New Resolve

I am so predictable.  If you know anything about me, I mean.

It's almost the New Year.  If there is anything you can double your money on, it's by betting on me trying to kickstart something I let gather dust some time during the year, especially when the Annual Glorious New Beginning rolls around.  Well, I'll see that bet and raise you odds that I don't last to February.  (Good luck collecting if I lose, by the way...)

Despite my absence from my sparse little blog site, there has been a lot of roller coaster-esque activity happening up in my thought box.  There's just no room to explain it all, no time to really organize what I've been feeling, to describe the rare moments of clarity where I almost think I know who I am and what I need to do to actualize who I need to be, or how many times I've noticed contradictions, redundancies, and sudden U-turns that change my way of thinking. But what it comes down to (and here you may notice the hint of a theme taking form) is that I'm so. damn. lonely.

It's the cruelest of ironies that anyone who sits squarely on a serious truth can be surrounded by people who love her, and yet feel completely isolated because she can't reveal about herself what she so desperately wants to.  I've felt this deeply these past months.  I'm still not sure what I'm going to do about it.  Maybe nothing, which is typical.  Maybe something.

My dear Erica is always* asking me, "What do you want?"  My answers have always been lacking in conviction and clarity. Well, I finally forced myself to answer than damnable question.  The following is something I've been hammering out for a month or so, and which will be brought up the very next time I'm asked:

    "All my life, my feminine self image has been shaped by my own perceptions.  I've decided that it's overall counterproductive to continue letting this state of isolation deepen. Having a feminine persona existing along side my masculine identity has always been about me.  When it's no longer just about me - when I can say that someone is genuinely, willingly, and positively communicating with my feminine identity - then I will be able to move forward.  Until then, I'm afraid there will be no progress.

    "It's not about getting "what I want."  It's about embracing the truth, coming to terms with its nature.  The alternative is to push it down & lock it away, in which there is no salvation - more like reckless abandon enabled by the drug of denial.

    "What I suffer from isn't a delusion, or misconception; I know what I am, and what I am not. What plagues me is the emptiness, the echo of my lonely voice as I speak out loud to nobody but myself. I lack the affirmation I need.  People do not grow by heeding the wisdom of themselves; "iron sharpens iron" as it is written.  Everyone requires some external recognition, some form of acknowledgment of what one is, whether in the physical or emotional realms, or both.  The gift of constructive, well-thought out perspective widens one's credible understanding of what a thing is.  This isn't just what I wish for, it's what I need."
 

I'm sure it needs work. I'll obviously need to provide a few more details when I open my mouth to confess all of this.  Not that there's anyone checking up on my little corner of cyberspace these days, but if any passerby cares to pare down my thought processes with a few well-intentioned questions, I would be most appreciative.

But yes... I'm lonely, and tired of it, especially when there's no real need for secrecy amongst people who love me.  Will Erica respond well to this declaration?  Not likely.  That is, she'll take it in, then leave me to deal with these thoughts on my own.  But at least she won't shoot me down.  And she's never come close to wishing she could divorce me (I believe).  Which is what I keep telling myself is the true victory - ultimate commitment.

I just need a bit more than that: compassion; empathy; a miracle of grace to let others step up to provide these if she finds that she can't.

And soon... please, dear.

~HCP

*Well, not always.  We don't really speak about my feminine identity anymore.  I'm only saying this used to be her number one question.

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

This is one of those "I don't even know where to begin" kind of posts, so bear with me.  Those of you still paying me attention.

April was when last I wrote anything about anything femme. I have always had a lot to say, and I often have this undeniable desire to spill out my soul in the best way I know how, and I was doing such a great job, I like to think.  But something happened back there.  Summer time, perhaps.  End of school.  A whole different kind of busy.  A lack of wind in the bosom of my sails.  Yeah, more like that.  But I also think it was something a bit more typical - throwing my hands into the air and backing away, because venting and chatting and bitching and casting about the empty reaches of the internet gets old, real old, real fast.  Because when all you really want in the world is someone you love (who has a face, no offense, O People of the Internet) to see your true form and love you back, nothing else takes the shape of that.  Dressing up doesn't work.  Browsing the message boards doesn't work.  Online window shopping is torture, given my infinitesimal budget.  In fact, trying to reach out online just doesn't work.  Because you can't build relationships with people you have no intention of spending time with.  I'm sorry, my few-and-far-between followers, but it's true.  I have a mate who can't deal, and I don't believe in putting my needs above others, especially when I am central to that other person's needs.  And, seriously, I happened to utter some simple yet powerful vows with more than a little sincerity on the day we tethered our mortal souls together.  This makes me responsible.

However, it doesn't leave me without options.  I simply don't know how to identify the good ones.

I'm back again to see if I can find some actual satisfaction.  And I'm willing to use my nicest words.

If there's anything that I've ever been good at, it's that I'm a creative little minx.  I do enjoy letting others pleasure me with story and song, but as whorish as that sounds it only means that I have an eye and an ear for art.  Much of the beauty which art encompasses revolves around the feminine.  I crave it relentlessly. And if no one is ever going to allow me to grow as the beautiful, energetic feminine soul that lies dormant within, than I shall have to forgo the dependence I so craved to become, in a sense, my own woman.  A work of art in and of myself.

