, or dresses — this was before the days of Bon Marche, new Look and H&M. That would have to wait.

My mind turned to the girls from holiday. With their rollered hair and swimming cosies beside the pool. I could buy a swimming cossie in the sales that were coming up at the end of the summer. Perhaps I should look for one with those slightly padded cups that would make it look like I had more tits than I did. Oh… if only I did!

More than that, the holiday images in my mind kept on returning to those rollers in the girls' hair. At 16, my hair was getting longer. At least as long as the younger blonde. And then I resolved to try something quite outrageous. To have my hair washed and set in a salon.

It didn’t take too much imagination. I chose a suburban location not far from home in north London. Golders green was a nice Jewish enclave, easily reached by bus from where I lived, but not on anybody’s ‘usual’ route going anywhere. There must be salons there. I was certain I could find one. I hatched a plan.

As an irate Father (I had one of those, but he wasn’t irate with me very often), I would call a salon and say, insistently, that my Son was to “have his hair washed and set in a girl’s style”…. Implying “whether he likes it or not” or “to teach him a lesson”. It took courage, once I’d found the listing in Yellow Pages, but it didn’t take me long.

I wish I could remember the name of the salon, but I can’t I chose the one that was the most female sounding…… or maybe it was something funky, like “Curl up and Dye”. I wish I was there now. It took two and a half minutes to book an appointment. About a week ahead of the time I called, I would be on the bus, going to Golders Green. I would wear as much female clothing as I could lay my hands on… underneath! I’m sure the receptionist who took my call would not have been fooled for a minute — my voice could hardly be taken for an adult, a Father’s.

The day soon arrived. After several breathless days of me asking myself… what have you done?! And telling myself…. you can’t go through with this! I let Mum leave for work. The appointment was for 11.00am. Half an hour’s bus ride away. I had to leave in time to be outside the salon in good time. I dressed in my panties and decided I would risk the bra — what if it was seen somehow? Well, I’d have had the joy of its tugging at my shoulders and back. What would anyone say? Nothing! I had to be there in enough time to walk back and forth across the road to see inside the salon. To chicken out if I did lose my confidence. Or to see the stylist waiting for me!

I caught the bus, into the unknown!

Chapter 9 will take me through the door into a whole new world that lives with me today. Sweet 16 and never been kissed, no longer!

Experiences live with us for ever. It’s only when you write tracing back your earlier days that you feel what you felt then.

I felt lonely.

Chapter 9

I didn’t know that the bus would take me through the door into a whole new world that lives with me today. I was indeed Sweet 16 and never been kissed, sitting there on the bus heading for an appointment with who I couldn’t say in a place that would either prolong my dreams or shatter them.

I was indeed lonely. Sure I had mates at school. I played games with them in the school yard. Never was I a tough one. There were plenty of guys who were aggressive and loud and rather not the kind I wanted to hang out with. But then, I wasn’t that clever, so I didn’t want to be associated with the geeks and swots who would pass all their exams with ease and go on to rule the fucking world. Why couldn’t people just be normal, middle-of-the-road guys like me?

Normal… hold on! Was I normal…? not on your life. Riding a bus, wearing female underwear, going to get my hair shampooed and set in a girly fashion. Was I really doing this. In the middle of the day. In broad daylight. I looked about me in the bus.

Several older people, going to spend their pensions. Several men going to work in trades — builders and plumbers, roughed up clothes, unshaven. Eeeeyuk. I never wanted to be unshaven. I was having to shave once a week and hated it. (Still do). I wasn’t very good at it and always seemed to leave straggly hairs in places or cut myself and bleed. Eeeeyuk. Did I not like shaving. Fuck it. girls don’t shave. What luck to be born a girl!

Luckily, the shave had been clear and close the day before and didn’t need repeating the day of the bus trip. I had smoothed some of Mum’s moisturiser over the skin before leaving the house, carefully replacing the top and putting the bottle exactly where it had been placed.

I knew the place where I had to go, only vaguely. The phone book had told me where the salon was. On the main road into the centre of this suburb. I began to get anxious that I would miss the right stop. I nearly left the bus twice before I needed to.

Then I saw it, the salon with the name I forgot, out of the window. Request the stop… ring the bell. I did so and got off with a couple of other people. One was a teenage girl. She was taller than me, but not by much. Her skirt was up high on her thighs. (A “fan belt” we called those). She had a magnificent mane of light auburn hair that fell across her shoulder in a sleek curtain. I thought instantly of the red-haired girl in Jersey.

This was an omen. An instruction, I thought. I had to go through with this whole idea. No turning back. The redhead stopped to cross the road. Towards the salon side of the busy street. The redhead in Jersey had her hair set on larger rollers because her hair was set in a straight style with a fringe or bangs to frame her face. She was a beauty.

She walked past the salon and out of my life for ever.

I, on the other hand, walked past the salon, peered inside and walked on. In the fleeting glimpse, I saw that it was already quite busy. There were probably six styling stations in front of mirrors. There was a bank of dome-shaped dryers along the facing wall. All behind a glitzy glass reception desk where a quite-tarty, very Jewish mature lady — probably a hundred years old I thought, was sitting. She had a blonde beehive. With curls rolled at the back.

That was all I could see. The stylists were there but I couldn’t see them in detail. In a moment, I was past the salon’s door and outside a little café next door. I was early for the appointment, by at least 15 minutes. I had time to reconsider. But then, I didn’t really. The decision had been made for me. By the redhead. On the bus. By the redhead, in Jersey. I was going in. I really was. But a Coke would steady my nerves — or give me a shot of caffeine to hype my senses!

I took strength from the thought that, if my bully-boy Brother could see me now, or rather see me in an hour’s time, I wouldn’t care. What he would think did not matter to me in the slightest. Equally, my Father’s opinion would be negative but would not sway me from my decision. My Mum, on the other hand, I wasn’t sure about. Would she be appalled and horrified? Or would she gather me up and say that she loved me anyway, whatever I wanted to be? I didn’t know. The one who did matter and who I wouldn’t want to see me, was my elder Brother. His opinion would matter. He would probably be the same as Mum would be. Appalled or supportive? I would want his agreement, if not his complete understanding.

How could he, or Mum understand what I didn’t even understand myself? I was a boy with a part of me feeling he wanted to be a girl sometimes. I began to feel, as countless people since have said, that transvestites are different from transgender people. I wasn’t a girl “trapped in the wrong body”. I didn’t want to have a husband and settle down for life. I wanted girlfriends and a wife one day.

Time was coming, I knew it. I had to get up, walk out of the café and into the next-door shop and say “Hello, I have an appointment…” So, I did. No giving in to the temptation to walk past just once more… and then run away!

“You….. have an appointment?” said the Beehive. I gave the name I had given on the phone. Same letter to start the surname, but not the same name. I mean, who knows how I could be traced if I gave them a real name?? “Come this way, you’re stylist will be Angela….” (This was in the days before names like Jasmine, Juliette, or Jemima were common in salons everywhere — sorry girls with “J” names!) Angela was a nice homely Jewish girl with tightly-curled dark red hair that wasn’t much longer than mine. Well, the curls hid whatever length of hair she had.

I was conscious that my underwear was tightening around me… or was it? No, I was just aware of it in this heightened atmosphere. I had equally nice undies as Angela, I had no doubt. I studied her face, as another woman might. Not a stunner. “Hello, I’m Angela….” she said, a gown put around me “ Sit here and lay back, and Rachel will shampoo you”. I’ll see you in a minute or two.

It was amazing…. I had said almost nothing except my “name” and to confirm my appointment. And yet, here I was, for the first time in my life, I was lying back at the washbasin in a female hairdressing salon, about to have a roller set and styling. I nearly nearly …. Well, I thought I might cum in my lovely panties. There was a sudden sexual charge in my head. Talk about mixed up — my emotions were all over the place.

Now, with a gown on I laid back. I was trapped. Nothing I could do. I couldn’t run out without making a scene. Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to do that? No, not such a scene. So, I was trapped. I felt the eyes of other women (other??) boring into my being from their mirrors, or from their dryer positions behind me. I could feel the collective… “Who the hell…?” question… the “What is he doing….?”

It was obvious, I was a He in a sea of Shes.

When my wash was done, Angela took me to her station and pulled the trolley with rollers piled upon it towards me. It was then, for the first time, that I was able to relax and enjoy what was to come. The initial shock had worn off. I was in there, and I would relish every roller going in.

“How would you want your hair today?” asked Angela.

“…… er…. um… however you think best..”

Space doesn’t allow me to write more detail of the next hour, but when I was released from under the domed dryer where I had been locked, I was placed at the mirror in the styling position nearest the door and reception desk. I sat there with rollers tight all over my head, apart from the back.

The Beehive came to check me out. She smiled knowingly in the mirror. What did she know? “Had a stand-off with your Father?” she enquired. Not knowing if she was being sarcastic, or merely saying what she had read into the situation, I smiled and said “yes, for sure!” meaning it was so, so true. “Well, we’ll show him. You have enough here to make a good impression…. Ange’s very good with the styling.” End of conversation.

Back came Angela, who proceeded to unwind every roller with care, leaving each beautiful springy curl as a separate roll as they cooled. Then, ouch! The back-combing began.

— oo00oo —

I have thought many times since, many hundreds of times, how much of a defining moment this was in my life. Never having been able to pass as a woman — well at least in company — this was as close as I could ever have been to a truly female experience. I have been shopping many times for both outer- and under-wear, happily browsing and not caring for other’s thoughts. I’ve had may hair done since, though not for some years. I have coloured my hair. I have had full make-up and make-overs. I have spent whole days in Changeaway salons. But my secret has been guarded. Especially since my marriage.

But going home, on that bus, with my underwear on, and my hair set in curls, I was in a kind of unrepeatable heaven.

And still, I was lonely. Perhaps I still am.

— oo00oo —

When I got home, the reality that Mum would be home within an hour dawned upon me. I dressed in some more clothes, ill-fitting though Mum’s clothes were, and I put on my make-up.

OK, I still looked like a boy who was dressing up as a girl. But the hair was the transforming extra aspect that I had dreamed of… and it was worth every penny of that week’s wages to have this look. I would r-live that day a thousand times before writing this today.

Chapter 10 brings an end to “never been kissed”.

Experiences like my salon first timer that day live with me for ever. It’s only when you write tracing back earlier days that you feel what you felt then. The more I think about it, the more I know, I felt lonely. Little did I know that, before the year was out, I’d have had my first kiss with a girl.

Chapter 10

The end of the salon day came within an hour of my return home. I had dressed and made-up my face. I had studied my reflection in Mum’s full length mirror. For the first time, and because of my hair that was styled in a style that could only be described as feminine, I began to feel that I might one day satisfy myself with a female self-image. That day, of couse, I was still a young man in some girly clothes. But that didn’t matter — it was the “doing” of what I was doing that made me comfortable and at ease, more relaxed somehow. I had relaxed in the salon as the stylist, Angie, put in those rollers so nicely and tightly.

I wished I had relaxed enough to engage her in conversation. Bless her, she did try, like she did with all her ladies when they’re being styled. Had I got plans for the weekend? Going out somewhere perhaps? Had I seen the Coronation Street programme that was on last night? Was it a programme I watched? Oh, it was,… who was my favourite character? All she got from me was one-line answers, I’m sad to say. I would have enjoyed myself a lot more than I did — and I did really enjoy myself! — if I had given her full answers to the questions. I did tell her that I thought that Elsie Tanner was a top character. I did really think that. We only had black & white television at home then so I couldn’t appreciate quite what a go-er Elsie was. I had seen magazine pictures — TV Times and the like, so I knew she was an auburn-haired raver! Her clothes were very “right” for a northern English middle-aged woman who used her body to good effect.

As I thought of her, I was absent-mindedly patting the curls on my head, feeling the way they reacted to a little pressure. They were totally “set” it was true and I loved the feel of them. I got close to the mirror as I applied my lipstick again……. Elsie was a good kisser, I’d bet.

Then I realized, quite suddenly, how fast time had been passing. It was nearly time for Mum to get home from work. I had bunked-off school so she wouldn’t know that I had been absent on my adventure — and never would do about this time. Maybe another time I might get reported by the school and have to provide an explanation of why I wasn’t at school. But not today. But she would be home soon. I had to remove the clothes of hers that I had tried on. Carefully, putting them back in the right drawers, having remembered which was closed and which was not. I put everything on her dressing table back where I had found them. I knew I was playing with fire.

I stood in my undies, and took a last look in the long mirror. I knew I had to wash those curls right out of my hair!!! And fast!! For the first time, because of my cross-dressing, I was overwhelmed by an impossible urge to cry my eyes out. I couldn’t help myself. Tears ran down my face. I so loved the salon experience, among all those other women, that I couldn’t wait to do it all over again. I resolved that I would even if it was months before I could.

The bathroom had no shower unit. Not even a flexible hose from the bath taps. I usually washed my hair in the bath. But there was no time for that. I filled the hand basin with water —

The water was proved to be too hot when I plunged my head in after a last caress of the curls. I was so sad to know that they would be gone within minutes….. After they were first made wet, I ran my fingers through them and found they gripped my hands….. almost saying “don’t do this!........” I reached out for the shampoo and found hot water draining down my neck and into my bra straps.

The bubbles became thick very quickly — so much had I over-dosed myself on the shampoo. Easily, I stroked the velvety foam and gradually felt the resistance of the curls, once so tight, relax and disappear. The tears welled-up in my eyes once again. It was gone. My lovely set hair….. Rinsing the shampoo and washing the hair again, I felt bereft. But also cleansed, in the sense of my inner self being washed of the desire to cross dress. What a mixed-up little boy I really was.

Drying my hair, I heard Mum’s car stop on the driveway outside the house. I had to get out of my panties and bra, and get my boy things on. Quick! It was easy to do that, but time didn’t allow me to finish drying my hair. What the hell. It was gone… My “set”, ….my lovely curly set.

By the time she was in the house, I was downstairs and pretending to have been there since school would have finished. She knew that school times were flexible in the year I was studying, so any time would have been fine for me to be home. She asked if I had a good day, to which I said, Oh, yeah!”…. maybe a bit too enthusiastically perhaps. She turned to look at me, saying “That’s good, honey……. Have you just washed your hair?... It looks a little different…..”

Think fast! An explanation….. “er..er…Yeah, some bully boy put chemistry materials in my hair from behind in class…… I had to wash as soon as I got home.”

“Well, it looks nicer than usual — more curly than usual if you ask me…” Mum said, genuinely meaning what she said. At least my explanation fitted. Phew! Later, I looked in a mirror and saw what she meant. There was a curl of a sort in what were usually straight strands. I rather liked that.

oo00oo --

Time passed slowly that autumn. School work got I the way of every social activity apart from sports. I stuck to my plan of wearing my panties but not my bras for as many days a week that I could. I washed them separately from the family wash and had several pairs by the time Christmas was coming round. Difficult to dry them in secret. Dreaming of getting more of what I wanted out of life, I gave myself the joy of a “Wish List” if I were lucky enough to receive what I really wanted this year.

Shoes!! My own beautiful strappy high heeled shoes. They didn’t even have to be HIGH.. just a couple of inches would make all the difference. And stockings! The shoes wouldn’t look at all right without sheer stockings to highlight them. That meant a third wish…. A suspender belt or garter, to fasten the stockings, or perhaps a light corset…. Now that would be very feminine indeed wouldn’t it?

Sadly, none of these gifts arrived on Christmas Day. I got aftershave, instead of Eau de Toilette. I got socks instead of the stockings. I got trainers instead of the heels.

1966 dawned with my first New Year’s Eve party with friends not family. I was allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house with a couple of other guys…… Only just in time did I appreciate the importance of NOT wearing panties, however much my New Year’s wish would be to wear girly underwear every single day of the year of 1966!

The party was a complete success. Everybody nearly died laughing we were so happy.

Given my feelings about being seen to be a girl, or feeling like I was at least partly a girl. At least in my head… I actively considered, for the first and only time in my life, what it would be like to fall in love with, or even have sex with, any of these guys. It was ludicrous.

They were all my own age, for a start. They were loud and lairy and make jokes about shagging and farting and being sick, oh, and about football and poncey pop singers who were the sweet-hearts of the girls they fancied. It was ludicrous also, because they all had penises, like I had a penis, and I could not begin to even think about what they would do with theirs, because I knew what mine was for and it wasn’t for anything they might do if I fell in love with one of them. Eeeeyuk!

My love of girls was never in doubt, and has never been in doubt. This was just a usual teenage thought that was easily dismissed. Thankfully, nobody in the group of four of us was thinking about the same thing so all went well. The party was a gas! I drank beer for the first time. Quite a lot of it — one of the guy’s Fathers was very liberal and had a very large beer and wine store. Even when we were pissed, nobody wanted to play anything but vinyl 45s and LP 33s.

Never having had a girlfriend, and going to an all-boys school, I was yearning to spend some time with girls, like I had dreamed of doing when on holiday. Those four girls in Jersey never left my mind. I wished I could meet someone like them. How could this be achieved? Not in my neighbourhood at my age. I was still six months away from joining a Youth Club.

