Monday, October 5th, 2015

What’s happening?


I have just finished reading Chris from South Africa’s story and was very moved by it.After reading Zoe’s story I felt compelled to write my own.So here goes.

It started very young for me and to this day I still wonder how or why these thoughts come to a person.It’s obviously something we’re mean’t to experience in this life and I often wonder why.Having said that I’m glad that they did.
I was invited to my cousins birthday party.I was somewhere between 5 and 10 years old and I was the only boy there.I remember Mum asked me if that was going to be a problem and I couldn’t imagine why it would be.All the girls were dressed in pretty party dresses.There was one girl who had on a really nice pink one with a sheer covering over the top and a nice waistband sash that tied to a bow at the back.It looked very soft and inviting.I remember thinking I wonder what it would feel like to wear that.I bet it would be VERY nice.

I was lucky growing up as I was alone a lot which I didn’t mind and to this day I still prefer my own company.I ‘ve got friends sure ,but can’t truly relax until I’m alone dressed in womens clothes.I am an only child and because Dad was away a lot with work I spent a lot of time with my Mum,who I was quite close to.I ,too,used to watch her get dressed.She was very particular on how she looked.Very prim and proper as well as very well groomed ,as was I.She was very attractive with a curvy figure.Size 10-12 narrow flat waist,wide hips and shoulders with D cup sized breasts.One day she was laying out all her swimming costumes on the bed.We lived near the beach and went quite often.Growing up in Australia going to the beach and learning how to swim was very much a part of our culture.I remember looking at a pink one piece she had and thinking to myself if I put that on I’ll look like a women,won’t that be fun ? I was 12 and puberty had just arrived as I had a bit of hair downstairs already.This swimsuit was nylon and had a nice short pleated skirt sprouting from the waist just covering the crotch area.50’s style with a low cut back.It also had what I can only assume were stiff plastic lengths inserted in the torso area to enable it to hug the wearer.With the built in stiff cups for the breasts this suit had the female shape already.I put it on and I was HOOKED.I tried on her clothes on a regular basis when no one was around after that. On one occasion I put on her white knee high boots (we were the same size then) a black nylon half slip and tucked this up under the bra I had already put on.The perfect babydoll out fit with sexy boots and D cup breasts.The feeling was incredible.Bra’s stood out on their own in those days as they were quite stiff.I looked like I had breasts.I looked down and wondered in awe what would it be like to have some.I love breasts.I’m a little obsessed.All my old girlfriends had big ones.Then one day things changed.I had put on another of mum’s one pieces,this one was shift style.At the bottom on either side it had two slits which made the material spread out and created the illusion of wide hips.On the inside suspended by white elastic strips atthached to either side of the waist were separate high waisted panties.With the built in breast cups I looked like a voluptuous girl and with the soft satin polyester against my skin I was instantly turned on and had my first sexual experience.I was shocked and a little humiliated as I didn’t know what was going on.I was really worried as I thought I was a freak and completely unique.After a while however,I decided I didn’t care because if something felt this good ,surely it couldn’t be bad for you. Right ? Right.

I kept dressing up on a regular basis when no one was around using apples for breasts .Around this time the fashions were made mostly with polyester.I was in 7th heaven.Around the age of 19 I stopped because I thought this isn’t normal surely.I was an athlete,what if my surfer or football mates found out,I’d be ridiculed.

As I got older I developed an affinity towards women,preferring their company and conversation.My two closest friends are women.One said to me the other day,you know I can talk to you about anything,you’re just like one of my girlfriends.I thought you don’t know the half of it.

Anyway,I soon started up again.I kept dressing up in secret for years hiding it from my girlfriends and friends as well as Mum and Dad who were quite conservative.The 90’s came around and I found myself living alone and enjoying it.I was going to dance parties with my gym friends and hanging out at gay night clubs at night.The perfect place to “come out” you’d think but I considered my secret to be private and personal and when I was out at night I couldn’t wait to get home,have a shower and relax in front of the tele wearing some nice lingerie.

Obviously by this stage I had realized I wasn’t unique.I had my own hips and various breast inserts and a lot of nice clothes.I have a good body and don’t look my age.I grew to be about a size 16-18 with a flat stomach and being 5ft 5” i look quite voluptuous done up.I have dark Irish features which are very strong so as a result I get a lot of second glances from people who think they know me or someone like me.I get that a lot.Because of this I have been scared of experimenting with make-up.I’d be mortified if someone gave me a second look and realized I was a man.If confronted I wouldn’t know what to do.I am a very visual person and a perfectionist so my look would have to be close to perfect before I went out.Maybe thanks to this website I can achieve that.
I moved back home in the year 2000 to be around for my parents who were getting elderly.Dad was an only child as well, so we had little family and need to stick together.So I stopped again.When I think of all the nice blouses and skirts that went to charity.Oh well.hopefully they’ve gone to a nice home.I couldn’t tell Mum and Dad as they had enough stress in their lives as Mum eventually died from cancer and Dad soon after from dementia related illness.Mum wouldn’t have understood as she envisioned married with children for me.Dad may have gotten his head around it but would have been really disappointed as he was a real ladies man in hid day and a mans man to boot.

They passed in 2009 and I’ve been single and living alone since 2010 and loving it.I’d only come up with a name for myself a few months back as my feminine side is really starting to shine through.I think if I’d been a girl I’d have been athletic so I couldn’t see myself having a girly name like Michelle or Allison or whatever .I really liked the “J “names like Julie,Jenny,Jasmine,Jane or Jodi.So,Jodi it is.

I love dressing as Jodie,the swirl of a nice dress or skirt about my legs is divine.The feel of any luxurious fabric against my skin is heavenly.

Thankyou Zoe for the opportunity to express myself here it was very liberating.I’ll download the quide when I can and I’ll go from there.Love and light to you and all the girls out there.Thanks for listening.

X Jodi.

Alexis’ Story

I am a 17 year old crossdresser and I’ve been dressing for about 9 years now. It all started one day when I was taking a bath and my sister had put her bikini in the tub to dry. I had a sudden urge to put it on and when I did the emotions I felt were like none I had ever felt in the past.

For the next 3 or 4 years this was the only form of crossdressing I did, anytime I saw my sister in a bikini I got excited because I knew that later that day it would be in the tub waiting for me to put it on. Then when I was about 12 I put on my first dress. It was a red strapless dress which belonged to my mother, who was about my same size at the time. The silk against my skin was even better then the feeling of the bikini. So from the point on I was hooked. Any opportunity I got at home alone would be spent dressed like the pretty girl I wanted so badly to be.

When I turned fifteen my sister left to college, and one weekend my parents went to visit her leaving the house all to myself. I spent the whole weekend dressed up, changing every few hours to mix things up. This was also the first time I used makeup. I went all out, painting my nails, putting on my mother red lipstick (which I now know is NOT my color) and even putting on mascara. It was the best weekend of my life so far.

