40 years of CD, revision 2.43 (very long)
Posted: Thu Mar 25, 2004 3:53 pm
I thought this would be so easy. It isn’t, at least not for me. I have come to know some of you on this forum in some ways better than I know my own mother. I have come to trust you. So what’s my problem? Too much information. My tendency is to share everything, and let the recipient sort out what is interesting or useful and what is not. That is why we were created with paradigms, is it not? However, some of the things that make me who I really am are really NOT AT ALL appropriate for this forum, but were included in version 1.17. I apologize. The policy is both fair and necessary, and I appreciate the moderator’s difficult job. Those of you in my innermost circle of trusted friends may – on your individual request only – receive the uncensored first posting - privately. But never here. Here, we have a respectable image to maintain. So here goes…
When I was in sixth grade, my parents were divorced. My mother frequently went to evening social engagements, leaving me to watch after my 2-year-old brother, who would sleep pretty well. The big TV was in the basement, and I would frequently go nude, because I enjoyed the feeling. My mother left her clothing scattered all over the house. A classic pale green pleated woven cotton shirtdress hung on the downstairs bathroom door. One evening it was rather cold for total nudity, and so I tried on that dress. It fit perfectly, and felt so good. I began wearing it at every opportunity, and even hiding my private parts between my bare legs.
Another evening, much to my surprise, I thought I was about to have an accident, and I raced for the toilet, but it was too late. Because this forum is intended for all audiences, I should only say that I had a “first ever” life experience while wearing that dress.
Soon, dressing in mother’s things became an obsession, and so, of course I got caught, repeatedly. Mother forced me to go to church-sponsored counseling for a few years, but I had no desire to open up to a total stranger (who was a dirty old man) and talk about my innermost feelings. Nor did group therapy help, because the group I was assigned to was nothing at all like our group on this forum. Except for crossdressing, I was a fairly well behaved kid, while the others in the group were not.
In the summer between seventh and eighth grade, my mother came home unexpectedly one day, and found me asleep in one of her favorite dresses, slip, stuffed bra, girdle, and stockings. I took quite a pounding for that transgression. Over and over she yelled “You don’t need all that equipment”! She was so pissed-off that I was not simply outgrowing this phase. I resolved to try harder than ever to never get caught. She never caught me again, that I remember. I think to this day that she believes I simply outgrew it, as she so fervently hoped I would. But, I would get caught again - by other people.
In my senior year of high school, I met a wonderful girl I will call Janet (not her real name). We became sexually active (exclusively) with each other, and still I did not stop crossdressing.
Danny, a boy about my age who lived next door, and with whom I was good friends, would often come over unexpectedly to visit. Danny had spent his first 15 years in Europe, but his English was flawless. He sought respect by bragging about a subject best not discussed here. One night I was downstairs, half-dressed, and was horrified to hear the sliding glass door to the family room opening. Danny was coming in, calling my name. I had run to the back of the utility room to hide behind the furnace, wearing only a slip and socks to fill the breasts. But I was now cornered. There was no place left to run and hide. He turned the light on, and he found me. He said “So, you are a homosexual?”, as though this discovery was really no big deal. I said “No, I’m not”. He asked “So you are bisexual?”, as though surprised, but again very patiently. I said “No, I really don’t think so.” He then made an explicit and crudely graphical inquiry about my possible heterosexual orientation. I just said “Yes”. He said “Then everything’s OK”. I still wasn’t so sure. But we remained good friends until I moved out of state, and as far as I know, he always kept his discovery in strict confidence.
Janet and I were alone together one afternoon at her parent’s home, and somehow the question of me wearing pantyhose came up. She didn’t think I could get her pantyhose on, because I was nearly a whole foot taller than she was. I showed her I could get her pantyhose on more easily than she could!
Through no fault of Janet’s, I misguidedly allowed myself to become involved with another woman (Jeannie, not her real name) in my first month at college. This was something I will always regret, because I was so “in the wrong”. Suddenly, I was headed home with Mononucleosis, and both of these women would be a thousand miles away. With so much time alone and so little snoopervision, I shaved my legs for the first time. I loved it. But I would recover from the Mono, and would have to return to college, where I would have a male roommate. I had to let the hair re-grow.