I want to write.  I want to draw.  I want to cram the amp plug into Holli Cherise Pewtersmyth and let the ensuing wave of sound flow.  I want something more than reflections.  I want to touch and be touched emotionally.  And I want other people to want this from me as well.

So.......

......

How will I do it?  How can I serve?  How can I bind myself to the whims of an an appreciative audience?  These questions and answers (and more questions, likely) to follow...

~HCP

The Miss and her Mistress, pt. 2

I'm reminded of a joke I heard in high school, which I now offer with an extra infusion of irony:

Q: What's the difference between a sadist and a masochist?

A: The masochist says, "Hurt me."  And the sadist says, "No."

The fruit of which a trans-person such as myself delights is bittersweet.  Every bite is a struggle to reconcile two naturally opposed forces of nature:  The search for identity versus the mandates of social familiarity; Dread of loneliness against the fear of discovery; Yearning for meaningful relationships, yet fearing no one will ever be able to love you for being you.

Sometimes these symbolic battles manifest as genuine situations.  In my case, marriage.  "I love you so much, but I can never do what you ask of me."  This is no overnight phenomenon.  Such dazzling contradictions, like diamonds, take lots of time and intensity.

I revealed my hidden gender to Erica one quiet night at college, both of us laying together on her dorm bed.  I was gentle, but candid.  There was no way to predict her reaction, and no expectation on my part beyond hope that I'd made a good decision.

In the years that followed, Erica traveled from one end of the gamut of complicity to the other.  She began with sincere acceptance.  With time and consideration, she eventually stood against any kind of physical cross-gendered expression.

After she graduated, and later discovered how I'd sought expression outside her sphere of approval, Erica reluctantly granted me a few opportunities to become "freely feminine" in her presence.  She survived these sessions with self-distraction techniques and measured apathy.

In marriage, Erica's alleged indifference was incinerated by her zeal for being a wife.  While some form of feminine expression was anticipated on my part, she was taken aback by the frequency of routines.  Over the years she became more vocal with her reservations, even while still attempting to honor my entreaties for participation.

2003 -  let's call it the year of the Purge & Empty Promise - was when Erica officially wrote herself out of the Holli Cherise Show.  That was pretty much all on me...

As a gesture of compassion for the love of my life, I spent a full final weekend en femme and then ceremoniously discarded the majority of my assembled wardrobe.  Less than a year later, after the inevitable revelation that I wasn't, in fact, through with cross-dressing, the disappointment created an unassailable rift between the two of us.  Her conscious mind has remained closed to the feminine me, for the most part, ever since.  Erica expresses no interest in my thoughts, feelings or activities regarding cross-dressing or any other trans-interests I might keep in the back of my closet.

Her last words on the matter declared that she could no longer see me as a person when I dressed for the role, that I seemed some nameless "thing" taking up space until her spouse returned  A sure sign that I could no longer rely on her as an accomplice or confidant.

In an ironic twist, my irrepressible femininity would begin to manifest during the rising passion of our lovemaking.  Surprisingly, Erica has attempted with admirable success to use it rather than succumb to it.  Some of the elements of submission have come into play, and if she doesn't dwell too deeply on the subtext our experiences are quite mutually pleasurable.  Will some common ground avail itself to our mutual benefit, at least as far as the darkened bedroom?  One can only hope.

Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I won't be completely satisfied with any pseudo-cross-gendered interaction until it's reflective of a heart that knows exactly who stands before it, and then embraces her.  (I know, right?  Let's hear it for mile-high standards!)  But there is a bright side: by insisting on denying me the very thing I would beg her to do for me, it seems Erica has the makings of a first class dominatrix.

~HCP

The Miss and her Mistress, pt. 1

"You need a haircut."

My wife isn't the most able communicator, but she has mastered the art of saying the same thing in a variety of ways.

"You really need a haircut."

"You'd look so much better with shorter hair."

"When are you planning on getting a haircut?"

The answer has usually been the same - "I'm not ready to." - but it's not a sufficient reply.  Therefore, I hear it a lot.

Occasionally she injects a key pronoun, which drags her point a little closer to the light:

"I need you to get a haircut!"  Every now and then, a clarifier: "Your hair is extremely unattractive."

On this sliver of dialogue alone, one may glean the entirety of Erica's feelings for my cross-gendered nature.

There's much more to it than that, of course, like any emotionally charged opinion.  She's my wife.  She didn't marry a woman.  She feels an attraction for my masculine side.  My masculine and feminine sides are bonded, which may result in the spark of certain other emotions she senses but also resents.  You see?  It gets so much more complicated.

Our relationship began in ignorance, as so many often do.  This is so much more convenient where attraction is involved because you don't have to question it.  You just know it.  Feel it.  With the benefit of hindsight, I can guarantee it wasn't my masculine presence that drew Erica to me.  If anything like that at all, it was my boyish frivolity that kept her interested.  I made her laugh.  I still do.  She says it's one of the main reasons she married me.

