Confessions of a part-time girl

Retirement of The Box
7:52 a.m. -- 2008-07-11

I proposed to Victoria towards the end of 2005. We were on holiday at the time, and everything was perfect. Especially when she said 'Yes.'

Well, actually, she asked if I was kidding first. But once assured that I wasn't, she said 'yes.' It's nearly as good.

My life as a singleton was coming to an end, and I knew that marriage was going to require a lot of changes. Since we were both in our mid-thirties, it was inevitable that we'd be quite set in our ways, and used to our independence. Add into the mix my need to cross-dress from time to time, and we have a recipe for disaster, right?

Well, if you've been reading regularly, you'll know I'm not a drama-queen, given to sudden 'purging' of all my clothes and cosmetics. But how could I move in with my new bride, and then explain that I'd be needing some space at the dressing table, too...

I couldn't do that. Once again, I chickened out.

We were having a house built for us, to be ready when we came back from our honeymoon. (How old-fashioned is that? Not living together until you're properly hitched... Actually, it makes the business of being married feel really special, and I can't recommend it enough. I might write a little more about the wedding, another day.) Anyway, examining the architect's drawings, I identified a perfect place to construct a hidey-hole that only I would know about. I was doing some of the interior work on the house myself, to get the costs down, so it was simple to build in the secret compartment.

Remember the famous cardboard box, which had been with me for a decade or more and has been mentioned in several earlier articles? It had originally contained all the girlie items that I had kept when I moved out from Lucy's, and had been used for the same purpose thereafter.

It was finally retired. Instead, I have my tiny built-in wardrobe. I think I can confidently say that nobody will ever find it. This has the bonus of addressing an anxiety that is shared by many closeted transvestites, summed up with the following scenario: imagine you're in an accident, and you're killed. Your next of kin, taking care of the dispersal or disposal of your worldly goods will get a bit of a surprise, won't they? Seriously, many trannies would rank being accidentally 'outed' in this way as being a bigger worry than being dead.

So, my femme self is shut away upstairs. It's a lot like having a mad old woman locked up in the attic, only there's no wailing and moaning to keep you awake at nights. I know that everything will go musty, and it'll have to be thrown out someday... but I'm not quite ready to take that step. Not yet.

And what do you think I have hidden away, in the cabinet cold of my heart? (Paul Simon lyric, adapted...)

This is significant: I don't even remember what's there. Since I snuck everything into its hidey-hole, I've been back to it maybe four times - in a year and a half. Yesterday, I found myself wondering if I actually own a dress? I don't know. I remember that I kept two pairs of shoes. (TWO pairs of shoes? Call yourself a girl? Pah.) I remember sorting through stockings and tights, discarding all pairs that were less than perfect... but did I actually keep any outerwear at all? I'm not sure that I did. And I know that I don't own a handbag anymore, despite the fact that the last one to go was a present from Lucy. I think it's a significant step in recognising the nature of my kink, that I was able to discard so much, with no regrets. Despite being assured repeatedly by well-intentioned tranny friends that I should be looking to find a way to give free rein to a complete feminine persona, I seem to have abandoned any such capability.

This is not to say that I have successfully kicked the cross-dressing habit; I don't have to go and get my things to cross-dress. Victoria leaves an amazing variety of frillies innocently lying around the house. It turns out that my lovely wife is rather messy. I'm sure if she knew how these items torment and tempt me, she'd be more considerate.

I actually don't wear her stuff very often. She complained once that a bra she'd leant me during sex had felt afterwards as if the elastic had been over-stretched... so I don't wear her bras. I'm careful not to spoil anything. But no excuses: borrowing my lover's underwear is despicable, I know. But that's who (and what) I am. Occasionally.

In its retirement, the famous cardboard box now contains the candlesticks that were used at our wedding reception.

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