Wealth
2:38 p.m. -- 2008-08-13
Did I mention that Victoria is rich? I mean, not J K Rowling rich, but - to use a dreadful, quintessentially English connotation - 'comfortable'. In fact, I almost wrote 'indecently wealthy', thereby betraying my puritanical roots. I've always had to scrimp and save for the things I wanted; in fact, I think it makes me appreciate them more.
Anyway, Vicky has a spare house. We married, moved into a brand new home together... and the old one was left to gather dust. She has a spare car, too.
Not being blessed with an endless stream of contracts at the moment (we are in a recession; don't let anybody tell you otherwise) I have been spending some of my spare time at the old place, wielding vacuum cleaner and paintbrush. Even if house prices are slumping, I reason that we might as well get the old place into a condition where we can rent it out. Vicky seems to be oblivious to the mortgage payments she makes on the place every month, but it seems like a waste to me.
The thing is, though, it's not really an empty house. It's still full of stuff. Girl's stuff.
Transvestites of yesteryear, maybe a generation older than me, often maintained a 'hideaway' where they could indulge their need to cross-dress in safety and privacy. Such things are often mentioned or described in the letters page of old tranny magazines (according to Gillian Freeman, anyway). A number of factors may have contributed to the demise of the tranny hideaway; higher rents, the emergence of safe social venues for trannies, even the internet... nobody seems to have a superhero-style lair in which the accessories of the other side of their personality lie dormant.
Except that I do, in a way.
Victoria's old house waits, with its curtains drawn. Despite the fact that our new home is bursting at the seams with girlie clothes (hers, not mine), the old place is as well. (Again, hers, not mine.)
"Ew," said my lovely wife, finding a bag of makeup that had sat neglected in her old place for a year or so. It was dropped in a rubbish sack. I thought briefly about my own makeup, which dates back to the days when Lucy used to buy me little presents, a decade earlier. Such unconscious wealth... such waste.
That was on a rare visit to the place. Vicky goes there about once a month, I suppose. Meanwhile, I collect any post that accumulates there, and paint a ceiling, or a window frame. I'm gradually making the place cleaner and fresher. As I work, I'm aware of all the paraphernalia of young womanhood. For instance, the drawer of underwear that Vicky has told me she intends to throw away...
Last time I was there, I slipped on a cute little pair of knickers as I changed into my work clothes. Then I got on with some sandpapering. Not the sexiest of activities... but that's what I did. On several of my visits to the house I've done something similar.
Now I have to admit, that doesn't quite fit with my description of myself as a fetishistic transvestite. Cross-dressing and sandpapering? I doubt there's a scientific name for that particular combination. And where's the sexual element?
Well, I get lots of nice sex at home, so why spoil it? I suppose that's a part of it... but still, I did choose to cross-dress. It's a question of taking advantage of a virtually risk-free opportunity, I suppose. It illustrates that the urge to do so is lurking beneath my outward veneer of confident, respectable masculinity. Even now, when I describe my attitude to cross-dressing as largely "been there, done that", I can't resist a chance to try on my lover's underwear.
Score one for the Tranny Mafia and their view of 'respectable' (non-sexual) cross-dressing. I have to admit, on several occasions I've worn knickers for no particular reason, and with no end-game in mind. I've considered 'rescuing' some of the clothing that will ultimately be bagged up as rubbish... but I probably won't. Too risky.
As somebody who has risked ridicule with almost every purchase, the idea of discarding so many feminine things is staggering. It's not the waste of money, but something that underlines the difference between a transvestite and a real woman. This discarding of clothes and makeup represents lost opportunity - and it grieves me to see it.
At the time of writing, many opportunities still remain.
Do I think of cleaning, or painting and decorating, as 'woman's work'? No. I don't tend to assign genders to tasks, because I don't like being on the receiving end of that. It's just a job that needs doing, and I'm on-hand to do it, being the gender-confused, somewhat amoral male that I am.
Eventually, the job will be complete, and the house will be neat and tidy... and empty. My secret hideout will be somebody else's home.
Meanwhile... to the Batcave!
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