But also evident was my tendency to rely on the submissive, feminine side to communicate with women.  I'm not saying Erica was into the softer, girlish traits which I revealed carefully so as not to out myself prematurely, but I'm not saying she wasn't, either.  This was me all along, after all.  She had no reason to dissect my personality and label its separate components.  She just loved me for everything she knew me to be.

The same can be said about me, of her.  Except that I'm fully aware of my attraction to this darling, barely-restrained valkyrie.  I see Erica's feminine body, her frailties and emotional insecurities, and I long to care for them.  And then I observe how they merely lend beauty to the dynamic, authoritative core of her being.  She is woman, but she wields a power I cannot resist, nor abandon.  Yes, much of her personality is decidedly masculine.  She knows this for a fact, and hates it.

I once gave Erica a present, a half of a whole for both of us to share.  They were equal pieces of a yin yang, and I told her that this is what we are together.  One leaving off where the other began.  Two vital pieces, without one of which neither would be complete.

The gesture meant everything to her.

Unfortunately, symbolism is still a difficult thing for Erica to identify without assistance, especially since her impressing of where our traits begin and end isn't exactly what she believed, or hoped, they would be.

I believe we were meant to be.  There is harmony in our love-making.  A sense of calm when we are near one another (unless we remain together for too long, but that's another blog under a different heading).  Even our clashing ideologies forge faster bonds.  Yea, our tempers are legendary, and all the more so when we turn fury fully upon one another.  (It is odd, one who longs to be submissive as I do putting up such great struggles against the one I wish would subjugate me.  Perhaps I just want her to want it badly enough?)  When the furnace cools, our friendship always remains intact.  This is why we'll always be together.

And that is why, for the most part, I've been one miserable little cross-dresser.

Next:  History... no, her story... wait, how about THEIR story?

Say Nothing, Act Casual ... pt. 2

(In which Holli brings "desperate" to a whole new level...)

With the decisive neutrality of my two closest girl friends - Erica, my actual girlfriend, and Penny - and their reluctance to entertain the slightest positive thought regarding my cross-dressing, I seemingly at random picked a girl I knew to be my new confidant - name immaterial, for she was brilliant at listening, but contributed absolutely no thoughts to the process (thus having no extensive effect on my trans life).  I began to lean on her for support, as it were, but she expressed no interest in being my enabler.  After almost an entire summer of being sidestepped, I went to her home and tried on some of her outfits without permission, out of some paltry form of revenge.  Her nigh-indifferent reaction to this made me realize I'd placed too much expectation on her shoulders.  We remained friends, but never conversed so much as before.

I find it funny that at college I'd gone from total closet-case to practically unloading my needs on other people and expecting results.  Either my naivete was on a crash course with reality, or I believed altruistically in the dependability of more capable, confident people than myself.  Maybe both.  Poor girl.  Poor me.

And then I met Angel.  Wise, warm, funny, and such a kindred soul I couldn't even know.  I confided in her.  Then... she gave back.  A little too much, perhaps... rather, I didn't have the decency to stop asking. She shopped with me, helped me dress, did my nails (and I did hers), and every now and then my makeup.  She covered for me when I couldn't account for myself to others.  Angel even confided some of the bitter truths peering out from her own closet, feeling it was good for our bond if she added a little of herself to it too.  She devoted herself to understanding me and getting to know me better, unfortunately to the point where she developed a moderate crush on me.  This nonreciprocal love drove us apart for a short while.  Eventually she forgave me for being myopic and advantageous, and I toned down my desperation when we got together.

As it happens, eventually we both found ourselves married.  While I was willing to make time for our relationship as girlfriends, Angel knew that it would never work.  (Ever try explaining to one's newlywed husband about spending time with someone else's husband without tipping him off that the other husband is a cross-dresser?  Me neither, but I bet it's hard.)  We agreed that ours would have to remain a correspondent relationship. It's still difficult to maintain, now a multitude of children have come into her life (she and her husband foster).

Which brings us to NOW.

Despite that Erica knows what kind of a person I am and what I'm inclined to do when the girlie itch needs scratching, we have more secrets between us now than ever.  I accept half the blame for this.  I simply do not tell her things I don't think she enjoys hearing.  This blog, for instance.  My chat room activities.  My board posts.  Purchases.  Private wardrobe indulgences.  In fact, as far as far as she knows I'm just sitting on a great big mountain of repression and doing just fine.  So in reality I'm exacerbating the problem, based on my worried reluctance to set the hurtful truth free.  There have been so many unexpected "walk-ins" in our relationship, I sense how tired she is of them.  I just feel like I'm granting her fondest wish.  Some people do prefer unfamiliarity.

Erica values secrecy.  She isn't just interested in keeping my closet door closed and barred, but she'd just as well forget her own alleged shortcomings.  Unfortunately, she married a person who's totally into disclosure.  If I had a complaint (haha... "if"... ) it would be that she doesn't know how to open up and explore, discuss, analyze, understand the things either of us say and do.  Of anybody I know - and tell me if I'm wrong, please - she ought to be the most interested in knowing everything she can about this irrepressible facet of my being.  Ought to be.  But isn't.  Much like I have to put up with her temper, but at least take time to understand why she's so angry and say how I feel about it.

