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� In this diary, I record my life as a transvestite. Perhaps it will help somebody else, who finds their lifestyle doesn't quite match that endorsed by the 'tranny mafia'. Well, I've been there... and survived. The debriefing starts here.

�loves: All kinds of stuff that society thinks I shouldn't.

�hates: Microsoft. Obviously.

�reads:
secret-motel
artgnome
enfinblue
stepfordtart
ten-oclock
boombasticat
lawliiet
annanotbob
fifidellabon
my-serenade

Lynn Jones
Becky
Samantha

After weekends
9:07 a.m. -- 2008-07-08

Life with Victoria was good, but it was still a part-time existence, to be enjoyed at weekends and during holidays. By 2002 she'd got a new job and was back in England, so we were able to spend a bit more time together.

But does the quality time you enjoy at weekends indicate you're all set for 'happily ever after'? Victoria had her doubts at one stage. Was our relationship going anywhere, she wondered?

I would have been delighted for our relationship to go somewhere. My only doubts revolved around a cardboard box that lurked on the top shelf of my wardrobe. In that box I had placed the paraphenalia, if not the personality, of my female side.

I've written before about the sad nastiness of being a grungy transvestite, but I can't deny that my female side lived in a cardboard box. No perfumed boudoir for her.

At least, living alone, I was able to shop for new stuff, and do my laundry, so I wasn't too grungy.

An additional benefit, of course, was that I could get dolled up whenever I felt the need. In my experience, cross-dressing is something that happens as a burst of activity. I might sleep in a nightdress several days running, and then not bother again for weeks. I can't explain the pattern to these urges any better than I can explain their nature.

So, would I choose to take things to the next level with Victoria? Would I have to give up cross-dressing to do so?

I knew that there weren't many documented examples of people managing to kick the habit. I'd heard of aversion therapy but it sounded absolutely wretched. Basically, you submit to treatment in which you're given drugs or electric shocks to make you feel nausea or pain while looking at the thing you desire. In my case, lingerie.

Should you end up as a medical case, simply because of a kink? To be studied, medicated... treated because something causes you an unusual amount of joy?

I decided not: I would keep my secret.

Now... what to do about the lovely Victoria?

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