Negotiations
10:44 p.m. -- 2008-06-23
In my previous post, I described a process of discussion and negotiation between the newly-out(ed) transvestite and his wife or girlfriend. I'd like to provide what few insights I can, based upon my own experiences.
I'd confessed to Lucy, and many tears were shed on both sides. We lay in bed all night, neither of us sleeping. Our conversation kind of flared up from time to time. In fact, little else happened for the whole of the weekend. Just talking. For some absurd reason, I was lying to her, attempting a kind of damage limitation I suppose. So I downplayed the significance of crossdressing in my earlier life at home. Not that often... and never outer clothes. Just underwear.
True, I'd never worn much else, and opportunities had been limited... but I lied or allowed her to misinterpret my answers. What an idiot! Although it is mostly just underwear that turns me on, I'd soon be trying a lot more than that. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Most importantly, she still wanted to be my girlfriend. Lucy was a good kid (aged 21 at that time, I think). Maybe a little insecure, but who am I to talk? Anyway, I was lucky: she didn't storm off, tell all my friends... nothing nasty.
One stumbling block was the idea that I had been wearing her stuff. I'd need to have my own, she said.
Quite right too. Even in the best relationship, you don't expect people to borrow your stuff without asking. And you especially don't expect to be sharing intimate things like knickers. (Technically, panties... but I always say knickers. It's a Brit thing, I suppose.)
So I was to get my own wardrobe. Fun! New frillies! Quite exciting... to be wearing brand new stuff that's been bought just for you: no more intercepted items that somebody was throwing out.
Downside was, she didn't want to see me dressed in them. She'd go shopping for me, hand over the new underwear and leave me to it. Being Mister Selfish, I said that wasn't good enough. (Remember the concept of the Tranny Ratchet, from the last entry? Dressing with permission but no participation just wasn't going to do it for me.) I explained this, and she said she'd try to accommodate my needs. Result! Or at least, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Anyway, I gave Lucy a wad of banknotes, and off she went to the shops. I didn't join the shopping expedition, although I had contributed some stumbling ideas as to what I liked. Stockings and a suspender belt, for one thing.
While Lucy shopped, I also headed out, and bought her a "thank you" card. She returned with the first new items of lingerie I had ever had. And, wow: transvestite heroin rush. We stood in the kitchen, and she showed me my new stuff.
Understand, wives and girlfriends, the complex psychology of that moment. There were two active ingredients in the tranny heroin coursing through my veins. Firstly, the warm glow of acceptance: it's okay... she doesn't mind. She understands me. She bought me these lovely things! Second, the intense erotic charge that comes when a woman presents you with lingerie: she wants me to wear this! She chose this for me.
No doubt we'll be talking about transvestite literature in a later article. For now, just try to picture the complex brew of comfort, love and lust, fizzing in my brain.
Lucy bought me my suspender belt, in white satin, with a pair of tan-coloured stockings.
(Actually, when you start describing all the materials, this whole thing will begin to sound like transgender fiction, and that isn't my intention. I'm not getting off on this - just trying to reproduce the moment on paper.)
Stretch lace was quite big that year, I think. With a floral pattern in the lace. She handed me a bodyshaper in that material (which actually proved to be a little small, but I loved it), and a bra and knicker set. Again, these were in the floral lace. I was a tiny bit disappointed that this was the only bra I was given. It was a one-piece kind, to be pulled on like a little vest; no adjustable bra straps and tricky hook fasteners for me - not yet anyway.
With hindsight it was sweet of her... I didn't have any boobs to put in a bra, and she'd chosen a style that sat neatly in place; no baggy empty cups. I'd got my first ever training bra!
In addition to the lace ones (which were always incredibly scratchy), there were three other pairs of knickers... and that was the sum total of my new bottom drawer. (Quite literally; I'd made room specially.)
I thanked her profusely, and headed upstairs to put my bra and knickers on (under my boy-clothes). I came back down feeling elated, yet somehow dissatisfied. Sat on the sofa, maybe watched some telly... but always at the back of my mind thinking "what now?"
The boyfriend in bra and knickers is a strange creature. Vulnerable. Absurdly grateful. Acutely aware of his situation, but not aroused as such.
In an ideal world (okay, my ideal world) Lucy would have flirted with me, touched me, whispered things to me about what I was wearng and how much she liked it... and initiated some sex that would have been remarkable for how much I enjoyed it and how quickly it was over. (Too turned on to last long, I'm sure.)
Nothing of the sort happened. Lucy still hadn't acknowledged the fact that I was wearing girly underwear. She 'let me' wear it, but it seemed that was all.
Later that night, while she was running a bath, I made a quick change, putting on my stockings and suspenders. Wearing a dressing gown, I sat on the bathroom floor, talking to her about other things, and enjoying the feeling of the stockings squeezing my toes together. It amused me that she hadn't noticed my lower legs or feet... which would have been the first time she ever saw me in lingerie. I was flouting the 'rules', going against her desire not to see me dressing as a woman.
That made it more fun. The frisson of 'risk' made this event more satisfying than when she had expected me to dress up, following the shopping trip.
The 'Tranny Ratchet' was always ready to click things up to the next notch, even on day one.
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