There was a column in one of the teen magazines that were coming to the market at this time. It was a fore-runner of what became known as “Lonely Hearts”. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was released the following year, I believe…. There was a hopefulness about finding friends that way, in an innocent way. To write to someone who you’d never met. Maybe confide some inner secrets to share. To be true friends……

So I wrote off to the magazine’s box number. I used my real name and my real address. The idea was that you wrote a short box advertisement about yourself and, through a ‘box number’ you would get letters from people who liked the sound of you. Molly from north Essex wrote back.

To cut a long story short, by the time summer came, Molly and me, we were arranging to meet. It turned out to be the very same day that England would play in the final of the soccer World Cup. How could I forget that day? What the hell! For the first time in my life, I had a date!!

I met Molly for the first time, took her for a coffee at a café near the place we met — halfway between north London and north Essex and I took her to the cinema. I’ve long forgotten what the film was. The reason is not bad memory but more the memory of waiting only a few minutes before slipping my arms around her. And then turning to her and moving in for a kiss. And then spending half the film with my hand up her skirt ferreting about for what I wasn’t yet sure! I remember it so well…… She was a brilliant kisser.

And all the time I kissed her, I dreamt I was a girl myself.

Needless to say, our love affair was short-lived… and I had missed the World Cup final!

Chapter 11 finds me in real trouble with a real girlfriend, a local girl, and what would become a long-term relationship; even though I was only 17 by this time.

Kissing girls was brilliant and the burning desire for more intimate moments was strong. I had experienced little affection in my first 16 years really. So, I felt a little less lonely until the letter she wrote dumping me… Still, after necking with Molly in the dark, I was still mixed up. Wishing I was another girl.

Chapter 11

Knowing the hand up the skirt trick was a mistake, I had worked out for myself, I had nobody to ask how better to get onside with a girl. None of my mates were skilled in this department. No Brothers to ask, no Dad as approachable as I needed. Could I open up with Mum? I had no alternative. She would understand. But, no disclosure about the hand up the…..jaxci!!

“Mum, have you got a minute or two…?” There! I had dared myself to try…..

“Yes, honey, How can I help?” she answered with a kindly smile.

“Well, it’s like this…. I’ve not had many girlfriends and, well… you see…. It’s difficult… There’s a lot to think about and…. Well, I just can’t….. you know…. Er….

“Enough!” she smiled. “Don’t worry about what you say…. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, I’m sure.” She wanted me to open up — perhaps for the first time, we might have a deep and meaningful conversation. Mother and Son. What couldn’t I say to her? Well, how about I feel like a girl sometimes…. That’s what I couldn’t say to her. I looked at her again, remembering the picture on the landing passage upstairs of her and Dad in her most elegant days. Married in 1937, it would have been taken about then. Elegant. Nice word.

Conscious of the silence, I had to say something…. “Well, we haven’t talked much about me and girls and stuff like that. I mean, I have been out with a few girls you know and I’ve got… well, one big question. Why would girls want to kiss someone like me?” “Because you’re a good looking boy who will treat them right.” Came the answer.

“Yeah, but if I was a girl, I’d rather kiss another girl than kiss me….”

I wanted to say more but something stopped me. I knew what it was but… no hope.

“Honey, that’s nonsense. Girls don’t go kissing other girls anyhow….. Well……, Err…” Now she was stumbling with her words….. Maybe talking about lesbians was off limits.....

“Lesbians, yeah, I know Mum — I know enough about that…. well enough to have kissed girls and to know that it’s great and I can really understand them… lesbians that is. But I can’t understand wanting to kiss guys….” I was in a tangle, knowing what I meant, but not saying it.

“Now, honey, you shouldn’t be concerned with that. You’ll know when the right girl comes along and it will all seem natural.” She hadn’t answered my question, but then again, I hadn’t asked my question. What was that? Something like: “Mum, if I told you I felt like a girl sometimes, but still wanted to kiss girls and be a guy with them, is it normal?” Lesbians back in the closet for now!

An opportunity lost, like so many before I thought. I can’t talk with my parents. But then again, I didn’t know anyone who could at my age.

-- oo00oo --

Weeks passed by and I was occupied with school work and learning to drive a car. Heavy! Concentration needed. No time to focus on girls and my feelings, except that now, on Friday nights, I was able to go to a local Youth Club.

Others of my mates were going and there were girls there too. From a local girls’ school and from the mixed-sex comprehensive academy not far away. I knew enough of the guys, and many of the girls, if only by sight. We hung out, drank Coke and listened to music. The girls sometimes danced — it was the time of dancing around a handbag on the floor… the handbag had nothing in it except perhaps a lipstick, but the dancing enabled the ones with a good figure to advertise the fact and the ones who had no tits, or weighed too much, had to hide.

There were school dances to go to and those were good markets to catch a partner for a few weeks to come; which meant having someone to kiss on the bus on the way home, and on their doorstep as your “said goodnight, see you next week?” For the first time, I kissed a girl with my tongue in her mouth. Her lipstick tasted good….

But not as good as the lipstick I had at home. I had not forgotten.

Every Friday night, back home, I put on my lipstick before going to bed and did what 17 year old boys do. I got better and better at holding back before I would cum. Most usually, I was dreaming about one of two particular girls at the Youth Club, or alternatively, about my experiences back in the summer at the hair salon.

In my heart, I knew now that I was different from all of my friends. Unable to talk with them, I just knew that none felt the same way. And I certainly didn’t want them to know. Tears came occasionally at the prospect of never being able to share such a scandalous thing… yes, scandalous… good word. How people would laugh and mock me if they knew.

I’d be the Danny La Rue of the school! The one who got the girl’s part in the school play. But was I a Drag Queen, like Mr La Rue….. not when I found out he was gay, I wasn’t. I did love his costumes and I wouldn’t miss his television programme on mainstream BBC television on a Saturday night. The wonderful dresses. The tightly-fitted dresses. What corsets must be under there?! I dreamed of trying such corsetry and it would be fifteen years before THAT dream came true! And the hair… the wonderful wigs he wore… usually blonde and piled very high, but occasionally flamboyant red!

Yes, I dreamed that the salon would one day do my hair that way……

-- oo00oo --

When Angie had put all my hair in rollers — there were twenty one in total, covering the front, the sides and the crown of my head. The ones closest to my face were only one-inch in diameter, the ones on the crown maybe one-and-a-half inches. The style made a false ‘crown’ near the front and all of the rollers above that were set back towards the crown and beyond.

Angie had put a net over the whole array — quite why was never explained — and I was taken across to the dryers. I was sat between a young Mother on one side, who I later saw was a bright bright blonde, with long sleek hair to her shoulders. I was sat between her and a more mature lady, who I later saw was like the receptionist; a big bouffant! When her hair was styled, I saw just how much backcombing would do to create height and width. I was able to look around at all that was going on. Colours going on in one place, sharp cutting going on in at least two stations. Angie was doing a colour on another young lady while I was under the dryer. I know there was colouring now — at the time I just saw trays of gloop being plastered all over these women’s hair.

I looked again and, just as I was told my drying time was up, the big bouffant had turned into the most wonderful ‘up-do’, with rolling curls an integral part of the style. Imagine sleeping with that in place, I thought to myself!

By then, Angie had me in the seat… and the backcombing began.

I watched in wonderment — but total silence after telling her to do whatever she thought was right. She had been told it was a female style… a feminine style I had said on the phone — without explanation. I kept my mouth shut — stupidly so. Every curl was combed out separately and left sitting aside from the next, in a leafy pattern.. Very feminine, if only it was longer! How I wished...

She could clearly see by the way she had placed the rollers, that there was only one way to go.

By the time I left the salon, my hair was in danger of cracking because there was so much lacquer sprayed into it. I was in heaven as I walked down that street. I think I got some side-ways looks from people who had seen me come out of the shop. But what did I care?

-- oo00oo --

Hallow’een came and the school dance was upon us. Not a costume affair — just a come-as-you-are party night with a live band who played — badly — cover versions of the hits of the previous three or four years. We all danced that night…… pairing off was a bit of a lottery because, just as a guy made a move towards a girl, it was just as likely another guy would step in ahead of him. I was kinda lucky because the girl I had in mind was a girl I had talked with at Youth Club….

And yes, the two of us started to dance, danced on, and left for the bus home together. We kissed for a long long time on her Mummy and Daddy’s doorstep. Tongues and all! She was only 15 and it turned out later — much later — that I was her first real date. Well, there was a coincidence, she was my second, but my first “real” date. Molly was history. Oh, how I wish I had gotten some experience with one of those girls in Jersey the previous summer!

She would never know my secret. I would have real trouble keeping it so.

However long we were dating, I would make sure she would never know that I’d really like to get inside her panties…. In a special way.

That meant never making the mistake of wearing panties when we were going out together. Still less it meant making sure my bras, of which I now had three, were right out of sight. It also meant that I would never ever imagine her kissing another girl — except me.

Cross-dressing was put on the back burner for the time being.

Chapter 12 leads me to more open discussion with my Mum and back to the salon where my secret was safe.

A regular girlfriend and fewer opportunities to dress myself look like the future. My desire to cross dress won’t go away and the risks of discovery increase by the day. And there’s the question of going to Uni or not. Maybe that would be ideal and maybe I could meet others with the same feelings as me. Maybe Mum can give me advice, where nobody else can?

Chapter 12

Another occasion with the chance to talk to Mum in private came around before long. Dad was out playing stupid golf like he did every Saturday morning. Men only. No women, No kids allowed on the course. All very clubby. Mum was happy with this — happy to get him out of the house, I guessed. She was alone in the kitchen when I approached her. I thought, start about going to Uni — that would be a good place. For the first time, I made the first approach.

“Mum, I’ve been meaning to ask…… If I get through my exams, do you think it would be good for me to go to Uni?” “Of course, dear, you know we want what’s best for you.” “And would that mean me living away from home?” “Oh, I expect so — it’s all part of the experience, isn’t it? meeting new and different people.” We went on for several minutes, talking all about where I might study and what subjects and who I might meet there if I didn’t go with local friends to where they were thinking of going.

I went quiet for a moment or two, finding a way to turn the conversation in the direction of the sexual side of being at Uni.

Exaggerating a nervousness that I genuinely felt, I said “Look Mum, …” I suddenly changed the course of the talk…. “There are things I need to know before I go….” ….

“Like what, darling?” she asked, curious at my change of angle and tone.

“Well, about contraception and stuff…….”

“Ahhh, indeed, you’ll have to talk to Dad about that! It’s your responsibility. Never take it for granted that a girl will be on the pill. Most are these days it seems, but you can’t be sure.”

“Ok, I will — talk to Dad. But what about guys getting together with other guys… and girls with other girls…..”

“I’m surprised you ask, really I am…. Do you have feelings in that direction?” she asked, obviously concerned all of a sudden.

“Well, no, not at all, but what if I’m …. Well, you know… I’m …. Well, if someone’s keen on me?”

“Do you think someone is, honey? Do tell me.”

“No, no, not at all……. It’s just that I’m smaller than most guys and……”

“Darling don’t you worry. You have a lovely girlfriend and that’s the best deterrent to anyone else….”

Again, this had not gone the way I wanted. I wanted to tell Mum that, if I went away, I’d like to take girly things with me because part of me feels this way. And I didn’t and so, again, I was alone. With my thoughts. I knnow now that I was very unlikely to 'outt' myself to my Mother. So few of us do. The few mostly meet incompreheension and the disclosure is wasted, with shell-shocking results perhaps.

Disclosure, or 'outing' has been said to be something that is "done to" a transvestite person. Sometimes maliciously, sometimes by mistake.

I felt no fear of the disclosure itself at this age.... but great fear of the ridicule that my peer group would inflict on me. I didn't feel guilt, because there was nobody to whom I had given my love in return for their unquestionning love. (I have felt that since, especially when nearly divorced because of even the slightest suggestion that I enjoyed crossdressing).

Like 'Drea, to whom I give my thanks, the fear of discovery through the files of the "family" PC is too strong to bear. I'm not good enough at burying secrets within the memory there, so I am still vulnerable.

-- oo00oo --

Back to age 17:

On the days I felt able to wear my panties, which were fewer now I had a regular girlfriend, there was a new experience to indulge. I read an article — which is always dangerous because “articles” put ideas into your head….

Yes, I read an article about “sitting down to pee”, which crossdressers apparently did or still do (I know I do). And to make this more feminine, the idea was, said the article, to “tuck and tape”.

To tuck one’s bollocks back up into the groin area where they originally came from and to tape the skin that’s left empty across the length of the penis, forcing it down and backwards.. so that you pee the way a girl does. Apart from the tucking bit — which I thought would hurt — the rest seemed to be a great idea. For times when I went out. How much more secret could anything be?

I never did manage to tuck properly. There was no way, without incurring agony of an unspeak-able level, that I could get them inside… and then, I thought, how do you “un-tuck” them?? No, no, that wasn’t for me, I thought after the very first attempt. But the taping seemed quite ok, with my panties to hold me in, it was impossible to stand up and pee. I felt really quite girly, even though all this rummaging with bollocks, scrotum and penis made an unwanted focus on “boy-bits” that, when dressing, I didn’t want.

Saturdays, during the daytime were good days for this. I could engage in taping at least and sit with my panties round my ankles, peeing ‘downwards’ just like every girl would. I laughed out loud once at the thought I had, of a girl trying to pee standing up in a men’s room stall! I guessed there might be girls that felt the way I did — I mean, wanting to be guys for an occasional time? Did they? Were there female-to-male crossdressers?

Well, you couldn’t tell, could you… the way girls’ fashion was going, it was very easy indeed for girls to go out wearing guys' clothes… even their husband's or boyfriend's. It was ok for them… ok to look ‘androgynous’, that was the word…. Ugly word really. Why were girls allowed to do that when a guy like me couldn’t dress in a girly way and go out. I resented that.

-- oo00oo --

School days passed by, with examinations for Uni entry getting closer. Dates with my new girlfriend became more and more intense and the kissing more and more prolonged and, as far as I was concerned, more passionate. Would we end up having sex together? I hoped the answer was “yes, and quite soon”! The opportunity for privacy was a big issue.

The solution for that issue came when I passed my driving test. This promised freedom — freedom from staying in eachothers’ houses when parents were out. That was always a passion-killer, as I know from my own kids’ experience. We could, and soon did, have sex in the back seat of the car I’d bought.

We were an “item” as today’s terminology describes a couple. 18 and 16 we were. So, so young!

For the first time in my life, I had “wheels”! The freedom gave me the opportunity now to explore the surrounding suburban sprawl of London near my home. Inevitably, somehow, I found myself back in Golders Green. Where my salon experience had been first enjoyed.

I drove past the salon. I saw the Reception desk inside as I stopped the car. Angie, “my stylist” was at the telephone talking animatedly to someone. She didn’t see me — and wouldn’t have recognized me either, for sure. I headed for home, resolved to call her.

I phoned and booked another appointment. This time, I used my own voice (the same I’m sure as my irate “Father’s”) and said I had been told to book myself in for “more of the same”. The Receptionist — the blonde Bouffant — remembered me well and said so. “Did we do what was required last time?” she asked, obviously trying to engage me in a little conversation I paused, and for a moment I stammered: “We… we… w… Well, I guess it did. I kinda liked it which wasn’t intended, I’m sure…… my Dad’s lost patience with my hair growing so long….”

“Ahhh, we thought it was something like that. I did say we’ll shake him, or show him… Well, if he’s not completely satisfied, we’ll have to do and even better job for you this time. Would you like Angie to take care of you again?” she asked.

“If that’s possible, yes please.” I found it easier to talk this time. The first time, I had been like a rabbit in the headlights, unable to speak… “She was very kind last time.”

“And is there anything you would like done differently?” Bouffant continued, prolonging the conversation.

“I don’t think so, …” pausing for thought, I said……. But the words failed to come out…… (One of your temporary colour rinses would be nice…..) …. No, nothing different…. unless Angie thinks of something….”

End of conversation. I was upstairs in my bedroom, trousers off, panties down, tape ripped off, wanking hard, before I could think.

Youth Club that evening was great. The walk home to my girlfriend’s house was slow and we talked about so much that we could do together. It was perfect. I knew that, if we were together for long enough, I would get serious about her. If I went to Uni, I would want to keep her as my girl at home. It would be two more years before she went to Uni herself.

-- oo00oo --

“So you say your Dad’s lost patience with your long hair?2 Angie asked as I sat in her chair after having my hair back-washed again. The salon was very busy. It was mid-day on a school day when again I had bunked-off lessons. I had driven to Golders Green.

To this day I can recall the conversation with her. It was relaxed and, I believe, just as normal as that she would have been having with other clients as she set their hair.

“Did Beverly ask you if you wanted anything done differently to last time?” Angie asked me, looking into my face in her mirror. “Beverly, who’s Beverly?” I replied. “Her, Out there….. She owns the place.” Angie replied, in a tone that wasn’t endearing. “She’s told me to sell you a colour rinse. Anything to get you to spend some more money!”

“Well, it’s my Dad’s money….” I answered. “..but, really….” I felt courage drain from my veins, “… really, no, maybe next time…. (there would be a next time!) ….Just do what you did before, only have fun with it. I really don’t mind. It will offend him more if I seem not to care.!”

