Don't be nasty
2:41 p.m. -- 2008-06-24
On of the worst things about being 100% 'in the closet' is the effect it's bound to have on your wardrobe.
If nobody else knows that you are a cross-dresser, it's likely that your wardrobe consists mostly or entirely of items that you have intercepted from the rubbish bin.
Regardless of where the clothes come from, there are also the issues of care and storage. If you're a secret tranny, you might not be able to wash your girl-clothes properly, nor air them or iron them. Instead of a nice drawer filled with stylish underwear, appropriately scented, your frillies are crammed into a suitcase, hidden in the attic for weeks on end. Your tights are all laddered, any makeup you've managed to scavenge is just the dregs, with worn-out or mascara-crusted applicators. Also, your fashions are likely to be years out of date, and the clothes are probably not be the right size (do you really have the same body shape as the females in your household?)
You're a grunge transvestite. Ick.
Solutions may actually be worse than the problem: stealing, for example. Do you really want to get caught shoplifting, or nicking something from your girlfriend's place? Not wise.
I imagine a lot of us started out as grunge transvestites. This is a shame, since the feelings of guilt are bad enough when indulging the need to cross-dress, without compounding them with deception and the grottiness that is inevitable if you're (for example) sleeping in knickers that you can't machine wash. Knickers that are probably too large for you, or where the elastic went all baggy, prompting your mother or big sister to throw them out.
The problem is not only that such... items tarnish the enjoyment that the young tranny is just learning that he needs. It's also a source of trouble during the eventual disclosure stage.
Imagine how much worse it would be to be surprised by a relative or lover, coming home while you're dressed... and there you are in nasty old throw-outs. In that moment, in her eyes, you're not just a pervert, but a thief as well.
If you fess up of your own accord, it won't be much better, since sooner or later you'll either be asked to show yourself, or you'll be asked where you're getting your clothes from.
Instead of being a self-confident diva who can explain "This is me. This is what I do. It makes me feel good..." the grunge transvestite is unable to summon up that courage, and in place of the diva there will be an apologetic, scared little boy in poorly-fitting, wrinkled clothes.
The only answer to this, is not to be grungy... or at least, not to get caught until you have managed to leave the grunge phase behind. If you insist on checking out the waste bins (ideally, before they get put in the trash can, along with all the kitchen waste...) you will have to decide just how deceptive you are going to be able to be. Can you really hide stuff well enough. Do you want to risk it?
When I confessed to Lucy, it wasn't done in the best possible way... but at least I hadn't been caught wearing something. It could have been worse!
There was an earlier time when I wasn't so lucky, however... although I only know my side of the story. When I went away on a school trip, aged about 15, I returned to find that my mum had tidied my room, in a big way. My cunning hiding place - filled with stuff of my sister's that I'd rescued from the bin - wasn't cunning enough. Everything was gone.
Can you imagine how scared I was? Oh shit... any time now, my parents are going to want to have a talk with me. They know my secret.
I was dreading that conversation. Funny thing is, we've never had it. I began to relax a little as the days passed, and it finally became clear that my mother wasn't going to have a little talk with me at all. The stuff had vanished... but that was the only indication that she'd found it.
That was two decades ago, now, so I don't suppose we ever will have that little chat.
Maybe I was supposed to approach her about it? Well, I didn't. Too scared.
In an ideal world, a mother would dispose of the grotty, inappropriate underwear, and replace it with some new-bought things for her tranny son, indicating her acceptance and continuing suppport. Even if she never said a word about it.
This is not an ideal world, however, and we also have to take into account her fears: that encouragement would tip her son over a balance, encouraging him to be "out" to the world, and exposing him to danger.
Who knows? Perhaps she did the right thing... and perhaps she did the best she could. Good old mum.
But if you can: try not to do the grunge thing.
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