URNotAlone

FRIENDS

December 23rd, 2011 1:23 am MST

For many of us this is a time of year when we look back, and forward, to take stock of our lives and give thanks for the things that enrich them. For me that would include the friends I have here and elsewhere online, especially as Robyn, because this is the only place I am known that way outside the home. That means we share things I share with no one else, except my wife. And even she doesn’t know a lot of what binds most of us here, namely our shared transgender experience. And that often goes to the very core of our being.

 

Now, I realize the depth and duration of online friendships can vary, and that there are different philosophies as to what even constitutes a friendship, each perhaps in its own way legitimate. For me, when I first got on MySpace and subsequently Yahoo 360 and URNA, I tried to limit my friends to people with whom I felt a personal kinship and with whom I tried to keep in touch on a regular basis. Almost from the first that became difficult.

 

How, for example, could I turn down the non-TG female from Russia who wanted to be added to my list when there weren’t all that many asking? (She turned out to have a long-hair fetish.) Or the self-proclaimed lesbian from the UK who later said she was surprised to discover I wasn’t a genetic female like herself but became fascinated with my story? Then there were the ones I would never have sought out on my own (drag artists tend to fall into this category) but whom I had admired for years and couldn’t believe it when they came to me. And so on and so on until I eventually found my definition of “friendship” broadening.

 

(I still generally draw the line at professional escorts, when I know about it, and male admirers. Sure, it’s nice to hear the compliments, and some of the latter can be real charmers. But I really have no interest in them otherwise and don’t want to encourage that kind of attention.)

 

Just the same, while I was there I tried to limit my MySpace friends to around 150. (Even that was more than I could handle in terms of regular correspondence.) And while it was there Yahoo 360 limited our lists to no more than 300 (though I never hit a third of that number). But I can honestly say that nearly everyone at those two sites, and at URNA, has touched me personally in some way. And one place that original philosophy did prevail was my MySpace “Top Friends” list, where the occasional departure was often felt keenly.

 

One of my friends there once likened it to a trailer park, where occasionally you’ll emerge in the morning to find that one of your neighbors has pulled up stakes and vanished during the night. When that happens here, and when I have an e-mail address, I usually shoot them a line to see if they would like to stay in touch that way. And some do, but in my experience not very many.

 

I can understand that. As those of you who’ve read my story know, I did something very similar many years back (I still feel bad about having left so many people in the lurch) and, for all I know, may do so again. Which may make this a good time to say that, if you think you’d like to stay in touch beyond our Flickr/URNA lifespans, you may want to send me YOUR e-mail address. (If you do, I’ll try to respond with mine, but only if we already know one another.)

 

For now, I want to thank all my friends for their patience and support. I haven’t been able to spend as much time here as I’d have liked the last couple of years, partly due to health issues. (This upcoming Christmas/New Year’s is the one I wasn’t supposed to see.) For those who have gone on to other things, in some cases full-time transitioning, I applaud your courage and wish you the very best. (Wherever possible, I hope we can still keep in touch as well.) And for anyone who thinks this sounds like a valedictory, it isn’t, not yet anyway. It does, however, come from the heart, and I hope the same will be true of our future exchanges.

All good holiday wishes, whichever ones you do or don’t celebrate!

[1 comment]

FAQ3

December 16th, 2011 1:17 am MST

“Have you stuck to one style over most of your life, or did you adjust to the fashions of the times? What I mean is did you have a fixation on a specific way of dressing (including lingerie) and is it still present? Or were you more flexible as the years went by?”

No, I have always tried to wear what women of my age and socio-economic class were wearing. And that has meant, as you say, adjusting to the fashion of the time. Which means that the look you see in my pictures is not a “retro” look – it is the way most women looked then, at least in the circles I moved in. And you need to remember, I did want to blend in.

At the same time my tastes tend to lean toward the conservative (e.g., no Goth or punk) and I have to admit there are some eras and fashions I admire more than others. For instance, I have always liked the fashions of the ‘50s and ‘60s, especially the lingerie, and lament the general passing of the full slip and, more recently, hosiery, which few younger women seem to wear anymore. Happily most women my age do, so that is not a problem.

But I decided some time ago that there are beautiful clothes in every era. It’s simply a question of finding them!

 

“You talk about some of us dressing to relieve stress. I find as “Jill” I'm more animated and seem to have more energy.  But why wouldn't I?  At those times I really don't have a care in the world.  I don't think about all the things “Jack” has on his mind, so it's a great escape, like going on vacation. I’m the same person, but more carefree and looking to just have fun. Do you notice any differences like that when you are Robyn?

I certainly do, but for me, interestingly enough, it tends to go the other way.

