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