I still can’t wait to purchase my first wig and be able to crossdress as I please, until then I just go to this website to get new and fun ideas and test them out when I’m all alone.

Please feel free to post your thoughts or any comments you may have!


Transgender Confusion & the Girl Who Lives in Me

This is a brief history of who I am and how I grew up here in Cape Town.

My name is “Chris”, I was born in Cape Town on the 9th March, 1950 as the first born to my parents Florence and Trevor.

“A Pisces soul who is gentle, artistic, dreamy, prone to flights of fantasy and who appreciates all things beautiful ……. birds, butterflies, pretty things, pretty colours and pretty people. ”

In the words of my favourite song from my very favourite movie……


My earliest memory in life is that of watching my beautiful mother bath and dress every morning. I remember being seated on her big double bed leaning against her soft pillows, waiting for her to get ready to go out shopping or something together, and then in later years, when I started school, of sitting on that same bed, holding my baby brother while watching her select her delicate lingerie from a special drawer in her dressing-table, laying it out on the bed, creaming her tiny shapely white body all over and then systematically dressing, taking great care in applying her minimal make-up.
She always looked well groomed although we hardly ever went anywhere and although she never had many clothes she always tried to look her best. Her finger nails were always long, filed to a lovely shape and painted beautiful shades of pink or red to match the lipstick that she always wore. Some times she would ask me to pass her things, and once or twice when I expressed an interest in how they felt on, she would playfully put her bra or panties on me so that I could feel them too.

My younger brother was, as it turned out, very different to me. He was fair-haired, where I had jet black hair, he was athletic and well-built where I wasn’t. At school he excelled at sports, and in particular, loved football. He went on to play football and cricket for varies clubs and still, at the age of 56, plays both sports actively and competitively.
Consequently, during his younger years he spent more time out with all his friends than he ever did at home, whereas I always preferred to spend time with my Mom.
Although we got on alright together, he and I were never really very close.


I attended a public school with lots of other boys and girls from the immediate neighbourhood and beyond.
I enjoyed learning and I always sat near the front of the class so I could see and even smell the teachers as they taught the class. I liked to be near the front where I could see everything they wore and how pretty some of them looked.
I was always able to cope well academically, always being in the top half of the class averages, but I never really liked the breaks that we had during the school day. I was neither over popular nor unpopular with the other pupils. Physically I was a little on the smaller side and not particularly athletic. I could catch and throw a ball like most others, but somehow never got picked for any team games until almost the last few to be selected.
Sometimes I just watched. I didn’t really mind because I was happier sitting sharing my lunch with the girls than being pushed around by the bigger boys anyway. And if I came home with dirty or torn clothes my mother used to get really cross because sometimes they were the only items of school uniform I had and she would have to fix the damage before school the next day.

Over time, after school, if I was alone in the house, I would often sneak into my mother’s room and dress up in some of her clothes. My mother was very small so I was always able to find something to fit me. Some times I would find some of her lingerie in the washing basket in the bathroom and I would proceed to wear whatever I could find under my clothes for the day.
The feel of the satin and lace, the nylon against my skin was totally exhilarating and I found myself, more and more, looking for these opportunities.
My biggest day, as I grew older and bigger, was the day I decided to try on my mother’s high heels. She had a collection of simply stunning shoes and like most women, I guess, could not resist a sexy pair of stilettos. Most little boys try this a time or two and then go on to something else, but for me it was a great big wobbling step towards who I am today.

One quiet day after school, having just arrived home, when I was alone in the house I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and there, hanging on a line over the bath was one of my mother’s dresses. I took it off the line, took it to my room and laid it on my bed I stood and looked at it for a while. It was a plain dress, tightish at the top and flared from the waist down. It was fairly short and I remember it always looked good on her. But still I didn’t understand what was so amazing about it, what attracted me to it, but I knew that I had to put it on.
That was the day that I tried on my first article of female clothing. I rushed through to my mother’s lingerie drawer, grabbed some underwear, stockings and suspenders and ran back to my room. I didn’t know how long she would be away. She had told me she would be at her sister’s house not too far away, to perm her hair and I didn’t know how long that would take. I didn’t worry too much about that, but I knew that I had indeed found at least a portion of the magic that I was looking for.

The material felt like nothing that I had ever felt before. It was so much softer than my normal, abrasive, rough boy’s shirts and pants. It was extremely smooth and light against my skin. It took me a while to figure out how to do up the zipper, which was in the back, but when I was finally done I stepped in front of the full length mirror and WOW!. The image in reality was only that of a ten-year old boy playing dress up in his mother’s things, but to me it was way more than that. To me I was suddenly the head turning beautiful, sophisticated, sexy, magical woman that my mother had always been. I turned and looked at myself from all angles and the longer I stood there the better I felt. I was as far from being the drunken man who smelled bad as I could possibly be and I was as close to my mother as I had ever been before. It was as if we shared something of great importance now.
Something else happened that I didn’t understand. The silky material that was so foreign to me had touched my skin and caressed me in a way that I had never been caressed before, if you know what I mean. It was a huge moment in my life and a turning point that has led me down this road to try to create and re-create that same magical feminine image time and time again, as often as life allows, sometimes wearing make-up sometimes without.
All was absolutely fantastic, as I paraded up and down in front of the mirror admiring myself, the beautiful girl who smiled back at me, the beautiful girl who was trapped inside me, who yearned to be set free…. and then I realised that my mother and brother would soon be returning and that I would have to pack all my mother’s clothes away before I was discovered.

Instant panic set in when I realized that I couldn’t reach the zipper with enough hand to be able to unzip it!!
Thank goodness I somehow managed, almost like a contortionist, to finally extricate myself and return everything to its former place in my mother’s wardrobe just before I heard her key unlocking the front door. It was very, very close and it was over a week before I ventured near my mother’s wardrobe again.

I remember that my father was absent from my life most of the time due to the “pressure of work” and when he was there I was normally in my bedroom getting ready to sleep. He had become a regular drinker back then, and a bad gambler who was always trying to find a horse with long odds that would make him a fortune. Of course it never happened and he just always seemed to be in debt while he and my mother argued constantly about the lack of cash. He was a survivor of a sadly abusive childhood himself. He could hardly say three words without stuttering so badly that it became difficult to understand what he was trying to say, so when the war broke out, he dropped out of high school, enlisted and joined the army. He was always an “ex-Military man who had endured a tough war” and seemed to keep most of his thoughts to himself. He was very good looking and it wasn’t long after he had met my mother that they married. When he was sober he was a kind, gentle guy who hardly spoke much except to go on about his passion…… sport, particularly South African rugby and cricket. He hardly ever missed a Saturday to go to Newlands Rugby or Cricket fields to spend the entire day watching his beloved sports.

I was just a little kid, but I remember that he always seemed to smell like alcohol or cigarettes. I tried to disappear whenever he came home drunk, which was almost every night, because it invariably ended up in a screaming match between him and my mother. I felt extremely sorry for her, because I always felt she needed protection from him. I don’t think he would have ever hurt her physically, but the mental pain was always there.