Does anyone else get the impression that I'm the woman in this relationship?

I can tell the world my secrets.  Sure.  But the list of who I really give a damn about them knowing is pretty short, with her at the top.

That's all for now.  Erica's out and about for another half hour, and I've been girling it up all by my lonesome, spilling the beans to anyone who'll listen.  I think I'll go do the dishes.  And I don't care who knows it.  =P

~HCP

Say Nothing, Act Casual ... pt. 1

By now, if you've read everything prior to this entry, you may have gleaned that I'm not exactly a public figure.  You don't know my given birth name, the kinds of pets I keep, the specific nature of my work or the name of the town I live in.  I even provided a pseudonym with which we may refer to my wife, and will do the same for any close acquaintances who'll be mentioned in this very post.  My blog is deeper undercover than a Brazilian CIA sleeper agent!

Security matters to the closet TG.  A "free country" it may be, but there are too many circumstances where common knowledge of one's gender experiments will attract unfortunate consequences.  Even if most of us keep low profiles in real life, there's a very good chance that if there's a tear in the veil of secrecy then someone will lose something useful, vital or precious - even all three.

And I acknowledge that I've got a little of something from all three categories hanging on the line, should my bi-gendered activities go live.  Therefore, I exercise caution.  Not only for myself but for the main reason I keep the curtains drawn when I'm girling it up - Erica.  She cannot even describe the specter of dread that haunts her, that someday her parents, extended family, all of our friends, her co-workers, our future children, the Pope & the President will find out that she's married to a cross-dresser.  To clarify, I'm mostly in agreement with her.  My needs are complicated, but not the center of our marriage.  And with the economy shaping up to be what it is, I can't go losing my job because I'm deemed incompatible working with the staff or clientele.  (Or whatever excuse they'd make up.)

It's a lot easier to keep the ol' skeleton under wraps these days.  I have my own house, I get time to myself, and I can shop online (not that I'm sitting on that much extra cash; did I mention the lousy economy?).  But in days past, the life of this secret sister was a real pain in the ass...

CHILDHOOD marks the first moments of my discovery that I wanted to be more like the girls.  But even a 1st grader knows there are some things you just don't tell other people.  Especially your peers.  Don't ask me how I knew, but somehow I got the memo that letting all your classmates learn that you'd rather play house than kickball would follow you around nipping at your ass like an angry shih tzu.

Parents were another subset of associates whom it was wise to keep these things from.  In my case especially, Dad, who rocked with Harley-Davidson, hung out with Jack Daniels, and liked to travel with Smith & Wesson.  Mom was exactly the opposite - fun, warm, funny, caring and yet something made me withhold my questions from her.  Even when she caught me two different times wearing her pantyhose, and even offered to talk to me about whatever I was going through, I dummied up.  Probably the tenets of shame and inappropriateness that most kids like us felt when examining our genders.

ADOLESCENCE wasn't so bad, inasmuch as there was one excellent perk for a teenage CD - self-gratification.  This, at least, was what adults anticipated youngsters to be doing in the privacy of their bedroom.  Whether they approved or not, nobody wanted to walk into the middle of that.  And it's not like they could read my mind and learn which fantasies I was mining from.  They sure weren't gonna ask.

My hormonal spike from grades 7-12 added another demographic to the "Do Not Tell" list: attractive girls.  This was agonizing, since they were exactly whom I would have chosen to open up to.  My fantasies expanded, but the closest I ever got to confessing my desires to anyone back then was my first girlfriend - we'll call her Mallory - who decided that she wanted to dress me as a girl for Halloween as a special exercise in dominance over an all-too-willing amour.  I went on letting her think I hated it, which seemed to inspire her all the more as she divulged details of the sweetly feminine things she'd make me wear.  I'd already lost my virginity to her; I wondered if it were likely I'd be the one wearing the lingerie at some point.

Three months into the relationship, Mallory dumped me.  October was three months away.  Not even close.  C'est la vie, as the heartbroken say.

Curiously, my next girlfriend (and one of my best friends to this day) - let's call her Juliet - had the unprecedented effect of distracting me almost entirely from my pocket obsession with cross-dressing.  I have no theories on this, but I can observe the differences: we were rarely a physical couple, her Christian faith gave me new ideas to think about other than sex and gender, and above all she had so much more to offer as a friend and companion than most girls I knew.  I decided to preserve our relationship's beneficial qualities, even after Juliet broke up with me, by never involving her in that part of my world.  (Currently renegotiating this policy.)

COLLEGE availed a brand new concept that was as frightening as it was exciting - independence!  Not only could I pursue examination of my gender on a potentially social level, but I could majorly screw up my reputation in the process! (Wheee!)  I learned a lot about "give and take" during these years, but not much about accepting status quo.  Never have I revealed my secret to more people than I would over the next seven years, nor would I.  And the beautifully ironic thing is that it barely seems to have mattered.

