Tranny heroin, part II
10:01 a.m. -- 2008-06-25
In my last article, I described some of the problems of an addiction to 'tranny heroin'; how the transvestite can be virtually helpless to resist the emotional highs that his cross-dressing causes him.
I have also described how familiarity forces the transvestite to seek new ways to get a 'hit' from their dressing, tending always to up the ante and leaving loved ones wondering exactly where it will end.
Who knows? Each person is different. All I can share with you are my own experiences of crossdressing, and the resulting highs and lows. In the remainder of this article, I will try to describe a particularly significant encounter with my own brand of tranny heroin:
The first dates back to a time when, for whatever reason, I hadn't been dressing in front of Lucy for six weeks or more. No doubt this was a subtle punishment for her failing to accommodate some aspect of my cross-dressing. You see, although Lucy wasn't comfortable with my cross-dressing, she found the idea of my "sneaking around" worse. She wanted - needed - to know what was going on.
I hadn't actually avoided dressing up for a long time; I'd just excluded her from it.
Then one night she asked me why I hadn't been dressing up. I just shrugged and mumbled something about it being unsatisfactory.
"Right then," was the response. "Let's get you dressed up!"
"No," I replied, looking sorry for myself... but she insisted.
Bam: uncut tranny heroin, straight in a vein.
The unwilling male who is coerced or forced into undergoing a transformation is a recurring theme in transvestite erotic fiction. Probably the most popular single theme, in fact... and one that really presses all my buttons, I must admit. A strong female character requires that the male should submit to her will, being turned into a girl and then treated like one.
And here was Lucy, bossily demanding that I go and shave my face and put on some girly underwear, while she chooses an outfit for me to wear and gets ready to do my makeup.
Is it any wonder that I couldn't resist? If you have ever sampled tranny heroin, you will understand this... and if not, probably not.
So: Lucy nagged me to dress up. She wasn't roleplaying. It wasn't a sex game... she was just (a) trying really hard to demonstrate that she could be an understanding girlfriend, and (b) have her transgendered boyfriend get something out of his system, like the safety valve on a pressure cooker.
She never knew it was erotic! But my mind was awash with love and lust. The domineering female was demanding that I look pretty for her. She wanted me to look this way. She's ordered me to dress up, and then she's going to spend an hour or more fussing over my makeup and my hair. Tranny heroin!
You see how easily a conversation with a transvestite can actually be two completely different conversations, depending upon your viewpoint? She thought she was helping me to find and nurture a gentler side of my personality... and I was deeply aroused.
The result was a curiously unsatisfactory evening. Lucy wasn't comfortable with the idea of kissing another girl - even a fake one. She struggled to express this, simply saying "I'm not a lesbian." That was a long-established ground rule for my cross-dressing: we had got to a point where she could look at me when I was in girl-mode, and maybe offer makeup tips... but a self-conscious hug was the best I could expect, in terms of human contact. Usually, that was something that I could deal with. Later, once alone, I'd masturbate and I'd be satisfied.
On this night, however, I loved Lucy very much. The pusher of my tranny heroin, she'd shopped for my clothes; she'd listened to my angst-ridden ramblings; she'd demanded that I dress up.
Oh my God! She likes me like this. She wants to see me like this. She's demanding that I should look like a girl. She's... perfect!
I told her how much I appreciated this. How much I loved her, and how much it meant to me. I held her hands and stared into her eyes and tried to convey the depth of significance of what she was doing for me.
And... I wanted her. I didn't want the gangly, square-faced girl in the mirror, with her awkward gait in heels. I just wanted to be with Lucy. I wanted to call a halt to the process of getting dolled up; to reverse it and return to my male self. To go to bed with her.
"No," she said. "Absolutely not. Stay still while I do your makeup."
Boom. Tranny heroin again!
I think she had steeled herself to do this, in an effort to show (or see) how far she could go down the road to being an understanding 'significant other'. I think it was costing her a lot, too. She didn't want to back out. Poor, brave Lucy.
So the makeup was done, and my hair was styled... maybe my nails, too. I can't remember. And then, the slightly awkward anticlimax. What shall we do now? I sat around in my charity shop clothes, with my too-large hands and clip-on earrings. I imagine I probably tried to talk with a softer voice.
I don't remember anything else about that evening, but I do regard it as a missed opportunity, when I could have demonstrated to Lucy that being a man was still more important to me that being a woman, and that I'd have preferred straight sex with her, rather than exercising my kink.
Communication breakdown.
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