Jeannie, as it turned out, was very aggressive. I think now that she must have had serious psychological issues. Still, in spite of my parents vehement and well-placed objections, and at the terrible cost of injuring Janet (see footnote), Jeannie and I married before the end of Spring semester. Jeannie accepted and encouraged my crossdressing, or so it seemed. One Friday night that summer of ‘73, she loaned me a wig, made up my face, and we went cruising on the Avenue. I had to use very evasive driving to evade a couple of fellows who seemed a little too interested in us! But this bliss was short-lived. Jeannie had a sexual affair with my co-worker, and suddenly I was unable to please her. The crossdressing was mentioned, and I sought therapy from the college psychologist.
What a bizarre meeting that was. I came right out and insisted to the doctor that there had to be something terribly wrong with me. I wore women’s clothing, and I liked it. He asked, “If there were nothing wrong with that, would it bother you?” I said “I guess not”. He asked, “If it was entirely your decision, would you want to change?” I said “I guess not”. “Is there anything else bothering you”, he asked. Again I was at a loss for words. He said “Well, there is nothing wrong with you. Lots of men enjoy wearing women’s clothing. Go back into the world and feel good.” So, I left. I was fuming mad, because he wasn’t going to help me at all, and he had cleverly created the perfect excuse for ignoring my problem. What a coward he was. Or maybe he was just terribly lazy. I was so depressed. There was no going back to try to talk to him again. I just didn’t believe him, until nearly twenty years later.
Anyway, the marriage to Jeannie was over in short order, and according to her, the issue of crossdressing made for convenient grounds for the annulment. Lucky for me, though I didn’t feel that way at the time.
It was time for me to buy my own skirt, I thought. I went to a discount store and picked out a nice pale green polyester knit skirt, and of course, a nice macho claw hammer, so the checkout person wouldn't think I was crazy! Lucky for me the skirt fit perfectly, because no-way could I have tried it on in the store, or returned it if it hadn’t fit.
So, I went back to college. Along came Cheryl (not her real name either) on the rebound after Jeannie. I decided since Cheryl was so affectionate, I should disclose all this before I got involved. She didn’t care. Fact is, she was quick to get a single dorm room, and for a happy year we were unapproved roommates! She had a pleated plaid wool skirt that she said she “didn’t need”. I removed the pleats in front, and lengthened the waistband, (all sewing entirely by hand, mind you), and finally, voila! A Kilt! On several occasions, I would wear it to her family Sunday dinner with white dress shirt, tie, knee-highs, and loafers. What few questions there were never involved any sexual orientation, I guess since I legitimately claim Scottish heritage. Other factors brought that relationship to an end, though today I still have (and still treasure) that kilt! (No, it doesn’t fit me anymore.)
Fall of my second year was pretty wild, since by then I had my own car. But by mid December, some overwhelming feelings came over me. I was now madly in love with a coed named Debbie.
But first, I was going to have to tell Debbie what it was about me that was so terrible that she would never want to continue our relationship. I cross-dressed. I could never change. If she allowed me to continue to be her close friend, she would someday see me wearing her clothing. She had only one question that I remember: Do you hurt anyone when you do this? “Of course not”, I said. And that was largely the last there ever was of it. True to my predictions, before we were married, she did return to her (officially single) dorm room from a class one day, to discover me in one of her dresses. Far from her favorite dress, she just gave it to me.
In our senior year, we had married, and we were living off-campus in a duplex. The upstairs apartment was occupied by a former hall-mate from the girl’s dormitory, whose live-in boyfriend physically beat and abused her with distressing regularity. One summer evening Debbie and I were playing Monopoly in the living room, and I was wearing a black flowered peasant dress, stuffed bra, and sandals. The blinds were closed, but the neighbors’ outside stairway led right past a window in our apartment, and there was a crack. The nosey boyfriend saw way too much. For several hours there was a shouting match. He was, I think, afraid to get too close to me for fear I might touch him, but I was very afraid he might try to physically beat me. For several more weeks he shouted obscenities at me on every occasion. He finally moved out, taking his other victim with him. Needless to say, all of this caused Debbie some very serious heartache. She decided I must never be discovered again. So I tried very hard to go back and stay deep in the closet.
After college, I had a job involving significant road travel alone. What a perfect opportunity to enjoy dressing however I pleased. First I did this only in the motel rooms, and then in the car on the way to and from distant destinations, but only after dark. As the business slowly collapsed, I became the only employee, and so I could work at work, very late at night, also en-femme.
I got very good at shopping the thrift stores out of town. I did this the hard way at first, by buying lots of things that were hopelessly too small, but at $.25 to $.50 a crack, who cared? Eventually I learned to measure my chest, add three inches for breasts, divide by two, and measure garments from underarm side-seam to underarm side-seam. Anything less would be too tight. Now I could be selective! A measuring tape is literally worth its weight in gold!
