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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

An evening in
9:49 a.m. -- 2008-07-17

The underwear I ordered from Figleaves arrived yesterday, and was duly presented to Victoria when she came home. I considered applying gift-wrap to it, but given my... tendencies... it was important to me that she should see that the package was unopened; a present that was wholly for her. Maybe I should have gone for the optional gift-wrapping service at the website, but if they're anything like Amazon then this involves some truly tasteless wrapping paper, indifferently applied by a drunk chimpanzee who was inexplicably left unsupervised with a roll of sticky tape.

Anyway, Vicky loved the underwear. After dinner, we had a soak in the bath together and then she modelled it. I have to say she looked absolutely gorgeous. I objected, briefly, on the grounds that I had sought to buy her something that she would actually find useful, rather than just some fuckwear. I have nothing against sexy clothes that are for use in the bedroom, but this was supposed to be a present for her, not a present for me, if you see what I mean.

Victoria assured me that her new underwear could be worn to work. She's going to wear it someday soon, which is something we'll both enjoy thinking about. Meanwhile, it turned out to be very versatile, being also useful in the bedroom. She felt sexy... and she felt sexy. Which is to say, she enjoyed feeling very pretty, and I enjoyed the tactile sensations I derived from running my hands over her body.

A different Victoria, Victoria Wood, did a great comedy routine once, that described how crap husbands are at shopping for gifts for their wives. How they try to buy them sexy underwear, without actually looking at, touching, or uttering the word 'n... n... n... (knickers)'. I'd like to think I'm a little better than that. You be the judge, if you like. You can see what I chose here.

I have known times when really great lingerie has stirred a deep, private melancholy in me. Like the time Vicky and I were in Italy and we decided to go shopping for something continental, sexy and expensive. Wandering around in an Italian department store, I saw some lovely things... and that saddened me. I might buy myself something... but I can never completely enjoy it. Not just because it fits badly (for obvious reasons) but because I can't really wear it for somebody.

Still, last night was Vicky's night to look gorgeous, for me. And gorgeous she was, in her fab new underwear.

As I think I have noted before, in my experience, the best cure for tranny urges is a sexual climax. The cross-dresser loses interest in female clothes very quickly after orgasm. And having had some lovely, lovely sex last night, well... all is right with the world.

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