Brain washed by a parasite

I’ve been following lots of blogs about cross-dressing. (Q.“What’s the difference between a cross-dresser and a transsexual?” A. “About 2 years.”)  And the possible reasons we do it.  None of the theories has yet convinced me.  However, what if we’ve all been brain-washed by a parasite?

It seems that ants can get this parasite that changes their behaviour.  Unlike its non-infected black-coloured brethren, the abdomen of the infected ant turns red.  And when its fellow ants return to the nest, the red-bellied ant clings to a branch, and so looks like the edible red berries in the forest canopy.  This entices birds to eat the normally unpalatable ant.  Which then spreads the parasite in its droppings.  To be eaten by ants. And so it goes.

Suppose then, that there’s this cross-dressing parasite.   No, not a bug in bikini, but one that alters our behaviour. Makes us buy loads of clothes and shoes from Sears and Asos, and wear unconvincing wigs.  This parasite also causes us to log onto the internet, and post enticing images. Which then lures in ‘normal’ guys, who also start wearing panty hose, and neglecting their wags.

On second thoughts though……..um.

CrossDreaming

 

I had a dream last night. 

I was 20 again (I wish) and in the car with my parents.  And I was dressed as I please – as a girl, long hair, nail polish and makeup, nice outfit and sandals. Don’t remember the whole ensemble, but the hair was dark and shoulder-length, the strappy sandals creamy-tan.  In my dream I felt ‘normal’ in a way that I seldom do in my every day drab life.  And all through, in my dream-journey with my dream-family, I had this quiet satisfaction that I’d come out to my parents, and I could just relax. And as I’d told them, then coming out to the rest of the world was going to be easy.

(There was also a spell in the dream where we were circling the block looking for a KFC for lunch.  I can now confirm that inside this trannie there’s a fat girl trying to get out!)

In the dream-car, as we drove – through 60’s Oxford, where I went to college - my parents were very ‘matter of fact’ about my new girly-ness.  Far from being judgemental, they just seemed to take my transformation on board.  As well they might of course, since it was my dream not theirs.

As I awoke, I nurtured the feelings that my dream had engendered (now there’s a good word!), and just lay there, savouring the selfish joy of my beautiful transformation.  And then as I awake further, recalled that my Dad has been dead these 15 years, and my Mum for three.

Nothing profound there for a psychiatrist to unravel, but it has affected me all day.

La moustache a disparu !

  

Well, it’s gone.  That moustache I was growing for charidee.

Whew, and thank goodness.  Though I dressed in my frox and heels even with the ‘tache, like a grey caterpillar on my upper lip, it was in boy mode that I hated it most. 

Not only did my fledgling ‘tache tickle me in the night and keep me awake, not only did it get in the way when I blowed (blewed?) my nose, but all day long I looked oddly disturbing. 

Almost (but not quite) like a real gurl with a fake ‘tache.  And definitely at serious risk of undermining what very little authority I have these days in the office, and most of my self-confidence too.  I even stooped to explain my hair-lip to anyone in the street who’d listen.  “It’s not that I forgot to shave this morning, I’m growing a moustache for charity.”  And then people would look shifty and start backing away.

So it’s gone. With two weeks still to go.  It could have been magnificent after a further 14 day’s growth, but instead was just sad and disturbing.  Terrified of being read though I am, better to be outed as a cross-dresser, than looking like a paedophile.  And anyway, I thought that as I would never parachute-jump for charity, why look daft for month either?

How odd that one of man’s secondary sexual characteristics should look so out of place.  40 years ago, when I was back-packing around Turkey it was positively de rigeur to have a ‘tache.  At that time any Turk without a Tom Sellick moustache was considered gay.  (And as part of a small group of three male students as clean-shaven as could be, we were followed round that part of the Med as if we were cats on heat.)

La Moustache est mort.  Vive la moustache!

(Yes, moustache, in French is actually a feminine noun.  Wowsers!). 

Now then, when’s breast-cancer week?



Lady Mustache

November is turning out to be an odd month.  I say November but in fact it’s been rechristened Movember, by a charity that collect for men's causes.  Prostate cancer to be specific.  Yet another difference that I have been vaguely aware of.  Generally the bodily differences between girls and boys that I am most concerned with, are the things I want to add - great hair, boobs etc.  Not the things that I need to subtract.  After all I'm still fond of my willie, and a prostate is just out of sight.

Anyway it seems that prostates in men are prone to cancer.  And this, of course, like ovarian cancer, is gender specific.  (Oh, oh, I feel a whole new blog coming on.) The charity organisers have wittily decided to rechristen this month to mark the occasion for charitable giving to this male-only cause.  And we’re to mark the occasion by growing a moustache.  Gender specific you see.  And, as it takes a month to grow a decent moustache, they said,  Let's use November.  Even if we have to call it Movember. (Geddit?)

In the office heat of the moment, and masquerading as I do, as a sort of man’s man, I joined in.  And pledged myself to the cause. At first I did rather consider the moustache is an opportunity to do a sort of purge and take a little all-male holiday.  And surely I can do without cross-dressing for one month at least?Indeed with three weeks to go, it might be necessary. After all, I have the experience, maturity and virility to grow a veritable hedge on my upper lip. 