My mother was, I thought, a very beautiful woman. She was small and thin and took very good care of herself. She was always well groomed and kept her nails done at all times. She always smelled like expensive perfume, bubble bath or flowery lotions. She was the epitome of femininity. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t even go to the grocery store unless she was properly dressed with her lipstick on and her hair just right. She was usually playful and fun and was seldom without a warm smile or a hug for whoever happened to visit. Everyone was welcome in our home and people were always visiting. My Mother often spent her days doing hair for all the ladies she knew. She would wash, cut, set and do all sorts of things to their hair.

Sometimes when no-one was around she would practice on my hair which was always (and still is to-day) on the longish side. I had few friends as she preferred to keep me inside where “I would be safe” she used to say, so, I suppose, not only did I cling to my Mother but she clung to me as well.

She often told me that in the last few months of her pregnancy everyone, including her doctor, told her she was going to have a little girl. Consequently, the name picked out for me was to be Christine and all the clothes and toys were bought for a little girl. Because we were very poor in those days, everything was used by me, being replaced only as I grew older, which of course wasn’t a problem because clothes for small kids are mostly suitable for either sex anyway, so it worked out fine. I believe my favourite toy was a doll that I used to spend hours dressing and which I took with me wherever I went. She was eventually thrown in the rubbish bin by my dad.

When I think back to those times before I was even five years old, I guess that my life pattern was already being set. I connected with my mother and not my father for obvious reasons. I wanted to do everything that she did. I wanted to be just like her. It seemed to me like she was some sort of a magical being who was loved and appreciated by her friends, but used and abused by her own husband and I sub-consciously promised myself that I would never ever treat any woman like he did.

I would anxiously wait for the next opportunity to indulge myself and when it arose I would grab all of my mother’s clothes that I felt I needed, rush to my room and slip into them as often as possible. It was a strange sensation, the material would tickle and arouse but the mental comfort of being who I truly wanted to be was calming at the same time. Those emotions contradicted each other but somehow complimented each other as well. I hid this from everyone and kept it my little secret. At ten-years old I didn’t have a huge idea that it was considered deviant behaviour or anything, but I was smart enough to realize that no-one else was doing it, so it probably wasn’t going to be exactly acceptable, but the yearning to do this as often as possible never ever diminished. In fact, in time, I believe it has grown even stronger and has become almost overpowering.

Over the next few years I was able to enjoy these moments fairly often, but not often enough and, thank God, although I often took risks not always knowing when someone was going to suddenly come home, I somehow managed to remain undiscovered as a sissy-boy/queer, which is what “different/transgender” people were labelled in those days. I was lucky, I thought, to be able to read some of the very interesting magazines that my mother’s sisters would pass on to her from time to time…… magazines containing pictures of movie stars, current fashion trends, adverts for shoes and handbags, recipes for cooking, patterns for dress-making and knitting and my mother and I learned a great deal from them. She cooked some delicious meals and also made some amazing clothes, mostly dresses for herself. Occasionally I would be allowed to help, normally only to stand on a table, wearing the “new dress” while she pinned the hemline to get it straight and to the right length. In time she taught me how to cook simple meals and even to knit. I remember knitting squares with scrap wool which she sewed together to form beautiful warm blankets and shawls.

One day, she took me to see a movie which starred a young Elizabeth Taylor and I knew that this was the woman that I yearned to be.
I always thought she was the most beautiful creature God had ever created and I wanted to be exactly like her and even to-day I still think she is the most beautiful of all the lovely women I’ve ever seen.


My high school years were not exactly the happiest years of my life either. It was during this time that my sister was born and I spent quite a lot of time helping my mother to raise her. I can remember spending many hours reading to her and generally looking after her. Sometimes when no-one was around I would pretend that I was her mother and I knew that one day, the ultimate gift to me would be to feel a child growing inside me and maybe even being able to suckle her to my breasts which I felt certain would develope one day. All I had to do was pray hard enough. Unfortunately this never ever happened. I was enrolled at a “boys only” public school and that is where the struggle to survive really began.

Boys were brought together from all over Cape Town. The school fees where reasonable so the school complement was quite diverse. There were rich kids, poorer kids, good, bad, nice and ugly kids. Some were tough, really tough and others were gentle souls. It was a real melting pot and I was in the middle of it all. Because of my “subject choice” I spent my school years surrounded by “tough guys”…… better at football skills than academics and because I was generally smaller in stature than the average guys in my class, I only weighed 125 pounds, stood only 5foot 10inches tall, so life was not always easy.

One of the happiest memories of my high-school life are the days when we had “musical appreciation and drama classes”. Everyone up to Grade 10 had to do this subject as part of their school curriculum and because it was a “Boys” school meant that some of us had to act the part of girls in our plays. This meant that generally the smaller “prettier” boys were chosen for these parts and I was always considered to be one of the nicer looking boys in our class so I was often chosen to play the part of one of the girls during these classes. I didn’t really mind and wearing a dress and make-up on stage made it difficult to identify the boys who were chosen to be girls. I thought it was quite a lot of fun.

The part of school that scared me the most was when we had to attend “Gym” classes or “Rugby practice”, because, after each session we were required to strip naked in the Change-room, walk to the cold showers and shower in front of everyone before returning naked and wet to dry off in the change-room again. This was a nightmare for a guy whose smallish body did not have a single hair on it and hadn’t yet started to shave, while most of the other guys had hairy chests and had been shaving for quite long already. These facts and the fact that some of us were quite “small” did not go unnoticed and hurtful things were done and said often during these sessions.

In those days, in South Africa sport was a big issue and it was no different at our school. Everyone was required to do gym (physical training) classes and play Rugby. There were very few exceptions allowed and for a few years I also had to tolerate some rough treatment at times. I prayed hard during those years and I eventually also started to shave, which somehow made things easier, I think. I also made some “special” friends, big guys who would protect me against any kind of threats. I was always easy going and prepared to help anyone, never accusing or judging, but always willing to forgive, which helped, I believe. One such “special” friend was Bradley, a big surfer/athlete and we spent a great deal of time together at school.

Over time, growing up surrounded by boys, I became comfortable with them in close proximity. There was no other choice, after all some of my very best friends were boys, but I always preferred to be with girls. I always felt more comfortable sharing their interests and I seemed to enjoy most of the things they liked. Unlike the boys, I did not enjoy talking non-stop about “sport, cars, girls and sex”. In fact, sex, throughout my life has never been near the top of my favourites list. I soon found life without was as good as life with. Not having sex much has never ever bothered me…… in fact, the idea of sex with other boys didn’t seem right and sex with girls somehow seemed like I was somewhat Lesbian, which I don’t really consider myself to be. So I never really looked for sex at all and the urge to masturbate (in case that’s what you are wondering about) almost never came into my thoughts either.