I found a book on gender identity and transsexuals at the public library. After reading it, I had a frank conversation with my wife, wherein I expressed that if God had given me a choice, I would have chosen to be a girl. She was justifiably unhappy about this, even though I reminded her that I keep my promises, that I love her unconditionally, and that I would never leave her.
On one business trip alone to Lincoln, I screwed up the courage to leave the motel en-femme in broad daylight, stop at a drive-through for a meal, and then drive most of the 200 miles home, en femme. What a thrill! Oh, I realize now that the fake fingernails and eyelashes were way too much, and the perfume had no effect, and for all I really know, I was read, but I didn’t know then, so I prefer to think I had passed.
I became adept at finding out of the way places to pleasure myself, in the car, or in a deserted park. I once went swimming (wearing only a lady’s nylon slip) in a water-skiing lake one hot summer night, well after midnight – alone – within the sounds of a not-too-distant thunderstorm. Certainly not the smartest thing to do, especially because of the mosquitoes! This was before I learned quite so much about mid-Western weather. I was lucky. Warning: never be outdoors without protection from lighting if you can hear thunder, and never ever swim alone!
One sunny warm spring Sunday afternoon, while headed for home, I turned off the asphalt, down a rural Nebraska dirt road, and within 200 feet of the intersection, I got good and stuck in the mud. I was wearing a white nurse’s uniform dress, bra, wig, tights, and penny loafers. Pleasure first, then survival! I re-dressed in drab, unloaded all my gear and put it on the hood of the front wheel drive car. I put the car in reverse, let out the clutch, got out and put tree twigs under the slowly turning wheels, and pushed with all my might. Within an hour or two, I was back to the end of the gravel, just as the first passerby stopped to offer assistance!
I learned my lesson, and became much more conservative about where I went.
A couple more times I curled up my real (very long) hair with a curling iron and hairspray, and ventured into public in the daytime, with my mid-height black patent heels from Roaman’s. I stopped at a factory shoe outlet that was advertising women’s size 12, and was disappointed to find only expensive masculine boots in that size. Still, I had to acknowledge “hello” to the clerk, and he never let on that I was read.
Since then, I have had to cut my hair and get a real job, which unfortunately does not involve any travel, except for an exhausting daily commute.
In the late 1980s I stumbled on a newspaper column by Ann Landers, saying that wives should accept their crossdressing husbands. I couldn’t believe it! Someone besides that college shrink was now saying the same thing! So I left this in a conspicuous place where Debbie would ignore it for many months.
In the early 1990’s I saw a Discovery-Channel four-part television series on human sexuality. One 60-minute episode focused on cross-dressers. Now I could actually see that I was not the only one who did this. In fact, I was not even really that unusual. Whada-ya-know? The college psychologist and Ann Landers were both right!
My dear Debbie still tries to be non-judgmental. She doesn’t remember my pre-marital warnings. She enjoys garage-sale hunting with me, and for awhile we competed for the same sizes. She likes her hemlines much longer than I do, though nowadays I go for knee-length instead of mini/micro. I think she really prefers that I not dress around her, but she won’t verbalize it. I can tell she is uncomfortable. But she tolerates a knit dress for sleeping, or on weekend mornings, as long as there is no bra, and no wig, and there are no unexpected visitors. She tolerates shaved legs in the wintertime.
At age 50 and 240 pounds, I am now just too heavy to pass in anything I would really want to wear, and too old to take so many chances. I think I am also too old to safely consider hormone therapy (or to benefit very much from it), and way too indigent to consider SRS. I really don’t think I need or want any of that now, anyway.
I no longer get aroused just by dressing, and I don’t dress only to get aroused. I can be dressed all day long and not even think of sex. But if self-stimulation is the goal at the outset, dressing is still the most satisfying way. As Debbie enters menopause, I find sometimes I crave more and more time to be alone, to really enjoy my enormous wardrobe. Sometimes I feel guilty about this.
I just recently began really researching the topic on the Internet. I’ve already given up trying to label myself, and I think maybe that is a good thing. The COGIATI test was rather inconclusive, and another much less scientific test said I was clearly female. My fantasies would also suggest such. But, I have no desire to have any sexual intimacy with men, and no desire to be intimate with anyone other than my loving wife. We have had 28+ years together, and Debbie will always be my best friend. I am very fortunate.