Not that I regard my female self as a separate person – I don’t, except in the sense that she and my male self are different in terms of our strengths and weaknesses, and probably our intuitions.

I love the scene in the movie “Tootsie” where Dustin Hoffman, as Michael Dorsey, says – accurately – of his alter ego Dorothy Michaels, “She’s smarter than I am.” By which he means she has more savvy when it comes to dealing with people. That’s because, when it comes to being a strategist, she HAS to be smarter (e.g., she gets the soap opera role and he doesn’t). In my case my female self is quieter, less aggressive and not at all sure of herself around men. (Other women are a different story.)

Some of the reasons for that are physiological. At close to six feet tall, I never wanted to stand out from the crowd any more than I had to. Similarly my female voice is not only higher but softer, making me a little more recessive that way as well.

You also need to remember that as Robyn, or Barbara, I actually held down jobs, meaning that becoming her, however liberating it might have been in other ways, was seldom a “vacation.” Rather, as I have said, I had another set of concerns and responsibilities, while at the same time always having to be on my guard, even subliminally.

In that regard my wife has said that one of the reasons she was never afraid to go out with me back then was that I never “slipped” - i.e., I was never anything other than what I appeared to be. But she’s inclined to attribute that to what she’s seen me do as an actor, which is immerse myself in a role to the point of pretty much becoming the character. What she probably can’t comprehend is the extent to which for me this isn’t a “role” – it’s a part of ME that only occasionally gets its full expression.

 

“When you met your second wife in class and were in boy mode, you must have looked pretty feminine in a lot of ways. To pass so easily as a woman in what you were doing outside of school, I can't imagine you doing that without the long nails, plucked eyebrows, shaved hands and arms etc.”

Well, if you were looking for it, I suppose there were some obvious tip-offs. But remember, I was tall for a woman, making me about right for a man. You’ll also recall that I use (and need) feminine padding. Eyeglass frames pretty much obscured the plucked eyebrows. And, contrary to what one reads in most TG fiction, I never shaved my arms. I just thinned the arm hair down to feminine proportions. (Girls, after all, do have SOME hair on their arms.) As for the nails, a couple of people did notice those at various times. But I usually had a good professional reason for keeping them long (though I can’t be sure everyone believed that).

 

“Speaking of ‘Tootsie,’ did you ever leave anything girlish on in guy mode by mistake?  I did.  Forgot I had some earrings on, studs, but caught myself in the car mirror.”

Yep. I once forgot to remove my nail polish before going out again as a male. Like you, I spotted it after I got in the car and quickly pulled out some driving gloves to wear until I could get back home!

I still do that from time to time if I’m on a “dressing binge” and have to go out as a male for some reason. One such time was a few years ago when my wife was at a convention for several days and, when I picked her up at the airport, she asked me why I was wearing gloves. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Oh, of course.”

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FAQ2

December 9th, 2011 10:12 am MST

“How do you know that the salesgirl across the way wasn't just admiring your good looks? Paranoia has a way of ‘writing the dialog’ in your mind.”

Trust me, she wasn’t. And the fact that she was at the cosmetics counter and was herself wearing a wig – attractive but obvious – made her quizzical stare all the harder to ignore.

 

“On living as a woman and getting ready to go out each day, that's a big part of why I think I'd get tired of it too. As it is now, I've never been able to get ready in less than 1.5 hours, and that was going at top speed with lots of practice at the time. How were you able to get your prep time down to 30-40 minutes?”

I don’t know that I ever really got tired of it, but it was a lot of work. Less than it would have been, though, had I not been doing it on a daily basis. Among other things, during those times I didn’t have a beard to contend with – a blissful relief – and was able to keep my nails manicured and polished 24/7.

 

“How did you do that? Did you have electrolysis?”

As I relate in my story, I did undergo some electrolysis – very painful and, worse, very slow. But normally what I did whenever possible was to pluck my beard out completely. That, I found, was the only way I could withstand really close inspection. Of course that limited my time en femme to no more than around 10 days, at which point my beard began to grow in again, usually with some accompanying infection.

 

“I've never tried plucking but can imagine how painful that must be as well.  But I would think it would require a certain length of stubble, and to get that means time – time with beard on your face, time when you don't dare go out in public en femme.  How did you explain the absences to people who only knew you as Robyn?”

Actually plucking isn’t so bad. After a while you tend to get used to it (something some of my friends who have tried it have noticed themselves). You’re right about the stubble, but that’s true with electrolysis too. (They have to have SOMETHING to work on.) As for the time-out, a day’s growth is usually sufficient (though I prefer two). And even then it was possible to not be Robyn for that long. At worst I simply kept out of view for a day or two and/or did what I had to do as a male. Which ordinarily was how I was visible most of the time anyway.

