My Beginnings
Posted: Thu Apr 22, 2004 9:47 am
.
This is kind of a curious story, because so much of it is uneventful, until just recently. Anyway...
.
Childhood...? Nothing. A complete void. I was one of those kids who would have had to be prodded into it; but there were no prodders: no sisters (or brothers, either), no girlfriends who might have wanted to dress me up. And relations between my mother and me were so strained that the thought of being attracted to anything of hers was inconceivable.
.
There was one funny thing that might have indicated what was to come. In those days it was still O.K. to mark Christmas in the public schools. The observance never changed from year to year: there was a creche on stage, someone read from St Luke, and then the Holy Family, the angel, and the shepherds made their appearance in due course, all in costume. And then the three Kings proceeded up the aisle from the back of the darkened auditorium, singing their carol.
.
And one year, I think in the fifth grade, I happened to be sitting on the aisle, and I suddenly noticed that the Kings, who were boys only three years older than I was, were wearing what looked like brightly colored silk stockings--red, green, purple. They were tights, of course, or I assume they were, although given the perpetual need to improvise in amateur theatricals, maybe they really were stockings. I couldn't take my eyes off them. I had never heard of boys putting on silk stockings and showing off their legs that way. And I remember a furtive, lurking wish that some day *I* might be one of the three Kings, allowed--and in fact required--to wear silk stockings in front of the whole school. (No such luck, alas. By the time I would have been old enough, I was in another school.)
.
Adolescence, when it hit, was as much of a CD desert as childhood, and for the same reasons. That's a pity, because I was quite aware of the erotic potential of clothing, and if I had ever had an opportunity to dress I'm sure I would have found it powerfully arousing. What a thrill it would have been to be in panties at the age of thirteen! And how I envy those lucky few who dressed, or, better, were dressed by girlfriends of relatives.
.
In my early twenties I had a string of gay affairs. I also moved in and lived with the fag-hag who had introduced me to my first boyfriend. Living with her taught me that, much to my surprise, I wasn't 100% gay. (Looking back, I can't imagine why I would have thought I was, in view of all the feminine entanglements I had had in my teens.) But Joby thought it would be fun to dress me up in her things. The moment she suggested it I was all for it. It was depraved, it was perverted, it was warped, sick, twisted, and wrong, or so Society said, and I was in full rebellion against Society just then. Moreover, it was (we thought) gay. It had everything going for it!
.
What an experience this was going to be, I thought. Draw on a pair of panties and--whammo!--instant arousal! And how comfortable the clothes looked. And how good they would make me feel. I looked forward to becoming a crossdresser, and I remember imagining myself, in future years, coming home from a hard day at the office and getting into a dress to relax.
.
Alas, none of this happened. The panties, which would have sent me right through the roof at 13, did nothing for me at 22. I might have been drawing on a pair of Jockeys for all the good they did. And everything was uncomfortable, partly because there was no spandex in those days to make things more forgiving and partly because the bra was painfully tight. (Joby was saftig and I was slender, so most of the clothes fit, but I was also rather barrel-chested which she was not, and the bra was hopeless. And she had no extenders.)
.
When she steered me in front of a mirror I saw a girl's body, or what might be one if you had a lot of imagination, with a ridiculously made-up male head sticking out the top. And it felt TERRIBLE. I don't mean the physical feeling; rather, I had this feeling that I was doing something that was wrong for ME! Something I shouldn't be doing, something I should never do. The kind of turn-off that some men feel after a release in drag assailed me before I had done anything at all in drag.
.
I don't understand that. I must have been internalizing society's values, or prejudices. But why? I hadn't internalized them about being gay. I loved being gay; the whole experience from start to finish, from courtship to climax, was a blessing and boon to the spirit. So why didn't I feel as happy about CDing? I have occasionally wondered whether, underneath our effeminate exteriors, crossdressers (as opposed to transsexuals) have a rock-solid confidence in their masculinity--so much that they can afford to let it go for long periods of time. If this be so, then the problem may have been that in that 23rd year, which had been traumatic for a number of reasons I won't go into here, I had little or no confidence in anything, and certainly not in my masculinity.
.
However that was, I felt cheated. And for a month to six weeks after that, I tried dressing repeatedly, each time thinking, This time it's going to be fun; This time it's going to work; This time I'm going to be a girl; This time it will prove to be an acquired taste and I will finally have acquired it. I think of those weeks sometimes when I read of men's struggles to stop dressing; there I was, strugging to *start* doing so! In the end, I finally gave up in despair, reluctantly said The hell with it, and stopped.
.
But what I didn't realize until later was that the seed had been sown. Over the decades after that I experimented occasionally with something that was femme, or that at least appeared femme, but never for long. On a couple of occasions I met gay friends who liked to do drag, but strangely I never thought to join in their games. I have no idea why.
.