Angie started with the rollers, with a broad smile on her face. “OK, you said it!”

An hour and a half later, having paid good money to look girly from the neck up, I left the salon, pausing to look in their mirror by the door. I had a centre parting with a fringe and bangs curving round the cheekbones. My ears were covered now, as my hair had grown longer. The crown was back-combed high and the back shaped into my neck. “Forgive me if I cut a little shape into the style, won’t you?” Angie had said, going ahead without any agreement from me. I forgave her, but this was now more of a feminine style than I’d expected. How would it looked when it was washed out?

Chapter 13 brings a first time for me, pre-Uni, to buy and try some girly outerwear.

Maybe Mum can give me advice, where nobody else can? I was lonely…… When I wrote that yesterday, together with ‘Drea’s painful words about the hurt from others, I started thinking about the time I was in this situation. We are talking 1967/1968. Of course, there was nobody to confide in. Life was different then……… (No hairdressing in this chapter, by the way!)

Chapter 14 (There is no chapter 13!.. that would be unlucky!)

At the time I was a young adult, struggling with my personal issues, it is important to remember that this was not the 21st century!

There was no Internet. There not even any personal computers. No typewriters with memories. No places to store thoughts apart from shoeboxes in the wardrobe. There were no Social networks. There were no Blogs. No Facebook, No Twitter. No acceptance of “Diversity”. No acceptance of “deviation from the normal”. No clubs where people who were different could meet.

No understanding that we’re all male or female, but that there are positions on a continuous scale between the two. On a scale of plus 5 to minus 5, I am, and always have been, at point 2 or3 on the male side. In other words, there are parts of me over towards the girly side.

Crossdressers were nowhere to be seen. If they had emerged onto the street, they would have been branded “Queer”, just like any homosexuals who were still facing legal prosecution if found engaging in what homosexuals engage in when they are together. If anyone knew about it, crossdressing was evidence of homosexuality, I’m sure. It’s what poofs wanted to do to attract eachother. No understanding that crossdressing and wanting a sex change are not inextricably linked. No understanding that the majority of crossdressers are in face most certainly heterosexual, usually men, who admire the opposite sex greatly. Likened to being a lesbian, in those days, being a crossdresser meant you didn’t exist!

This was the dark ages!

That’s why I was lonely. That’s why I wasn’t like my friends at school. That’s why I stayed at home more than others. I had nobody to talk to about what really mattered. What was all-embracing. My conundrum.

If I had been gifted with sites like the Big Closet, or Crystal’s Storysite, or Sapphire’s Place….. There would have been heaven on earth. Even if there were sections in the Municipal Library marked with such a classification as “Transvestism” or “Crossdressing”, there would probably have been queues of people lined up out the door to get access.

But then there were few if any books on the subject.

I remember reading (and how I got my hands on the book I’ll never recall) a book about a French transsexual. The book was called “Coccinelle”. Then there was another, which I think was serialized in a Sunday newspaper, which was all about a woman called April Ashley. These had been published a few years before — around the late 1950s. They were books for weirdos about weirdos.

That’s what I was made to feel about myself, from the very little I could see publicly, I was most definitely a weirdo. That’s why I was lonely. That’s why I wasn’t like my friends at school. That’s why I stayed at home more than others. I had nobody to talk to about what really mattered. What was all-embracing. My conundrum.

In the late 1960s in England, the media were less in evidence, but no less powerful, than they are today. Imagine then, against this background, that the BBC, the public service broadcaster, should commission and show on prime-time Saturday night television, a variety show featuring the country’s only celebrated female impersonator.

Everyone knew that pantomimes at Christmas had “dames” who were played by men. They were the Ugly Sisters in “Cinder-fucking-rella”, for example (my apologies to the cast of ‘Pretty Woman’). That was ok, because there was always a “principal boy” who was played by a girl. The men were “drag queens” (all of whom were weirdos) and the women were “actresses playing a part”. So they were respectable.

So, I felt classified as a weirdo. I didn’t feel that I was weird. This was part of me being “me”. And I really didn’t want to play around with other guys. I was not homosexual. (Nobody had used the word ‘gay’ at this time). I wasn’t a “queer” or a “poof”. All I would crave was the freedom to dress at home, indoors, out of sight, in the way I wanted. As a girl, a pretty and if possible glamorous girl.

And I had nobody to explain that to.

In my own little space, I coveted the looks and the clothes that made the pop music divas of the time who they were. I plastered the walls with pictures taken from pop mucus magazines. English female singers were in great demand then. Sandie Shaw, Cilla Black, Lulu and Dusty Springfield, all looked down at me from the walls. I looked back at them, imagining I was their guy… I was their lover.

Or sometimes, I was “them”, or dressed, styled and made-up like them.

The dresses they wore on television and in these pictures were wonderful, colourful and totally glamorous. My, admitted now, fetish for hair was rampant by now. I loved their different hairstyles and colours. But I couldn’t be them. I couldn’t even be “like” them, because there was no doubt, I was male. So I wanked, frequently and excessively, feeling guilty as I did so — because you were meant to feel guilty about it in those days. It’s what guys like me, any guy of my age I’m sure, but you weren’t meant to feel good about yourself when you finished.

18 years old now, facing life-changing school examinations, I might be at Uni by the autumn. There was pressure all around. Pressure to grow up. Pressure to stop being childish. Pressure to keep a girlfriend and be totally normal.

That took constant work and effort.

My girlfriend was great and a friend and mainstay. There was no way I would shatter the relationship I was building with her by saying “oh, by the way, can I borrow a bra and some panties of yours?” Weirdo! She would have screamed and run out of the room, never to be seen again. Hell’s teeth!!! I could not let that happen.

And yet, there was my stash of clothes in my closet at home, my collection of make-up (which by now included mascara, despite me still being absolutely useless at applying it).

I was trapped between the “Devil” — my cross dressing — and the “deep blue sea” — my girlfriend. The Devil would not let go of me, the deep blue sea was inviting me always to “dive in”. How easy could it be to run with both? Answer, well, it ebbed and flowed emotionally.

People talk of the “Elephant in the room” — the issue that nobody wants to mention. Well, I had my own elephant! When I dressed, I may secretly have hoped that Mum would “discover” me, as had nearly happened with a few close shaves in earlier years. What would I say? The question frequently flashed through my mind. Maybe it would be good to have it out in the open. I so wanted to confide in somebody. But the risk to my relationship — which was now a love affair — was too great to allow it to happen.

I dressed in my underwear. I used my make-up. I dreamed. But I couldn’t wear Mum’s clothes any more — not only had I grown to reach her size, by now I was of a larger size. I would have been an English ‘size 16’ and she a svelte ‘14’. But I was by now thinking that my look was incomplete….. incomplete without some pretty outerwear. Perhaps a blouse and skirt, or perhaps a full-length dress. Something sheer and feminine, but not too figure-hugging. My figure was only the result of paper stuffed into the cups of the bras I had now had to replace with a larger size. 36B or 38B seemed the next step up.

So, with my underwear on, for the first time I went out and headed for the shopping centre, where Marks & Spencer’s store was. I should have loved to wear some lipstick and this time I could! For the first time, my most recent shopping trip had included finding a Maybelline stick with natural skin colour. So much was the fashion at the time for the palest possible lip colours! The taste bore be up to exhilaration all the time I was shopping.

Chapter 15 will reveal my most treasured acquisition….. a blouse and floaty flowing skirt!

Back to my story of the bittersweet experiences in my mid-teens. Dangerous times! The risk of discovery heightened by every choice I made. My first trip to go buying outer clothes and my first car drive home with my hair just set.

Chapter 15 (There was no chapter 13!)

I decided to combine two firsts, believe it or not. This is for real. I would never have done what I did in the neighbourhood where I and my family lived. Golders Green was far enough away. There was a new shopping mall, called Brent Cross, which had been built the year before. Marks & Spencer was a flagship store.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision — to combine the hairdressing with the shopping. That came after the hair salon visit, so it wasn’t as easy as it would have been — to go shopping before having my hair set in a girly style. Of course, it wasn’t. But I found a new reserve of bravado. What if complete strangers did think I was curious, a subject of laughter? What if they thought I was a ‘poof’ or worse, the new term for homosexuals, a ‘bum bandit’? Did I care? No, I decided I didn’t care. Because I wouldn’t be seen by them again, so they could laugh all they wanted.

My clothing was purposely loose and unfitting — I could be boy or girl under the shirt and loose trousers. In fact, I was girly under there — my panties were used to this! The bra was unused to such a trial but coped well, being undiscovered at the salon — at least I thought so.

There was no mistaking the femininity of my hair. It was highly-styled, I had a centre parting with a fringe and bangs curving round the cheekbones. My ears were covered now, as my hair had grown longer. The crown was back-combed high and the back shaped into my neck. Angie had gone ahead with a cut without any agreement from me. I forgave her, but this was now more of a feminine style than I’d expected. I thought I would have to wash it out immediately I got home.

That was what finally persuaded me to go to Brent Cross. It would prolong the enjoyment. I could park my little old car in the car park, the one nearest the M&S store.

Before I left he car, I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror. It looked wonderful. I opened my purse and took out the flesh-tinted lipstick. Well, no reason NOT to enjoy the moment. I ladled my lips with plenty of creamy colour that was unnoticeable from more than three yards away. OK, the counter assistant would notice but I’d only be with her for a minute, paying cash.

(Remember, these were the days when a 17/18 year old could not get one of those new-fangled credit card things. Many stores didn’t accept them anyway).

A final check in the mirror and I reached for the door handle. Soon I was across the car park and entering the mall. Uncertain exactly where the M&S store was, I sought out a store directory. Just beside an escalator, a moving staircase that went up towards the second floor).

Marks & Spencer was right beside where I was standing. On two floors. On the ground floor, there were household items, and men’s clothing amongst other things. Don’t need any of that, I thought. I need the Women’s section.

So, it was up that staircase to the array of underwear, like the other store I had bought my panties and bras.. And there, stretching away from me, beyond the shoes raking, were the skirts, the dresses, the flowing trousers, the lingerie and nightwear. I stopped as it stunned.

“Can I help you?” I was asked within a few seconds of standing still. “No no, I have to find blouses and I can see them..” I answered the helpful assistant. As I moved on, I felt her eyes drilling into the back of my neck. She knew! She saw the lipstick, for sure! Stupid boy! Why did I wear it? Stupid. Too much of a give-away. What if she called the store detective? What if she called out after me?

Of course, none of these things happened and I reached the blouses and lovely tops that girls were wearing in 1967/68. Bright colours, new fabrics, sheen and shine, ruffles and flares. Beauties!

At the end of the first display, there were further racks of much more conservative, dare I say dowdy, clothing — the sort my grandmother would wear. The first rails were much more what Mum would wear. Too old for a girl of my age……

“My age?” I said out loud. People did turn to see who had said something out into the ether…. Oh, it was that boy over there, or is it a girl? Must be… look at her hair1 I imagined them thinking. Is he a poof? Is he a bum boy? Lock up your kids!!.....

No, no, no. Nothing of the sort. Nobody paid the slightest bit of notice. But there I was, another first….. The first time I had thought of “a girl of my age”…… Jeez, this hairstyle and these surroundings, and my bra and panties…. They all made me feel soooo girly!

I needed to find fashions for girls of my own age. There! I said it again…. to myself.

“You need to find fashions for girls of your own age?” asked a stranger’s voice next to me. “Well, you’ll find them over the far side. Over there.”

I nearly had heart failure. But in a moment that person was gone. I saw the backside of a mature lady, maybe 50+, who worked for the store as a Supervisor. Not like the Dragon at my previous branch. I decided it was time to get over there, make a choice, pay and get out.

The Teens area was full of girls from a local school who were going along every row and rail, taking blouses off the hangers and hanging them in front of themselves. Many tried to accentuate the very small tits they had. I reflected that the tits I made for myself with folded socks were probably too big. I tried to keep away from these little tarts — for that’s what they were — but they wouldn’t go away. None of them noticed me in particular but I guessed if they did — and if they spotted my lipstick, all hell would break loose. Inhibitions and they did not go together.

But there I was. My hair looked better than many of theirs. Unusual, but not impossible, for a boy to wear. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad…. OK it had been styled and back-combed a bit, and the fringe and bangs surrounded my face. But I was a boy… Why was I there?

“To look for a present for a Sister”. That was why. That’s how I would explain my being there.

I reached the most promising rail with brightly coloured cotton/nylon shiny fabrics. I rustled along the rail to find the size I thought I would need….. A choice between a 36B and a 38B. How would I choose which.

“What are you looking for, sweetie?” Someone asked nearby….. Actually, I was asked….. Did I have an answer? Yes……

“I’m looking for a blouse as a present for my Sister…” I said, furiously eating what remained of the lipstick that was still on my lips.

“Oh, neat….” Said a 16 year old girl in school uniform. Pan-stick make-up and a blonde streak lining her fringe. One of many among her friends. “Here, you lot!.. This guy wants help choosing a blouse….” “What??!!! Came the collective chorus. “Heeee wants a blouse???” said another one of the girls, incredulously. She was a lovely redhead.

Within three seconds, I was surrounded by a rugby scrum of 16/17 year old girls. Something a boy of my age would have dreamed of and never once expected to have happen. “Why do you want a blouse?” said one. “Is it for you?” said another. “Cool, if it is!” exclaimed another…….. They were clearly on my case. I had been rumbled…. My face must have begun to blush…. But then, magically, I remembered… my explanation… Confidence flooded back into my veins, like another time before.

The first girl said “That’s what he said first of all…..” and the rest looked at me in a different light. “That’s cool too — if you’re buying something really fashionable for her. How old is she?” There was a need to create an imaginary Sister — and quickly…..

“Er… she’s, er… two years older than me; makes her 19. She’s at Uni. Doesn’t get to spend money on clothes hardly at all….”

Within a minute, I was faced with three blouses to choose from, out of twenty or more that had been considered by the group. The choice had been accompanied by dozens of questions directed at me, to which the answers were not listened. It had to be one of these three. I had to choose. There and then. I settled for the prettiest, girlie-most pink and white swirly-patterned blouse which, because it was made of what it was made of, would hide the bras I would want to wear under it. Layer upon layer of stuff I’m told was man-made chiffon.

Shepherding me off to the pay desk, one of the girls… the one who had said it would be cool if the blouse was for me…… sidled up and said “I do like your hair. It’s really nice. Do you wear it that way all the time?” To which I replied, “…only when I’m feeling like it". ....Not what she was expecting. I would like to see you again I thought.

--oo00oo--

Back in the car, having paid twenty pounds of my hard-earned wages for this blouse, I sat back in the driving seat. Breathless. Going over the encounter in my mind. What should I have done differently?

I thought.

And I concluded. Nothin!

I handled the attack of the clones very well!

--oo00oo--

I returned home and parked the car along the street from my home. I had to make my re-entry to the house. Like before. Quick. Quiet. Unobserved.

That nosey neighbour woman, in particular, had to be avoided. She would blow the whistle.

“Your Son looks different these days, doesn’t he? All a bit girly, I think. Is he quite normal??......” I could hear her over the back garden wall. Taunting my Mum. Well, she would do if she saw me like i was. But she didn't!

I made it. The house was quiet. But like before. I had to hid my purchases and get my hair washed. Sadly, so sadly, it had to go — this wonderful coiffure….. Nice word that. I didn’t do French at school but that word stuck! I had a coiffure. It had said so above the door of the salon. Poncey word really. Implies style and French self-admiration. Can’t stand them. Never could.

The wash-out was the same, except the curls were more difficult to flatten, to eradicate. I dried my hair off, again just before Mum walked in.

“More chemicals down your neck, Honey? You should have them do it more often — it looks nice again.”

!... should have them do it again…….

“I’m off to study Mum.” I answered, thinking of how much I wanted that blouse and my bra to get together. It would have to be tomorrow!

Chapter 16 brings us to “tomorrow” — don’t say it never comes!

First time…..

Musings from WannabeGinger

My first (and only) steady girlfriend hit me in my mid-teens. 17, I was, 15, she was!! This was the Sixties….. But everything wasn’t THAT relaxed! (…not where I was living at least). So I wasn’t yet ready to go out en femme as they call it. Girlfriend time was weekend time, so weekdays were the only possibilities for dressing…..

Chapter 16

I had been to M&S and bought that blouse — my first — and was sitting on my bed after Mum’s arrival, dreaming of going out en femme, but knowing I wouldn’t dare… not yet… perhaps when I went to Uni.

No, I had my stash of clothes that was getting bigger…. There was the blouse had helped create a look that was “me”, used with a pleated skirt that was my Mum’s — it was the only one that fitted me around the waist and was the right length. All the rest of her clothes were beyond my use.

I couldn’t risk dressing while she was in the house…. Personal space had meaning in those days but was regularly invaded — especially by Brothers but also, occasionally, by Mothers.

So the new blouse was added to my stash, unworn, but cherished..