During my second winter season at the school I developed Bronchial Asthma and I was forbidden to take part in any physical activities which used to cause, from mild to serious, asthma attacks for me. This, as it turned out was another blessing which I only realised later in life. Apart from everything else, it meant that I no longer had to do Physical Training or play rugby, which meant …..”No more humiliating, traumatic naked showers in front of anyone”.
For several years I cursed God and prayed to die, often sitting alone on my bed in my room, struggling for each and every breath that I needed to take.
My lungs would feel as if they were on fire, especially during the cold winter months and I couldn’t call my mother for help because it was during these cold freezing times that I started to sleep in stockings and panties.

It was all that would keep my legs and feet warm enough throughout the cold nights……. anyway that’s what I told myself and that’s what I wanted to believe and that’s what worked for me.

Later, I soon learned to thank God for giving me this affliction, this trauma of having to live with Chronic Asthma all those years, because it was the only thing that prevented me from being conscripted into the military after finishing school. Being different, being effeminate….even slightly, in the Army, would have been an absolute disaster for me and would probably have led to an early death. The rate of suicides in the Transgender world is very high indeed, because tolerance in this regard is very, very rare, even to-day and transsexuals are sometimes subjected to horrific abuse almost always being ridiculed, judged and condemned by the majority of people, often even by their closest friends and families. It is not enough that they are forced, by circumstances and these attitudes to spend their entire lives practising a HUGE deception daily, but they live with constant guilt and shame, largely brought on by themselves, knowing that they will always fall short of the expectations of them by others. It is for this reason that they are forced to create an almost perfect “double life” to lead. Believe me it’s not an easy way to live every single day of your life….. Very seldom being able to drop the guard, switch on the light, open the curtain you constantly keep closed and just be yourself, the real you, the person you feel you could sometimes die for just to be able to be YOU and be accepted without prejudice by everyone you know and care about. For the most part, it is a very lonely life to live.

I must confess that I would spend every opportunity that I could get wearing stockings and panties under my “boy” clothes, because it just felt so “right” for me and I yearned to release the girl in me almost every day and every night, but only ever at home. I never ever had the guts to take “Christine” outside on my own in case I was seen. I had no idea what would happen to me if I was, but I knew it wouldn’t be good. Often I found I couldn’t fall asleep unless I felt the delicate touch of my satin panties or the comforting texture of the stockings caressing my freshly shaved legs under the blankets.

It was during this time as a young teenager, that I met a girl who became one of my best friends. We were the same age and therefore in the same grade although we attended different schools. She was not very pretty, in fact she was not pretty at all, she was bigger than me and she was a smarter student than I was. She also liked school whereas I definitely didn’t. We lived within a block of each other and we used to travel part of the way to school each day on the same bus, during which time we would compare some of the subjects we had in common and we would help each other prepare a little for the day’s assignments ahead. As our relationship grew and we became closer, we would spend more and more time together after school, sometimes at my house and sometimes at her apartment where she often used to love to play dress up with me. I suppose it started mainly because I liked to wear my hair and nails slightly on the longer side (which I still do to-day, whenever I can), which irritated her father who was a Colonel in the Army. I guess he never missed the opportunities he had to point this out to her regularly. She, on the other hand, liked it and in fact encouraged me to grow them as long as I liked. She would sometimes pressurise me into wearing nail polish ( which I absolutely loved, in fact, I found the slightly sweetish smell somewhat almost intoxicating….. unfortunately it was very visual and impossible to conceal, except on my toes, which I love to paint when I’m certain no-one will ever see) and putting my hair in curlers, which I also enjoyed.

Occasionally, I would wear a clear nail polish, but the risk of discovery was too great so I had to do it only when I thought that the prospect of this happening was very small. She used to call me “Christine or Christina” and she would often borrow her mother’s make-up and jewellery and dress me in lingerie and stockings on smooth, newly shaved legs and her mother’s high-heel shoes. I had often told her of the “plays” that we had enacted in Drama Class and I had no objections because secretly I was just getting another chance to express my feminine side. I never told her that, secretly I loved our dress up games, but I’m sure she and her mother came to realize it when I didn’t really object too much when “forced” to wear their girly things and they even knew what my favourites were and what they could dress me in next.

If I protested too much, or if I had been a “bad girl” as she sometimes called me, my girlfriend would take me out, after I had dressed up from head to toe……. make-up, high-heeled shoes and all, onto their balcony where there was an old soft coach and where she would tie me up tightly and leave me alone in the dark for what sometimes seemed like forever. I really didn’t mind this too much either, because I was Christine and alone and that, for me was fine. Or occasionally she would take me out of the house, along the road a way, chatting and laughing at jokes we shared and then suddenly she would disappear and I would be left to find my own way back to her flat alone, sometimes finding the door locked and the flat in darkness. These escapades were frightening and exhilarating at the same time, but the enjoyment of wearing make-up, bright red lipstick, dark charcoal coloured eye-shadow and thick black mascara on my long, thick eye lashes was far greater for me than the fear of ever being discovered. Anyway, we were always very careful choosing just the right time to venture out and fortunately she was sensitive to that too.

The fear of discovery was something I lived with constantly and in those days being “different” could prove to be rather dangerous. I was often ridiculed and teased about my long, beautiful clean shiny hair, which was the only thing I could not hide, but I could never be comfortable with it short, so I just used to smile and walk away knowing that I had no intention of cutting it no matter what. The tolerance of people and the police was not very high and transsexuals, homosexuals, transvestites, etc. in fact any “different minority group or individuals” for that matter, were very badly abused sometimes even being badly beaten and jailed. Come to think of it, nothing has really changed all that much in this regard.

I knew that what I was doing, what I was feeling, what I was dreaming about every day and every night, was probably not what a “normal boy” was thinking of, but I was powerless to change that. I often woke up at night and couldn’t get back to sleep just thinking about developing breasts and becoming the “real girl” I knew I wanted to be. I prayed to and cursed God when none of this ever happened, but it made no difference. No matter what I did or thought, I was in a prison from which, for me, there was no escape. I had no-one to talk to about this, because I knew I was unique and I was afraid of the consequences if my secret was ever known by anyone else. It was not easy, but I wanted, more than anything else, to wake up one morning as a girl. I believed that it would happen, as it had to my sister, but it just never did. As my relationship with my “girlfriend” developed and grew so too did my urge to be more and more the girl I knew I was. I found myself wanting to spend more and more time with her as “Christine” during which time we often enjoyed reading, cooking and knitting together at her home.
Sometimes when her parents were away and sometimes when they weren’t. I soon realized that we were becoming ever more daring and we would sometimes even visit her neighbours for tea after supper when invited.

Life, for me…..for us, was absolutely fantastic, but I knew that it would not be long before I would end up in big trouble. So I started to look for a way to end our relationship……. I knew that away from this environment I would be able to take control of myself and be “normal”.