Some time after I met Erica and we started dating, I gave in to the impulse to raid her closet.  I'd steal the occasional scrunchie or pair of underwear, but later I would convince her to go off to class and let me sleep in her dorm room until she got back.  Halfway dressed, I had no idea she'd forgotten her text book.  I barely got back into bed before she came in - forgetting that I had a hair clip stuck on my head.  She saw it immediately but - bless her sweet heart - believed my story when I said I was going to dress in her clothes to surprise her for a laugh when she got back.  This story worked so well, she actually took pictures when she got back, and her friend down the hall, Penny, who was so amused when she saw the prints, made wardrobe suggestions for the "next time."  The following year, both of them made me over for the proceeding Halloween.  (Score!!)

After all of this transpired, I eventually decided to tell Erica the truth.  I was growing rather fond of her and couldn't bear to spring my big surprise on her years down the road.  She took it well, though I feared her head would explode from bottling up this information without someone to vent with, so I also told Penny, who'd become her roommate and best friend.  They immediately formed a consensus that I should never, ever give in to the desire to dress as a woman again.  (Un-score.)

Next: "Holli goes in-freaking-sane"

~HCP

Holli's Universal Wish List of the Nigh-Impossible

Do you ever find yourself in the position of longing for things you will never, ever obtain no matter how long you hold your breath or stretch your fingers with fervent yearning?  Chances are good.  It's a common trait in human beings, wanting what we can't have, breaking our necks to reverse the polarity of truth defining our predicament.  Some of us are realistic and choose to settle.  Others damn the torpedoes and go for broke, accepting any and all casualties in the melee kicked up by our unruly defiance.

I'm somewhere in the middle, when it comes to being Holli.  You'll hear me say again and again that I won't risk social stability just to pursue the hedonistic lifestyle of a transgendered debutante, but the choice comes with a burden. I try not to upset the lifestyle I've chosen to preserve, yet obliviously hold out hope for finding myself in the happy swirl of girlie euphoria, which I can only imagine must exist out there somewhere.  For instance, I've been daydreaming a little list of all the things I wish I could experience en femme, but are as accessible as the moon and stars.  I'll start on the "Not So Unrealistic" end of the spectrum, and progress toward "Maybe If You Had A Million Dollars."

9. Hair

This one starts at the top because, well, I actually have outstanding hair!  It's dark blonde, shoulder length, and straight.  It tucks behind one ear in the cutest way, and waves gently as it falls, giving the meek suggestion of natural curl when it rolls past my neck, as if begging to be done up in rollers.  From here we see the root (ha!) of my hair issues - I can't ever do anything with it besides have it washed.  Granted, I can experiment with hair ties, head bands, clips & assorted scrunchies, but sadly I boast no ability to braid my own locks, may never experience the luxury of surrendering to a professional stylist, and probably won't ever get around to experimenting with bangs, perms, or hair color (I've wondered how I might look as a redhead).  I imagine it's very hard to explain to coworkers why you chose to go with auburn highlights and sport twin ponytails in playful red-and-white polka dot hair twists.  (Although obviously I would be wearing them to go with my outfit, duh.)

8. Nails

Anyone can grow their nails out.  Anyone can even file them into innocuous, petite little edges, if they take time to master the ancient tools known as Clippers and File.  You can even gloss 'em in clear polish.  People probably won't notice.  Except for women. Women will definitely notice, actually.  So never mind about being able to keep a set of classy kitten claws, much less polish them, if I don't want to draw curious looks.  As a modern closeted CD, I can dare myself to buy a few bottles of splashy color at the local Target, but giving myself a nice nail finish only to have to rub it all off at the end of an "open closet" session is such a senseless waste.  I've never had more than two days to enjoy a set of fresh, shiny red nails.  It's too much work for too little reward.  Like working retail.

7. Makeup

This one falls in line with what I lament about #8.  Putting on makeup for the space of a few hours just for the sake of "being as girly as I wanna" is simply deflating when you go to take it off, thinking of how long you spent trying to make it look just right.  Makeup serves multiple purposes, not the least of which for CDs is to pass as their feminine selves in public.  Get it?  In public.  It's a terrible catch 22:  When women put on makeup before leaving the house, they're accentuating their features to make a good impression; stay-at-home cross-dressers, though they want to emulate women, can't get past the front door.  And even if I choose to settle for private self-makeovers, there's not enough time in my schedule to justify paying the big bucks for a set of makeup that'll just dry up between glamour sessions.  Anyway, I'm such an amateur when it comes to makeup I shouldn't leave the house without professional assistance.

6. Hairless Bod

It goes without saying, being married challenges most of the freedoms I enjoy in terms of transgender activities, but one of the biggest perks of marital partnership - sex - tends to dictate the rules more than any other.  Erica doesn't want to rub up against another pair of silky smooth legs under the covers.  Therefore, I'm expressly not permitted to shave down from ears to ankles lest I suffer a prolonged bout of abstinence.  Since I'm not a very hairy person, I'm not unaware that it could be worse.  Still...know what I hate?  Hair.  Wouldn't it be just horrible for me to accidentally fall chest deep into a vat of Nair and be defollicled for life??  (Oh, the sweet, sweet horror...)