I needed some nightwear. That would be ok; nobody would come in my room at night……

Another week’s wages would soon be invested. I lay awake at nights, dreaming of going in and selecting the most wonderful silky, satiny, full-length nightdress that was ever designed. It could be a present for someone…….. It would have been wonderful…. To come home and wait for dark… and to slip into it for the whole of a night… and to wake with its silken folds caressing my arms and legs, and yes, maybe my chest. I wished I had tits. Fully-functional, erectile tits…. One’s that stood up and took notice if they were tweaked, or nibbled, or scratched, or caressed by the folds of a …… There I go, dreaming again. Round in circles……

So, yes, I did go out and buy that nightdress. It was easy. Too many to choose from, that was the enjoyable part, but all affordable (if you didn’t spend too much on beer like most teenaged boys)

I was approaching my 18th birthday when — for the very first time — I slept that way. And nobody knew. Nobody at all. It was easy……. I dreamed that I was Marilyn Monroe, or some other movie star…. Julie Christie was a favourite. Doctor Zhivago was a stunning film. I took my girlfriend to see that one……. Fabulous!

My weekends were spent with friends, and this one girl in particular. Not a stunner, but very attractive to me at the age I was…. It seemed easy; we made good friends and enjoyed eachother’s company.

We weren’t good enough friends for me to confide my secret though. But we soon became good enough friends for sex in the back of the car. Yes — there…. Well, nowhere else to go!

Parents were not THAT understanding — certainly hers were not!

Of course, I never wore a shred of anything from my feminine stash of clothes at the weekends.

Opportunities for dressing were becoming fewer and further between. Examination preparations, socializing and family intrigues, all conspired to cut my dressing off nearly totally. For the next year, until I went to Uni, I was confined to dressing in nightwear before going to bed. I laughed out loud some nights… imagining what would happen if the house caught fire and I was forced to evacuate the building…… in my nightie!

Thankfully, that never happened. But I did come perilously close to being discovered because I left my bedroom curtains open one night and stupidly undressed in the full light of the bedroom window. Whether I was seen, I never knew and, to this day, can’t speculate what would have happened if I had been.

I dressed less and less. Was I ashamed? Well, to tell the truth, I may well have become so. Not consciously, but remarkably. Like any crossdresser, the last thing imaginable was to have my parents to discover me dressed. Nor would I have been able to explain myself to my girlfriend of, now, several months’ standing.

University beckoned. I looked forward to greater freedom. Meanwhile, normality took over. “Things” took their natural course and we found ways for sex to be enjoyed in less extreme situations. As might be expected for someone with a “remote” Father, there had been little sex education in my life. Thus, those first experiences were fumblings that led to quite inadequate conclusions. I would cum too soon. She might not cum at all. And yet, she couldn’t say what she wanted me to do to make it all much better for her. Or so I could tell. I wanted so much to please her that I tried too hard… and so lost it at critical moments. All of which made me feel quite inadequate.

Then something really curious happened. It led to my becoming much more of a “successful performer” which is a term I literally hate…….. Sex shouldn’t be a performance. It should be shared joy. But, having “performed” so poorly in our early love-making, I found I was able to “perform” much more energetically, and reliably, if I used my imagination. Not to imagine I was making love to Marilyn, as many of my mates would have been doing. No Siree! I performed better if I imagined I WAS Marilyn….. Marilyn making love to another woman.

It was then that I discovered the joys that have sustained me through forty years of love-making; oral sex became the mainstay of my pleasure, and my pleasure giving. Recollections of the first "going down" on my girlfriend are very hazy. I know I wasn't forced. I know I felt I wanted to do this. I know it was a natural way to give greater pleasure to a girl. I imagined a girl "going down" on me so many times, it was second nature when I finally did so. To great effect. She surprised herself, finding an intensity of orgasm that neither of us admitted later we thought possible. She couldn't wait for more.... and I, for my own satisfaction, couldn't wait to give her more!

And there began one of my continuing fantasies that, in many variations, have lasted for forty years. And so, back to my theme of First times ….for everything.

--oo00oo–

Aged 18, with a girlfriend aged 16, ready that summer to go off to Uni., my life was about to change for ever. I would no longer be living at home. I would be in student culture, subject to student temptations, just like any other guy. (Except I had my own special temptations to face).

I had to plan how I would keep my stash of clothes a secret — either if I took it all to student halls of residence, or if I left it at home where it might be found in one of Mum’s “clear-outs2 that she did from time to time. After all, if I were not living there, she might decide to clear my room of much of the stuff I had accumulated as a teenager. What a surprise she might have if she did.

My clothing store was buried deep in the back of the closet where the sun never shone! I had everything by now. From underwear, to night wear, to blouses, but as yet, no skirts or dresses. The nearest I cam to a flowing skirt was a pair of flowing flared trousers that Mum had discarded as being very passé… the wrong style, the wrong colours….. What the hell, they were feminine and they fitted! Well, with the adjustable waist they did.

With them I could make a passable female from head to toe!

Except for shoes…… increasingly, I wanted a selection (yeah!) of shoes to choose from when I could dress……. So infrequently did I do so, the cost of shoes was prohibitive (and remember, this is in the days before charity stores had plenty to offer from the discards of beautiful ladies!)

Shoes were a problem; I was now larger in my feet than Mum ever was or would be. A size 7 (UK) was already on the large size for any women’s selection and that’s what I needed. Mum was a size 5 so, when aged 14, they were great fun.

So, reluctantly… oh, so reluctantly, I took the decision to leave my stash of clothes… stashed away in my room at home; sans a skirt and sans shoes. I would put my crossdressing on a shelf in the back of the closet where it belonged. I would risk discovery in one of Mm’s ‘clear-outs’ and I would be “normal”.

For the first time in my life, I had a purge! Not to the extent of throwing everything away, but at least in terms of denying myself access to the clothes I loved so much. I even decided to leave the nightwear and the panties and bras behind. My crossdressing migrated into my psyche; into my dreams and fantasies, always when alone. When having sex, I would be “normal”; I would concentrate on my girlfriend — or the occasional one-nighter at college dance nights.

I couldn’t resist taking a couple of my favourite lipsticks away to college with me. For security and comfort only, you understand — not for wearing ‘out’. The rest of my make-up went with the clothing. Into the closet you go!

That left my hair.

My alter ego had wonderful hair that I could only imagine emulating….. But it had grown. Beautifully. To beyond the length I ever imagined. By the time I went to college in the September of that year, it lay on my shoulders. What passed for a style was much as before — a central parting with a fringe and bangs to the sides, a crown that could be back-combed and ends that could be flipped at the toss of a curler! Poorly cut, I had to admit. But it had potential. Poor condition, maybe, but that’s easily fixed….. I needed to get it cut before going away. It needed to be male enough for everyday, but female enough for solo self-indulgence sometimes.

Luckily, this was a time for experimentation. With colour. Loads of guys and girls were now turning up with their hair coloured differently. I hadn’t dared, but felt increasingly left behind. It could be done with ease. But I lacked the courage to have it done in a salon, which I should have adored to do. No, for me, it was a trip to the multiple chemists, Boots, in the High Street near home.

Their hair colouring display had always been magnetic; drawing me in and urging me to buy. At last, for the first time, I gave in and made my purchase.

Nothing too drastic. Nothing permanent. Nothing to go lighter. No bleach!

A temporary rinse in Burgundy! I took my time, studying the alternatives. Caring not who looked

Chapter 17 follows.

Ready to leave home for Uni, I had endured a “purge” — my first — something that comes to us all at times, deciding to leave my stash at home. I knew my clothes might be found hidden away, but equally felt that my co-students at Uni wouldn’t be ready for a fully-fledged crossdresser in our first semester.

Chapter 17

I was not booked to have shared accommodation in the University hall of Residence. I would have my own study/bedroom. So I figured I could take my night-wear, including bras, panties, stockings and suspenders, to enjoy in the secrecy of my new home. When being visited by girlfriend or family, they could all be hidden, no problem!! I also took a few basic cosmetic items, with which I was gradually getting more skilled. I still looked back at myself in the mirror and saw a bloke with make-up on, but from further away, with some clothing, and with my hair done, I felt passable to myself — which is what matters.

My hair needed a cut, and as I indicated last time, it could be given some colour. Such were the ways that times had moved on.

Bob Dylan didn’t mean this aspect when he sang “The times, they are a-changing” but he was not wrong.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agein'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

So there I stood in the store called Boots, holding in my hand a sachet of the temporary colour rinse that I had almost given in to years ago — aged 13 was I? — called Inecto’s Hint of a Tint. Washes out in 2-3 washes, it said….. So, nothing permanent….. If it all went wrong it would be easily remedied. Just shampoo-in, like any normal shampoo or conditioner.

I had lost the previous sachet which I had lacked the courage to use…. Wherever did that go? Maybe it was found but never mentioned? How many clues had I left for the family over the years? Stray pairs of panties? Oh yes, there was a case of them being found, but never mentioned. They probably thought I was precocious and having sex with girls who were so precocious themselves that they left their knickers under the beds they slept in!!

To cut a long story short. The temporary rinse was a disaster — well, first time, it was probably bound to be. The only positive side of it was that the condition of my hair improved dramatically. Soft and volumized, it was marvellous. Not so the staining of my scalp and around my hair-line. Smudged bright stains of a near-purple colour stared back at me as I dried the past-chin length hair.

Nothing was written on the pack about taking care with exposed skin….. And that wouldn’t help with the parting that shone through between the sections of my hair! Oh, hell! What to do?

Then I saw the stains on the bathroom basin where I had chosen to do this deed. They took a lot of effort to remove and I didn’t have proper bathroom cleaning products to hand….. Damn!!

And everyone would be coming home soon — well, at least my Mum, and Dad too. And I was to go out with my girlfriend that night. Damn! What a mess. Why did I do this?! I was in a panic, now I know, looking back. Blind panic. No time to enjoy the look of the hair. No time to imagine it set, in secret. No time to dress in my undies or night-wear.

I didn’t want to look like this! It wasn’t meant o go wrong.

(I would do this again, many times, over the years. Learning by your mistakes is a great way to advance. But I didn’t appreciate this, just then).

To cut a long story short, it took three more washes to get rid of the staining to my skin and scalp, meaning I lost all the benefit of the colour I had so longed to behold. The bathroom ceramics were equally tough but eventually relented by giving up their purple stains.

Isn’t it strange how extreme the colours appear when applied to get subtle shades into boring mousey-brown hair… or any hair… for that matter? I’M SO SORRY TO HAVE GONE ON QUITE SO LONG…. MY DEAR READER, BY NOW, YOU’LL HAVE GATHERED WHEN MY HAIR FETISH, WITHIN MY LOVE OF DRESSING, WAS SET IN STONE, VELVET COVERED, IN MY HEART.

--oo00oo--

My last few weeks before going to Uni were idyllic………. Looking forward to a whole new experience, it was clear that the relationship with my girlfriend was strong would last beyond separation. We had cemented this with two birthday events which, as young people, were special.

She bought two seats at a Dusty Springfield concert — a “come-back” event really but which promised to be truly memorable. It did prove so to be. I loved every minute. All of the wonderful lady’s classic tracks, and a few emotive ‘covers’ of other singers’ work. Some Carol King songs, some Tamla Motown winners and some soulful R&B classics. I always preferred her ballads. We still have all Dusty’s vinyl albums, all with their magnificent, flattering sleeves and pictures.

Knowing she enjoyed variety stage shows, which were all over the London stage at this time, I got us two tickets for the Palace Theatre — one of the City’s largest venues — for the show starring Danny La Rue. In his own words, “an old tart that made dressing up respectable”…. Or was it “dressing up as an old tart made respectable”?? not that it matters.

She loved every minute from the front row of the circle. The show was done for us! Needless to say, I enjoyed the show for rather different reasons. The glamour! It was so in-yer-face as to be ridiculous, but then, that’s the illusion intended. What do I remember most? The corsetry and, of course, the wigs….. Not just on the star of the show, but on all the dancing girls with legs that reached to the top of their arms! We still have the programme from the show somewhere in an album. I must look it out someday.

But I remained true to my purge. The clothing stayed in the closet where, one day, I would go back to find future pleasure. Pleasure I was to deny myself for three years.

There were no GLBT organizations in the Uni where I was to study, as there are very active groups such as these everywhere in the 21st Century. The most anyone could find would be a small group of (now called) gay guys who would be seen together. No street marching. No militancy. No “demands for equal rights”. But then again, no crossdressing in the street if you wanted. (I didn’t!)

The more I think about it, the less I would have wanted to be classified in that “homo” way, in any case. I didn’t feel homosexual — I didn’t identify with those people who, only two years before, could have been locked up for illegal sexual activity. I was no poof… I was no queer. I was no bum bandit…… I was a normal straight guy with just a special interest. An interest that was not catered for in literature or, except in the limited case I mentioned, the theatre. Danny La Rue had his own cabaret club in Hanover Square in London’s Mayfair. I would not have dreamed of going there — either for the cost, or for the probability that queers would be hanging round looking for boys of my age. No thanks!

So, I remained a secret — closet — crossdresser. One with a girlfriend and a special love of feminine things. Nowadays, we can be recognized, us heterosexual crossdressers (I never liked the word transvestites), recognized as men who love women so much they want to emulate them. I’m comfortable with that description. But sadly, it was never imagined to be described thus in 1968.

--oo00oo–

My arrival at a provincial University was uneventful. I settled in to studies well and my attention was diverted only by serious drinking and frequent parties. All part of growing up. I didn’t choose to be celibate, celibacy chose me. I was still spotty and not an attractive girl-hunt-me guy.
That was ok. I had a girlfriend who loyally waited for me for the semester breaks, during which times we made love as many times as we possibly could.

She seemed happy to run with a relationship that kept us both happy. She was studying at school and, having a boyfriend at Uni, was something of a celebrity; someone to be envied by girls of her own age.

Our love-making was increasingly tender and I think skilled. We found ways to pleasure eachother and bring lasting satisfaction. She said she talked often with the girls about having climaxes, or orgasms, that many of them seemed not to have experienced.

All due to my prowess with my tongue…. we laughed, in private. I did so love the taste of her.

Her skill with her lips around my boyish apparatus grew gradually better and better. I often turned back on herself to avoid cumming while she attended to me….. I feared any girl’s revulsion at receiving a mouthful of my spunk. Why on earth would a girl relish that? I knew I wouldn’t. Really, I could NOT imagine kissing or licking or sucking another guy’s dick. Over the following forty-plus years, I never have and never will.

I did find an outlet for my dressing in the Uni drama club. Somehow, I made it somebody else’s idea that we should perform some Shakespeare in the original medieval format where young men played the female roles. It was hard to forego the role of Juliet but I did a storming performance — in my first-time-ever transgender role — as Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream. That’s now the one play, whenever it’s performed, that I insist we see at London’s Regents Park Theatre — open air performances, usually by stunning casts. My favourite Titania has always been the Polish-born stunner, Rula Lenska. A gorgeous gorgeous redhead with a husky, oh-so-sexy husky voice!

We used costumes from the stores kept within the college and, naturally, relied upon great amounts of elastic to fit the different girths of each performer. My Titania, being an outrageous Queen of the Fairies, allowed me to be clothed in flowing robes of green and orange, ballet shoes which stretched to accommodate my now size-8 feet and a flowing red wig with bundles of curls falling over and below my shoulders. Luckily, we had a great Drama school associated with the Uni so were able to rely on their girls to do our make-up. I was in heaven!! I learnt my lines assiduously and can even now anticipate the next lines through most of this wonderful comedy.

I often wondered how much insight into my predilection for transvestite roles was recognized among my fellow performers. I did get other roles as the terms rolled by. My girlfriend did only once ask “Another girly role? You’ll have to be careful not to like them too much.” As a tease, just as a tease.

Meanwhile, as chapter 18 will show, I had to prepare for life in the real world, getting a job, and getting married.

The years at Uni passed so quickly. Reflections of my life beforehand come flooding back, together with those from my years of academic study. I reached graduation with the greatest sense of gratitude for the ending of my life in the classroom/lecture theatre. Ready for a new life, I had some decisions to make about my special interest, my “Major” (in fashion, haircare and beauty)!

Chapter 18

The first decision was whether or not to purge my habit completely. Sadly, I had dressed only rather infrequently at Uni — so much for the freedom I had hoped for; there was still very little freedom in a conventionally-run system like the British Universities of 1968 to 1971. But nevertheless, I cherished my time as a girl, whenever I could make the time available in the degree of secrecy I needed. Not for a moment, yet, had I shared my crossdressing with others who might (or would definitely) enjoy the same past-times as I.

My girlfriend was still the same girlfriend at the end of my course as she had been at the start. A little older, for sure, and a little heavier, if I dare to mention it. But I had grown to love her. It hadn’t been a sudden “falling” for eachother, but rather a growing together. She was in total ignorance of my love of feminine things. I was pretty much convinced of that.

She didn’t know that, when we made love, I would often be imagining myself as a girl, doing things to a girl that I’d love to have done to me, if I was a girl!

Looking back, I must question myself about how fair it was that this situation had developed while, at the same time, our relationship moved inexorably towards marriage.

Should I have told her my secret? Conventional wisdom in the 21st century is that I should have done. But this was the late 1960s. Still hung-up! Loosening up… sure! But still hung up about something as ‘different’ as crossdressing.