Then one day I met a beautiful girl, fell in love and proceeded to chase her until she married me.
It did not suppress my need to be feminine as I had hoped it would, in fact over time the feminine feelings steadily grew and ultimately went beyond anything up to that point. I have often tried unsuccessfully to purge these thoughts from my mind, but I continued my search for femininity, only now I became extremely cleverer in hiding it after that.

Because my wife worked every Saturday and I didn’t, I was able to be a “girl and a house-wife” at least one day a week for several hours anyway.
My wife and I were similar in size except for our shoes, so it was quite easy for me to share her wardrobe without having to buy anything specific for myself, and as long as I only wore her sandals I had absolutely no problems. I encouraged her to always be sexy, stylish clothes, make-up etc., which I believe she enjoyed, because….. firstly she looked absolutely stunning in my eyes and secondly because as I watched her dress each day I imagined myself being her and that was what I always wanted to be……. a beautiful proud woman who could happily do anything and go anywhere she wanted without fear.
Over time I acquired my own clothes….. Lingerie and make-up and of course shoes and shared her wardrobe only on rare occasions. Unfortunately, over the years, I have thrown away many, many of my favourites at odd times in my life when I promised myself that….. “I would never allow this to happen to me again.” I told myself over and over again that I could and would be a “normal man”, but sadly, it didn’t last for long and I would end up “shopping” once more, only to go through the whole process all over again.

At some stage or other, I joined an Architectural firm as a technician. The M.D. of this company was Jewish and the firm religiously observed all the Jewish Holy Days closing the doors on these days, which was ideal because it meant that I regularly had whole days to myself with no-one else around to suddenly appear and discover my most closely guarded secret.

Eventually, in time as happens to most married couples, we were blessed with children of our own. It was during my wife’s second pregnancy that I began to understand and appreciate the wonder of God’s ultimate creation and the gift of life which He gave to us all. I always sensed when she was pregnant even before she knew herself somehow. It was almost as if there was something starting to change within me…… I felt somehow different. As the child within my wife’s womb grew, I too become broody. I found myself now borrowing her maternity clothes and pretending that I too was expecting a child…… not that I particularly wanted children, but more like wanting to feel that tiny person growing and moving inside me also, just as was the case for my wife.

I longed to be able to enjoy this GREATEST GIFT that God had bestowed on most women. I wanted to feel the joy of breast-feeding a tiny, warm soft child. I wanted to be a Mother, if only for a short time. Because of the modern lifestyle we enjoyed, I did get to help raising our three beautiful daughters, through their trials and triumphs and I was able, at times, to pretend to be their mother too, when mom wasn’t able to be there for them herself. I think this also helped the bonding process between our girls and me, as we are very close and always seem to have things in common which we sit and discuss whenever the opportunity arises.

I still thought of myself as being unique, constantly having the thoughts, wishes and dreams of a normal woman, but with the body of a normal man. I had not heard nor read of anyone else experiencing what I lived with every day and at times I cursed God for making me this way. It was harder for me to pretend to be a normal guy than it was for me when I was able to be a “girl”. When I was a “girl” I felt absolutely relaxed, normal, happy and content, at peace with myself and the world around me. When I was a “boy” I was always on guard, careful not to do or say anything that might lead anyone to believe that I was in fact different in any way. I think I was pretty successful, as I never actually had to endure a serious accusation or intimation of me being “different” that I can recall.

Well that is how I believe it started for me. I know it sounds like a pathetic story, but I’m afraid every word as far as I can remember is true.

I have since spoken unofficially to people experienced in dealing with others who are similar to me (including a renown Sexologist) and have been told by all that, although it is regarded as a sickness, “Gender Identity Disorder” it is called, there is no “cure” other than having gender correction surgery to make me completely female, which I have often wished I could do, but which, at my stage in life, would lead to all sorts of complications that I don’t really need now. I have done an approved official Gender Test and the results indicate that I am indeed a transsexual who might have to consider some sort of Gender Treatment or the company of similar people who have the ability to understand and share, so that I can at least find some peace.
That means, I’m afraid, that I will be condemned to live the rest of my life, neither true man nor true woman, searching daily for stolen moments of peace and wholeness.

Over the years I have cursed God for this, but no more. Since knowing that I am not alone, that there are in fact thousands out there just like me and after spending several hours with a Registered Sexologist I now find myself no longer feeling as guilty or ashamed, but rather grateful to be able to experience both sides of life…… both points of view and I believe it has made me a better more considerate, gentle person, quick to love and slow to anger. For this I have also thanked God. I still occasionally feel guilt and shame, but only in so far as the pain and hurt I have caused me wife over recent months is concerned, but whenever I am able to release “Christine” from within me, as she yearns and battles her way to the surface I am always overcome by the sheer ecstasy I feel of being a woman…….. A total, gorgeous, sexy woman who would give anything to be accepted by everyone as just that.
All I want to do, each and every day is to be the woman outside that I know lives just below the surface inside of me!!

Gender Test Results as mentioned above:

COGIATI Test (Results)

Your COGIATI result value is: 225, which means that you fall within the following category:

I now realize that, amongst others over the years, I have made 2 very big mistakes in my life:

The first one being that I have kept this secret to myself all these years, until it is now too late to correct without seriously affecting some very precious people……. people who are very special to me.
And the second is that I only recently shared this secret with the one person who is the most “Special, Precious Person” in the entire world to me.

18 months ago I confessed to my wife that I could no longer pretend to be a “normal” man and that in reality I was a Transsexual/cross-dresser/transvestite, whatever. You can imagine her reaction……. and although she has tried hard, she will never be able to accept that there are people like me in this world.
For her, and most “normal” people, it is “boy or girl” and nothing in-between or any possible combination thereof. Sadly, this is not true…… never has been and unfortunately never will be. There will always be “grey areas” no matter what. Everything is made up of a little bit of this and a little bit of that and people are no different. No one single person is exactly the same as anyone else and no one single person…… no matter what they think or who they think they are, is perfect. All are created by God, but only one was ever created “perfect”.
Some are created with serious defects, while others have only minor, but NO ONE IS PERFECT.

During the past few months she has told me several times that it was time for me to stop this “nonsense’ which has been destroying her life for the past 18 months and once again become the “man’ she married.

I have been trying to figure out what happened to cause me to start acting more feminine now than ever before, when and how did this all start and I have come to realize that the very first feelings, thoughts that I can remember are of my mother getting dressed in her little lace bra and panties, suspender belt, stockings and high-heel shoes and looking exquisite in her prettiest dress and make-up.

I knew then that in time I too would be able to dress like her. It is what I wanted more than life itself, but hope and pray as much as I did, I never ever grew breasts and the only time I was able to experience any of the life I wished for was when I was completely alone, as I am right now, wearing my most feminine clothes and make-up and feeling like a beautiful Princess from the top of my head to the tips of my sexy stilettos.

