Whatever it means to us today may very well evolve.
My story: I went from
- simple childhood reaching for a my sister’s clothes [and getting my hand slapped — hard in the form of violent shaming] …to
- fetishistic secret sexual intrigue with a cherished piece of lingerie,… to
- wondering if I was gay [no, bi] …to
- feeling certain there was no inherent reason I couldn’t enjoy these things, even though born a male. But it had to be a secret. Everyone knew that something terrible would happen if boys let themselves be girls.
- struggling to communicate with partners about my needs [which were buried so deeply I didn’t even understand them] and find some kind of acceptable compromise in which I could actually crossdress, while retaining my required all-man status, …to
- finding that I wanted more feminine expression than anyone else seemed to feel was ok, …to
- finding as well that my life partner really could not easily cope with seeing me as transgender,… to
- embracing DADT [don’t ask, don’t tell] closet dressing and occasional days out, to
- discovering that each hour spent crossdressed is actually an hour of remembering who I am, and this understanding enlivens me in ways I can no longer turn away from, … to
- eventually noticing more detail- that I wanted tight fitting bodices on my dresses as my way of being hugged; that I crave flared and fluted skirts- a metaphoric expression of my desire to feel as part of my body an expansive and welcoming pelvis; that a long flowing dress or a sporty short skirt and filmy blouse each have a storyline that was not available to me as a man. Interesting prints, color combinations, fine fabrics, transparency, were all metaphors for feminine privileges [yes- from my uninformed point of view on the outside] and other areas of feminine experience, but…still, a constant internal wrestling with the problem of staying in ‘acceptable’ expression, to
- fully embracing crossdressing as a wonderful pleasure, and acquiring every kind of outfit I wanted, …to
- finding that as I finally feel freely, I am healing. I enjoy my foothold in the ‘woman’s’ world, and I feel ever more clearly the gilded cage aspects of women’s wear. A wonderful dress is no longer an enchanted object whose spell transforms me into a princess, but something that needs dry cleaning and wrinkles badly when I sit. It is more of an annoyance than a titillation to be careful about nearby viewers as I walk up stairs from the train, or cross my legs when sitting at a coffee shop. A dress can be a wonderful artistic expression, but it requires a responsibility- to make a satisfying picture of myself with coordinated shaving and shoes and …
- I persisted. I let my crossdressing speak to me. I let each item of clothing I desired become words about myself, and then let the truth of those words do its work and manifest in my internal sense of self.
Since stepping out of the closet the goal of crossdressing became clearer. ‘I want that’ led to ‘I want to dress like that’ to ‘I want to be like that’ and now at last to ‘OMG, I am that!’, and then…. peace.
