Lucy, and others
9:30 a.m. -- 2008-06-27
Lucy tried so hard to make things work. She was never comfortable with my cross-dressing, but she really worked at it.
After I came 'out' to her, she gave me an extra present, each birthday and Christmas. Something cute, of the kind that a girl might buy a close friend; some underwear, or some makeup. One one occasion, a set of false nails. Nothing tremendously valuable, but these gifts were always my favourites, for what they signified: that she accepted my feminine side in her life.
Lucy was unable to kiss me if I was in makeup, however. There was something indefinably icky about the idea, for her. People have their limits. I had to respect her wishes, although I hoped that she would someday changer her mind.
Seeking help or advice on the subject of cross-dressing was a lot harder in the early nineties than it would be today. We read a few brief, almost dismissive entries in medical dictionaries and the like, but nothing that was really about people. Eventually, we discovered some of the specialist resources of the transgender community. Other transvestites had gone before me, and documented their experiences and those of their families. There were a few widely-known books, such as 'Coping with Crossdressing', which was meant to help the family of the transvestite to come to terms with things.
At the time, it was a relief to discover these sources of information. There were other people out there, going through the same difficulties that we were!
With hindsight, I can see that many of the 'help' booklets and articles we found were badly biased. The aim of these books was to help wives and girlfriends, certainly; to help them accept and accommodate the transvestite's agenda.
Trasvestite propaganda is full of testimonials from wives who are coping with, or even enjoying, his 'hobby'. You don't hear from the less happy ones. The truth, I think, is a lot less simple and carefree.
It's good that some reassurances can come from a source other than the cross-dresser himself. For example, instead of wondering whether her husband is going to suddenly announce that he is gay, a wife can read a chapter on exactly this subject. Something like eighty to ninety percent of all transvestites are heterosexual, apparently. Me, for instance.
Okay, so he isn't going to turn out to be a murderer like the crazy person in 'The Silence of the Lambs'... and statistics suggest he's unlikely to want to undergo a sex change operation. Phew! Good news... but all presented with a side-order of propaganda. Testimonials from happy wives. "We're closer now than we've ever been..."
Lucy and I were keen to believe this. We tried to be model citizens of the transgender community; she wrote an article about her experiences for a magazine, for example. Looking back, when I re-read it a little while ago, it's clearly very cliched, very formulaic. Lucy said what she knew people wanted to hear. In reality, it's more of an expression of how she hoped things could become, than a description of how they stood.
Poor Lucy tried really hard to be the perfect girlfriend-of-a-tranny. And... strange as it may sound, I tried really hard to be the perfect tranny.
Faced with all these other transvestites, with their wholesome descriptions of socials, reports from self-help groups, and earnest discussions of the historical and cultural significance of gender issues, I felt like a second-class citizen. Why? Because it made me feel like a bit of a pervert.
Our new friends almost never mentioned the sexual side of cross-dressing! This, for me, is the most significant aspect of cross-dressing. Sorry, but: it turns me on. More than just about anything else.
There was one mention, once, from a devoted tranny husband who confessed that after a romantic evening 'en-femme', he and his wife would often make love, and that when he was dressed it was important to see to her needs first. Reading between the lines, I understand this to mean that he means he would perform cunnilingus with her.
If I were taken to bed, while dressed, the sex wouldn't last very long either. I'd simply be too inclined to climax, bringing things to a premature end... and the same would appear to be true of the person who wrote that article.
Cross-dressing is a sexual act, for me, and it's clear it always will be. I don't get dressed up in order to totter around on high heels and call myself Jane. Sorry... but I just don't. It's a fetish, not a lifestyle.
The fetishistic transvestite is very poorly supported by the resources that the transgender community provide to help him or his family. Reading all these wholesome descriptions of American transvestites having bake sales and the like, I was led to believe that I was... doing it wrong, somehow. That I was wrong. Perverse.
So I tried to be more 'normal' - like the others. To get in touch with a mysterious feminine alter-ego when cross-dressing. I dressed from head to toe, rather than simply popping on a bra and knickers... because real girls don't sit around in their underwear. I dressed for longer periods... because real girls don't just appear for a few minutes. I tried to suppress the sexual angle to my cross-dressing... because the nice people we were reading about and hearing from didn't seem have masturbation or sex in mind as an end-game when they dressed up.
Wrong, wrong, wrong! And that's the reason I've been writing these articles. To put across an alternative viewpoint. Trannies: don't let anyone outside your family tell you what to do. Different people need different things from their cross-dressing.
In trying to be a 'respectable' transvestite, I caused Lucy a lot of concern. Suddenly, I was spending hours at a time in my girlie clothes, and it wasn't just underwear anymore. I had decided upon a girl's name, since all the other transvestites had one. In Lucy's eyes, the feminine side of my nature was increasingly taking control. She was losing me!
Funnily enough, this process wasn't what I wanted, either. I clumped around the house with my shoes pinching, struggling to master tasks such as using a vacuum cleaner on the stairs while wearing a long skirt. A lot less satisfying than the simple business of putting on some underwear, achieving a sexual release, and then getting on with my life in boy-mode. Still, I tried really hard to be a respectable transvestite, like the wives in the transgender community who gushingly described their husbands: "Now he's my best friend as well... and he's always happy to talk, or go shopping with me..."
It's taken me a long time to realise that the 'help' resources actually did me a lot of harm, and led to my leaving Lucy. She was a kind, warm-hearted girl. (And if I'm allowed to be all male for a moment, quite a babe, too.) It's taken me a long time to be 100% honest with myself. I hope that you may learn from my mistakes, dear reader.
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