At night I find myself, although I like girls, dreaming of being a girl and married to a rather hunky guy.
I don’t know if this is how I should be thinking, but I just feel that if the guy in my dreams was a girl (or my wife) I would be a lesbian, which also doesn’t seem right.
I am utterly confused and really don’t know if I’m Arthur or Martha so to speak.
I have tried very hard from time to time to cleanse my thoughts of all things feminine, but I cannot it is in my blood…… it is a huge part of who I am and who I have always wanted to be. I never wanted to be a soldier or a doctor or a pilot or a cowboy, I always really just wanted to be a girl. I still just want to be a girl!!

I am permanently confused and have a million questions which I cannot answer.

Firstly, I would like to know how special, fantastic, beautiful, peaceful feelings and emotions can be made to feel dirty and shameful.
How can the irresistible yearning and the expressing of these uncontrollable urges to be a woman and the absolute sheer pleasure of being able to fulfil them be wrong??
Why can such joy and peace, both mentally and physically be made to feel bad??
What do I have to do to live a normal, ordinary life??

These are questions that are on my mind every day and every night. Desperate questions I cannot answer. And although I know these emotions are not perceived to be “normal” by normal people, but they do feel absolutely normal to me and I do not feel that they are “bad”.
I try every day, to be “normal” too, but it never happens, only when I pretend to be, and this is only something I do when I am not alone.

Will I ever be able to feel like I belong, like there is nothing wrong with me?

All I wish for each day is to exchange my hairy male body for a lovely, soft smooth complete feminine one.
When I am wearing female clothes (and my often smoothly shaved legs under long pants), and high-heels, lots of make-up and nails polished and can feel the beautiful sensation of skin touching nylon or satin with delicate wisps of lace and the wonderful smell of sensational perfumes, I have feelings that cannot be easily expressed, I feel extremely Special, normal and complete.

Every waking minute, and indeed even in sleep I try always to resist and suppress these urges, but I cannot and the need for them appears to be getting stronger every day. Or maybe I am just not able to fight it quite as much as I always have.
Now that my wife knows how I feel, the deception somehow seems so wrong. In all the time that I have known her, this is the only secret I have ever kept from her …… the only lie I have ever perpetuated….. The only time I have ever deceived her in any way. And it was not entirely for my own selfish gain either, because, in many ways, for me, if I had told her all those years ago, my life would have been different, maybe better…… who knows? Perhaps I would have resolved a lot of the unknowns that I have harboured all this time.

How is it going to be possible to cope with these instinctive feelings and emotions and still maintain a degree of sanity? Again….. Who knows?
I realize that I now have the body of an old man…… still with a lot of hair, but mostly grey, but I also know that I still have the feelings, the emotions, the hopes and dreams, the likes and dislikes of a vibrant healthy woman looking for peace and only finding it on rare occasions of “stolen, precious moments in time”.

At the moment, I, like so many others like me I guess, am completely alone and I would appreciate just being able to share these thoughts and feelings with someone who actually cares (or anyone who can advise me).

At times I cursed God for making me different, for forcing me to try and cope with these complications throughout my life, but since discovering that there are many, many of us all over the world, some probably worse off than me, I have come to thank God for Blessing me and I have learned to cherish the butterfly, the beautiful gentle loving girl who lives in me.

Thank-you girls for listening to me.

I love you all.Take care always.

Thank-you God.


While The Cold War Raged…..

The early 1960’s were times of severe stress for Americans, as families built nuclear bomb shelters in their backyards. Waiting for President Kennedy, or Premier Kruschev to press the red button ushering in WWIII and the probable end of life as we know it. This stress was compounded several fold as my Father was a radar tech in the Virginia National Guard, and was stationed at one of several “Nike” missile sites that surrounded Washington, D.C. during those turbulent days.

My father wanted my Mother to stay at home and raise my older Sister and me. However my Mom an opera star hopeful that never aspired to her lofty dreams slowly became bored with her housewife role, and relied on alcohol to relieve the disappointment. Between her boredom and my curiosity I wound up in one of my Sister’s summer skirts one day when everyone was out of the house.

My Mom continued our dress up games every week day, as I was gradually introduced to playing with her jewelry. Which she always kept in the most gorgeous black oriental motif jewelry box. And being taught how to paint hers and my finger nails. When wearing big Sis’s skirts, I was not allowed to sit helter-skelter, but was in Mom’s words required to sit “like a girl”.

My father was distant and the louder he screamed the further I shied away from him. He suspect something was awry because suddenly one evening he tried to play with me coaxing me to take a drag from one of his lit cigarettes. Afraid not too I did much to Mom’s displeasure who was begging me not too. She ran to their bedroom in tears slamming the door behind her.

Mom woke me up the next morning very upset! She ordered me into the living room and told to wait for her there. She stormed into the bedroom my Sister and I shared, and I can still hear the heavy chrome clothes hangers they had back then clanging against each other. Like a tornado Mom appeared from the bedroom with additional articles of my Sister’s wardrobe that I would soon be wearing.

Mom could be rough when agitated and that morning was no different. For the first time a white blouse with a peter pan collar, and a red angora sweater was paired with my red summer skirt. All the while she lectured me on how I was not going to become “a dirty boy like your father”! In addition she said that I belonged to her and that if I wanted to continue my role as her “little sissy” that I had better do “what I tell you to do, not what he tells you to do”!!

Though in tears I begged Mom not too, I was told to pull up the back of my skirt and bend over. With little recourse I complied as three hard whacks with my father’s belt seared my buttocks. Only 5 at the time I remember my discipline session with mixed feelings. Our games rolled along with regularity until one day Mom caught me standing in front of my Sister’s closet for the exact reason I don’t recall.

She asked me what I was doing. Don’t recall my reply, but I remember Mom asking me what I wanted to wear. I tugged at the hem of one of my Sister’s pleated blue plaid wool jumpers. “Oh you want to wear a dress!? You really are a sissy aren’t you!?” Mom laughingly said. I thought she wanted me to be a sissy? Confused I started crying and tried to run from her.

She caught me by my arm hugged and quieted me down saying; “you’re a sissy Robbi, remember? You’re supposed to act like a girl, so you might as well start wearing a dress!” “Besides I’m tired of seeing you in those same old skirts. I think I want to see what you look like in a dress.”

I recall telling her maybe I better not, as I tried once more to escape. But Mom’s grip tightened as she explained that it was no longer about whether I wanted to wear the dress, but rather that she is the Mom and if she decides to put me in a dress, that’s what I’ll wear! In no time I found myself back in the white blouse with Mom attempting to put the jumper on me over my head.

This was my first experience with dresses and I gave Mom a bit of a problem submitting to her putting it on me. Beginning to get mad again Mom roughly closed the jumpers side zipper saying through clenched teeth; “now you’re gonna wear it and you’re gonna like it!!” Over the course of weeks or months thereafter I’m not sure Mom introduced me to “getting use to wearing girl’s underwear, as long as I’m already wearing a dress”.