It wasn't until my sixties that the ice finally broke. I saw a beautiful paisley turtleneck in a Land's End catalog; I drooled over it and was all set to order it when I discovered it was a women's turtleneck. No men need apply. I complained to my wife, and she said, in effect, Don't let that stop you; wear what you please. That was the thin end of the wedge, and suddenly everything started working! From turtlenecks (which I buy every Fall as Land's End brings out each new pattern) to pantyhose to panties to gartered hose to long tunics that could do service as mini-dresses to actual dresses. All slowly, by easy stages. And it all felt good--good in the sense of being comfortable and good in the sense of being right for me. After so many years, I finally qualified!
.
My wife? She hasn't said much. There have been times when it seemed like living in a Henry James novel, in which little is said but much guessed at. But actions speak louder than words, and two stand out in my mind: (a) the time she said she had seen sarongs in a window display and thought I might like them (and almost bought me one), (b) the time she encouraged me to buy a bathrobe at Victoria's Secret.
.
The sarong was significant because for outerwear I favor women's clothes that can be mistaken for men's clothes, like those turtlenecks. But a sarong is the other way around, a man's garment that can be mistaken for a women's garment--for a skirt, in fact, which was pushing the envelope a lot harder than I had been doing. It was also significant because she proposed to buy me one. She's never bought me any clothes otherwise (except a couple of Christmas ties, I guess), and it's interesting to think she was going to break with precedent with a sarong. The only reason she didn't actually buy me one was a silly hiccup: the window display was gone, but there was a guy selling them on the street; when she went to buy me one, he wasn't there. When I went on an errand an hour or two later, he was there and I bought one for her and one for me.
.
As for the bathrobe, the last good men's terry robe I got was at the now defunct B. Altman's. Every one since has been "one size," and as Sheila Faulkner used to say, "one size fits all applies only to earrings." The terry robes from VS were sized and better tailored. I got an ice-blue one with a "V" embroidered on one of its big cuffs. And frequently when I wear it, she tells me how good I look.
.
So there you have me: a late bloomer indeed. I wonder whether I really belong here, in fact--starting in my sixties, and (gasp!) actually wanting to be a CD, choosing to be one. The Party Line says, "Nobody would ever choose to be a CD"--and now you've got...me.
.
My remaining inhibitions, which I do not intend to shed, are (a) don't make myself look ridiculous (well, not TOO ridiculous); (b) don't embarrass my wife; (c) don't try her patience any more than necessary. I am currently looking to replace a sarong with an actual skirt and to try to find some conservative-looking pumps that will fit me. I doubt if makeup is on the cards any time soon. Gradualism has served us both well so far; I'm confident it will continue to do so.
.
Terry Gal, glad to be here.
This is kind of a curious story, because so much of it is uneventful, until just recently. Anyway...
.
Childhood...? Nothing. A complete void. I was one of those kids who would have had to be prodded into it; but there were no prodders: no sisters (or brothers, either), no girlfriends who might have wanted to dress me up. And relations between my mother and me were so strained that the thought of being attracted to anything of hers was inconceivable.
.
There was one funny thing that might have indicated what was to come. In those days it was still O.K. to mark Christmas in the public schools. The observance never changed from year to year: there was a creche on stage, someone read from St Luke, and then the Holy Family, the angel, and the shepherds made their appearance in due course, all in costume. And then the three Kings proceeded up the aisle from the back of the darkened auditorium, singing their carol.
.
And one year, I think in the fifth grade, I happened to be sitting on the aisle, and I suddenly noticed that the Kings, who were boys only three years older than I was, were wearing what looked like brightly colored silk stockings--red, green, purple. They were tights, of course, or I assume they were, although given the perpetual need to improvise in amateur theatricals, maybe they really were stockings. I couldn't take my eyes off them. I had never heard of boys putting on silk stockings and showing off their legs that way. And I remember a furtive, lurking wish that some day *I* might be one of the three Kings, allowed--and in fact required--to wear silk stockings in front of the whole school. (No such luck, alas. By the time I would have been old enough, I was in another school.)
.
Adolescence, when it hit, was as much of a CD desert as childhood, and for the same reasons. That's a pity, because I was quite aware of the erotic potential of clothing, and if I had ever had an opportunity to dress I'm sure I would have found it powerfully arousing. What a thrill it would have been to be in panties at the age of thirteen! And how I envy those lucky few who dressed, or, better, were dressed by girlfriends of relatives.
.
In my early twenties I had a string of gay affairs. I also moved in and lived with the fag-hag who had introduced me to my first boyfriend. Living with her taught me that, much to my surprise, I wasn't 100% gay. (Looking back, I can't imagine why I would have thought I was, in view of all the feminine entanglements I had had in my teens.) But Joby thought it would be fun to dress me up in her things. The moment she suggested it I was all for it. It was depraved, it was perverted, it was warped, sick, twisted, and wrong, or so Society said, and I was in full rebellion against Society just then. Moreover, it was (we thought) gay. It had everything going for it!
.
What an experience this was going to be, I thought. Draw on a pair of panties and--whammo!--instant arousal! And how comfortable the clothes looked. And how good they would make me feel. I looked forward to becoming a crossdresser, and I remember imagining myself, in future years, coming home from a hard day at the office and getting into a dress to relax.
.