I fancied the idea of being married, of sharing a home and a life together. She felt the same. We talked a lot about it from mid-way through my absence on the college course. We informally began to start saving money as best we could for a deposit to buy our own home on a mortgage. This meant really that it was she who did the saving. I had no regular income and there was only a small government grant for (squat-like!) living and Uni course expenses. My parents, luckily, were prepared to pay for my living expenses. Therefore, such money I had or could earn could be spent on dating, drinking and having fun with the two of us as equals.

Should I, could I, risk all of that for the sake of not having a guilty secret? I decided not. I had to keep my secret. And that meant agony over whether to purge myself or not.

--oo00oo–

Before marriage, my mind wandered back through what I would be giving up if I did thoroughly cleanse my life of all things to do with dressing. Which I concluded that I firmly intended to do.

There were other “Firsts” that I have yet to mention which had taken place either before of during my time at Uni. Here are but a few:

--oo00oo–

Once I had learnt how to apply mascara to my eyelashes, (having stabbed myself in the eye too many times but persevering), I bought eye shadow and eyeliner which, like Dusty’s was kohl black. I made terrible mistakes in those early attempts. Firstly, I fell into the trap of ignoring the guiding principle of “less is more”. Less make-up is more impactful, I know now, but took a long time to realize. (Well, there was nobody to tell me so!)

One time, I recall, I covered the entire upper and lower eyelids with black powdery shadow before lining the upper limits of both eyelids with black eyeliner pencil. I left long tails off away from the outer margins of each eye.

Dusty would have loved me…. But I realized, when I looked back away from the close-up to the mirror, that I looked like I died last week, or alternatively I was a Goth or Vampire! It all had to be washed off and the process started again.

Another time, again a ‘first’ I bought a pair of Eyelure Eyelashes, “falsies” if you like. The fashions of the year 1965 demanded the Mary Quant look from earlier in the decade. Make-up was heavy, eyes emphasized and accentuated. I was surrounded by girls with sharply-bobbed or back-combed hair and huge false eyelashes. I so much wanted to be like them, I HAD to get some of those lashes. Mere mascara was totally insufficient. Little did I know but the glue that is or was supplied with these lashes is like the glue I had made Airfix model airplanes with as a kid. It was glue, ok, but it wasn’t ideal for sensitive tissue round the eye. It peeled off in balls when too much, inevitably, was put on the lashes. That meant the glue would be found all over the eyelid as I tried, incompetently, to fix the lash along the line of my own eyelashes. I really needed help! But who was there to ask for that help. Nobody. At least nobody in my circle of friends, male or female.

So, for the first time, I had to get professional help — like I had done with the cutting and setting of my hair. Like I had so far ignored when buying clothes. I sorted out a story in my mind — it was gifted to me by Titania! I (would tell a beautician that I) was going to appear in a local AmDram performance of “The Dream” and I needed a make-up, including eyelashes!

Where should I go? (Bearing in mind I had no reason to be going anywhere with exaggerated lashes in place!) I just fancied the experience. My story would fit — because I’d already played Titania and could describe the role; I only had to invent the playhouse and company I’d be “working with”. I had therefore to use a Beautician’s salon relatively near to where I was living. That was either in my Uni city or near my parents’ home in north London. This was my final year, so I chose the first of these. There was little time enough to be at home with my girlfriend. At Uni, I did have spare time, for sure.

I chose a salon at random. I stalked the place several times, to see the type of clientele that used the place. Most seemed to be middle-aged, with just a few younger “Glamour Puss” types; you know the type; all tits and no brains. That’ll do, I thought!!

On approaching the salon, I was curiously and extremely nervous. All of a sudden; just like that first time going into the hair salon in Golders Green.

It proved to be totally the right place to choose. The story about Titania didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I was asked if I wanted a full eye make-up, rather than just the lashes… to which I answered “Yes, please” and for the next 20-25 minutes, I sat back and luxuriated in the cleansing, preparation, base foundation applying and colour application to make (what I couldn’t yet see) my eyes more beautiful than they ever had been. Finally, the lashes were stuck in place, with the right theatrical glue, and curled (along with my own sparse lashes). My eyes watered uncontrollably, so unusual was the feeling. My eyelids felt SO heavy.

And then I looked….

Into the mirror……!

Now, Dusty WOULD have loved me! Perfect! I left the salon after the darkness had descended, so I wouldn’t be discovered! I made my way back to my flat-share that had been home for more than a year. And the flat-mates who lived with me!

How to avoid confronting any one of them?

Sunglasses….. After darkness had fallen….??? Yes, that was my way of hiding my eyes, just in case I encountered a flat-mate… which, of course, I didn’t. I got back to the comfort and safety of m own room. Having no clothes with me, all I could do was complete the make-up with the foundation, blusher and lipstick that I had kept with me for nearly three years. Washing it all off, hours later, made me cry over my crossdressing for another……… first time.

Another “first” I remember came about the fourth or fifth visit I made to the hair salon — so I would have been about 15 years old, maybe just 16. 1966. I was travelling home on the bus, tight shortish curls all over my head this time. That Gypsy look of the time. I found myself staring at another woman across the aisle from my seat. Her hair was curly like my own, but it was blonde; bright peroxide silver blonde. And the curls were tight, even tighter than my own. My mousey-brown hair didn’t compare with hers.

I promised myself that, one day, I would be a silver blonde. It took me thirty years before I had the courage to go that far!

Instead, I bought that temporary rinse that I never used that year. It was two years or more later that I started experimenting with hair colour that would wash out less easily than it “says on the can!”

--oo00oo–

I’ll describe some other “firsts” later, Reader dear. Until then, back to the dawning of the real world. Forgive me if the following sounds gloomy and depressing. I don’t mean it to be so; my life was very good in those days.

After arriving home from Uni, with all my worldly possessions thrown into a suitcase spewed over my bedroom floor, I had a final discussion with myself about the decision to get rid of all my femme clothes and stuff. All of it. All of it lovingly accumulated over the previous five or six years. The panties, the bras, the stockings, the suspenders, the blouses, (now three of them), the trousers (“pants”) — but no skirt or dress. The make-up; lipsticks, foundation, blusher, eye liner and shadow.

I couldn’t risk it. Being discovered and having to explain.

We had set the date to get married. We got a loan to buy our first home. It was tiny and, among other things, had no places to hide… anything. I would have to lock my dressing away. Inside my head. I needed to anyway. It was dominating my everyday thoughts.

It’s now said that men think of sex ten times an hour, all day, every day. Well, a crossdresser thinks about his underwear ten times more than that…… and his hair….. and what other women are wearing….. and their make-up… and their hair. Often, we think of nothing else! Joy!! But it gets in the way of the rest of life. I loved to dress….. but all good things must come to an end — for a while, maybe.

Now, life was about getting married and setting up home. I had to think of other things. So I went through a purge. It all was put in a thick plastic sack and I took it away. It was put in somebody else’s trash….. It couldn’t be risked being found in my own house’s rubbish bin. How could that be explained? I don’t think easily!

So, this was the first “first” that I truly hated. I was miserable for days. Far from shutting my thoughts away, they became more dominant than ever. How I loved looking at other women — as I still do forty years later. I love them. I love the way they look. Their animation. Their attraction.

My first purge ensured I would never be free of this. I had thought maybe I would live down my obsession. Maybe it would go. Maybe I’d be normal in my own eyes as well as others’ — I hadn’t felt “normal” for several years. I didn’t hate myself as some of us do. But I didn’t think I was “normal”. Not at all.

I walked down the aisle in Church with not a single strand of femme clothing on. Without a strand of hair set on a curler. Without a vestige of make-up. I was a Boy again.

The one legacy left at the time was my skill in making love a special way. As if girl-on-girl.

Chapter 19, as yet unwritten, will explore the (rare) firsts in my early married life.

Our marriage upon us, my (now) wife and I planned the honeymoon and our subsequent life together. As man and wife. As he and she. As a couple that had made love enough times to know eachother very well — and to know what gave eachother pleasure. My regrets at ridding myself of the trappings of a crossdresser were not to be short-lived. Or so I thought.

Chapter 19

We secured the buying of a house with the benefit of our saving her wages and a (for the time) huge mortgage of  £4,500. We had no money after we had paid for that, and the food, and the petrol, insurance and repairs for the car. No money at all. No new clothes, certainly, for either of us. In my case, no new boy things or girly things, my girly things having been thrown in the trash.

We both started new jobs within six months of the wedding. Local jobs — friends all dispersed about the country, so few local friendships; these would take time to build. Mainly through workplaces. With nine hours a day at a desk, the distractions were few. For me, working in a little town outside London — where we could afford to live — didn’t have many beauties to admire.

In my idle times, though, my thoughts wandered and inevitable returned to my dressing, and my love for the feminine. Feminine what? Anything!! I was in limbo in the sense that my conventional life was full, and busy, and enjoyable. But the limbo came from there being little or no fantasy. Love? Yes. Fantasy? No! It would go on like this for months and months.

Memories came back of the difficulties and insecurities that I had experienced. In particular, the shopping excursions I had made. Where did the courage — if that was what it was — come from? Was it the naivety of my youth? Or was it blind stupidity that I got away with? Probably the latter. I had been naíve and so hadn’t let the fears overcome me. Fears of discovery. Of ridicule. What would have been the torture from school-mates if they had known that I wore panties most days? Would I have found a girlfriend if it had been common knowledge?

Would I have been branded a poof or a queer? — probably , no, certainly. This was the 1960s.

But I had done these dare-devil exploits and survived. I had bought female clothes in a female department of a major retail store. I had bought cosmetics in a major high street drug store. I had been to a hair salon, eventually nearly a dozen times, and had my hair set in increasingly curly or back-combed styles. I had gone out in public like that — before running home to drown the styles in a flood of tears.

Just being in there, in the shops and in the salon, with several women who were being served the same way, was absolute bliss. It was being a girl.

My home had been both a refuge and a potential disaster area; what if Mum had found my stash of clothes? But she hadn’t. She might have said “Are these yours, young man?” I would have been forced to confront myself…. And give an honest reply. I never needed to have that conversation that I had practised many times. How I would admit that I did enjoy dressing in such clothes. That I did feel girly at times. And that, no, I wasn’t a homosexual and, no, I didn’t want to fuck or be fucked by a man. I would admit only my love of women and confess I loved them so much, I could identify with them more than the males around me.

The only difference, now I was married, was that the clothes were gone. The cosmetics were gone. The hairstyling was gone. But now I had a Wife, instead of a Mother. There was nothing for her to “discover”, except perhaps inside my head.

There might be clues. I had to guard against that. I could easily read the ‘Cosmopolitan’, the ‘Seventeen’ or the other girly magazines, but I shouldn’t express opinions about their subject matter — unless asked by my Wife what I thought. The classic questions were unwinnable: “Do you think I’d look good in that one, or this one?” “Yes, the first…..” “Why? …don’t you love me in the second one?” “Would my hair look good like that?” “Oh, yes, I like that..” “Why? …. ..don’t you like my hair the way it is??!”

The real honest answers — that couldn’t be spoken — would be: “Yes, the first, but I’d like to try the second for myself.” Or, “I love your hair the way it is, but would you let me try that style for myself?” Dead give-aways they would be. Don’t even think about going there!

There was so little published material about crossdressing in those days. Articles on homosexuality would have covered the topic — as though queers all want to pick up girls, or lookalike girls? There were a few publications about sex changes, usually male-to-female that had their origins in gender dysphoria; a term that didn’t exist until twenty years or more later.

Simple adoration of the female form, its clothing, its styling…….. came in the form of Playboy magazine and its derivatives. Top shelf stuff. “Brown paper packages, tied up with string…. These are a few of my favourite things….” (apologies to Julie Andrews!)

I do remember the launch of a top shelf booklet titled “Forum” which was designed for the discussion of all sorts of sexual preferences and practices. It sold for an affordable price and I did buy a few copies. Rarely did crossdressing get a mention, but when it did, the reception was favourable and understanding.

Meanwhile, we had to put up with the good old British practice of the “Pantomime Dame” every Christmas, on stage; grotesque parodies of even half decent drag queens. Hardly the characters that would encourage those who don’t dress in the clothes of the opposite sex to understand those of us who do.

Then, maybe three years after — three years after marriage and one year after the birth of a child, there came a ‘first’ that led, albeit after a long delay, a turning point in our love-making. Abilities to ‘go down’ on eachother were well established. Indeed, essential for the completion of satisfying fucking between us.

We were quite good at that. But I did sometimes have a loss of a hard-on, which was taken as a lack of ardour (I think that’s the word) on my part. Taken personally, those occasions inhibited us and made me worry about my ‘performance’ (again…. How I HATE that word!)

The turning point came one evening, returning from the theatre, or a dinner out somewhere, we embarked on a fuck when quite tired. Both of us. And not a little drunk. Both of us. Quite why my hands did what they did, I’ll never know, but as we undressed eachother, I reached out to her vanity unit where her cosmetics were laid out. And I took her lipstick. Carefully removing the cap, I artistically traced the rich creamy colour across my Wife’s lips. Top and bottom. Even making a Cupid’s Bow in the centre of her top lip. In the full light of a single bedside bulb, eye-to-eye, with what can only be called seduction going on..

I think of that night now and am certain that I had tasted her lipstick when we kissed earlier in the evening and I was struck by the wonderful taste of a new Dior. I wanted to taste it again.

Freshly applied, then urgently kissed, I ended up with lipstick all over my face.

By then, I was more than ready to kiss her pussy and drive her into oblivion. Even more enthus-iastically than usual, I plunged my tongue deep between the folds of her pussy, seeking out the places where I knew pleasure would be real and easily built, and the perfect final button which would be easily pressed when the time came. The taste of the lipstick drove me. Drove me to greater and greater experimentation.

Or was it that I ended up wearing lipstick as much as she and her pussy did?

Of course, I know now that it was that. The taste was from my own lips, or could have been. Whatever, the love-making was sensational. I had never, literally never, cum so intensely or for such a long-lasting time.

I didn’t do then what I did some weeks or months later, which I shall come to soon.

The next time we made love, I repeated the initiative and, as the saying goes, a star was born! The next time, and the next, I traced the Cupid’s Bow upon her lips and the love-making was just sensational.

We didn’t talk about it but we both knew that something had happened that night. No complaints!

Actually, we didn’t talk about what gave eachother pleasure sexually, ever. The conventional wisdom today is that couples should…. Talk. Preferably with the bedroom lights ON! Most nights, our lights were firmly OFF!

Perhaps it was weeks later, after another evening out, returning home with both of us ‘the worse for wear’ from good wine and good company, more seduction came into play at the bedroom door, or perhaps it was downstairs. Wherever, it doesn’t matter.

I took a risk.

Opening her purse, I took out her delicious Dior Addiction stick in a shade I recall was “Bordeaux” and I put the creamy concoction over my own lips first, carefully mimicking the shape of her lips, before applying the same to them. I must have thought about it many times… but I made it seem spontaneous — a “carried-away-on-the-spur-of-the-moment” thing. Our eyes met and the gaze became fixed. We were unable to break the spell. She knew instantly just what I would do with my wonderful lipsticky lips.

The rest is history. Indeed, in a thousand moments of elation and also of sadness, there’s a fabulous song that brings that moment back. It goes like this…..

Red, red wine
Goes to my head
Makes me forget that I
Still need her so

Red, red wine
It’s up to you
All I can do I’ve done
memories won’t go
memories won’t go

I just thought, that with time,
Thoughts of you would leave my head
I was wrong, now I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don’t let me be in love
It’s tearin’ apart
My blue, blue heart

Thanks, from the bottom of my heart, to Neil Diamond who wrote the song, and who sang it for us at London’s O2 Arena this summer…. And to all those artistes who covered the song. Apart from Mr Diamond, UB40 were probably my favourites…. With a reggae version. What a stunning and powerful song, to prompt such deep-seated memories.

--oo00oo–

We have made love countless times — literally thousands — with my lips, and hers, coated in wonderful deep, deep colour. Why? …because it makes us… well, to be honest, it makes me… feel sexy. And her too. I have no doubts at all. The doing of that is a fetish thing that works for us both. And for me? It does have the faint tinge of being someone I know I am inside.

Other firsts were few in those years of my twenties. Crossdressing, or the love of it, never left me.

Many of my gifts to my wife were given with my own fanciful idea that one day I might wear them. Nightdresses, in particular silky ones or shiny satin ones, were a recurring offering. Blouses too, especially feminine ones. Just going in to the stores where they could be found, like M&S before, when I was buying for myself, the lingerie collections always were attractive and I bought my wife many over those years. The new High Street chainstores, especially Next, always had good selections, as did some of the London exclusive stores, like Debenhams and Selfridges on Oxford Street. There was also a new chain that sold girly clothes for the “taller” lady, called Long Tall Sally; I never did buy in there but browsing was great fun!

I eagerly read the occasional article in magazines, or on television. But there were so few.
I contented myself with some mild pornography, I have to admit. And in this, I have to confess that my self-interest probably hurt my wife a lot in those days. For a first time, I bought a magazine when travelling on business.