5. Shapely Bod

It takes a short lifetime to realize that women everywhere hate their bodies.  Even the super models.  Most girls are never really satisfied (content, at best) with what they've got), and so in this respect I enjoy the self-satisfaction of sharing this trait with them.  From a personal vantage, my shoulders are a bit too wide. My calves - ugh! - are muscular, and my arms are .  Actually, in comparison to most guys, they're thin and girlish, but next to women they're too contoured.  Who knows, really, because I've never been the subject of a critique in the proper context.  Yet women don't need an outside opinion to absolutely know what's wrong with them.  Like, you couldn't convince me that my lack of hips isn't a big deal.  I just need one more inch, maybe two, but that's not where my body fat grows - stupid bones just don't JUT!  Tough luck, Miss Holli.  Counting my blessings, though, one cannot even tell at a glance if I have an Adam's apple.  Hooray for Mom's side of the gene pool!

4. Vocal Versatility

I have an okay voice.  It's not deep, it's not light.  It may well even be uninteresting.  I do notice people have the tendency to talk over me in the middle of sentences, as if I wasn't even speaking.  But then these people tend to have strong voices.  I could say things with weightier inflection, but then I'd end up being labeled "abrasive," or asked what it is I'm angry about all the time.  Also, I'd probably make myself hoarse.  Lighter it is, then.  Only I'd prefer if I could remove the thin huskiness and replace it with something a little more lilting and dulcet.  While it's true I can put my wife to sleep by the sound of my voice (not a compliment, if you're thinking it), would it be so bad if I could sound less like a phone sex operator with a head cold?  And no, I can neither afford the time nor money to take diction lessons.  ...Why?  Do you know a guy?

3. Pierced Ears

Ohhhh, would I love to have my ears pierced.  I'm so serious.  I've coveted the feminine prerogative to wear earrings since before I tried on my first pair of high heels.  I can't hold back - I'm talking, a whole chest full of different kinds of earrings I'd wear.  I love hoops.  I'm crazy for danglers.  Since I'm dreaming, give me two in each ear, one for studs and pearls, and the other for personality.  Earrings, earrings, earrings... oh, I could just scream.  But Erica says no. *sigh* But if I could, I would dive head first into Claire's.

2. Lingerie (Well, not just lingerie)

To clarify, I do possess a small set of hand-me-over lingerie (read: rescued from Erica's donation or disposal bags), and a few purchased items.  Not much to work with, but they do the job of filling out my pretend bosoms and granting me the pleasure of lounging around like a wanton princess, trapped in her tall tower but at least gifted with the advantage of luxury.  My favorite ensembles usually include the garter/stocking option.  I'm already getting flushed just writing this, because these clothes are unmistakable in their purpose. Kind of exactly the problem, actually! Why am I getting dressed for sex when there's absolutely zero sex waiting for me at the end of the process?  Don't pretend those garters aren't hard to attach.  I went to all the trouble, so why shouldn't... *ahem*  Anyway, moving on to, of course, the most sought after aspect of transcendental femininity:

1. Breasts

Before you even start in on the practicality of silicone cups or some ingenious method you read about in a TG magazine - birdseed or liquid gel or water balloons or whatever - let's put this in perspective: boobs are squishy, sensitive, heavy enough to affect your center of gravity, and non-detachable.  When I say I want breasts, I don't mean I want to emulate the feel of them.  I mean, "I wish my chest would spontaneously begin to swell with benign fatty tissue, gradually forming a new pair of amply-sized, globular parts of anatomy that require support from a specially crafted garment to prevent discomfort by providing lift and separation, and demonstrate sensitivity to cold and subtle physical contact."  Lots of women would say I'm crazy.  "They're such a pain! You don't know what it's like!"  Oh, sure, sure.  But then again, I voluntarily strap myself into a set of 4" heels for the fun of it, while the bulk of modern women's liberators denounces them for foot manglers.  I appreciate a lot of sensations that most women eschew, yet I don't experience them as often as it might take to convince me they're a burden.  I may not want to make the total, completely legal leap from male to female, but a set of melons sounds like the perfect excuse to do on a regular basis what I've been trying to accomplish for 30+ years.  I'm perfectly willing to accept a set of these particular twins into our home.  "Sorry honey... I can't return them without a receipt!"

Addendum: Genitalia
One might puzzle over why I didn't include switching out my male tackle for its female opposite. Apart from essentially requiring an act of God, it's pretty much the same as wishing to wake up tomorrow as a fully formed, fully functional woman. It's not just one thing, it's everything. Modern medical science makes this possible, of course, but it's the ultimate transformation, and I find taking that irrevocable step across the threshold just a little daunting. (Yes, even though I want it; if nothing else, at least woman's mysterious nature resides in me.)

~HCP

Behind Closed Doors, Pt. 2 "Now It's Personal"

Preface - I'm a little embarrassed about how much time exists between Part 1 and Part 2 of my little confessional.  A lot can happen in three months.  It was all more important than jotting down my gender woes to satisfy my feminine angst, I assure you.  But I admit, I'm not very good at returning to diaries once I leave them to fend for themselves.  At least I came back.  Count that blessing.

