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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

Marvin Gaye not included
7:50 a.m. -- 2009-04-23

I had a strange and unfortunate thing happen, a couple of weeks back.

Victoria and I made something of 'an effort' - going to bed before we were completely tired, for once. I was feeling a little bit... passive, but no problems there because lovely wife didn't wait to be asked. She just climbed on top of me. (I thought this was just a bonus at the time... not realising that she had the ulterior motive of trying to keep her newly-dried hair from getting all messed up. Women: altogether too cunning!)

We were still warm from the shower, and she was smooth to the touch and smelling delicious. It was fantastic. A lengthy exchange of kisses and caresses. Another reason to lie on your back: hands free to roam at will! Vicky has the most gorgeous bottom. I could just stroke it all day. If there were government grants available for that.

We were both into it. Sex the way it ought to be; unhurried and unselfish. Just lovely.

So the foreplay eventually drew to an end, as Vicky eased herself into place, still on top. No need to interrupt things and search in bedside drawers for condoms nowadays; we're not exactly trying for parenthood, but we're prepared to leave it to chance.

And suddenly:

Flashback. Or imagination or whatever. I don't know. But in my mind's eye, I'm six years old again. Being raped.

Mister ungrateful, or what? The woman I know so well and love so much is doing virtually all the work, and it should be the simplest thing in the world to just look up at her, concentrate on the sensations and run my hands over her body... and all I can do is cry my eyes out. I mean that kind of crying where you actually sob, and your spit turns to something like glue, and you struggle to speak.

Needless to say, the sex ground to a halt.

She was very understanding about it, and took really good care of me. It actually brought us closer, I suspect, than even the most thunderous, shared orgasms could have done.

But it's still not a good thing, even if the result is a greater closeness between us. That feeling of self-loathing, and that you'll never be completely clean. It's horrible! But why now? After all this time? I haven't thought about it - really dwelled upon it - for years. So I can't explain where it came from.

A couple of nights later, we tried again. Not a verbatim repeat performance, but an early night, to "get back on the horse" as it were. Talked about it first, and then took things very, very gently and slowly, with lots of reassurances of love. And all was well. Not Hollywood-style sex with sweat-sheened muscles and desperate intensity... but it worked for us. In fact, it worked twice for a certain, greedy girl I could mention... but that's another story.

Sexual healing. And not a Marvin Gaye playlist in sight.

God, she's good, my Victoria.

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