Clothing Optional

There are several things I love/hate about Pinterest - that is to say, which vex me but I can't really complain about.  For instance, Pinterest knows what I'm looking at and enjoys herding me down channels of mini-obsession.  It knows I like shoes and outfits, but it likes to suggest exotic lingerie, short tight skirts and (!!?) light bondage wear.  Pinterest is trying to turn me into a little slut.

Also, when it comes to pinning I'm just a cheerful ball of compliance, enjoying everything I see so much I don't even know if I've already saved it two or three times.  The more time I spend ogling girly things, the happier Pinterest is.

It's ultimate goal: replicating my brain with pixels and creating a digital
copy of myself, who will finally appreciate all the effort its making.

What plagues me most of all isn't really down to Pinterest itself, but the lack of harmony between my virtual closet and my personal set of existential desires, which my Pinterest boards represent.  The bane of my transgender used to be department stores, where I still conceal my jealousy and yearning as I pass by shop windows full of feminine wonder; now I don't even have to leave home to experience this dysphoria!

I stepped through the barrier of female-exclusive consumerism in college, when (with the emotional support of my bestie, Angel) I bought my first outfit: a short sleeve purplish lavender body suit & button-up denim mini from thrift, and my first ever pair of black high heels (MY heels, all mine!) from Payless.  It's funny now, how I think back on those choices and roll my eyes at how cheap, how tawdry these particular clothes were... I mean, today I do own a denim mini, several body suits and black heels, only they're much more tasteful.  But those were first steps, the first time I'd ever worn clothes that were based on my tastes, my choices, my identity, not just borrowing from someone else's, so I value that turning point.

Currently, my wardrobe consists of a decent variety of styles for nearly every occasion, from casual to dressy.  I've previously mentioned how I could last a few weeks using this set of clothes without needing a wash day.  For someone who doesn't leave the house, it's practical, pleasing, and reflective of my personal feminine image.  I have nothing to complain about.

Except...

I reeeeaaaaallly want more clothes!  I can't help it, and I probably wouldn't help it if I had the choice.  I love to dress up.  When I'm Kris, I don't give much thought to what I wear or what people think of me - jeans and t-shirts, that's the life for me.  (And don't get me started on the masochistic lunacy of NECK TIES as a masculine fashion tradition!)  Guys have a simpler fashion palette, and that's just fine.  As a woman, however, I require special considerations in the clothes I wear, such as intricacy, appeal, variation, and distinct muliebrity.

I bet they didn't put THIS word in your SATs!

Therefore, If I ever find myself a sugar momma willing to bankroll my softer side, I have a list of wardrobe improvements* I'd like to make:

1) Breasts

Let's start with a very basic need which supersedes attire.  I'm absolutely weary of not having breasts to fill out my bra. I hate going about my business and having to push my chest back down every ten minutes or so, due to lack of fundamental weight that defines the point of even wearing a bra.  Do any women have Floating Bosom Syndrome?  Not according to Google, they don't.  Ridiculous!

In short: I want to wear bras, so give me the means to justify them.  (Synthetic, please.  I'm not in the least prepared to explain to the world why I decided to spring for implants.)

2) Lingerie

If a girl's outfit could be compared to a work of architecture, then underwear is the foundation.  Perhaps no one can see it, but it makes a world of difference to what we see on the outside.  The right kind of underwear can inspire confidence, improve one's demeanor, or just be a feel-good part of your day.

I want a drawerful of matching bra & panty sets.  I need a variety of stockings with garter belts, and a selection of patterned tights (and basic colors, too).  Another drawer must be filled with lacy chemises, teddies & silky negligees.  Bustiers would be a lovely addition, and (since we're talking) I've always wanted to try corsets.  (And if we're venturing into dedicated preferences, I'll confess that I won't say no to the odd bit of intimate leather and metal, if such apparel does indeed exist.  I'm sure I wouldn't know...)

