Lucy
11:15 a.m. -- 2008-06-25
In hindsight, I can see that I remained with Lucy too long. We stopped being good for each other, and we stayed together for something like another two years.
We weren't married. We were engaged though. I would have married her willingly - although my life with Victoria is much better. (More about her later in the story, I suppose.)
Poor Lucy. She never found it very easy to talk about sex. She'd clearly been raised in a world that was a little more prudish than my own. "Typical male!" she used to exclaim, disdainfully , when I tried to interest her in an out-of-hours trip to the bedroom.
I was young, and foolish. I hadn't spent time with enough girls to know what was normal and what was not. In Lucy's world, sex was something that boys wanted, and girls endured. I can see that now. Lovemaking was a currency, to be expended when things were going 'right' - and withheld when things were unsatisfactory.
It's one way to keep your man on the straight and narrow, I suppose. With other girls, I've encountered sex that was a no-strings-attached bit of harmless fun. (Which actually improves conditions in the relationship, even if there are other problems...)
Anyway, back then, in my early twenties, I didn't know any better. Plus, I was very selfish. I had a bottom drawer fully of sexy underwear: if sex wasn't on the menu, I could always pop upstairs and indulge my fantasies. My sex drive was very high at that age, and I masturbated two or three times on some days, in addition to the sex I was having with Lucy.
Because of this other outlet, I suppose I didn't always heed the warning signs that all was not well in our relationship. Our lovemaking became sporadic, and eventually it was extinct.
Lucy complained that sex had become uncomfortable for her. And certainly, she wasn't producing enough vaginal lubrication on the few occasions when we tried to make love.
Was that physical? Psychological? In any case, she wouldn't go and talk to a doctor about it... too shy! I still wonder if my crossdressing had tarnished my image, in her eyes, to the point where I was no longer somebody she wanted to have sex with. Anyway, whatever the reason, sex was distinctly off the menu.
I tried to be a nice guy. I tried not to be a pest. Give her time! Things were complicated enough, without adding arguments about our sex life. I felt guilty for being a transvestite, and bringing all the associated problems to the relationship... so I backed off.
At some point, after several months without making love to my fiancee, I set myself a limit. Plucking a figure out of thin air, I decided that if a relationship went twelve months with no sex, then it was clearly doomed, and that I should get out. (Note how sex is relatively unimportant to the transvestite: how many other people in their twenties would continue a relationship in which sexual activity was suspended for a year?)
We still lived together, went to movies and plays, enjoyed the countryside, cooked together... just no sex. Poor Lucy just couldn't have sex, and wouldn't seek help.
Eventually, we had an argument, one night. Something about my cross-dressing, although I don't remember what. It had been fourteen months since we'd last made love, and I decided that it was time to end our relationship. Without her, I would be free to wear what I wanted, when I wanted. To shave my legs... whatever.
I said some nasty things. "You're fucking frigid," was one of them, I recall. Then I got out of bed, and went to the spare bedroom, which was where all my girlie stuff was located, giving me a kind of boudoir. I changed into something lacy, and slept. At the time, it was an immense relief to have ended the relationship.
We owned the house between us, so it took time to resolve the details of our separation. Thus, we lived together for more months. I think it suited us both, at least financially, and a truce existed between us. Eventually, I moved out, and to some extent reinvented myself. Curiously, when deprived of Lucy as a confidante and a personal shopper, my cross-dressing became strangely unsatisfying. Despite the new-found freedom to dress how I wanted, when I wanted, I found myself doing it less and less.
It might have gone either way, I suppose. Without the need to be the dutiful boyfriend, a different person could have started spending a lot more time in their female persona.
I had learned to fear mine.
I feared it for what it has cost me. Not just the kind-hearted girl, although God knows she tried to help me, and continue loving me. Not just the house. Not just the furniture, which I had no space for in my new rented place, and not just our pet, which I never saw again. I had also lost a great deal of confidence in myself: for a time, I had lost control.
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