Hugs,
Bernice
Footnote: Janet looked me up on the Internet a couple years ago. She is happily married 29+ years to a wonderful man, and living just a couple hundred miles away. Janet and I are good (platonic, of course) friends once again, via e-mail.
When I was in sixth grade, my parents were divorced. My mother frequently went to evening social engagements, leaving me to watch after my 2-year-old brother, who would sleep pretty well. The big TV was in the basement, and I would frequently go nude, because I enjoyed the feeling. My mother left her clothing scattered all over the house. A classic pale green pleated woven cotton shirtdress hung on the downstairs bathroom door. One evening it was rather cold for total nudity, and so I tried on that dress. It fit perfectly, and felt so good. I began wearing it at every opportunity, and even hiding my private parts between my bare legs.
Another evening, much to my surprise, I thought I was about to have an accident, and I raced for the toilet, but it was too late. Because this forum is intended for all audiences, I should only say that I had a “first ever” life experience while wearing that dress.
Soon, dressing in mother’s things became an obsession, and so, of course I got caught, repeatedly. Mother forced me to go to church-sponsored counseling for a few years, but I had no desire to open up to a total stranger (who was a dirty old man) and talk about my innermost feelings. Nor did group therapy help, because the group I was assigned to was nothing at all like our group on this forum. Except for crossdressing, I was a fairly well behaved kid, while the others in the group were not.
In the summer between seventh and eighth grade, my mother came home unexpectedly one day, and found me asleep in one of her favorite dresses, slip, stuffed bra, girdle, and stockings. I took quite a pounding for that transgression. Over and over she yelled “You don’t need all that equipment”! She was so pissed-off that I was not simply outgrowing this phase. I resolved to try harder than ever to never get caught. She never caught me again, that I remember. I think to this day that she believes I simply outgrew it, as she so fervently hoped I would. But, I would get caught again - by other people.
In my senior year of high school, I met a wonderful girl I will call Janet (not her real name). We became sexually active (exclusively) with each other, and still I did not stop crossdressing.
Danny, a boy about my age who lived next door, and with whom I was good friends, would often come over unexpectedly to visit. Danny had spent his first 15 years in Europe, but his English was flawless. He sought respect by bragging about a subject best not discussed here. One night I was downstairs, half-dressed, and was horrified to hear the sliding glass door to the family room opening. Danny was coming in, calling my name. I had run to the back of the utility room to hide behind the furnace, wearing only a slip and socks to fill the breasts. But I was now cornered. There was no place left to run and hide. He turned the light on, and he found me. He said “So, you are a homosexual?”, as though this discovery was really no big deal. I said “No, I’m not”. He asked “So you are bisexual?”, as though surprised, but again very patiently. I said “No, I really don’t think so.” He then made an explicit and crudely graphical inquiry about my possible heterosexual orientation. I just said “Yes”. He said “Then everything’s OK”. I still wasn’t so sure. But we remained good friends until I moved out of state, and as far as I know, he always kept his discovery in strict confidence.
Janet and I were alone together one afternoon at her parent’s home, and somehow the question of me wearing pantyhose came up. She didn’t think I could get her pantyhose on, because I was nearly a whole foot taller than she was. I showed her I could get her pantyhose on more easily than she could!
Through no fault of Janet’s, I misguidedly allowed myself to become involved with another woman (Jeannie, not her real name) in my first month at college. This was something I will always regret, because I was so “in the wrong”. Suddenly, I was headed home with Mononucleosis, and both of these women would be a thousand miles away. With so much time alone and so little snoopervision, I shaved my legs for the first time. I loved it. But I would recover from the Mono, and would have to return to college, where I would have a male roommate. I had to let the hair re-grow.
Jeannie, as it turned out, was very aggressive. I think now that she must have had serious psychological issues. Still, in spite of my parents vehement and well-placed objections, and at the terrible cost of injuring Janet (see footnote), Jeannie and I married before the end of Spring semester. Jeannie accepted and encouraged my crossdressing, or so it seemed. One Friday night that summer of ‘73, she loaned me a wig, made up my face, and we went cruising on the Avenue. I had to use very evasive driving to evade a couple of fellows who seemed a little too interested in us! But this bliss was short-lived. Jeannie had a sexual affair with my co-worker, and suddenly I was unable to please her. The crossdressing was mentioned, and I sought therapy from the college psychologist.