In my last entry, I counted off a few general variables that all closet cross-dressers have in common, as far as my limited understanding goes.  I think it's safe to believe everything I mentioned, bearing in mind that while no two people are alike there are definite patterns that can be observed if only one bothers to look.  As usual, there is no accounting for individuality.  At some point, the closet CD tends to break away from the typical behavior pattern and ends up choosing her own style and preference.  She becomes an individual.  It's all about creating identity now, instead of initially discovering it.  She focuses on not just making herself happy, but actualizing the significance of self.  In fact, happiness and self-actualization start walking hand in hand, discussing future plans, exchanging meaningful looks, deciding whose house they'll move into, etc.  It feels right.  In some ways, it also feels wrong.  This won't be resolved for some time, but that's not so important at first.

What's been important to me has been determining how I, Holli, can manifest as a person, as someone whose existence matters to another living soul.  Dressing the part in my free time is really a secondary achievement.  I may as well be the sole survivor of some nautical disaster, isolated on a desert island in hopes that someone thinks to come looking for me, knowing that's about as likely to happen as I am to sprout wings and fly home.

Here is a hard fact:  Most everyone I've ever met has no idea that I am transgendered, and those who do are generally powerless to love me for it.  (I choose the word "powerless" only in the sense that their personal moral codes keep them from getting involved to the point where they'd be culpable for any mistakes I made; in short, not supporting me in case my decisions blow up in our faces.)  Erica thinks I should content myself with having the house to myself every now and then.  Without spreading the word around to close friends or family, this is as good as it gets.

Here is an interesting fact: I've never, ever been to the movies by myself.  I'm sure lots of people do it, or have done it, but I don't know anyone who really wants to.  Movies, to me, are soul-stirring experiences, stories that bond you with others (yes, even the crappy ones) much in the same way sports games or TV shows become the topic of water cooler conversation, or any kind of "mini-event" that lets you relate directly to another person.

Thinking of myself as a woman isn't just a hobby.  It's self-discovery.  It's evolution of the soul.  But just because one may relate to women, one may feel like a woman, one may even become a woman, if no one acknowledges your identity then you may as well be a brick.  None of us feel we are who we are without some sort of social feedback.

Some CDs, tired of living cooped up with their inhibitions, will attempt to go public with their feminine identity.  This decision leads to gigantic, nigh-irreversible life changes that affect everyone involved in that person's life.  Here, my dears, is where I wave from the front porch and wish them safe journey.  I can make my own decisions just fine, but such an intimate leap means making decisions for other people in my life as well.  I'm too well-loved in all other regards to leave them behind.

Anyway, I have no idea what I'm trying to accomplish.  What's different about being Holli?  I'm convinced that my identity isn't separate, but I can't outwardly express myself as both man and woman.  I believe that being who you are means spending time in the role, and that such time have some kind of impact on someone besides yourself.  When alone, I indulge myself with playing the stay-at-home-wife role, even though I think the idea of being a housewife is ridiculous when you aren't even married.  Of course, I am married... what I mean is that as Holli I don't have the privilege of relationships, not even in devoted service to those I care for.  Yet do I usually fold the laundry and do the dishes and vacuum and pick up the house when I've switched roles? Oh, yes.  Does it make me feel more like my feminine self?  Not really.  These things are expected of me anyway.  But usually "playing house" brings me closer to Holli-ness.  As I type this, I really wonder how pathetic it sounds.


I used to go online whenever I could, frequenting the U R Not Alone chat rooms in search of like-minded peers, making connections that could well evolve into genuine, meaningful rapports.  This became a steady exercise in figurative head-banging as it became clear to me that my choice to remain closeted turned most people off to pursuing any kind of ongoing association.  Yet for the sake of Erica's privacy and various other concerns, I didn't have much choice but to remain anonymous.  It's been over a year since Holli disappeared from that scene. Despite the occasional temptation to revitalize my presence there, I don't believe I can reach any kind of fulfillment there.


I confess that there have been... carnal ways of attempting to fill the idle hours, but that's something I've been steering away from.  Sex is as much a condition of gender development as anything else, and just as important, but - again, I make with the blunt honesty - that's a glass that's never been full.  And, believe me, I've tried since adolescence.  It's far too late to separate the thrill of sexual gratification from feminine appearance, as those strands of consciousness are forever entwined.  But merely pretending to be the object of someone else's desire tires me, leaves me feeling empty when the moment has passed.  

Finally, it comes to this: What does the closet cross-dresser do when she only has herself to validate her identity, yet out of respect for loved ones refuses to step outside the boundaries she herself has drawn to avoid unpleasant reprisals?


She goes mad.

This, I fear, is inevitable unless something changes.  Something that I cannot change myself, because of my self-imposed dictates of conscience.  Is it my fault because I choose to lock myself in a closet rather than give over to self-gratifying indulgences?  Or should I go beyond that, blame myself for not being creative enough to find another way to be recognized and loved?



Okay, I can't go out.  But how can I invite someone else in?  I guess that's the next puzzle to solve in this maze. 