Alas, none of this happened. The panties, which would have sent me right through the roof at 13, did nothing for me at 22. I might have been drawing on a pair of Jockeys for all the good they did. And everything was uncomfortable, partly because there was no spandex in those days to make things more forgiving and partly because the bra was painfully tight. (Joby was saftig and I was slender, so most of the clothes fit, but I was also rather barrel-chested which she was not, and the bra was hopeless. And she had no extenders.)
.
When she steered me in front of a mirror I saw a girl's body, or what might be one if you had a lot of imagination, with a ridiculously made-up male head sticking out the top. And it felt TERRIBLE. I don't mean the physical feeling; rather, I had this feeling that I was doing something that was wrong for ME! Something I shouldn't be doing, something I should never do. The kind of turn-off that some men feel after a release in drag assailed me before I had done anything at all in drag.
.
I don't understand that. I must have been internalizing society's values, or prejudices. But why? I hadn't internalized them about being gay. I loved being gay; the whole experience from start to finish, from courtship to climax, was a blessing and boon to the spirit. So why didn't I feel as happy about CDing? I have occasionally wondered whether, underneath our effeminate exteriors, crossdressers (as opposed to transsexuals) have a rock-solid confidence in their masculinity--so much that they can afford to let it go for long periods of time. If this be so, then the problem may have been that in that 23rd year, which had been traumatic for a number of reasons I won't go into here, I had little or no confidence in anything, and certainly not in my masculinity.
.
However that was, I felt cheated. And for a month to six weeks after that, I tried dressing repeatedly, each time thinking, This time it's going to be fun; This time it's going to work; This time I'm going to be a girl; This time it will prove to be an acquired taste and I will finally have acquired it. I think of those weeks sometimes when I read of men's struggles to stop dressing; there I was, strugging to *start* doing so! In the end, I finally gave up in despair, reluctantly said The hell with it, and stopped.
.
But what I didn't realize until later was that the seed had been sown. Over the decades after that I experimented occasionally with something that was femme, or that at least appeared femme, but never for long. On a couple of occasions I met gay friends who liked to do drag, but strangely I never thought to join in their games. I have no idea why.
.
It wasn't until my sixties that the ice finally broke. I saw a beautiful paisley turtleneck in a Land's End catalog; I drooled over it and was all set to order it when I discovered it was a women's turtleneck. No men need apply. I complained to my wife, and she said, in effect, Don't let that stop you; wear what you please. That was the thin end of the wedge, and suddenly everything started working! From turtlenecks (which I buy every Fall as Land's End brings out each new pattern) to pantyhose to panties to gartered hose to long tunics that could do service as mini-dresses to actual dresses. All slowly, by easy stages. And it all felt good--good in the sense of being comfortable and good in the sense of being right for me. After so many years, I finally qualified!
.
My wife? She hasn't said much. There have been times when it seemed like living in a Henry James novel, in which little is said but much guessed at. But actions speak louder than words, and two stand out in my mind: (a) the time she said she had seen sarongs in a window display and thought I might like them (and almost bought me one), (b) the time she encouraged me to buy a bathrobe at Victoria's Secret.
.
The sarong was significant because for outerwear I favor women's clothes that can be mistaken for men's clothes, like those turtlenecks. But a sarong is the other way around, a man's garment that can be mistaken for a women's garment--for a skirt, in fact, which was pushing the envelope a lot harder than I had been doing. It was also significant because she proposed to buy me one. She's never bought me any clothes otherwise (except a couple of Christmas ties, I guess), and it's interesting to think she was going to break with precedent with a sarong. The only reason she didn't actually buy me one was a silly hiccup: the window display was gone, but there was a guy selling them on the street; when she went to buy me one, he wasn't there. When I went on an errand an hour or two later, he was there and I bought one for her and one for me.
.
As for the bathrobe, the last good men's terry robe I got was at the now defunct B. Altman's. Every one since has been "one size," and as Sheila Faulkner used to say, "one size fits all applies only to earrings." The terry robes from VS were sized and better tailored. I got an ice-blue one with a "V" embroidered on one of its big cuffs. And frequently when I wear it, she tells me how good I look.
.
So there you have me: a late bloomer indeed. I wonder whether I really belong here, in fact--starting in my sixties, and (gasp!) actually wanting to be a CD, choosing to be one. The Party Line says, "Nobody would ever choose to be a CD"--and now you've got...me.
.
My remaining inhibitions, which I do not intend to shed, are (a) don't make myself look ridiculous (well, not TOO ridiculous); (b) don't embarrass my wife; (c) don't try her patience any more than necessary. I am currently looking to replace a sarong with an actual skirt and to try to find some conservative-looking pumps that will fit me. I doubt if makeup is on the cards any time soon. Gradualism has served us both well so far; I'm confident it will continue to do so.
.
Terry Gal, glad to be here.
It's not that it went away. Secondly you are also unique because of your gay experiences. I can't remember any one who has posted here about being a gay CD'r. I know some online, but they don't really talk much because they are sometimes shunned by hetero' CDs. Odd, but true. 
) that your story is a little unusual compared to the others here but very interesting, as your posts always seem to be. More, please. 