What a bizarre meeting that was. I came right out and insisted to the doctor that there had to be something terribly wrong with me. I wore women’s clothing, and I liked it. He asked, “If there were nothing wrong with that, would it bother you?” I said “I guess not”. He asked, “If it was entirely your decision, would you want to change?” I said “I guess not”. “Is there anything else bothering you”, he asked. Again I was at a loss for words. He said “Well, there is nothing wrong with you. Lots of men enjoy wearing women’s clothing. Go back into the world and feel good.” So, I left. I was fuming mad, because he wasn’t going to help me at all, and he had cleverly created the perfect excuse for ignoring my problem. What a coward he was. Or maybe he was just terribly lazy. I was so depressed. There was no going back to try to talk to him again. I just didn’t believe him, until nearly twenty years later.
Anyway, the marriage to Jeannie was over in short order, and according to her, the issue of crossdressing made for convenient grounds for the annulment. Lucky for me, though I didn’t feel that way at the time.
It was time for me to buy my own skirt, I thought. I went to a discount store and picked out a nice pale green polyester knit skirt, and of course, a nice macho claw hammer, so the checkout person wouldn't think I was crazy! Lucky for me the skirt fit perfectly, because no-way could I have tried it on in the store, or returned it if it hadn’t fit.
So, I went back to college. Along came Cheryl (not her real name either) on the rebound after Jeannie. I decided since Cheryl was so affectionate, I should disclose all this before I got involved. She didn’t care. Fact is, she was quick to get a single dorm room, and for a happy year we were unapproved roommates! She had a pleated plaid wool skirt that she said she “didn’t need”. I removed the pleats in front, and lengthened the waistband, (all sewing entirely by hand, mind you), and finally, voila! A Kilt! On several occasions, I would wear it to her family Sunday dinner with white dress shirt, tie, knee-highs, and loafers. What few questions there were never involved any sexual orientation, I guess since I legitimately claim Scottish heritage. Other factors brought that relationship to an end, though today I still have (and still treasure) that kilt! (No, it doesn’t fit me anymore.)
Fall of my second year was pretty wild, since by then I had my own car. But by mid December, some overwhelming feelings came over me. I was now madly in love with a coed named Debbie.
But first, I was going to have to tell Debbie what it was about me that was so terrible that she would never want to continue our relationship. I cross-dressed. I could never change. If she allowed me to continue to be her close friend, she would someday see me wearing her clothing. She had only one question that I remember: Do you hurt anyone when you do this? “Of course not”, I said. And that was largely the last there ever was of it. True to my predictions, before we were married, she did return to her (officially single) dorm room from a class one day, to discover me in one of her dresses. Far from her favorite dress, she just gave it to me.
In our senior year, we had married, and we were living off-campus in a duplex. The upstairs apartment was occupied by a former hall-mate from the girl’s dormitory, whose live-in boyfriend physically beat and abused her with distressing regularity. One summer evening Debbie and I were playing Monopoly in the living room, and I was wearing a black flowered peasant dress, stuffed bra, and sandals. The blinds were closed, but the neighbors’ outside stairway led right past a window in our apartment, and there was a crack. The nosey boyfriend saw way too much. For several hours there was a shouting match. He was, I think, afraid to get too close to me for fear I might touch him, but I was very afraid he might try to physically beat me. For several more weeks he shouted obscenities at me on every occasion. He finally moved out, taking his other victim with him. Needless to say, all of this caused Debbie some very serious heartache. She decided I must never be discovered again. So I tried very hard to go back and stay deep in the closet.
After college, I had a job involving significant road travel alone. What a perfect opportunity to enjoy dressing however I pleased. First I did this only in the motel rooms, and then in the car on the way to and from distant destinations, but only after dark. As the business slowly collapsed, I became the only employee, and so I could work at work, very late at night, also en-femme.
I got very good at shopping the thrift stores out of town. I did this the hard way at first, by buying lots of things that were hopelessly too small, but at $.25 to $.50 a crack, who cared? Eventually I learned to measure my chest, add three inches for breasts, divide by two, and measure garments from underarm side-seam to underarm side-seam. Anything less would be too tight. Now I could be selective! A measuring tape is literally worth its weight in gold!
I found a book on gender identity and transsexuals at the public library. After reading it, I had a frank conversation with my wife, wherein I expressed that if God had given me a choice, I would have chosen to be a girl. She was justifiably unhappy about this, even though I reminded her that I keep my promises, that I love her unconditionally, and that I would never leave her.
