Secret Diary of a Crossdresser
If you are a secret transvestite like me, then it’s highly likely that you feel guilty about crossdressing, and find it shameful. As there are huge social pressures to conform to a stereotype of masculinity, our greatest fear is therefore having our clandestine habit exposed to those closest to us, who will doubtless think us less of a man – or indeed a person – for our penchant for dressing in stockings and rubber miniskirts.
And because crossdressing takes place in secret, it feels like we are cheating on our partners. This is especially the case, if, as it is for me, transvestism is an intensely erotic experience, which often involves the presence of another person who ‘forces’ me to crossdress, applies makeup, takes naughty photographs, and sometimes brings out a rubber strap-on…
After crossdressing sessions, that sense of guilt can be so great that many transvestites carry out a ‘purge’. Determined to rid ourselves permanently of a dirty little habit that can often feel like more of a curse than a blessing, we decide to throw away all our clothes, wigs, makeup, and other feminine accoutrements.
I must have purged at least three times, even though, at the bottom of my kinky heart, I’ve always known that I would be back. The first time was when I got engaged, which represented an obvious point at which I could literally bin my secret life. I remember contemplating, even as I watched the rubbish lorry going down the street, I could perhaps allow myself to buy a pair of latex stockings.
Within two years, despite being wracked with guilt, I had assembled another secret wardrobe. I once took it all the way to Madrid on a work trip, and after a delightfully sordid couple of hours with one of Spain’s finest dommes, I took the whole lot down to a bin in the street and threw it away. One can only imagine the puzzled face of the Madrid rubbish collector.
The last time was five years ago when I was driving home after a particularly fun makeover session. The suitcase in the boot, loaded with dresses, heels, and wigs, made me feel as illicit as a drugs mule, and so I pulled into a lay-by and chucked the whole lot into a bin.
Of course, you can guess what happened next. Within days, I had started to plot my new collection of female fetish wear, and it did not take long for me to visit Honour to pick up a gorgeous latex maid’s uniform. Oh, and it needed some heels to go with it. And some gloves…
By now, I hope I have broken this emotionally bulimic cycle of purging and acquiring – not least because of the expense. Now in my forties, I am more comfortable in my own skin, and indeed in women’s clothes. It’s my very private life, and I refuse to feel guilty for indulging in something that causes no harm to those closest to me, nor involves any form of sexual cheating.
In short, I hope I have purged the purges.
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