Confessions of a part-time girl

My hero, my heroine
1:00 a.m. -- 2008-06-29

Sometimes, your heroes let you down. 'Veronica' was the editor of a magazine (which I won't name) that Lucy and I took out a subscription to. It was just a humble thing - more of a photocopied newsletter really - but it dealt with all kinds of issues that matter to the transvestite. Its message was put across loud and clear:

* Cross-dressing need not bring about the end of your marriage
* It doesn't have to be sleazy
* It can bring you and your partner closer together
* It can be fun!

The front page was always an editorial by Veronica, done with a good journalistic style that ensured it never dissolved into a simple report of who had been to this- or that social and so on. The rest of the magazine was given over to articles written by those within the community. Lucy wrote one (I mentioned it before) about the changes to her life since she learned I was a tranny. I wrote a couple myself. There were also silly cartoons ("Don't bother your father now, dear... she's doing her nails" and such)... and the back page featured advertisements from T*friendly businesses.

Perhaps the best thing about this magazine was that it was actually meant for people in the south central region of the USA. Being based thousands of miles away, I didn't have to fend off questions about when I'd be coming out for a night with the 'girls'. I wasn't ready to do any such thing!

Why subscribe to a magazine for people in the prairies? Well, Veronica was actually the first cross-dresser I ever communicated with. We exchanged a lot of emails during 1995 and 1996. In addition to the magazine, Veronica's advice and insights were also presented to the world in a website that Lucy and I had studied, back when we were trying to work out just what the hell to do about me! So we got to know Veronica, and subscribed to the magazine. We stayed in contact, and exchanged Christmas gifts, and Lucy wrote to Veronica's partner. All was right with the world: here were a couple who were doing more than just coping with things. In addition to being a leading cross-dressing socialite, Veronica was a successful professional. Somebody I really looked up to. They had a young child, too.

Then there was an ominous silence, and the next we knew, everything had changed. Veronica was with somebody new, leaving partner and child in (to our viewpoint) the blink of an eye. And the somebody new was another cross-dresser's wife.

Now, that's just plain rude. Women who understand and accept the transvestite are rare enough. To walk out on yours seems extraordinarily ungrateful... and to steal another man's tranny-tolerant wife... well, really!

I have written, earlier, about how I have found myself in situations where my cross-dresser motivations have caused me to "think with my small head". I imagine that something similar happened in this case. But... but... two marriages end, because you have an affair with somebody else's partner? A child loses a father?

Of course, I don't know the full story. And I suppose that we have to remember that transvestites are also people. As such, they can do selfish or foolish things that aren't necessarily tranny-related. They can (sometimes) be motivated by something other than the urge to show how fabulous they'd look in that denim miniskirt and those cute little open wedge sandals... Maybe the end of those two marriages was inevitable, for other reasons? I'll never know for sure. But suddenly, in our eyes, the First Lady of cross-dressing had feet of clay, like everybody else.

Maybe I was na�ve to think that entering into a marriage means that you both try really hard to make it last a lifetime? Actually, no. I still think that. But it scares me how selective the morality of the transvestite can be. Not least because my own record is far from unblemished, when my inner girlie is near the surface. I will never be able to explain the reason, but cross-dressing is incredibly erotic for me, over-riding all reason.

About three years ago, on a business trip, a girl I knew vaguely was flirting outrageously with me. Tall, gorgeous, intelligent, Swedish. A night of passion was on offer... but I was in a long-term relationship already. I demurred, graciously, and went off to my hotel room alone. (Some people may well be thinking: what an idiot!) It was the right thing to do, though. Even if my potential paramour didn't agree. Her wiggles and whispers, perfume and pouting, didn't win my affections.

But if she'd said 'Come to my room. I want you to wear my underwear.' I'd have followed her like an obedient, love-sick puppy.

Puts a strange slant on the phrase, "trying to get into her knickers," doesn't it?

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