SHOULD I TELL THE ONE I LOVE
Whichever path we choose only one thing can be certain, unless you are very lucky indeed you are likely to endure much heartache and frustration along the way.
If the answer is no, you may be committing yourself to a life of secrecy and deceit, if the answer is yes, you will probably run the risk of being misunderstood and rejected.
Of course, this will not be the case for everyone and I can only draw on my own experiences to come to these conclusions. However, I am pretty sure that there must be plenty of other transvestites out there whose story is not that different than mine.
I can remember being as young as twelve years old standing naked in front of a mirror with my boyfriend carefully tucked out of sight innocently admiring a reflection that had a strange hint of femininity about it. At this time I had no idea why I did this, all I know was that it felt pleasant and comforting.
At sixteen having secured a Saturday job and having some spare money, I found myself inexplicably purchasing woman’s underwear, wonderfully soft silky and delicate panties and bras. I built up quite a collection.
Whenever I was alone I would select my favourite items, put them on and spend hours parading in front of the all-important mirror savouring the pleasant feeling it gave me.
To my absolute horror my secret collection was discovered by my mother and for the first time in my life I was made to feel guilt and shame for my behaviour. Despite being hurt and confused by the subsequent anger and derision, I quickly replaced my confiscated belongings, found a more secure hiding place and continued to dress up as often as possible.
At seventeen I met and fell in love with my first real girlfriend, Irene, and as our relationship blossomed I longed to let her in on my little secret, but the right moment never seemed to come. When we arranged to spend a weekend away together at a caravan park in the countryside an idea suddenly occurred to me. As we unpacked I feigned annoyance telling my girlfriend that I had forgotten to take any spare underwear with me. I managed to persuade Irene to lend me some of her’s and she gave me a pair of skimpy powder-blue satin panties.
Later on in the local pub she playfully teased me that the outline of her panties were clearly visible through my trousers and what would all the other customers think if they know what I was wearing. I had engineered the situation but failed to take full advantage of it and express my true feelings, something I have always regretted. Instead we laughed and joked about it, I suggested that maybe I could borrow some of her underwear in the future but this was met with a cool response.
The act of wearing those panties in her presence and with her full knowledge was an extremely elating experience, but not wishing to upset Irene I pushed the matter no further. However, I could not stop the compulsive desire to dress up and so I carried on in private and my little collection started to grow. I obtained a skirt and blouse, a dress, more underwear and some makeup.
Our love for each other grew and at eighteen we married, moved away from home and started to make a life together.We were very happy together, but I felt that there was something missing, I desperately wanted to tell my new wife about my peculiar habit, but could not find the words or the courage to do so. As a compromise, keeping my own feminine belongings well hidden, I suggested that it might be fun for me to dress up in some of her clothes as a game, a prelude to sex. In my naivety I imagined that this solution would make it easier for Irene to accept my needs to cross-dress and that, although it was not exactly what I wanted, I at least had the opportunity to dress in feminine clothes in her presence.
I should have been more honest and come clean, it was an uncomfortable arrangement for the both of us.
Although Irene let me indulge myself it was far from perfect, she was confused that her husband, a man, should want to wear her clothes for no apparent reason other than a game, and for my part I was gaining very little pleasure from these occasional opportunities.
For me, dressing as a woman had nothing to do with sexual gratification, I didn’t want to become a woman and I definitely wasn’t gay, and yet because of my inability to express my true feelings those were the thoughts that were going through my wife’s mind. And with no logical explanation from me, who could blame her really?
I spent long hours deliberating over the problem and trying to figure out a way to tell Irene, I became obsessed with wanting her to understand me. The pressure of keeping this secret to myself was starting to become an intolerable burden.
It was such a simple, harmless and innocent pleasure, so why did it evoke such misunderstanding and prejudice? It wasn’t something dirty or perverted, in fact quite the opposite.