The application of lipstick and makeup, as well being taught to assist her with various household chores normally assigned to my Sister. Finally I graduated to red wig my Sister use to play with which I was told I could wear until my hair grew long. And I was briefly renamed “Sally Anne” until one fine day my Sister came early from school sick, caught me in her clothes and initially allowed me to play with her Barbie doll.

But over time got mad because I was stretching her clothes. She reported her little sissy brother to my father who quickly put an end to Mom’s and my games. That didn’t stop Mom totally however. She gave me one of her old blouses and a half slip for me to wear. Allowed me to continue using her cosmetics, then would tie a scarf on my head in place of the wig!

I sure miss those carefree sissified days, when the “Sally Anne” of my heart could roam free! But as the famed cartoonist Charles Schultz once said; “as a child we can view the world worry free in the back seat. But as adults we’re in the driver’s seat now never to return…….

Robbi Milliken’s real life story from 1961-63

My Closet Crossdresser Secret

Tracy’s story
Hi my name is Tracy, I am a closet crossdresser. It all started when i was 15 and saw my mother in her underware, she had on a sexy black bra with matching black knickers, suspenders and black seemed stockings, she was getting ready to go out with my dad. I thought that looks sexy after they went out I went up to their bedroom and went looking in my mothers draws to find her underwear. I put on a her bra and knickers, suspender belt and stockings i also put on a jumper and a skirt and a pair of 4 inch high heels then I looked at my self in the mirror. I looked and felt so sexy that i stayed like that for 2hrs. From then on I got dressed up when ever I could.

When I got older I moved out and got married after a couple of years my wife found out about my crossdressing and left me. As I have my own place I am always dressed up. I have not been out in the day time dressed up, but have been out dressed up late at night to go to the cash point and to just walk the streets near my place.

Love Tracyxxx

My big but opening secret
I’ve always been the one in my family to do things right and was the “good” boy. If anyone saw me in my family they knew I was the one they could trust to stay out of trouble. Around sixth grade I was hitting “The Growing” stage but also found my moms bra. I would sneak her bras into the restroom and put them on. It made me feel so good. So I did it for a little while till my mom found one and asked “Who is taking my stuff ! “. I didn’t answer to her nor did my younger bros. So I stopped for a while and didn’t start until high school again cause I started feeling the urge again.

I still cross-dress to this day but I finally told a cousin of mine and she kind of thought it was cool cause we wear the same size clothing. I plan on telling one more cousin cause I know she will understand. It is scary but it gives me comfort to be able to share this with someone. I love dressing up cause it makes me feel sexy, beautiful, and plus it kind turns me on hahaha. Right now I am an indoors dresser but eventually plan on taking it to the streets.

So if anyone can give some good advice one looking legitimate as possible I would love all comments. Hope all of you feel as good as I do and keep being super sexy girls!!

Love, Alexis Marie Salazar.

Jorja’s little secret
As far back as I can remember I enjoyed wearing panties and nighties, I honestly have no idea where these feelings originated from but I ran with it. I can remember wearing my older sisters panties and bras. My mother caught me one time and I had no idea what to say to her. I think I was about 14 or 15. Since then I find myself being intoxicated by these items. I would always find a reason to go to a friends house where i could sneak a peak at there mothers or sisters panty drawer. Sometimes I would come across a item that i must have and take one or two of them.This went on for years obtaining quit a collection of lingerie. I would wear these trophy’s if you will most every night and under my school clothes. I know that was wrong to steal them and to this day i feel a little bad but in my case how was i going to get them.

Moving ahead some 15 years ,through many girlfriends some understood some did not, then a long comes my wife who embraced it to the fullest. She would always buy me new items and knew exactly what i liked. One night she brought a man home and said I was to go get dressed for him. Needless to say i was shocked and played it off but she demanded and took me to the bedroom where she lay out this outfit for me and said get dressed. I did as she said and from that moment on i knew what i must do. i divorced her sometime later.

I now have my own home and yes my own panty drawer, I truly enjoy the feel of womens undergarments on my body ,Standing in front of a full mirror dressed in some red panties ,red bra ,garter belt ,stockings and 5″ pumps is quit pleasing to the eye. Someday I will get enough nerve to go out into the night air farther than my front door.

Thanks Jorja

My Experience as a Crossdresser

Hi there I’m a T-Girl and recently I found the courage to start buying girly clothing. I have always tried to suppress the urges but as you all no doubt are aware they don’t go away. I recently told my girlfriend and she was totally cool with it. I can’t tell you how right and comfortable it feels to where girly underwear and clothes. Wearing them during sex is just simply amazing.

If my girlfriend was against it I don’t know what I’d do. It’s not a bad or wrong thing that we feel and it shouldn’t be ignored. I’m happy and in love with my alter ego I hope you can be to.



Caught In the Act!

Cendrillon pour Pin Up Princess
photo credit: Valentin.Ottone

Hi, I have always felt a compulsion to wear feminine clothes particularly lingerie. I never told my girlfriend about this because I was scared about how she might react.

We often work diffrent shifts and one afternoon I couldn’t resist the urge and dressed in some of her lingerie. I then applied make up and felt great so sexy and natural and…right. I looked my self up and down and felt a wave of sexual excitement wash all over me. Then I heard the front door close. SHE WAS HOME.

I scanned the bedroom and saw the clothes everywhere there was nothing I could do. I waited for her to walk in to be honest I think deep down I wanted her to know about this and accept it. She walked in and looked shocked. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say. “What are you doing?” she asked shocked and confused.

I told her how I felt and how it made me felt. She took a moment to have a cigarette and then as I dressed back into my old clothes she stopped me. “What are you doing?” she asked. I replied that I was getting dressed. “No I want you back in those you sexy slut”. She told me how my behind looked great in the red knickers. I felt so content. Sex was amazing and now we regularly incoporate it. I feel happier and the relationship is stronger.

[smartlocation], [smartlocation return=’country’ default=’Canada’]

Book Review: NORMAL by Amy Bloom

Just finished reading “Normal” by Amy Bloom, Random House 2002.

I read the cover and the Acknowledgements and Preface in the library. Then,
when I came home, of course I read “Conservative Men in Conservative
Dresses” first, then read “Afterward”. Then I read “Conservative Men in
Conservative Dresses” again. Then read “Afterword” again. Then I read
“Hermaphrodites with Attitude” and finally, read the first section of the
book, “The Body Lies.”

Nobody is going to like what I am going to say, but crossdressing is a form
of sexual entertainment. Where sexual entertainment starts in any activity
is a fuzzy line. Certainly, by the time you are looking at a commercial on
television for just about anything, you are into the realm of sexual
entertainment. Then, it becomes a matter of intensity as to whether society
considers it pornographic.