On one business trip alone to Lincoln, I screwed up the courage to leave the motel en-femme in broad daylight, stop at a drive-through for a meal, and then drive most of the 200 miles home, en femme. What a thrill! Oh, I realize now that the fake fingernails and eyelashes were way too much, and the perfume had no effect, and for all I really know, I was read, but I didn’t know then, so I prefer to think I had passed.
I became adept at finding out of the way places to pleasure myself, in the car, or in a deserted park. I once went swimming (wearing only a lady’s nylon slip) in a water-skiing lake one hot summer night, well after midnight – alone – within the sounds of a not-too-distant thunderstorm. Certainly not the smartest thing to do, especially because of the mosquitoes! This was before I learned quite so much about mid-Western weather. I was lucky. Warning: never be outdoors without protection from lighting if you can hear thunder, and never ever swim alone!
One sunny warm spring Sunday afternoon, while headed for home, I turned off the asphalt, down a rural Nebraska dirt road, and within 200 feet of the intersection, I got good and stuck in the mud. I was wearing a white nurse’s uniform dress, bra, wig, tights, and penny loafers. Pleasure first, then survival! I re-dressed in drab, unloaded all my gear and put it on the hood of the front wheel drive car. I put the car in reverse, let out the clutch, got out and put tree twigs under the slowly turning wheels, and pushed with all my might. Within an hour or two, I was back to the end of the gravel, just as the first passerby stopped to offer assistance!
I learned my lesson, and became much more conservative about where I went.
A couple more times I curled up my real (very long) hair with a curling iron and hairspray, and ventured into public in the daytime, with my mid-height black patent heels from Roaman’s. I stopped at a factory shoe outlet that was advertising women’s size 12, and was disappointed to find only expensive masculine boots in that size. Still, I had to acknowledge “hello” to the clerk, and he never let on that I was read.
Since then, I have had to cut my hair and get a real job, which unfortunately does not involve any travel, except for an exhausting daily commute.
In the late 1980s I stumbled on a newspaper column by Ann Landers, saying that wives should accept their crossdressing husbands. I couldn’t believe it! Someone besides that college shrink was now saying the same thing! So I left this in a conspicuous place where Debbie would ignore it for many months.
In the early 1990’s I saw a Discovery-Channel four-part television series on human sexuality. One 60-minute episode focused on cross-dressers. Now I could actually see that I was not the only one who did this. In fact, I was not even really that unusual. Whada-ya-know? The college psychologist and Ann Landers were both right!
My dear Debbie still tries to be non-judgmental. She doesn’t remember my pre-marital warnings. She enjoys garage-sale hunting with me, and for awhile we competed for the same sizes. She likes her hemlines much longer than I do, though nowadays I go for knee-length instead of mini/micro. I think she really prefers that I not dress around her, but she won’t verbalize it. I can tell she is uncomfortable. But she tolerates a knit dress for sleeping, or on weekend mornings, as long as there is no bra, and no wig, and there are no unexpected visitors. She tolerates shaved legs in the wintertime.
At age 50 and 240 pounds, I am now just too heavy to pass in anything I would really want to wear, and too old to take so many chances. I think I am also too old to safely consider hormone therapy (or to benefit very much from it), and way too indigent to consider SRS. I really don’t think I need or want any of that now, anyway.
I no longer get aroused just by dressing, and I don’t dress only to get aroused. I can be dressed all day long and not even think of sex. But if self-stimulation is the goal at the outset, dressing is still the most satisfying way. As Debbie enters menopause, I find sometimes I crave more and more time to be alone, to really enjoy my enormous wardrobe. Sometimes I feel guilty about this.
I just recently began really researching the topic on the Internet. I’ve already given up trying to label myself, and I think maybe that is a good thing. The COGIATI test was rather inconclusive, and another much less scientific test said I was clearly female. My fantasies would also suggest such. But, I have no desire to have any sexual intimacy with men, and no desire to be intimate with anyone other than my loving wife. We have had 28+ years together, and Debbie will always be my best friend. I am very fortunate.
Hugs,
Bernice
Footnote: Janet looked me up on the Internet a couple years ago. She is happily married 29+ years to a wonderful man, and living just a couple hundred miles away. Janet and I are good (platonic, of course) friends once again, via e-mail.
It was very long and it was well worth it. 
You've gone through so much, thank you sharing the ups, downs and confusing moments in between. 
This is exactly the kind of stuff that, as Alexandra suggests, will prove to be invaluable to newcomers to the world of CD/TG who are still searching for who they are (and who they might become).