I'm not sure how to classify body suits, but they turn up in every search for "lingerie," even though you can wear them visibly as part of an ensemble.  They're tight little shapers that help keep nether bits snug, support the chest, and slim contours. I have four pair myself, two solid and two striped, and they are unparalleled for bringing my femme to the fore.  Simply magnificent. So I'm just going to leave this here...

3) Dresses

Say what you want about the liberties women enjoy to wear whatever they want, but I'll insist there is no happier expression of feminine spirit than the essential dress.  It's a do-it-all kind of piece, decorating the shoulders, neck, bosom, back and waist, then cascading from the hips down with a gender-exclusive signature look that cannot be replicated.  Examining the last century, decade by decade, makes me fall in love with dresses and how they've evolved, convincing me they're never going away, and thank God for that.  I would wear a different dress every single day.

4) Skirts, Pants & Tops

I feel like I have to put these together, because even though tops may be worn with pants, you can't have a skirt without tops.  (The censors just won't have it, I'm sorry.)  Also, the combinations are infinite.  Also also, you MUST coordinate - this skirt with that camisole, those slacks with that shirt, these jeans with a peasant blouse, etc. etc.  That said, I love options.  Female clothing offers a myriad ways to communicate mood, style and personality for every occasion.  Fill my closet with such options, and I'll be downright giddy.

5) Shoes

I've already been over shoes, but it bears repeating in such a list as mine.  I will most certainly wear: High heels, sandals, flats, Mary Janes, wedges, ankle boots, knee high boots (not cowboy, thanks).  I love bows, buckles, ankle straps, peep toes, platforms, sneakers, lace-ups and tie-ons.  Basically, just look up my Pinterest board "Well Heeled" and make that list a reality.

6) Jewelry

There's a fashion rule, that before a lady leaves the house, she should remove one piece of jewelry.  This leads me to believe that women have a tendency to over-accesorize, which may not be a problem for me.  I'm seriously not sure how much of a jewelry girl I really am.  I suspect having bits and bobs dangling all over my person might drive me nuts after a while, especially since I work with my hands so much that rings and bracelets might become a nuisance, even an impediment.  That said, I wouldn't turn away a generous sampling of bling.  Necklaces and bangles are nice, and anklets, and armlets.  Maybe chokers.  What I'm absolutely in love with is the earrings (which is saying a lot, for somebody with no pierced ears).  Danglies, hoops, studs... I'm just saying, if you sat me down in a chair and popped two holes in the lobe & one on the outside (left & right) then I wouldn't likely complain much.**

 ~            *           ~            *             ~          *            ~           *            ~

They say clothes make the person, which is just a cryptic way of saying "You are what you wear."  Maybe that's so, but even if you don't actually wear the clothes I believe preferences count as intentions.  Despite the clothes, of course, I must still use a bit of imagination and ingenuity to make the look work for me.  Just as well, since I'm not generally trying to impress anybody but myself.

Also, a girl can always dream.
And she does, mon cher... she does!

-- HCP

*setting aside, for the moment, the basic need for extra space, time and interpersonal attention that having an expansive wardrobe demands.  They say you can't have it all. Well... who the hell asked "them," anyway?

**I bet piercing stings, at least a little, so I probably WOULD complain.

Moniker Business

Don't fall out of your seats, because when you read what comes next the revelation might make you a bit dizzy with disbelief:

Holli isn't my real name.

It's not even my first not-real name.

Uhh... good job handling the news?

As I'm confident that your fannies are still comfortably secure in your chairs, I'm also probably right in thinking that most people who stumble across this blog have toyed with the idea of fantasy cross-gendered names in their lifetime.  We're all at least a little curious, what our parents might have named us if the "gender reveal" dial was flipped.  For me, it's kind of a burning question... and for lack of a satisfying answer, I took it upon myself to christen my unidentified feminine side.  A handful of times.