Working for a Scandinavian company, I found every street corner shop sold magazines in a very open fashion. Men and women together, Men and women with very interesting “toys” to play with. Women together. Where else could I find some quality-produced anthologies of “lesbians” having sex sessions together.

I knew they weren’t lesbians. I knew they were being exploited. But the pictures were nicely presented and perfect to imagine myself in there with them… as one of the girls.

The first time I came home with one, I thought we might talk about sexy things. Instead, we “read” them together before I got aroused. It was insensitive and I should have apologized. She never complained but they were obviously for me, not for her. A “bad” first if ever there was one.

In another direction, my work took me into central London regularly. I recall more than once going out of my way to pass by a wig maker’s salon that I had seen in London’s West End. Crawford Street I think it was. Their range, mainly sold by mail, was magnificent. A range of the most gorgeous highly-styled wigs, all intended for everyday wearing. The cheaper ones were made by welding the cheap Asian hair into plastic caps like bathing caps — easy enough for a woman to wear for a short time, but incredibly hot, even on a cool Spring day.

The more expensive ones were made with better quality human hair — most probably Chinese where girls at that time sold their beautiful heads of hair to pay for their limited education (which the State did not provide). This hair was woven into continuous bands that encircled the head, attached to an elastic net which allowed the wearer’s head to breathe naturally.

The store sold several branded ranges of wigs, some attributed to celebrities. My favourite was Dolly Parton’s range. Advertized as blondes “of many colours”, there were also superb blacks, browns, chestnuts, even greys, and most attractive of all, spun gold and auburn; the red collection.

I could see that Shoppers were allowed to try the wigs on, ostensibly before making a purchase. The place was empty of customers.

Clearly, I remember standing outside the shop, adoring the displayed heads in the window onto the street. Surely, I stayed too long and the Receptionist caught my eye through the window. She waved her hand very discretely, beckoning me in.

My hesitation was natural. Never having been inside before. But then, I figured, I wasn’t known there. What possible harm would it do to browse?

There was an array of mirrors to sit in front of, plus a quiet fitting room, where those of us who wanted some privacy were encouraged to go for fittings. It was perfectly possible to try on a dozen or more in half an hour before making up my mind to “come back another time”. A return visit drew no recognition from the person serving, though it was she who had beckoned me in the first time.

The third visit came soon enough and then I did the unthinkable — I bought myself a lovely lovely thick bobbed-style in that dark burgundy colour that I love so much. If I had my time over again, I would buy a lighter auburn, still bobbed-style, with blonde highlights. (…there I go, into dreamland again!)

When I got home, I had to do better than hide it. I walked in, brass-faced, and announced that I had won it in a sweepstake at a customer’s offices, explaining it would have been rude to refuse. As the salesman I was, one could never rebuff a customer.

So now “we” had a wig in the house! And temptation!

Chapter 20 will move us on to the time when, inevitably, my dressing began again. In my deepest dark secret. And then there was my first visit to a Transgender store; Transformation.

Sadly, dear Readers, my writings have lost their interest for many people and the number of hits received for my recent chapters have fallen and fallen. I must be boring everybody, which lowers the satisfaction I get from writing. So, reluctantly, I’m making this my Last Time of writing on the subject of First Times. Here are the firsts I would have written more about……..
Chapter 20

My first times……………

(not in chronological order…. Try to guess which came first, second, third…..

Wearing lipstick and freshening it up in the street, caring not who saw.

Having false eyelashes fitted.

Having my own eyelashes dyed.

Crying when I threw that wig away.

Having a fully-dressed “Awayday” at a Transformation store in Manchester, wearing my own underwear and staying over keeping the make-up until morning.

Buying a pair of black sling-back stiletto Heels (and hiding them carefully in the garage).

Buying a pair of silicone false tits (and having nowhere to hide them).

Being told by my wife that I would have to leave home if I was a Transvestite because she knew I would abuse our children if I was.

Wearing a nightdress in the bedroom.

Shaving my nipples and underarms.

Buying a full length corset with buttoned gusset that would allow me to have sex while wearing it.

Having highlights put into my hair in a salon where I might have been recognized.

Wearing lacy panties with my Wife’s ok.

Writing my first CD story and publishing it on Crystal’s Storysite.

Having a “Make-up and Change day”; Wearing full Transformation make-up, my own sky blue skirt and jacket, wig (the burgundy, bobbed-styled one), slingbacks, stockings, suspenders, bra and waist cincher.

Going out fully dressed after a “Make-up and Change day” returning to a budget hotel fully dressed.

Being stopped by a policeman for standing too long on a shop corner in Oxford Street while having a wank through my trousers.

Finding Big Closet/Top Shelf after Crystal’s Storysite “went technical”.

Talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman.

Having girl-on-girl sex with a really beautiful so-called/self-styled “lipstick Lesbian”..

Finding my wrists in handcuffs that my Wife had bought as a surprise.

Having my hair pinned back and a half-head “fall” gripped into the back and dressed high with petal-like curls for a glam “turnabout” party.

Hiring a full length evening gown for the turnabout party.

Buying a leather collar, in case she wanted to tie me some more… which she did.

Buying a dildo and using it to give my wife pleasure she would learn to love and anticipate.

Having the dildo used on me by my Wife, for a one and only time.

Buying a strap-on dildo when my libido was at lowest ebb, but never using it.

Getting a prescription for Cialis.

Buying estrogen cream and rubbing it into my tits.

Removing my body hair with Nair.

Panicking when dressed on hearing my wife’s car arrive back earlier than expected.

Running to the shower to remove make-up and other evidence of my dressing when nearly discovered.

Remembering that I had not put away the wig where it belonged after using it.

Buying my own “barely enough” lipstick to wear all day.

Renting a corseted gown and high-piled curl wig for a (once only) Hallow’een Party.

Every time (is a first time) when I have purged my stash of clothes and cosmetics.

Renting a flat where I could hide all my dressing clothes, fetish wear and cosmetics, and decorating it in ultra-feminine colours and furnishings.

Refusing, for the first of not-so-many times, when a guy came on strong to me.

Dreaming of actually changing my gender, and then realizing that’s not what I want out of life.

Being thankful that, if my Wife accepts that I have given up my dressing compulsion, I can continue to live my dreams through my writings.

There you are, my darling readers. You may not believe these, but they all fit into a life after marriage of forty years.

No, no regrets!

Here is a story I published on Big Closet some time ago…. Which I hope you’ll read again…

But then again, too few to mention……… I don't think so!
Indeed, many crossdressers have lives filled with regrets. They/we have to console ourselves with the high spots, the wonderful interludes in which we indulge ourselves. Before we feel guilty, or before we hastily hide away things that will betray our desires.
We can't summon the courage to disclose our feelings to someone we love — wives, girlfriends, whoever…. Could they ever react positively? Not on your life! Worse still, we may throw the "baby out with the bathwater" at times, believing that we can do without indulgence of our feminine instincts.

We throw away the clothes we have kept hidden. We ditch the cosmetics that we struggle to learn how to apply with care. We even put a beautiful wig into the trash; the wig that finally transformed the image in our mirror and made us feel whole, or wholly female.
I've been there and done all of these things. More than once. And yet…… the impulse is still strong.

In the street, I admire women I see, usually for their striking and beautiful hair at first; then the facial features and how make-up highlights the best aspects for them. I admire their clothes, it's true, but only as part of the whole picture…. the illusion that I would hope to adopt, if they're "my type" of girl.

So what do I do? I buy more clothes, or at least underwear, of my own. I can wear my wife's clothes when she's not around (I'm lucky) and can buy her things I might fancy for myself. Then, what do I do, I chicken out and throw my things away again.

I read and write CD stories, living through them the fantasy that I can't bring into reality………….. The Big Closet is the best of them all, because Readers like you give feedback and comments happily, but it can't be logged onto my "favourites" for fear of discovery. I do enjoy a visit to a Transformation salon occasionally, when business travel permits or gives an excuse.

I call myself Karen when I'm dreaming, in memory of a client who was a wonderful (GG female) businesswoman with striking green eyes. She was tall but made the most of it; no fear of heights, she wore high heels that accentuated her shapely legs….. as I should do. She had a wonderful fall of highlighted blonde hair which I continuously dreamed of copying, if only my own hair would grow fast! We could have made music together.

Regrets, there's another. I read loads of stories that deal with TG and surgery, S&M and dominance, forced feminizations……… these aren't for me (though with my wife we have played such games for fun)……. I just wish… I just wish…. for gentle, understanding of the desire for a boy to be more like a girl, just now and again.

So, I keep my secrets "back in the box"… Pandora's not a lady I could live with. I tried to disclose all of this to my wife one time, but she hit the panic button! The limit I'm left with is to wear lipstick from time to time……… if it makes me feel better…….. Oh, so much more could be beautiful.

How can a wife be involved willingly?

………….But, through it all, when there were doubts, I wish I'd done it "my way".

... And most times, I did!

Be happy,
Love Ginger. xx

I’m indebted to several readers that have helped me get over what was a bad day at the office and encouraged me to resume the autobiographical theme that I have been developing. I have put my concern about the Ratings and Hits away in a box and will no pay attention to them again. So, here we go again!

Comments, or more importantly shared or contrasting experiences, will be very welcome if you can spare the time to write. The chapters that follow will continue to be autobiographical. These are actual events that I’m re-living.

Chapter 21

Having reached my Twenties now, I am married and a family is on the way. I have a job that means I am travelling regularly. Time away from home brings temptations for many young men — and most often in the direction of easy sex, no-strings, no-consequences. Even in the early 1970s, unwanted pregnancies were very avoidable.

Other temptations, though, became occasionally very pressing in my life. Opportunities to dress were never out of my mind. As much as I had promised myself I would stop this thing, the reality was that it was virtually impossible to deliver on that promise.

I had nothing worth mentioning in a stash at home. I had forsaken the ownership of pretty things and contented myself with paying close attention to the girls who worked around me in the company’s offices where I was based. Further, I was able to get out and visit salespeople in the field and that meant a roving eye was un-noticeable. I relished the times when I could get out there and admire the fashions and the ways girls were wearing them. Some of our salespeople were young ladies whose business dress was always required to be impeccable. That had the result of my spending days sometimes with some very “tasty” ladies!

One of the aspects of this time that I’m less than proud of was a tendency to be a bit of a voyeur. I’d while away spare time just standing in the street watching the world go by… most often in the vicinity of a hair and beauty salon where I’d see the clients come and go, seeing the transformations they enjoyed. I’d just pretend to be waiting for someone.

Bit sad really.

Around this time, I did read a small advertisement in a newspaper — remember them? — in the days before the Internet. It was short but sweet. “Transvestites Exclusively!” and gave a phone number. It proved to be within reach of home but far enough away to be secure (an hour’s drive away). A session with access to a wardrobe was promised when I phoned. I booked a date and time. I drove to the location — on a house-boat on the River Thames near the stately home of Hampton Court.

This ended sadly too — I sat in the car park nearby but couldn’t raise the courage to risk being “caught” by someone I didn’t know in suspicious circumstances. What if there were more than one of them there? What if they wouldn’t give my clothes back once I was dressed? What if….??? Yeah! Sad or what?! So I sat there… and then drove home with my tail between my legs, and certainly, my dick tucked between my thighs. I was 24, going on 14.

So many “might have beens” in all our lives when you think back. What if I’d gone in and let myself be dressed and made-up by a total stranger? Maybe a lady who loved CDs?!

My crossdressing life came back to me when, two years later, I discovered the existence of a small chain of stores that catered for crossdressers’ needs. With stores in London, Manchester and Birmingham — and I think for a while, in Bristol and Newcastle, a group called “Transformation” was unique at the time.

The stores advertised clothing in the right sizes for males who wanted to be “transformed into beautiful women”. There were shoes in sizes up to UK 10 — my own needs answered! (Good shoes are SO hard to find in such a size, much to my regret!) They even had high-heeled stiletto boots which were unobtainable anywhere else! There were wigs of most colours and many styles. There was plenty of underwear, some of it very trashy, some of it a bit BDSM, some of it quite nice but no threat to the M&S range I had always chosen. The clothing side was well sorted by the person who started and owned the business. Herself a transgendered lady who clearly had business sense.

There were plenty of books and magazines, mainly sourced from the US I guess; plenty of she-males, some having sex with eachother….. hold on… this is getting a bit heavy (for someone who couldn’t even cross a car park and go into a perfectly ordinary looking property).

The store’s clothing was rather cheap and not very nice but it was designed to meet the needs of a certain clientele — one that included blokes that liked wearing frocks, like I did! (I know, at times, it’s not easy to take yourself seriously, isn’t it?)

I discovered years later that Stephanie, the owner had started a hotel for TVs to go away to for weekends in the company of other crossdressers together. I don’t know I could ever have done that — never did anyhow.

What I did find intriguing, and eventually did succumb to enjoy, was a service called “Change Aways” where people like me could go and have a make-up and change into a range of clothes that were kept for the purpose. There was a menu of “Looks” that could be chosen. Anything from “Tarty” to “School M’am”, From “Business Lady” to “Night-time Slut”, and many more. All tastes catered for!

For a first time, spending a half hour in the shop in London, then going back another couple of times — and finally conquering the fear from watching from the other side of the road — I decided I would go for it… Go for a half-day’s transformation into a beautiful woman (..ha! Ha! ..as if! But having the experience would be fun!).

On a first planned visit, when time off from work was not critical, I made the trip to the London store. For the first time I had the courage to go in, to say that I wanted an AwayDay experience and to pay up front for it. I was asked what look I would like and the not-so young lady helped me to choose…. As it was my first time, of course, I chose the tarty or slutty look. I’d expect that 90 percent of their clients do the same. Tarty. Whore-ish. Loads of make-up, short skirt, fishnet pantie-hose, big false tits on a push-up bra, see-through blouse, and a blonde wig that was so huge it was to keep me awake at nights for weeks after!!

After half an hour’s make-up, I was free to choose my clothes and once dressed and be-wigged, to go upstairs to the lounge area where there were magazines, tea or coffee and lots of mirrors! There was also another crossdresser, already dressed, sitting in the lounge.

This was the VERY FIRST TIME I had ever met another crossdresser. I had seen them, seen photographs of them. Imagined meeting them. But never had. There I am in the most tarty get-up imaginable. What a slut! Lips pouting and hair falling all over my shoulders, my skirt ending half-way up my things. And I realized my mistake.

This other “girl” had clearly done this before. She was dressed in a smart suit, the skirt of which ended just above the knees. The blouse was plain white and demure. Her fingernails were long and bright crimson. (Why hadn’t I asked for false nails and lashes?!). Her make-up was modern and quite under-stated except for her eyes which were captivating; three shades of blue eyeshadow with dark blue eyeliner and simple feminine false eyelashes. She had done this before alright! I wished immediately I had gone for the “less is more” look. I would do — next time.

Her shoes were white with low 2-inch heels. She had simple pearls as her jewellery and a pearl ring. (My jewellery was flashy and blingy…. Not right really, except for the tart I was playing). Finally, her hair was a classic brown bob-cut, chin length with bangs framing her face.

Now I knew what a ChangeAway could do for a girl.

One of us had to say something.

She began, not unkindly, saying “You’ve not been here before, have you?” …and I laughed.

I had to. There was she, looking really very good — though I knew she was a bloke like me. There was me, looking like a tart who had no chance of scoring. It had cost us the same amount of money to get to look the way we did. But her money had been well spent. But I had enjoyed every minute.

I answered, “Um, obviously not. Have you been here often? You look so good.”

“Thank you, honey, and yes, indeed I have. Every month I manage to get away for some relaxation and I don’t know a better place. You look like you need that — relaxation, I mean.” I remember her words — I’ll remember them as long as I live. We talked for an hour or more, neither of us using overtly feminine voices, but rather more hushed and gentle tones. It turned out that she was a few years older than me and had been dressing since she was a teenager. She felt able to pass as a girl in the real world but didn’t own much of her own gear. So she went to “Transformation” as a regular customer.

I left the store determined, next time, to follow her example — and get the quality right.

--oo00oo–

(I’ll come back to another “Transformation” in a later chapter — the first time I went out dressed!)

--oo00oo–

My Twenties continued with few excursions into the world of a CD. I always avidly followed articles in the newspapers if there were any on the subject. I spent a lot of time just observing the girls and women around me — where I worked, in the street, on television. Marvelling at their style and clothing, I found myself always imagining myself in their place. But my desire to dress was always beaten by my fear of ruining what was a good lifestyle. Locked inside my head, my secret desire was hidden away.

I was conscious that my love of things feminine was at odds with the increasing media fervour for the acceptance of the (suddenly respectable) “gay” world. This was 1976……

There appeared to be droves of “Luvvies” who had broken out of the Theatre and Dance worlds to become mainstream. To make gays very much mainstream. It would take years but, in the same way, crossdressers were the great “unmentioned”. We didn’t even warrant a word. It would even take five more years before lesbians got the same billing as gay men so what chance did we have?!

My love of the feminine things in life grew stronger — if that was possible. My feelings about homosexuality and the position of gay men in particular grew more convinced. I didn’t ever want to go in that direction. The idea of sex with a man was just not for me (sorry, guys!). I was quite attached to my dick and so gender reassignment was not of any interest to me at all. I was, and still am, a guy who is a girl from time-to-time. Then, I was 27 years old.