When I had rid my body of hair, slipped into skimpy lace trimmed underwear, pulled on my stockings and high heels, put on my skirt and blouse, placed my wig upon my head and applied my makeup I stepped into another world, a better more peaceful and gentle world. The stresses and strains of everyday life seemed to drift away, worries and anxieties were replaced with an aura of beautiful tranquil pleasure. How could this be so wrong?
I stopped requesting our little game and reverted to dressing in secret again, alone and isolated, but at least I was dressing as a woman for my own reasons and not as a compromise.
I continued like this for some time and life went on – we had two beautiful daughters and we went through the normal ups and downs that all couples have to endure. On the face of it we were a very happy, healthy couple except that I was leading this terrible double life. On the one hand I was the respectable loving husband and father and on the other this person who craved to dress up as a woman in secret because there didn’t seem to be any other choice.
The burden of keeping my feminine half hidden soon began to take its toll and I am sure my family suffered as a consequence. I became increasingly bad tempered and irritable and started to turn to drink for solace. I couldn’t see it then but I became a pitiful creature full of self pity and sorrow, and it was all my own creation.
I went through bouts of depression and guilt, throwing away all my feminine belongings, promising myself that I could live without it only to find a couple of months later that the irresistle urge would return with a gretaer intensity. I would then go out on mad shopping sprees replacing everything that I had lost, and so began an expensive destructive cycle that was to last for fifteen years.
Every so often I approached Irene asking her if she would agree to my dressing up in her presence, but my requests were always greeted with an emphatic no. This did not help my growing anxiety and depression, but it was not her fault, it was mine. Why couldn’t I have just been more honest from the beginning. It would have made life so much easier…
In one last desperate act I took advantage of a weekend alone with Irene while the children were staying with relatives and persuaded her to let me dress up in front of her. She agreed, but it was a mistake, a very big mistake.
I felt so happy as I prepared myself, ensuring that I looked my best. Irene’s jaw dropped as I entered the room in my favourite outfit, high heeled court shoes, stockinged legs, a short black velour mini-skirt, a wine coloured blouse, my face fully made up and my mousey blonde wig. she could not bear to look at me and after only fifteen minutes sitting on the sofa together she ran out of the room. I following and found her sobbing uncontrollably on the bed, she couldn’t cope and was devastated, and it frightened me – this time I had surely gone too far.
I had seen Irene upset before but this was different, I had a real feeling that I could lose her. That scared me. I loved her dearly and couldn’t even contemplate life without her. Stripping off and scrubbing my face I stuffed all my feminine belongings into a large refuse sack and put it out with the rubbbish.
I tried to comfort her, promising her that I would change, that I would block my compulsation out altogether, but it did not last long. How shallow my promise was. Once again I found myself purchasing the clothes, underwear, make-up, shoes and wig that I could not live without, and again I started to dress in secret.
Then something happen to change my life again, I had embarked on a quest to become a writer. I had always been quite artistic and I thought this would be a new way to express myself. After several rejected manuscripts I decided to follow some advice and write something I know about intimately. After one more rejection, my first short story was accepted! I was overjoyed and when I told Irene, to my surprise, she shared my joy. She said she was proud of me and pleased with my success.
As subsquent scripts were accepted we began to openly discuss my strange obsession for the first time. In the evenings when we took our regular walk in the woods I was able to explain to Irene about the many different aspects of transvestism, why people did it and most importantly why I did it.
It was wonderful to be able to talk like this, to explore the myths and misconceptions and my wife listened with genuine interest and curiosity. It was like a huge burden being lifted from my shoulders and I felt ten years younger, the relief at finally being understood was incredible.
I still dress up on my own when I have the house to myself because I know that it’s not Irene’s cup of tea and I respect that, but now there is a big difference. I have not exactly got her blessing, but I do have her understanding and sympathy and that is very precious to me.
I no longer suffer from depression or pangs of guilt and can enjoy my cross dressing for the simple pleasure that it is. I now only feel happiness in the knowledge that I have a one-in-milion, long suffering, loving and understanding wife.