Platform: Shoes - A Declaration of Advocacy

I have 99 transgender problems, and shoes make up about a dozen of them.

For every (rare) day I decide to wear an outfit, I begin with shoe selection and build around them. Every ensemble I lovingly critique, I start with choice of heels. I perk up at the sound of clicks on tile or sidewalk, then swivel around to see if the shoes (and the person filling them) are as attractive to me as they sound. My Pinterest board “Well Heeled” overflows with a seemingly redundant conveyance of every shoe I could ever dream to wear.

(If you’re curious, please feel free to drop by: https://www.pinterest.com/hollicherise/ ...y'know, if you want.)

Shameless cry for attention. So, so shameless.

I suppose, then, it would be no surprise to anyone that high heels were the first definitive form of feminine apparel I tried on as a child. How old was I? 6 or 7, perhaps? Crazy, how the culmination of three events led to that moment: my mother leaving me in the car so she could run into the grocery store to cash a check; a pair of red, strappy heels left in the backseat; my mounting curiosity about what it would feel like to wear such beautiful things. Seizing the moment, I put them on my feet, one at a time. I was shorter than my mother, but - a bit startling - they fit very well. And then… I buckled the straps around my ankles, hands trembling ever so slightly… sitting in place, feet together, feeling the spikes press up, forcing the arch, commanding my sitting posture, redefining my very character….

And then I opened the car door. And then I stepped out. I touched the pavement, gingerly. The sensation of solid ground under my newly-shod sole communicated to me a novelty, how different things were now, as I took that first step. Two feet on the ground now. I stood up. Perhaps I wobbled, but just a little. I looked around to assure myself just how alone I was, unobtrusive between all the parked cars. I took a few steps.

Electrifying. Exulting. Transformative.

Addicted!

It would only escalate from that point on.

It’s always been as though I was born to wear heels. I don’t get women who complain about them, their discomfort, how they exist to merely objectify the body, their suspicion that this is all part of the male agenda to subjugate women (forgetting that men were wearing heels before women appropriated them). On the contrary, I find they make me feel sexier, more capable, and somewhat special whenever I wear them.

In my opinion, if heels are worn strictly for the pleasure of admirers, then you’re doing it wrong. Like lipstick, clothes, jewelry or perfume, it’s down to choice, which is an expression of self, no matter how you dress it up. High heels are the essence of dramatic interpretation, or costume theater if you will, as much a part of feminine exotica as an alluring smokey eye or elaborate gown.

No, heels aren’t the end-all/be-all of forward footwear fashion.

Yes, they make you less likely to escape from a charging tyrannosaur.

No, you aren’t less of a woman if you don’t wear heels.

Yes, I'm a little partial in my appeal for high heel celebration. Then again, I don't get to wear them very often, so I'm not the one destroying my knees in them every single day. (Then again, nobody should be that cruel to themselves. "All things in moderation," as the old adage goes.)

"Stop trying so hard to stand out, Susan!"
is probably a less-popular axiom.
(But no less valid.)

In conclusion: Life is short. Go climb that mountain. Eat the chocolate mousse pie. Wear the heels. (Just, not all at the same time.)

-- HCP

Holli Cherise's Day Off

I don't know what floats the rest of your collective boats when you get a day (and the house) all to yourself, but as for me there is absolutely nothing equal to being able to wear whatever the hell I want. Sure, I can lay flat on my back and eat nacho cheese straight from the can, or play video games until I've worn down the Wii batteries, but as a cross-dresser I only want to wear myself out by wearing whatever goes with a hot pair of heels.

Typical, and that's no joke. If I had the place to myself for a month, I'd likely spend the entire time en femme.  True, I'd go berserk with depression and loneliness, but that's neither here nor there.  The point is opportunity.  And that's what I've seized today.

So far, my day can be described as follows:

• Leaned up from my comfy spot in bed to kiss Erica goodbye.  Off she went to work, and up I jumped to shower, shave, moisturize, and manicure.

• Threw on some frillies and a white Frederick's dressing robe, then stuck my head into the internet for an hour to see what was new.

 

• Stared at my lovely wardrobe, trying to decide what to start with.  Decided that it'd been ages since I tried most of these outfits on, and so initiated the process of modeling everything I own in front of the a mirror.  (I couldn't help it...!)

