I have been indulging in a solitary vice again, but don't worry - I mean reading, not what you thought. While perusing the Skeptical Inquirer I came across a review of an odd little tome of pseudoscience called Dressed to Kill: The Link Between Breast Cancer and Bras. Now really, what would your average brassiere obsessed crossdresser do but immediately sign on to the library computer and get a copy delivered to the local library to find out what's going on here. You didn't think I would pay for the thing, did you?

I what to know who makes up the rules, and when I find her I want her to change them, now! It may come as a shock to you, but life just ain't fair. With my new job I am living in a two room apartment all by myself on weekdays. My wife is in school two hours away from my apartment, which is two hours away from our (supposedly permanent) home, and we navigate from node to node on this triangular route each weekend. I thought life was supposed to get more stable when you hit your forties!

I'm sure that you have seen an ad or two (or twenty) for one of those 900 phone services. They usually have neat names like 1-900-HOT-HOTT, which is a real number that a teenage neighbor called twice on my garage phone before I caught him. I never could understand why someone would pay $25 for the first four minutes of talk when for a smaller monetary investment you could go to a bar somewhere and buy some floozy a few drinks and get the talk live, or possibly something more if you have a golden tongue.

“BOOM!” Goes the snub nose revolver I test fired making my ears ring. The smell of gunpowder permutated from the gun. I never shot a revolver before, but this is the first and last day I fire one. My body was jittering as I pull back the hammer of the revolver.

I walk into my garage. I was dark and warm. A nice place to end it all. I sit down in a chair and put the revolver in my mouth. I slide my thumb in the trigger guard. I close my eyes and slowly squeeze the trigger.

Casting Call for the Black Badges

A white-haired girl walks down the middle of the shadow of death. There is nothing in the barren wasteland besides craters and tree stumps. The wind kicks up the dirt and grime.The girl is not fazed by the flying layer of dust. Not a speck of the filth touches her beautiful fair skin and none penetrates her glowing blue eyes. She abruptly starts sprinting to the top of a hill and lays down. She unslings her rifle and aims at a black-haired, red-eyed man.

I made this story back when I was a wee boy in about, I think, sophomore year of high school. The reason why this story was never finished is that I ended up finding out that I am a girl, not a guy. So, queue the dysphoria and severe levels of depression. I'm interested if anyone wants me to reinvent the story to make it more interesting. Somehow I still have the ideas and plans for this story. By the way, this story is not done and the original will probably never be created.

Last night's nightmare on current world events.

 “You’d have to be a right plonker to willingly start something like this.”

Hello everyone,

I'm new as an author on here. This is a rather personal story/ poem, but it fits into the TG context.

I'm working on an actual series, but as a slow writer it will take some time for that.

I still hope you can enjoy reading this here.

Best wishes,

Filas

Visitor from my dreams

Author's note: I read a writer's prompt on facebook, and it went something like "She came to me in my dreams, and in my nightmares", and my muse took it from there ...

At first, i thought she was a nightmare, the girl in my dreams.

For I was a boy, or supposed to be. So where could this girl I dreamed of being come from?

Then there were the nightmares in truth, but she was not the monster in them, but rather a victim - a prisoner, tormented and captive.

“I mean honestly, who goes looking for this sort of trouble?”

Relaxation

Like a lot of other guys, my work is something I endure so I have the money to enjoy my weekends, when I can relax.

Although, the way I “relax” is a little different than most guys ...

See, once I get home on Friday afternoon until I have to get ready for work on Monday, I spend the whole time in women’s clothes.

I dont think its a fetish, at least not exactly, because for the most part, I dont get turned on by dressing up.

What I mostly feel is ... at peace.

Free.

“It’s not like I expected to get dragged into something like this”

Ambassador of Femininity – Chapter 3

(Sorry for the delay. This one is shorter but next is coming up soon.)

Just a bit of story telling from me for tonight on looking for a home, the road less travelled and being true to one's self

The gypsy girl

She is looking out of the window at the sunset as she's siting on the bed in a room in a house but her mind is elsewhere - the memorys of her life spent on the road less travelled in her thoughts tonight -

Shadowsblade a Whateley Tale: Written by Shadowsblade
Created for war and forged in pain, dealing with demons within and
without.

In this one!

We go off the rails!

There I was getting home from a long day at work again, once I opened the door going from the garage to my house. I heard the very distinct sound of food already cooking on the stove!

OK I said I'd look silly stealing a twisted idea proposed by Daphne Xu in a comment to a recent blog. With her permission I did it anyway. Of course I added an extra twist of my own.

Belle leaned forward to kiss the ”Beast”. He raised a paw and gently stopped her. In his strong and yet soft manly voice he said:

”I have to warn you. When I was cursed ten years ago the witch told me I had to find love in my heart and be loved back before my 21th birthday, which is tomorrow, otherwise I would stay a beast. A beast I truly was then. The witch made me look like I was inside, in every way. If I found love I would revert to my previous physical form. It may not be what you expect”

That Valentine’s Night Kiss

This is short - and this first kiss never was.

The necklace

The young woman looks down to the heart shape necklace in her hand with tears running down her face... on the night of Christmas eve -such a simple thing so small yet has such meaning to the young women - the story that the necklace tells is of the love between a mother and her daughter... And of acceptance and support...

Another very short story that just popped in my head. It doesn't really have a plot and the morale is pretty thin, and there's no explanation as to why it could happen. Just don't bother someone when they're busy unless it's actually important.

Caution: some slight descriptiveness of genitalia. Story rating is for safety but otherwise ok.

I was amazed. The house looked exactly like it had done twenty years ago. Now when I finally had got this far I suddenly hesitated. Was I really prepared to meet my father? Could we put all everything behind us and start anew? Could all the prejudice be overcome?

Town Princess

Almost every town probably has its rituals.

You know, the stuff that brings the neighbors together, have a bit of fun, remember the important stuff the past or celebrate the future.

My town’s ritual is a bit ... different.

It all started about ten years ago.

We had two stunning revelations that shook us to the core.

The first was the suicide of a teen named Brett Markson. He’d been popular, involved in local charities, always the first to step up when called upon, so his death came out of the blue to all of us.

A night sky full of stars - it's late - a young man slowly walks back  to the place they are staying at from a birthday party - walking across a bridge high above a small river the runs though town they stop as they look over the side - with tears running down they face all they can think about is how easy it would be to end it - to step off the edge  - end all the pain and suffering - no longer seeing any way out...