This entry doesn't move forward without me admitting information that's a bit more revealing than anonymous bloggers ought to, but I'm intent on getting this down.  So here it goes:

My given name is Kris.  It's a name about three inches away from the gender border, but no one who mentions it regards me as female.  It would be super easy to leap from Kris to Krissie, or use it mistakenly in that regard, but surprisingly it has occurred to very few people.  Even grade school bullies must have thought it was too easy.

I used to write out ways to change my name, the way other girls would write out the last name of their classroom crushes as if they planned to marry them someday.

"Kris.  Krissie.  Krissy.  Krissa.  Kristy.  Kristen. (Oooh, how about a y?) Krys.  Kryssa!  Krystina!  Krysallinnia!?? ... oh, WOW... no..."

And then I would rip the paper into a million pieces, throw it away, and deny everything, whether I was asked or not.

Which was really hard, having one of these in our living room.

In college, (keyword: Halloween), my girlfriends dubbed me Krystal the first time they saw me dressed as a girl.  (Oh, how warm was my inner glow!)  The name became legend in our social circle, but fell into obscurity. 

Elsewhere online, I've gone by Alyssa Cooper.  Under this name, I've said and done a bit of roleplaying - mostly good, clean fun, but I've certainly fueled a few fantasies contrived by hapless chat room gawkers (nothing exceedingly licentious, but it was nice to pretend I was desirable for awhile).

What seems ages ago, I thought very hard about who I am as a woman, and arrived finally at Holli Cherise.  There's a bit more to it than just inventing a name, but part of the process is a bit telling, and shall remain private.  I will say, though, that while partly my own doing, this designation was also inspired by circumstance and opportunity.  The important thing to know: this is now who I feel I am.

Tragically, for me it still comes down to authenticity.  Names are traditionally bestowed.  We may request them, of course, for a variety of reasons that suit us later in life, but most people grow into identities partly (not exclusively, I know) rooted in the bed of their given names.  For most of my life, I have been Kris - pointedly NOT Krissie, NOT Krystal, NOT Alyssa, as far as anyone else is concerned.  These identities are false.

In a way, it's like if no one knows I'm Holli, then no one can tell me I'm NOT.  I recognize that I'm giving certain people way too much power over me, but there's a positive catch as well.  You see, I feel it works both ways.  Someday, someone precious to me, someone close, will call me Holli (I really don't care what the circumstance, but I'll know when it happens), and I will answer.  And then I'll know.

The naming of a person is to channel life, to lend spark from one's own flame so that another may blaze into being.  Names are powerful.  We share them with those whom we love and trust, and we hide them from strangers, malcontents, and those who would betray us.  There's a lore in names and naming that's very important to each of us in our own worlds.  Dare I say?  Names are magical.  They hold a truth that can set us free or bind us where we stand.  Like a sword or pen, how significant they are depends on how they're used.

Take it from an Austrian literary giant who knows.

What's in a name?  More than anyone bargains for.

Call me Holli.  One of these days, I might just be the woman you were looking for.

-- HCP

Tingling Teeth

I used to hate the term “coming out.”  The meaning of this phrase, of course, is derived from “coming out of the closet” which was almost exclusively a gay metaphor which basically everyone else appropriated.  Even straight people can “come out” about their guilty pleasures.  (i.e. “I’m a closet wrestling fan” or “I don’t tell many people this, but I have sexual fantasies about Daisy Duck.”)

"It gets really in-depth after the third
volume of my unauthorized fanfic."

Call it “confession” or “disclosure” …I don’t care anymore.  These days, letting people in on my closet-sized secret is all I want to do. I’d go so far as to say it’s a bit of a discreet mania.

I haven’t shared my gender identity situation with anyone in years, which is down to basic consideration for my wife, who would prefer to never know what it feels like for our friends & family to learn that she married a bi-gendered person.  I get that, I really do… but from the perspective of a trans-person trying to get some basic identity acquiescence, it’s a frustrating arrangement.