~HCP

Behind Closed Doors, Pt. 1 "The Basics"

This week I made a happy discovery - it's so much easier to take down Christmas decorations in high heels, especially the tree ornaments!  Which leaves me wondering whether there was more to doing the shopping and housework in all-day heels than American Moms in the 40s and 50s originally let on.  Was it just to keep up appearances, or did they find it so much easier to reach items on high shelves with an extra 3-inch boost?  Not that I ever needed an excuse to wear them, myself, but there are perks.

Tuesday was my first opportunity of the new year to score some badly needed girl time, and I grabbed it with both hands.  I love Christmas, but...wow, what a terrible holiday this year.   I don't mean it wasn't fun (because it was... well, most of it) but December came on a little strong, like a red-faced uncle who finishes off the spiced punch before the rest of us have a second cup, and then he decides to make you open his presents before you've even sat down to dinner so he can bring up how much money he spent.  wOoG!...I apologize for dumping that ugly metaphor on you, but here's a short summary of our holiday woes:

1. Fruitless last-minute shopping
2. A small, precious window of time that did not include every family member in a hundred mile radius
3. Death

Not necessarily in that order.  So when I say I really needed to kick it en femme, you have some idea.  At work, where the majority of my co-staff are female, the Nudge was pretty persistent.  All day long I kept inadvertently stumbling into a little pocket of imagination where my feminine intimations like to abide.  I surrendered when I got home, on condition that I'd have an adequate slice of time to myself.  That's something I promised myself last year, after struggling with obsession...No getting dressed up unless you get to enjoy it. An hour isn't worth it; two is good for when I'm desperate; three to four will tide me over 'til the next full moon, if it's done right.

"So," I hear you ask, "what's the point?  What do you get out of it?"  That's one hell of an excellent question.  But let's start with...

The Basics of Closet Cross-Dressing

When you have a secret desire and only have the rarest of moments to indulge your fancies without being discovered, you begin to treat those moments with a strange respect, an idyllic privilege.  This is where rituals are born, and in the case of the closeted CD (cross-dresser, to abbreviate) each one is different (so far that I've learned, comparing various online testimonials).

There are several constant variables in the stay-at-home CD's ritual:

• Premeditated decision to set aside time for "temporary role transition" - This is simply the inner girl getting stiff and antsy and trying to claw her way out of the public persona she's been cooped up in for so long.  Like many genuine females, her moods are unpredictable and her demands are high.
• Scheduling to ensure privacy, maintain secrecy, and fortify security - Most of us give reign to our alternate gender personas in solitude, due to obvious reasons.  Some of us are very good at it.  Some of us also have horror stories to tell, like when our bedroom locks suddenly don't work, or getting trapped in the bathroom when our parents drive up to the house an hour before schedule.
• Attentive, meaningful selection of wardrobe - We only get to "go girl" every blue moon, never as often as we like, so what we get to wear for the few hours of freedom we scrounge truly matters.  Some, for example, are wild about heels, so the outfits they choose will focus on the shoes.  Some would rather wrap themselves in an intimate ensemble, replete with teddy, garters and silken robes.  It totally depends on the mood.  "What kind of woman am I today?"  Close friends and family of CDs may surely notice a trend in the style of clothes they prefer, notably the kind most women would only wear out on hot dates. ~~ NOTE:  Many of us own alternate wardrobes filled with elaborate, extra feminine apparel.  Truly, women don't usually slink about the home in corsets, spike heels and LBDs (unless they're characters on "Desperate Housewives") but the CD isn't trying to establishing a fundamental lifestyle.  She's cramming a ton of carpe diem into a fraction of the time she actually wishes she had to live like a woman.  We might spend more time in flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks if there wasn't so little time to wear the sexy stuff too.
• Adornment - It goes without saying that if we go to the trouble of laying out clothes then we'll probably put them on...if for nothing else than it'd otherwise be a pointless waste of time.  But, to me at least, there's something gratifying about the time it takes to don my female raiment.  I enjoy satisfaction at competently snapping garters over nylons, pulling hose up my leg without shredding them with my toenails, or actually doing my hair in a way that looks pretty, and like I meant to.

What comes next for the poor, lonely closet CD, all dressed up and no place to go?  I mean, what do you do with yourself?  That's entirely unique for each of us.  Some like to interact with their peers on the internet.  Other like to engage in typically feminine activities, i.e. curling up with a romantic comedy, creative craft-making, cooking.  It doesn't meet particular standards to watch a baseball game while dressed like one of the player's wives who sit in the stands (though, ironically, it's easy to forget how much more in common we have with today's Genetic Girls (GGs), hundreds of thousands of whom are becoming big time sports fans converts).

Quite frankly, as far as I'm concerned, it's being able to live the same way I do every day, only with a different mindset.  Which is why last Tuesday I wore a form-fitting body suit and tights, had a half hour workout on the Wii, slipped on a pair of slingback heels and swishy skirt, my hair pinned back in double pony-tails, and did my chores.  I chose to stop treating my life as though there were two worlds vying for control.  Though I'm still closeted, and although I still can't entice my wife to get to know the other me any better than she does now, from now on I'm not two minds, but one.  Even if I'm the only one who notices.

~HCP