• Discoveries: a) some dresses I used to hate have now grown on me, b) some dresses just don't flatter my plain frame, and I have no idea why I've hung onto them for so long, c) I really, really need some sun on my arms and shoulders, b/c my face and neck look like they go on someone else's body, and d) it's almost 11:00! Why am I wasting time playing fashion show when there's so little time??

• Settled on a tight mauve crochet top (to go with the 5" heels) white tights, and a black suede mini. Did my hair up nice in a black bow scrunchie and adorned myself w/ a li'l bling.  Marched myself into the kitchen to paint my nails and have a bowl of cereal. (Hey, 11:00 a.m. is technically morning... breakfast still applies!)

• Sat down to write new blog for adoring fans.

Exciting, n'cest pas?  Well, mostly.  If I can push away all the more interesting alternatives: friends, a real manicure in a nail salon, a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe under an umbrella, movies, girl talk, shoe shopping...

"Please, ladies, no gang signs... just kidding, throw 'em up there."

Or how about instead I spend all that closet time picking out clothes for the weekend, tying my hair back, making myself up, packing a snack bag, then jumping into the car for a lazy weekend with friends who call me Holli because it's who I am?  Maybe getting some actual sun by somebody's pool, earning myself a cute little bikini line, giving in to peer pressure and getting my ears pierced.  Or letting them pick out a tattoo.

"You all said 'pirate skull' right? How does it look? Badass?"

Great.  Now I'm jealous of alternate universe Me.

Ah, but still... life is good. Even in small doses.

~HCP

Lovin' the Day

I never know if the sudden appearance of one of my posts brings new joy to your lives, but sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion that the space between new posts is a bit of a bother.  Or not.  I dunno, I don't get much feedback.  But I'm prepared to err on the side of love.

At any rate - Good news!  Last week I passed up the chance to take a much-needed mental health day away from my exhausting, thankless day job, then waded through several days worth of excellent reasons why I should have run when I had the chance.  All Friday, therefore, I'm collecting that personal raincheck.  And I'm girling it up by my sweet lonesome.

I've been anticipating a day like this for awhile.

I went shopping.

I added a little pink to my wardrobe, and a new pair of shoes to match.

And I've been harvesting a few ideas for some fresh new blogs.  So if you're one of the faithful (up to 8 official followers now!) or a brand new reader, watch this space.

See you in a few hours!

~HCP

Free Form Fantasy pt. 3: Submission

If there's one thing I resent about being a crossdreamer, it's that during a lifetime of emulating women I've been forced to go it alone most of the time.  Lack of materials (clothing), resources (time, privacy, money) and experience (peer support/feedback/counseling) left me no alternative but to rely on my own limited intellect when it came to feeling out the territory.  A creative mind, like water, finds ways around obstacles in its path, even when it must deviate from it's intended course.  This is a recurring theme in nature.  In living organisms, we call it "survival instinct."

At some point, I responded to my pitiful lack of membership in a female society by seeking out women who might find the idea of dressing me as a woman appealing.  I won't try to pass this off as some personal checkpoint, since it never worked in the long run.  But that doesn't detract from the fact that submission to a woman with makeover mania has its own wing in my fantasy gallery.  I'm not alone, either.  Not at all.  A great many members of the crossdreaming culture have the same obsession, to varying degrees.

As I mentioned before, there are dozens of websites dedicated to crossdream fantasies, and in the dominance/submission category there are, again, recurring themes.  Shall I explore these now?  Yes, I shall, beginning on the "vanilla" side:

Friendly Fun For Everyone

I've already written about how Erica and Penny dressed me up as a woman for Halloween in college, and how they enjoyed the process of selecting my outfit, doing my hair, nails and makeup, and showing me off to our friends.  At the time, this was the ultimate wish fulfillment as far as I was concerned.  It definitely inspired a parade of bigger and better possible realities with which I'd learn to tantalize myself, but I would eventually understand that this was the best kind of crossdreaming fantasy, simply because it's the kind most likely to happen.

They're discussing whether to dress up Molly's cousin as a Goth chick,
a French maid, or a Disney princess.  Or, a combination of all three.

The younger the ladies, the more open they are to social perversity, especially in groups.  When this mindset encounters the concept of their gender opposites switching roles, their enthusiasm doubles.  I don't have the numbers to back me up, but I suspect the most frequent occurrence of boys acquiescing to feminine makeovers by their female friends and/or partners takes place during the late high school/early college years.  (Okay, this was how it happened for me, but the theory is sound!)