I’ve shared my female identity with seven people in my life (not counting the pre-marriage counsellor, who was, in retrospect, wholly unprepared to deal with that specific sort of speedbump in a burgeoning matrimonial relationship; but she did try, bless her heart, even though “wrapping myself up tightly in a sheet from the arms down” is not valid replacement therapy for actually wearing a dress… but I digress).  The hope was always to have people I trust and care about, and who cared about me, be comfortable at any given time to freely address my transgenderism, so that I didn’t feel so alone and helpless in my distress.  I assumed part of the process would involve some acceptance that I, on occasion, would dress the part (in their absence, of course… unless otherwise indicated… in which case I would just be thrilled).

Instead, what happened was the establishment of two camps of interaction:

Camp Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell - this is inhabited by friends who don’t know how to integrate transgender topics into natural conversation.  Their inhibitions seem derived from a fear of saying the wrong thing and offending me, or - in the case of those opposed to my practical application of a wardrobe - unintentionally implying that they approve of my preferred modes of expression.  Broaching the subject in this camp is generally a complete waste of time.

"Could one of you at least give me a push?"

(To be fair, I’m the only one of my kind whom these good people have ever met. Everything about addressing transgenderism has been new territory for them since the 1990s, thanks to me, exclusively.)

Camp Practical Listening & Shared Wisdom - this camp has an enrollment of one.  Even when she admits she might have no idea what she’s talking about, she still has something to say.  It helps that we’re both wired with the same belief, in that there’s no such thing as analyzing something too much. Unfortunately, this angel belongs to a popular club - “Life Obligations” - that prevents her (and potentially everyone else in the world) from getting too involved in my problems.  (Currently, we are on friend hiatus while she strengthens bonds with her husband, cares for her children with special needs, and celebrates an endless parade of birthdays in her ever-expanding family, all while enduring a weight loss battle.  I have no grounds for protest.)

In the absence of old confidantes, my natural tendency is to seek out new ones.  The obstacles here are multifold.

• The older my peers get, the more set in their ways they become.  They become more guarded of the stability of their own lifestyles, and thus fear any changes that threaten the idyllic worlds their lives have become.  (This point is valid on the condition that everyone has a personal definition of “normal” that my revelation would endanger, which I believe most people do, on the whole.)  This makes me hesitate to bring newer friends closer.

• Telling more people makes the circle wider.  The bigger the circle, the harder it becomes to keep a secret.

• My spouse just loves keeping this secret.  She can live with it, but knowing that other people know is a wound - one which my convictions prevent me from exacerbating any more than I have.

Therefore, being able to out myself to certain people whom I believe could be intellectual and/or spiritual allies in my crusade for trans-recognition has become a crossdream fantasy in and of itself.

As I write this, I’m compelled to add an important fourth drawback, which suddenly seems very crucial to the matter:

• The point of telling someone a secret is to violate its status as a “secret.”  The point of letting someone know that you’re suffering from quiet desperation is with the hope that you might find an escape from it.  Sure, at least you’re not being quiet any more, but if you want things to change, shouldn’t you expect them to change?  Why, then, would I tell someone if I didn’t?

In that regard, my friend Angel once asked me point blank, “What are you prepared to do?”

Lorelai's been there.

It’s a wake-up slap, that question.  It basically means, “Make a decision right now, and see if you can live with it.”  Well… the hard truth is that I’m not about to make any decisions that benefit myself at the expense of my other.  I can’t be Holli and keep Erica.

Nor can I cease to be Holli.  That’s not even a decision I get to make.

Given any kind of chance to live the rest of my life as Holli without consequence of those I love suffering, I know I’d take it.  I don’t even know if that life is better than this one.  I would push that button, because I need to know.

Therefore, me not finding someone else to trust and telling them who I am is like refusing to walk in the room containing the button.  This is basically me admitting that I fear someone supporting me and telling me to go for it.  I fear someone telling me it’s okay to get what I want though it destroys someone else.  I fear that I could be convinced to be that person.

And I don’t think I’m that person.

At least it’s still my decision, even if making the right one isn’t as satisfying as making the one that feels good.

c. Charles Schulz

-- HCP

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.

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

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