In a lot of ways, crossdressing is the same as looking at porn or going to
the jiggly room. In one very specific way, it is different. There is some
desire on the part of most crossdressers to see the reactions of others to
our presentation of femininity. It starts with our own reactions to seeing
our selves dressed as a member of the opposite sex and then there is the
further desire to see the reaction of others to our presentation. We know
that the reactions can be wildly varied and it is the excitement of the
possibilities that is so stimulating.

And we, who are the creators of these feminine images, also have unfettered
access to these women that we have created. (Although, physically, it is
difficult to … mentally, we see no restriction.) And, its a two way
street. As a man, I can have the woman I make myself into any time I want
and as the woman I make myself into, I can surrender myself to the man who
made me without consequence. Wanda Joy would never surrender to another
man, she is mine and mine alone. Narcissism to the nth degree.

My wife gets it. I have never put it in these words before or had it so
cogently put together before, but this wasn’t Amy Bloom’s conclusion. She
feels sorry for most of us, if I am reading her right, because what
heterosexual crossdresser’s do is so vividly against societal perceptions of
normal that we are jailed by the doing of it. Nobody, but another
heterosexual crossdresser, has even the slightest chance at understanding us
and even supposedly sexually liberal communities like homosexuals, lesbians
and transsexuals barely tolerate us.

But now, I understand that the man who cheats on his wife may be more common than me, but he is doing the same thing with another woman that I, in a way, do with myself. That is, he pursues an image of a woman to meet his needs. (Which is to say about the cheating husband, he really could care less about the actual woman, it is the image that he has in his mind that he is in pursuit of.) On the other hand, crossdressers don’t actually physically cheat on their wives with another woman. A guy sitting in the jiggly room for the 500th time is doing the same thing that we are doing, but he is too lazy to put on the nail polish, makeup, wigs and heels.

Crossdressers aren’t normal in all ways except crossdressing.
Unfortunately, (and here is where everybody is going to blow their top)
crossdressing is normal aberrant behavior for men. By that I mean, although
looking at pornography, going to strip clubs or objectizing women in
whatever way we men do it is generally perceived as something men ought not
do, most men at some time in their life do it. Crossdressing is simply one of those things on that limb of the sexual identity and behavior tree that entertains us.

It doesn’t even have to be that stark an action. It could be seeing the woman as the weaker sex, believing that you should drive the car, just because you are the man. The same prejudices that make us think that secretaries, nurses and elementary school teachers are women, while police officers, construction workers and airline pilots are men are subliminally at play.

What disappointed me with Amy Bloom’s analysis is that she doesn’t pick it
up, (and I add in a way that will offend women) probably because she is a
woman. While she does pick up that sexual identity and preference of sexual
partner are not the same, not on the same branches of the tree, she misses
(almost deliberately) what becomes so evident as you read the anecdotes of
the people she met to write about in her book. Crossdressing is a manly
thing to do.

Transsexualism and Hermaphroditism is not on the same branch. Where she
does an excellent job explaining the intersexed, and a fair job with the
transsexuals, it seems she was somewhat confused, even though amused, by
crossdressers. Even in the order of her book, she presents transsexuals,
then crossdressers, then intersexed. Yet, her own discussions show that
professional medical intervention is almost always required for intersexed
individuals and almost always sought by transsexuals, while crossdressers
never need medical attention simply for crossdressing. (Which is not to say
that crossdressing can not be a manifestation of some other physiological or psychological condition requiring professional intervention. In other words, if you are crossdressing because you are a transsexual or if you crossdress as a part of MPD or other issue.)

Her book makes it clear, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it, that gender
identity and sexual preference is not a spectrum. It is a tree with

A P.S.

NORMAL only deals with F-t-M transsexuals “The Body Lies: F-t-M
Transsexuals”, who are segregated from “Conservative Men in Conservative
Dresses, Heterosexual Crossdressers.” The third section of the book refers
to “Hermaphrodites with Attitude: The Intersexed” and the book concludes
with her discussion “Afterword: On Nature.” She makes statement which
assume facts not in evidence, particularly when it comes to crossdressing.
“No one knows why the loss of the mother early in life lead some men to have
extramarital affairs and others to crossdress.” [NORMAL pg. 134] Tiger
Woods and I still both have our mothers.

If the proper word for crossdressing people on the sexual entertainment
branch is transvestism, I can take that. After all, I call my self a
trans-dress-tight. Sexual entertainment, by my definition, does not mean
that the person is necessarily actually having sex, but that they are
engaged in some desired activity where sex is a component, either because of
sexual identity, sexual orientation, sexually stimulating acts as a
participant or observer or some combination thereof.

Amy Bloom writes: “The crossdressers of Tri-Ess insist that crossdressing
is not about sexuality, and therefore not about sex. They are right about
the first, and we can all stop assuming that any man who wears a dress is
gay. But they are not right about the second, and their assertion that
crossdressing is their creative expression of both genders is unsettling
because it is at such odds with their behavior, their natures, and their
marriages. These men are as far from gender warriors and feminists as
George W. himself.” [NORMAL, pg 95] I do not agree that you can generally
say it is at odds with their behavior, their nature and their marriages.
Instead, I believe that you will find specific instances of conflict if that
is all you seek. If you look for harmony, I believe you can find that as
well. I’d be willing to bet that there are men who dress up like a maid to
clean around the house on a fairly regular basis. But like Amy, I didn’t do
the research or ask the questions to support that conclusion.

My point is that Amy Bloom has adopted this continuous spectrum belief. I
say our sexuality, both in how we express gender and the sexual practices we
find preferable, are individual choices based upon the radical concept of:
What We Each Individually Like. Therefore, when she looks at a group that
has crossdressing in common, and concludes that everyone who crossdresses fits neatly on a line between the straightest straight guy and the gayest gay guy, (which is not exactly what she says but is a fairly drawn summary of where she leaves it,) she is wrong.

But, to be fair to Ms. Bloom, her article on the Intersexed really got me to
thinking and taking more seriously the biophysical component of gender
assignment, expression and sexual practice. We are not simply the creatures
of our minds. Too many presumptions are drawn too quickly about sexual
orientation and identity. Too many people are too eager to enforce what
their experiences have told them is NORMAL on others.

What I realized, contrary to Ms. Bloom’s analysis, is that crossdressing was
more NORMAL than even I thought prior to reading her book. Not because of
her statements, but because I realized that she took a position that, (and I
know this is sexist sounding) only a woman could take. She was blind to the
fact that the men she interviewed who were crossdressing enjoyed
crossdressing. What became obvious to me was that the guy sitting in the
jiggly room or watching porn on the big screen at home is really doing the
same thing as (at least some) crossdressers, enjoying a form of sexual

I think the key is to refrain from judging anyone. But, one more thing is
key, to have compassion for people who experience internal conflict over who
they are simply because they occasionally put something on the outside of
their body which may not be consistent with their genetic sexual identity.
Compassion is too lacking in almost every aspect of our society anyway, so
it is no wonder that it is missing here.



Who made up these fashion rules, anyhow?

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