Honestly, it wasn't hard to find girls in college who wanted access to my feminine side.  True, they didn't want so much access as I was willing to offer, but there were plenty of opportunities to make myself available.  If I was hanging out with some coeds in their dorm room, and my bare feet happened to be hanging off the bed while they were doing their nails, I ended up with a pedicure.  With my long hair, a casual evening of platonic conversation occasionally turned into "fun with curlers."  It was easy to get Penny & Erica to make me over for Halloween, because all I did was demonstrate how easy it would be, effectively giving them permission.  It was basically my idea, but they ran with it.

In short, this is the most common fantasy we 'dreamers have.  It a) involves the people we trust and look up to the most, b) provides a safe environment where risk of consequence rests at a minimum, and c) grants us the ability to openly enjoy ourselves.

Becoming "one of the girls" will also create a lasting bond.
Especially when blackmail photos are used as leverage.

Feminized Agenda

According to crossdream legend, there exists a kind of woman who not only demonstrates a marked curiosity in the average heterosexual male cross-dresser, but has also reached the point of wanting to help that special girl emerge from hiding... at all costs.  In fact, she takes particular pleasure in encouraging her transgendered friend to spend more time exploring her femininity.  Encouragement becomes insistence.  Insistence becomes relentless pressure, which eventually results in the crossdreamer losing touch with every semblance of her masculine gender and spending virtually every waking moment in the world this "sponsor" has helped her build.

Just pray your mentor has good taste.
Or at least watches "What Not To Wear."

This is a very popular fantasy, which I now believe begins to take shape right after a trans-girl realizes that even the most fun-loving girlfriend doesn't have any intention of playing fashion pimp to her femme beau, even on the occasional Halloween.  Wouldn't it be much nicer - and easier - to meet someone who actually wants us to act more like a woman?  Who gently but firmly leads us by the hand towards complete gender renovation?  Who removes our decision-making power so that we're effectively no longer responsible for any lifestyle changes, thus free from the guilt of shocking & hurting the other people in our lives?  This woman would likely be a distant cousin to the yetis of Nepal, since she too is often sighted but never proven to exist.  Ah, well, imagination certainly has benefits.

"Sometimes, me feel pretty too..."

Admittedly, I myself have entertained such lurid dreams, with the additional burden of a libido that has, since adolescence, formed permanent bonds of arousal with the sensation of wearing certain feminine attire - a combination of stimuli that renders me tirelessly attracted to the idea of being in someone's thrall when I'm en femme.  Thorough readers will recall Mallory, who I dated in high school, and how she enjoyed tormenting me with a devilish promise to make me over as a girl for Halloween, which I totally let her believe was akin to my worst nightmare so she'd keep wanting to do it (such a strange relationship, in hindsight).  This is the closest I've ever come to seeing my forced feminization fantasy come true, though it never happened.

The fantasy evolves further once the "dominant/submissive" element is introduced, leading the ever-searching crossdreamer to explore a variety of flavors that include bondage, hetero/homosexual experimentation, role playing, and body modification. Once again I admit that my imagination has ventured this far, but I remain inexperienced, and more than a little reluctant.

As you might have noticed by now, there are no examples of my personal fantasies regarding anything mentioned in this category.  My blog runneth over already, so I'll end on a short, sweet note... And I'm just gonna keep this part vanilla, if ya'll don't mind.

#1 on Holli's Super Girly Fun List: Just Being One of the Girls

~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

An Honest Prelude

I have a very limited idea of how other people evolve when it comes to taking the next step, after coming to a complete stop.  Some of them start a blog, I'm guessing - like me.  It might be the first step of many, or maybe it's a last resort.  I'm playing this one off as a little of both, or somewhere in between. Pick your favorite cliche.

Let me be right up front with you, O reader. My feminine presence isn't genuine. Holli Cherise Pewtersmyth is a persona. I wasn't born with the XX chromosome, but somewhere along the way I developed a fierce envy-cum-admiration for the female of my species.  More on this later (and in spades), but you ought to know what kind of blog you're dealing with.  In essence, it concerns the joys and travails of one of the loneliest, most desperate closeted cross-dressers in the freedom-loving U.S.A. I'm here to sing to my soul's content the song of femininity, and occasionally whine about how hard life is (even though I've got it pretty good, all things considered).

Just wanted to set things straight, before I begin.  If everything seems to be in order, then meet me back here next time.  I'll probably be complaining about something, so...forewarned and forearmed, and all that.


~HCP