To forswear my autogynophilia for just one month in 12, for charity.  What sanity, what self-denial. What could be nobler?  Addiction, thy name shall no longer be Moi. Then, lying in bed, pondering as I do on a Monday, the dressing delights in store for me, this month long purge began to seem less reasonable.   And then I thought about it some more, and realised that I'm hooked.  Hooked on the looks.  Hooked on the feel of the clothes.  And, not least, hooked on the fact that Monday is dressing up day. And these days are so precious, I don't want to miss a single one.

So here I sit, eight days into November, (er, Movember), dressed in a long black wig, lacy top, flouncy skirt, and high-heeled boots.  With a rather sweet (but itchy) fledgling moustache.    I can’t say I just love the look, but a moustache is no more or less absurd than the rest of my attempts to look feminine.

Happy Movember to all my readers.

You might as well rail against the sea

We read a lot of blogs, which concern themselves with wanting to be taken seriously. (The most recent complaining about the Nationwide Little Britain trannie adverts, or the BBC4 treatment of the Scrabble winner in his pink wig and pvc dress). 

We can only say, lets get real about this.  And so at 60, and with half a century of being hand-cuffed to a cross-dresser, may we add our mutual thoughts?

 

a)         We see (and occasionally provide life-coaching to) plenty of real women. Some complain of body dysmorphia.  And of course fully empathise, because our own tits are too small and our body looks more like a man’s than a woman’s, and we can’t find a frock that flatters, and our nose is not cute enough.  (And that’s just for starters.) But in all truth, this self pity is extremely wearisome for a bystander.  Like the family and friends of these dysmorphic girls, the wife/partner of a cross-dresser must be screaming inside – grow up, get real, stop whingeing.

b)         And boy, are we CD's self-obsessed.  The most rabid Red Sox fan has nothing on me.  Though initially less annoying (“Oh how cute, they’ll come to the mall with me even though it’s football night”) like a dog that’s always shagging your leg, it’s surely embarrassing having your men slobbering along every time you buy a bra. 

c)         And as for self-centred - there’s not a conversation in the world that we can’t bring round to the two of moi.  ( And if our wife obsessed about – say - drapes, this much, it would be curtains for our marriage!)

d)         Our cross-dressing habit is not even charmingly eccentric.  Just weird. A wife can publicly moan about her sports-obsessed men, but she’d not want to share this secret.

e)         And even straight clean sex is tacky to most individuals.  Like poop on a baby’s bum, it may be part of everyday life, but let’s not bring it into the living room.  And cross-dressing ? Purleez!

f)         Remember Pavlov’s dogs?  Ring a bell, show food to the dog, and he salivates.  Soon he’s conditioned – ring that bell, make him dribble. 

So, the first time we try on a pair of panties, it feels sexy. And, yes, being in the full gripof teenage hormones we masturbate.  Repeat ad nauseam.  Endorphins brain-wash us into the embrace of all sorts of female frippery (even mascara, which is just soot+glue).  Add a geek’s enquiring mind – “What are stars are made of? What happens if you put salt on a snail?  How does it feels to wear a pink vinyl skirt?”  Even if we didn’t have a problem when we started off, a couple of frenzied decades has imprinted a fetish that constrains thoughts and behaviour like a steel corset (gulp!)

g)         So naturally this (self) programming leads my constant companion to cross-dress whenever possible.  And if this is not practical, to dream of it, or moon outside the wedding-dress shop, or read Vogue at the dentist's surgery.  And what next, all frocked up, but nowhere to go?  Being goal-driven, we contemplate where this is leading.  Out of the closet, waltzing down the street?  After that a sex-change?  And then?   Previously, just boys wondering what to do with their life.  Now, we just might pass (though DNA will always give us away) but we'd be even less able to decide on a life-plan.  No friends, job or family either. We'll have solved absolutely nothing. Even with 10 years transitioning neither of us will be able play the piano better. Bafflingly enjoyable as it is to be wearing 5-inch heels, and a wig, this won’t help in becoming a better writer, composer, boss, parent, bread winner. (Or husband, or parent ho ho).

h)         Worse than this, we've wasted a lot of time perched on those stilettos. (The favourites being yellow sandals with a 13cm metal heel).  And styling that Betty Page wig just so.  If we've x-dressed once a week for 50 years (and we have) that adds up to 7 years. We could have built a space-ship or a cathedral out of matches!  Not to mention the clothes, bought and purged, bought and purged.  At least now the kids have left home that's ended..

i)          At some point we reveal all to the wife / girl friend.  As she starts to figure out for herself some of the above, will previous love and loyalty remain intact?  Do we think this is remotely possible?  What’s in it for her?

We're not self-loathing about our handcuffed existance.  Like an alcoholic or drug addict, we have daily, consciously and deliberately chosen this path.  Some chose public office.  We chose self-absorption.    

Hardly rational though, is it?