 

“I so admire your ability to pass with every male and female co-worker. Did you find it nerve-wracking or were you so sure of yourself as a woman it didn't bother you? And going out to lunch with the girls and being accepted as one of them must have been heaven. Or am I wrong?”

No, it was, though again after a while you get used to these things.

What was at least as gratifying was something that happened on my way to my very first job as a temp. I’d gotten the call a little after 8 that morning and by 9:30, with butterflies in my stomach, had boarded the train for downtown, quietly taking a seat by myself. But at the next stop another girl got on and, to my surprise, sat next to me. After a while we began talking – I’m pretty sure it was she who spoke first, as I was too scared – and I mentioned there’d been delays on the line that a.m., so a lot of people were going to be late. To which she replied nervously, “Good. Then maybe they won’t notice ME.”

It developed that she was already late for her job and was really quite worried about it. So, since the office she worked at was on the way to the one I was headed for, I accompanied her as far as her building and we parted with a friendly little hug. Looking back, I think that gave me confidence in what I was embarking on that day as nothing else could have. And though we never saw each other again, I’ve thought of her many times since.

 

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FAQ1

December 2nd, 2011 1:23 am MST

OK, now it’s your turn. Even as I began posting my story in installments some years ago, questions started coming in on a regular basis. In most cases I tried to respond to the questioners individually, but some of their queries I’ve decided to deal with here, in case there are others who have wondered the same things. The first group follows:

 

“Were you always Robyn? And, if not, why the name change?”

No, for the greater part of my femme life I was “Barbara,” the name under which I established my female identity and under which the first part of my story appeared in Transvestia (No. 54, for you archivists out there).

Back then I chose it because, together with the last name that went with it (which they actually printed under my photos in No. 51), it was one of the few I could render in an acceptably feminine hand. “Robyn” came later when I re-emerged, tentatively, on MySpace. There were logistical reasons for that choice, plus which I had pretty much destroyed Barbara before my second marriage and thought it might be too awkward, and painful, to revive her. Ah, me!

 

“How could you go back to being a male?”

For some reason I get asked this a lot. But if you read my story you will see that, even when I was living and working as a woman, I never completely abandoned my male identity. Hence the need for alternate, as opposed to replacement, female ID. Because these were periods, sometimes as long as a week or 10 days, when I was able to put my male self on the shelf, as it were. But I always went back to it when they were over, though I won’t pretend that was easy.

 

“Do you ever have regrets that you didn't go full time? In reading your story I find myself wishing that you did. Why, I don't know.”

AND

“Please tell me, what was it like to live as a woman 24/7? Based on your photos, you were also doing so in the ultra-feminine and conservative '50s and '60s – so feminine and very pretty.”

Well, apart from what I say in my story – and I do think I talk about that – it was HIGHLY educational. Obviously I loved it – good heavens, it was a dream come true! But, at the same time, things that had on an occasional basis been special tended to become routine. Makeup and hair, which I usually took time over, had to be done in 30-40 minutes each morning if I was going to make it to work on time. And at the other end of the day, high heels (which I ordinarily LOVE) tended to be the first things I took off on arriving home.

There were differences emotionally too. I often hear other CDs say they dress to relieve stress. I don’t know that that’s ever been a factor with me – I always just loved doing it. But if it had been, at the same time I was leaving behind my male concerns they were being replaced by a whole new set of FEMALE stresses and concerns. Among them, how to relate to my co-workers as a woman. (Especially the male co-workers, whom I had never had to worry about before, at least not that way.) How to handle the pressures of THIS new job, whatever it happened to be. (Because, as I’m sure most of us know, every job comes with pressures of some sort.) How to explain why I wasn’t married or even dating without coming across as a lesbian. (Which, as a female, I guess I WAS.) And those were just some of the issues I faced.

On the other hand, I found that all this gave me a freedom I’d never had before. Freedom, first of all, to move about in society as a woman, which for so many years had seemed an impossible dream. But also, and even more unexpectedly, a freedom to choose. Now that I’d experienced it, it was no longer an unattainable goal, so temptingly just out of reach, but something I could realistically compare to other experiences and goals. And eventually I decided – to my girlfriend’s amazement – that there were things I wanted (such as being married to her) even more than I wanted that. So yes, I miss it, but I’ve never regretted my choice. And of course I still dress, just not outside the home.

 

“In all that time weren’t you ever read?”

I can only remember being read once when I was truly out and about as Barbara (though it may have happened when I wasn’t aware of it). I was in a Sears store one afternoon and noticed one of the salesgirls fixating on me clear across the main floor. I don’t know what had happened, but clearly something had hit her the wrong way and I quickly but unobtrusively made my way out of the store. And yes, it hurt. On the other hand, for some reason I never seemed to have any problem with young children, who by all accounts spot stuff their parents never would. Go figure!