I adored, and still do, the changes in fashion, style and the “just being” of a woman’s life. So, in 1976, I revelled in the way fashions were going after the liberation of the Sixties. Inexpensive dresses, skirts, shirts and blouses were all within reach. (But I had none of my own now, there being nowhere to keep them hidden).

It was important that I did pay special attention to my wife’s interests that were similar — talking at length for as long as she wanted, about the clothes she wanted to buy for herself, going shopping with her, enthusing about how well some clothes suited her, counselling her if I felt others “didn’t suit”. As a young Mother, it was important for her to re-gain her femininity and not be just “Mum”. Her clothes budget was twice or more than mine, but I had the enjoyment of choosing girly things. Was that a bad thing? I don’t think so. I tried to do the same with her hair and make-up, carefully trying not to get “too involved”. (I did keep some lipstick for myself for occasional indulgence).

My choice of magazine had always been female-oriented, so it was easy to get our reading material to coincide. (I kept my interest in football as the ‘boy’ end of my reading). I didn’t go as far as reading ‘Pride and Prejudice’ or other romantic novels that she loved, but I would sit through the movies, paying attention to the female characters and their ways of dressing. No prizes for guessing why.

I could hardly be lonely. Everything, in a conventional sense, was horribly normal. And I was enjoying it all. Being a father was great. Being a Husband was great. I thank the Lord that I wasn’t caught in the “wrong body” dilemma that many people confess to feeling (and eventually to giving in to). I was lonely, in truth. Because I had nobody to share my pressures with. Work was pressurized, but in a different way. Life at home had its pressures — like getting back to regular conventional love-making. I couldn’t always “perform” (that horrible word again).

But in my quiet “alone” moments, I had company…. My dreams. My thoughts of being comfortable and dressing as I wished were enough. Literally nothing of any consequence in my world of dressing happened for the next two years. I kept the lid firmly on my “can of worms”.

My world was nearly ruined one winter’s day when I was in London with time on my hands. My movements gravitated to Oxford Street, the City’s main shopping avenue. I hung around, as I often did, just watching the world — and the women — go by. It wasn’t long before I found myself being stopped by a policeman for standing too long on a shop corner for no good reason while having a wank through my trousers. He evidently thought I was “hanging loose” because he told me to open my coat. Nothing to be seen. No offence caused. No offense committed. I was moved on with a caution. He knew what I was doing, but couldn’t prove anything wrong.

Again, sad really, and witness to my being isolated — in my crowded world. Aged 29 now.

Indulging in more active “body care” — in ways which wouldn’t be greatly noticed — especially by my wife, I started carefully, by removing my body hair with Nair. It was easy to find in Boots the Chemists self-service counters. This was better than my first attempt — which involved shaving my nipples and underarms. My wife didn’t notice. Perhaps just as well she didn’t. But then again, it showed she didn’t pay me much attention.

I took to using moisturizer much more than before, with an easy explanation if questioned — which I was not. I would have pointed to the hard lines and acne marks that now graced my complexion.

Buying my own “barely enough” lipstick to wear all day. Not inside or when leaving, home. But in the everyday world. Nobody seemed to notice. If they had done, it was “sunscreen”.

But all of this was a long way away from my teenage years when I had grown my hair and had it set, worn panties and bras almost all the time……. I was in denial! Like it hadn’t happened. Like it was someone else, not me, in those past years.

Enough now. Chapter 22 will follow when time allows. Having reached 30 years of age, and having come back to the writing desk, I’m comfortable and hope, dear reader, that you are too. So, from my own “reality show”, I’ll be back soon. Happy Christmas! xx

Keeping “in the closet” brings stresses and strains that most of us bear with some difficulty. They are more difficult to bear in your Thirties than your Twenties, as it must be for women in general. Lost youth, spreading waistline, peaking libido, and “wishing for what might have been”….. So it was for me.

Chapter 22

My theme is of “First times….” So I shall not go into repetition of my dressing experiences which continued from my Twenties. It’s sufficient to say that I was limited — or rather I limited myself — to wearing the panties that I kept hidden away, the lipstick that I carried with me most of the time, and the hair and skin moisturizer products that hit me with their advertizing messages. I bought bras but then threw them away because they couldn’t be explained if found. I wore some of my wife’s clothes when she was out and about — her career having resumed no the children were older. The stress of putting the clothes back as though they hadn’t been moved was immense. Perhaps that was part of the thrill now — being discovered was a real risk…. But it was obviously worth taking because I took it at least once a week!

--oo00oo--

Thankfully, my career was becoming successful. I had reached Marketing Manager at the age of 32, Marketing Director at 34. I was required to go on occasional international trips which presented temptations of their own. This was the early 1980s when corporate liaisons were more and more common. But I resisted those. I met beautiful women and really enjoyed their company. Secretly I enjoyed their company very much more than my lecherous colleagues. Their objective of having a screw with as many as they could get their hands on was never in my mind. The possibility of taking home an STD most certainly was.

The closest I came to being seduced, quite literally, was in the arms of a young lady on my staff after whom I lusted but never dared to go after. She was in a very emotional state, having broken up with her no-good “shit of a man”. She had taken on too much booze — if she hadn’t why would she try to seduce her boss? (I naively thought!). I had dreamed of that moment…. Her arms round my neck, my hands in her hair, her tongue down my throat…… But I broke off like a scared cat! Leaving her there, in her room, I skedaddled and ran. What if I caught an STD? What if I found her blackmailing me? What if she saw I was wearing panties?

That was it.

I was wearing lovely lacey pink panties. Stretchy ones that hugged my body. Kept my cock in tightly. Not tucked, but tightly hidden away.

She would know something nobody knew at the company. What if she threatened to tell? No risks were worth taking like that. I would be branded as a pervert. She might brag that she had “had the boss”. Even if she didn’t blackmail me, she would eventually tell a mate of our encounter. And my panties.

Why didn’t I just go on and enjoy myself? The risks were totally hypothetical. Answer: Chicken!!

And I loved my wife and kids.

To this day, I have “kept myself to myself”. I have “kept my dick zipped”.

Surely, better that, than screwing around and worrying about hiding the consequences?

But the world doesn’t accept (or didn’t then, in the Eighties) that having a deep desire to dress in the clothes of the other sex to your own is acceptable. It’s now not the same as for other once-thought-of-as-perversions. Gradually, it seems, that having sex with someone of your own sex is not “abnormal”. That’s even taught in schools… even how to do it! I do resent that when there is no compassion or understanding (still less acceptance) that crossdressing isn’t “deviant” either. Perhaps the trouble is that there are so few of us, relative to the number of homosexual people, that we are put in the classification of “nutters”?

(Enough already….. Put away the soap box! Stop the campaign for now!)

--oo00oo–

Returning to my theme of “First times…”, there are a number of events that are difficult to place in a real time-line. Which came first.. the corset or the eyelashes? Wearing lipstick and freshening it up in the street, caring not who saw, or talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman? Or dreaming of actually changing my gender, and then realizing that’s not what I want out of life.

The eyelashes came first — on another visit to a Transformation store — this time in Manchester. Out for a couple of days with an “accompany visit” with a member of the company’s Sales team, I stayed overnight at a budget hotel (one that I would re-visit, dressed, but more of that another time).

After work was over, I consulted my road map and drove to the suburbs of northern Manchester where the store was located. (I had seen a map in the leaflets in the London store). Later the same year, I would go back and have a Make-up & Change service and leave the shop fully dressed.

This time, for my first time — after trying to fit them myself more than a dozen times — I asked for a pair of false eyelashes to be applied…… I should have asked for under-lashes too but was quite so excited, I forgot! The lady who served me was happy to accept that I was going home to dress and go out but, as I had said, “just needed help with my eyes”. She made them up fully, with liquid eyeliner, shadow and mascara too. I left the store like a Drag Queen in “drab” (boy’s clothes).

Fluttering and flashing my eyes in all directions on the way back to the car, I found that these appendages made my eyes water! Not in tears, I looked like I was crying…. With the mascara streaming. I had no tissues in the care. “Shit!” I shouted to myself as I stepped in the car and looked in the driver’s mirror. Another of my less successful ventures, you might think and I would have to agree. I did have a subsequent visit and did have the lashes again, being taught how to manage the discomfort that girls feel with lashes batting away in their field of vision.

Makes me smile, every time I think of that curse when I got in that car. I looked like some diva who had her heart broken by some lover who’d left her.

I dreamt of Dusty, my darling, and all the years she would have spent with her eyes like a Panda’s — how I would have changed places with her! All those years ago, how in love I felt for her. And then, to find out, that she fancied other girls…. Just made me want to be her girlfriend for a while.

Forgive me, if you can……… Just read what follows:

I think I'm goin' back
To the things I learned so well in my youth
I think I'm returning to
Those days when I was young enough to know the truth
Now there are no games
To only pass the time
No more colouring books
No more trees to climb
But thinking young and growing older is no sin
And I can play the game of life to win

I can recall a time
When I wasn't ashamed to reach out to a friend
Now I think I've got
A lot more than a skipping rope to lend
Now there's more to do
Than watch my sailboat glide
But every day can be
A magic carpet ride
A little bit of courage is all we lack
So catch me if you can, I'm goin' back

With heartfelt thanks to Gerry Goffin and Carol King (who is in the UK just now)... and to my dear Dusty.

The corset? That came later! A consequence of a waistline that was growing and a growing curiosity about how it would feel to be severely constrained in something like that — something that had a bit of a Fifties/Sixties cache about it. Again, it was easy to find in what had become my favourite store. The ubiquitous Mr Marks and Mr Spencer’s emporium! As before, I cruised through the Ladies’ Fashions, past the blouses and the girly shirts, past the skirts both long and short, past the stockings and pantie hose, through the bras and camisoles and slips, ending up at the corsetry range, cunningly placed against the back wall, right next to the changing rooms.

A first thought was ridiculous. If I found the right corset, could I take it in there and try it on? Of course not. For one thing, the changing rooms were ‘communal’, meaning that ladies changed in open court, able to see eachother, for better or for worse. For another thing, the store was busy and people were coming and going. I had to buy what I thought was the right size and get home to try it on. I knew that a 36B bra would fit me but a 38B would be more comfortable. These came with a proportional-sized bum measurement; probably 40 inch in my case.

That was the simple part; then, did I need a long fitting? Probably yes. Did I want an integral bra or just a corset up to under the tits (which I didn’t possess). Or did I want a waist cincher? Did I want suspenders or garters attached? Did I want black? — probably, or did I want white?, or flesh coloured?, or pink? Did I want one with pantie legs or an open gusset? Lacey or not?

Tooo many choices!!!! There was a danger that I would be interrogated by a member of staff if I didn’t get on with making a choice…… I felt eyes drilling into the back of my head!

A 38B, long length, with bra integrated, with suspenders attached (came with 6), black…. Or, oh, no! flesh coloured, with an open gusset. With lace, not plain. Now, where would that be…??

“Can I help you?....” ….came the inevitable question. From a very attractive young woman of my own age. “….Can you see what you’re looking for?”

Struck dumb, like an average teenager, I mumbled….. nothing much, I just mumbled. Why hadn’t I prepared for this?!

“You’re looking at corselets, is that right?” “Yes, I am.” “Do you know your size?” She KNEW!
It was for me! She KNEW! “Er, well, actually… not really.”

Shit! I was embarrassed beyond belief! Would the floor open up and swallow me? Please, make it do so! Make me invisible. My cheeks must have been crimson.

“Well no worry… you do know about our returns policy, don’t you. You can bring an item back, so long as the protective lining is still in place, within 30 days. If a garment has been worn, it’s not returnable. Is that clear?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I think I need a 38B in a long size.”

“Well, good, that’s a start. Now a 38B, long length, ….with bra integrated?” “Yes, please.” “…. would that be with suspenders attached (it comes with six) or not?” “Er, well, … with…”
“And what colour? How about black…. or perhaps flesh coloured, after all, white’s a bit boring, isn’t it?” “Well I suppose so…. er, flesh coloured, with lace.”

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere… and lastly, what about pantie-legs or with an open gusset?” “Oh with the gusset please.”

I am amazed, just re-living the encounter, that I didn’t collapse with heart failure there and then. I had been SOLD a corselet by a young WOMAN, who clearly assessed me as a buyer for MYSELF — and she did not bat an eyelid, she just went on professionally doing her job. And she made the sale. Open questions; …either? or? No negative answers possible. I was hooked.

She reached out towards the end of the display and, sure enough, there was what we had “agreed” I wanted. “Oh, one final question: Firm control? or Natural?”

Cue for further embarrassment but an urgency came over me, “Which do you think? Which do most women want?” “I would recommend the Firm Control… no particular reason but I think, in your case……” “Sold.” I said and she turned away with a smile towards the central pay point across the store. I followed her, quite meekly. She was very good at her job. As I followed her, my eyes studied her form. She was what today we call “Mad Men style”; hour-glass figure, perfect legs, her shoes inside low-heeled court shoes, all crowned with medium-length copper hair in a swingy style that moved as she did. Sadly, I never saw her again.

Back in my home, clutching the bag containing this beautiful creation, I took ten deep breaths after closing my eyes. Heaven….. but where to hide the purchase?! Simple….. in the bottom drawer of my office desk in the spare room. Nobody would look there.

--oo00oo--

Wearing lipstick and freshening it up in the street, caring not who saw happened around the same time — though it’s difficult to place all these events in precise sequence. I was travelling on business - it happened to be to Newcastle-upon-Tyne in northern England. I was staying in a standard business style hotel, Dinner was not included and I went in search of “an Italian” — there’s a good Italian community in Newcastle so I wouldn’t be disappointed.

I had my corselet on, (so that says it was after the last ‘event’ in my story) but I didn’t have the tits padded. I had mastered (or should I say “mistressed”?) the way to get myself into the wonderful figure-hugging body shaper, but lacked the confidence to emphasize or accentuate my body. The closeness of the garment , all over, was just brilliant. Every move I made, every twist and turn, told me that it was one of the best decisions I had ever made — to buy such a thing.

The Italian meal was spectacular and the half bottle of Brunello made me feel very warm and content. I left the restaurant and traced my steps back to the hotel. Feeling the slim shape of my lipstick in my hand in a coat pocket, I drew it out and — on the street-lit sidewalk — applied the creamy concoction to my upper lips, shaping a Cupid’s bow, before running the beautiful product twice over the lower lips. I rolled my lips together to smooth the overall effect. I was ecstatic.

I briefly found myself dreaming of actually changing my gender, street-walking as I was, and being a whore. But then, realizing that’s not what I want out of life, I told myself, “you’re better than that!” So I headed back to the hotel, tasting the lipstick as I went. I crossed the reception area and aimed for a lowly-lit bar for a nightcap drink. Alone. In a city centre hotel bar. But my heart was beating fast again. My corselet gripped me with renewed fever. I wished I had tits to fill its cups.

Chapter 23 will come after Christmas, as it has yet to be written. In that, I shall deal with the occasion when I first found myself talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman. God bless!

“Wishing for what might have been”….. So it is for me. The story of many of our lives, perhaps - my succession of “First times” has gone on, and on. Returning to my theme of “First times…”, there are a number of events that are difficult to place in a real time-line. Life-changing moments, many of them, the next one I recall was talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman.

Chapter 23

Everyone, please note - I have deleted the chapter here against my wishes but have been advised that the Agency concerned was too easily identifiable, and consequently, so too were the personnel involved. My apologies if you have come here hoping to read my continuing autobio.... I shall continue undaunted! love, Ginger xxx

One thing changed for me that evening. It was my first time to go OUT dressed. It was my first time to go OUT in costume. But what changed for me, and I have never changed back, is that I sat down to pee, just like the lady I was that night. The effort of rummaging through the costume was so intense, there had to be a lasting effect! And I have ALWAYS sat down to pee, ever since.

It makes a girl a girl.

Chapter 24 hasn’t been written yet, but will explore some of the new sexual experiences that I feel are attributable to that Agency party. Some were fun, some were disasters. Through them all, my dressing has emerged, locked in my psyche, if not in my everyday life.

With renewed apologies for having to censor my last chapter, for the truths revealed were too recognizable, I continue! “Wishing for what might have been”…. So it is for me. What happened with the Agency had an effect on many things in my life. There’s more pure sex in this chapter — no apologies — but my dressing will return!

Chapter 24

The love-making after the party was great for both myself and my “Wife-y”. It would lead to much more experimentation between us but, ultimately, to a severe ultimatum (from her to me).

Our role reversal for the party, as I tried to indicate before, released a different attitude in Christine, my wife. She had looked really good in her male gear, just as I had looked at least passable as a bloke in a dress. She was very assertive that night when we got home from the party. She took the lead in ways that I had never known her to do. Ways that I enjoyed hugely.

I found that this took away all of the pressure “to perform” — a term I absolutely HATE with a vengeance (mainly because I failed to “perform” on many occasions around that time. My late 30s were a time of falling confidence in a lot of ways. To find us romping away playing with few inhibitions was a joy.

