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?