Christine found that I would respond when she pinned me to the bed with a vice-like grip on my wrists, sufficient for her to have a really rampant ‘ride’ on an unusually stiff cock. She also enjoyed riding me with her pussy over my face and having me delve deeply into the beautiful folds of her lips down there. She chose, for the first time, to give me a long and luscious oral until I could cum with such force I had nearly lost consciousness. Wow! Was this a direct result of a night’s crossdressing?!

I thought so, maybe even believing that Christine was getting to enjoy that side of me. She had always guessed, I’m sure, but hadn’t been sure. She also hadn’t revealed anything about her more dominant side.

(Please don’t be concerned, dear Reader, this is real life and it’s not going to go off up some bizarre S&M fantasy. The activities that follow were real and may not have lasted too long — I mentioned an ultimatum, remember?)

Over the weeks that followed, I contained my delight about the way things were going by imagining my own part in this to be of a female — perhaps a little submissive female. My love life had rarely been better. I wasn’t dressing for any of these encounters. My mind took me to places where I enjoyed myself more than enough.

Christine didn’t mention my dressing again after the night of the party, nor did she suggest that she dress in a male fashion either. We had simply been ‘released’ by the party.

My birthday that year — 1988 — brought me a surprise package. Along with several boring, everyday gifts (you know the sort of thing!), I found one small extra gift, wrapped in shiny red paper with a crimson ribbon and bow tied around.

Christine had a sly smile on her face when she gave it to me saying “These are for quiet nights in at home….” Her hands were unusually tipped with wonderful bright red nails — I couldn’t resist pausing to admire them.

But then I couldn’t wait to find out what she meant but carefully un-picked the bow and opened the parcel. To my surprise, a black velvet pocket-bag revealed a pair of cuffs. Something I had heard that people enjoyed but had never explored myself.

“These are for me?....” I asked, also smiling. “They are indeed, honey…… but….” was her reply.

“But? But what??....” I asked. “But I may ask for them sometimes, if you’d agree.”

I would rather have had a lovely nightie or a bra, panties and suspenders… but….. beggars can’t be choosers! I responded urgently, saying “Whenever you like my darling…..!”

“Then just do as I say, and do it now…… Go shower and wash very carefully. You have seven minutes and I’m counting. I want you back here on the bed before 7.43! I shall be ready for you. Be prepared to give yourself up to me… you are MINE!” I got up from the bed.

Oh, if only I were wearing some beautiful undies…… For the first time I WANTED to be discovered! But I had none to be found in. If only I were wearing make-up! But I had none to wear. I just had to do as I was told.. and fast. I left pieces of clothing all along the passageway to the bathroom where I arrived stark bollock naked. The shower was hot and left me gasping. The towels were warm and fluffy and luxurious. I towel-dried my hair and briefly gave thought to its (then) lack of style. I HAD to do something about that.

I went back to the bedroom having, also briefly, thought about putting on Christine’s sexiest, white satin, dressing gown which hung on the bathroom door. But I thought better of that — just the thought gave me a nice stiff cock to go back to the bedroom with. All of this was too good to have dreamed of — on my birthday!

Back on the bed, I found Christine with just her bra and panties on. Lovely, lovely…… She had brushed her white blonde hair and it was now piled high on her head in a chignon. Her lipstick was full and fresh.

She rose to stand face-to-face. She took hold of my cock, her eyes not blinking, as she said “Pleased to see me?” Which naturally, I was. “Not half as pleased as I am to see you.”

She very deliberately reached for my right wrist with her left hand, leaving my cock in her right hand which was now gripping me hard, her fingernails causing discomfort. There was more of that to come, as she said “Pick up one of the cuffs… NOW!” Her eyes stayed fixed on my own.

I did so. The cuffs were within easy reach. She released her grip on my cock. For a minute. Within seconds, the cuff was in her ‘free’ hand. It proved to have a quick-snap lock, engaged by her closing the cuff over the wrist that had delivered it. Immediately, her hand was back on my cock. The second cuff dangled.

“Do the other one yourself”. Her instruction was clear. “No, wait a minute…. You hold this… “(she said, handing me my own cock)….. “and put your arms behind your back. NOW!” So I did so. The lock of the second cuff snapped shut and I was again face-to-face with this woman who was now in control.

“You enjoy what’s to come, and then you can return the favour…”

So, I was on a promise!

--oo00oo–

An hour or more later, I was satiated, exhausted, and knew that the compliment was to be returned. Christine was, by now, as horny as hell. She had cum a couple of times when her pussy was riding my face, oh, and another when she felt me cum inside her. “Double-top” we called that.

(I’ll spare you the details of how that came about, dear Reader).

She gently removed the cuffs from my wrists as I lay there on the bed. It was clear that she would want to be seduced as expertly as I had been by her. I didn’t have the wrapping of the gift to offer, so I needed surprise somehow else. I stood up and put on my own short dressing gown. Sadly, not a sexy item at all really.

My mind ran wild but came up with nothing……. I decided to do the reverse of what she might be expecting… and, at the same time indulge a little fantasy of my own. Before I got started, my cock rose again, a bit embarrassingly….. First, I would dress her and do her make-up and her hair, as if we were going out on the town.

“Stand up, my wife!” I commanded — in a most unusual way for me; I don’t ‘command’ anything much. And she did. We stood face-to-face. Now, go to your vanity unit and sit down….. Take your cuffs with you. I stressed the word “your” as the cuffs were now no longer “mine”….. (They became “ours”).

As she sat, I looked her in the eyes in the mirror and my hands took her by the wrists behind her back. I slipped the cuffs on to her slender arms and admired them, along with those wonderful crimson nails. I knelt down behind her and kissed the backs of her hands. My tongue traced the lines on the cuffs above the hands. Then, I licked the fingers and sucked the fingernails, allowing Christine to study her own reactions in the mirror.

I have already said she was as horny as hell. Well, I was right in doing what I was doing. She let out a very quiet moan as she squeezed her thighs together, raising the tempo towards a climax. Already aroused, she was ready to cum. So I spun the stool on which she was sitting and, with her now facing me and away from the mirror, I pushed her thighs apart and went down into the glorious pleasure park that opened for visitors that minute.

All I have ever learnt about tongue-fucking a woman came into play and I was soon lost in my own dreamworld. How long I was in there, I have no idea. She still had her lovely panties on so I pushed them aside with my tongue and held them aside with a finger. My other hand took care of her clitoris that was all pink and wet by now. How many times I heard her cum, I cannot recall….. maybe not at all, maybe ten times. Whatever, we were both overjoyed…. But I was not yet finished.

Turning her stool to face the mirror again, I took the pins that held her hair out and laid them on the vanity. Her hair fell to her shoulders and the brush I took in my hands was easy to run through it. Avoiding vigorous brushing, the clean waves of hair tumbled just as I hoped they would. Parting the hair centrally, I pinned the hair from her temples back to the crown…. Gwyneth Paltrow style.

Her selection of cosmetics beckoned. The foundation was light and easy to apply with a finger or two. The eyeshadow was also light to apply. Less is more — I remembered. She wouldn’t want to look like the tart I usually ended up being. Then I dared to put on some liquid eyeliner. My hands weren’t steady enough and I gave that up as a recipe for disaster. Likewise the mascara. So I turned to the lipstick that we had so many times put upon eachother’s lips whilst preparing to fuck. Easy. I leant back and admired my handiwork. Her eyes still needed defining. An eyepencil would be less risky, so that was what I used.

She was allowed to look at herself. “Stand, now.” I whispered. She stood there in her bra and panties — which I so was jealous of! “Find some stockings. And a suspender belt.” I was insistent — she would now fetch and carry, and I would put the clothes on her. The belt was first.

As she did so, I told her to sit again at the vanity. I knelt at her feet and rolled the first jet black stocking into a roll which then went over her toes and ankles…..

Within minutes, I had dressed a woman entirely myself. We paused only to release the cuffs while a beautiful sexy blouse was laid upon her shoulders and her arms threaded into the sleeves. The cuffs then went back on. She was dressed when she finally stood after I put on the highest stiletto-heeled shoes that she owned on her dainty feet.

My words then to her will not be repeated here but she was left knowing how much I loved her, how sexy she was that night, and what a wonderful lover she was.

I then pushed her back onto the bed, parted her panties and got back in with her pussy… I was tongue-fucking a beautiful woman, just in the way another beautiful woman would do. The more I did this, the more I felt like the male lesbian I knew I had become.

I didn’t want to fuck other women besides Christine. I certainly didn’t want to fuck with any men. This was the Promised Land!

--oo00oo–

As our lives extend, there are fewer “first times” to report, it’s natural. Keeping on doing what gives pleasure means repetition not new frontiers all the time. Increasingly, the experiences we find anew are further spaced apart. So it was in the months after “that” party.

A few new experiences come to mind, although I can’t be sure if they’re in the right order, chronologically.

Having my own eyelashes dyed. Yes, that was one. I had always wished my eyes were more distinctive and could never manage with false lashes myself. So having my own lashes dyed was an alternative worth trying. I did make it clear, when booking an appointment “for the local theatre”, that I wanted only a very light change of colour. And that was what I got. It was the most bizarre experience of my life, having this done to me (and I have had some bizarre experiences, as you know!). Talk about “up close and personal” with the beauty assistant, Chloe by name. I was pleased with the result and, if Christine noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Then there was the time when I found myself buying a pair of silicone false tits (and having nowhere to hide them). That was another visit to ‘Transformation’ in London. I had been given a bonus from work and fancied indulging myself.

So I went to my favourite high street store, bought a new bra and proceeded to strut my stuff with what felt like genuine tits! I loved myself a little more. That’s something I had rarely done before…… and not much since either. Such is the lot of a dedicated Crossdresser.

That same event led to my shaving my nipples and underarms. After all, a girl can’t have nasty hairy armpit, can she?! I kinda liked the way it was all flushed away in the shower. Again no comment from Wife-y, Christine…… but then when did she ever look at my armpits??

At this time, aged 39, I was tempted again to buy some more clothes and to risk keeping them hidden. I was tempted also to go on some ‘fieldwork’ visits where I could stay away from home and maybe indulge some dressing which I had denied myself for several years now. The sex at home was much better than it had been for years. I was enjoying my inner-self fantasies… but I felt ready to try a little more.

This led me to a visit to Manchester and to a budget hotel room by the M6 motorway that is the main north-south artery around the city. I knew that the ‘Transformation’ business had its first shop in this area and that it was far far away from my being discovered if I went there.

Booking a room in a hotel, I knew a ‘chain’ where there were few services like Reception 24/7, Night Porter, Restaurant and such. It was literally, a room for the night. After 8pm, the doors were controlled by access keys that were the room keys.

I stopped on the drive north from London and went shopping. I bought a white cotton blouse with a lady’s business suit in a pale lilac, stockings and suspenders, bra and panties. All from a local Marks & Spencer store and a nearby Bon Marche store in Macclesfield, near the M6. I would rely on ‘Transformation’ to provide shoes for my size 9’s (which are tough to find shoes for ANY where!)

Having checked-in, I drove the remaining seven miles to the shop in a north Manchester suburb, went in immediately after parking the car, allowing myself no time to have second thoughts or ‘chicken out’. I walked in and said that I wanted a “Make-up & Change” service and showed my bag with its contents.

The shoes were going to cost me, big-time. So, too, would the wig. My own hair was nowhere near long enough for the look I was hoping to create. “Certainly, love!” was the reply from the (quite) mature lady assistant who served me. (There were three of them on duty serving. One was younger but obviously new to the business, the other two were older and quite used to people like me and their wishes).

We spent time choosing the wig (which I loved and prolonged, trying on at least four!) and the shoes, of which there were only three pairs to suit my needs. The wig was a fall of auburn curls, with feathery bangs, the length reaching my low neck, and with highlights framing the face.

Within an hour, I was changed, served with tea, made-up and be-wigged. In my business suit, I looked better than I could have dreamed or hoped. In the many mirrors surrounding the dressing room, I looked, if a little tall, ready for the world. I was so glad that I had bought and brought my own clothes. My previous ‘Transformation’ Awaydays had offered a charity shop selection of clothes to wear.

Several photographs were included in the cost of the service, so I posed as any girl would. However, none were close-ups of my upper body and face and hair which I would have liked. They did show, remarkably, that my legs looked good in stockings. I was right proud!

And I left the store, having paid and said my thanks. I left the store! I went out into the street — not in a party costume like before, but in a woman’s outfit, with a woman’s hair, shoes and attitude!!

It was now 5.15pm and getting dark. Walking to my car, I took deep breaths and enjoyed the feel of the clothes. Catching my reflection in a shop front, it was easy to stop and admire the image. Reaching the car, and pausing, I got in and drove away, unaware of and uncaring of the thoughts of any passer-by who might have seen me. I didn’t want to go and meet other people. I didn’t want to get mixed up with shopping crowds or travelling commuters.

I spotted a nearby public park which appeared to be quiet and yet still open. So, risking being mugged I now realize, I went in and sat quietly enjoying the approach of the evening sky.

Content with life. But what would my wife say. Was this betraying her?

Chapter 25 will show that it was.

My previous chapter started 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 chapter ended with my taking the chance to dress in public for the first time. I asked if that was betrayal. I was to be proved right that it was seen to be just that.

Chapter 25 — Being discovered

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….”

"No,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? Chapter 24 asked if Wife-y Christine felt betrayed. As you can see. She did. But there is a way back, as life today proves. There are other tales along the way of this true story. I hope, dear Reader, you will follow the next steps… in chapter 26.

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.

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:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant,
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Her to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

--- Max Ehrmann, 1927

Wanting to stay married, I knew that was the end of my dressing. That was ten, no nearly fifteen, yes! 15! years ago. The Internet proved to be a gift from heaven. I started writing fiction in 2000 after I had been reading Sapphire’s and Storysite’s wonderful selection of TV/CD/TG fiction. The site gave me connections with others who felt the way I always have. Caitlin Rose, Marti B…. so many of you wrote so well. I got inspired! Now I’m reaching the end of my autobiography, I feel the urge to go for some fiction again!! Watch out for me girls!

Chapter 28 — Epilogue

The evolution of the Internet and the creation of some wonderful websites meant that I wasn’t alone, even though I had, and indeed still have, no close confidantes with whom I can share my love of “cross country”. That is why I crave the commentary from readers who have been kind enough to read my efforts.

If anything, my writing encouraged my deeply-held desire to be a beautiful woman who is stylish in her dressing, luscious in her beauty care and adorned with the most wonderful hair that heaven could create. In my dreams I am a positive and persuasive communicator, a good listener and a seductive lover. If only my early experimentation in marriage could have involved making my wife laugh with me and to enjoy and share at my desires. If life could be started over again, it would be different.

Once I had made the final promise, to stop all my dressing and never to mention the subject again, I was committed — some might say committed to a mental institution — committed to an apparently ‘straight’ lifestyle. In this, my meaning is ‘straight’ but not as in ‘not gay’. My readers, you should know me by now, I never was and never will be a gay male. I may see myself as a lesbian but that’s as far as my homosexuality has ever taken me.

For the first time (remember?.... that’s how this autobio began??) I gave myself a birthday treat, one year to the day after my resignation from the CD world. My treat was to have a full day’s ChangeAway at the ‘Transformation’ store in London. It’s easily reached by train from where I live and the deal allows a double transformation that lasts the whole morning and afternoon, or the afternoon and evening.

I’ve done this every year since. On the same day. I choose from a menu of ‘looks’ each time I go. I’ve been a Slutty Whore with superb fishnets, suspenders and bra with breast inserts, big big hair and OTT make-up.

I’ve been a Business Woman, again with a tight tight corset and bra combination, high heeled court shoes, and seamed stockings but under-stated makeup and precisely-chisel cut bobbed hair.

I’ve been a Bride with the most wonderful meringue nest dress, fairytale bra and panties and wonderfully upswept hair. and….

I’ve even been a Dominatrix, with the tightest basque you ever did wear, high energy striking make-up and a black wig with slashes of blue and blonde streaks!

No longer a shrinking violet (because time is not on my side) I get involved with the very helpful ladies who assist with dressing on these occasions.

Whereas when I first went to ‘Transformation’ for a “transformation” I hardly said a word, just enjoying what was done to me. I made choices about the dresses I wore, the ‘look I wanted’ and just let them get on with the job. I didn’t stay in the lounge for long to savour the enjoyment, but rather showered and left too quickly.

Nowadays, I talk continuously with the ladies there, asking them about what the do for other clients, what they like doing most for girls like me, and what they would do with my figure, or my make-up, or my hair when I come back next time. Lots of ideas!!

I have seen myself grow in age with these repeated visits. I’m far far from a possible ‘pass’ in the street which I once felt confident enough to risk.

I’m now not just a guy in a dress, I’m an old guy in a dress who cannot go out! The Transformation studio is therefore a resource for the now unthinkable.

I’m Ginger. I wannabe more but know now I’ll never be. But I’m content with that. With my writing and my stories, and my dreams.

I love you all, my dear readers and promise to continue to write for the few who really appreciate my work. I thank them all and hope I can comment enough on their works too.

Thank you Erin and BCTS in general.

I love you all!

Lots of love,

Ginger xxxx