 

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RE-EMERGENCE

September 5th, 2011 10:27 pm MDT

1

 

I can’t say my early exploration of the Web had anything to do with thoughts of dressing, much less becoming more public again as Robyn. At first I used it mainly as a research tool, then as a means of contacting others involved in similar investigations. In addition my publishers were delighted to see me go that route, since it meant they could now edit and process my writing from an e-mailed text instead of a snail-mailed computer disc – remember the five-inch floppies? – or (horrors!) regular hard copy.

 

Even then, it was some time after acquiring a home computer and going online before I ventured into TG Land. And, when I did, I could not believe a lot of what I found.

 

First the quantity, which was staggering. If we had ever thought we were the only people like us in the world, there was no way to think that anymore. Then the quality. Some of these girls were incredible, and their websites often made the dark old days I was used to look like just that – the dark ages. Sure, there was a fair amount of sleaze and, in many cases, outright pornography. But as in the world of TG fiction – another amazing corner of cyberspace – a sizable number exuded real class and intelligence. What would it be like, I wondered, to know some of these people?

 

I never even contemplated putting up a site of my own. After all, I didn’t even have pictures anymore, though I did check to see if anything on me or my transitioned cousin might be out there somewhere. (It wasn’t.) I also e-mailed a handful of people, mostly writers, under yet another femme name, but apart from some brief exchanges that never really went anywhere either.

 

Then came MySpace. I may have misunderstood but, from what I could see, places like Yahoo and URNotAlone – a brilliant name – required not only a profile photo but more information than I was willing to supply. MySpace, however, was different. Following a spate of horror stories in the media, I began looking into it and discovered, among other things, that you could set up an account without a photo and with what seemed to me fairly minimal personal data. And even that didn’t need to be wholly accurate. (I assume at this point everybody’s figured out that I’m a good deal older than the age on some of my profile pages.) So, holding my breath, I took the plunge, tentatively at first, with very little in my profile. But there I was, on a page of my own for the first time as Robyn.

 

I wouldn’t say the results were overwhelming, at least not initially. With no picture, there weren’t many who were drawn to that page. Nor were there many willing to write back, much less accept me as a friend, when I began messaging them in hopes of becoming better acquainted. The first exception, however, was a girl whose story and pictures had really impressed me and who not only messaged me back that same morning but believed what I had to say about myself and became my very first MySpace friend. (I don’t count the ubiquitous “Tom.”) And she has remained my No. 1 friend there ever since. (Thanks again, Karen!)

 

Still, after a couple of months it was becoming increasingly clear that a photo, even an older one, might make a real difference. So I began searching the Net again and was surprised to find for sale online some old issues of Transvestia, including one that I knew one of my pictures had appeared in on its own. (No. 58, if you’re curious.) So I got that, had the photo scanned and with great trepidation uploaded it to my profile page. And to my amazement within a few days’ time there were people who recognized it and remembered me.

 

2

 

The first was a girl who had absolutely bowled me over when I came across her pictures online several years earlier. (See how superficial we can be!) When I found her again on MySpace, she became one of the first two people I wrote to now that I finally had a profile photo. This time both responded, but she surprised me by saying she thought she knew this photograph and the girl in it. It took some doing, but once I had satisfied her that I was indeed that girl, she confided to me that after all these years she still had that original issue with my story and photos. And that it was the only issue of that magazine she had kept. Not only that, but she was sweet enough to scan the pages and e-mail me the original images (which is where most of the other photos in my gallery come from).

 

That proved to be one of the most memorable, and emotional, weekends of my life. You can’t know how it felt, after all that time, to be able to read that story and see those photos again. Much of it even I hadn’t remembered, and now to have it all flooding back ….

 

Later two more girls accepted me, each a respected TG Internet icon, and we also began to exchange e-mails. At last I was finding what they were like firsthand and, I’m pleased to say, with this group there were no disappointments. They were as kind as they were beautiful and I value their friendship to this day. At the same time I was beginning to realize that, like dressing itself, this was more than just a lark and that before much longer I was going to have to let my wife know what was going on.

 

I don’t care what anyone says – every marriage has its share of secrets. But early in ours we determined there would be no BIG secrets that either of us kept from the other. And however much I may have wanted to play it down, there wasn’t much question in my mind that my having a MySpace account, especially as Robyn, was more than your average-sized secret. So I carefully printed out a copy of my profile page, along with those of my top friends, together with pictures and a few comments and personal histories, and placed them in a presentation binder my wife could leaf through and see for herself exactly what was and wasn’t happening with me and my newfound friends. And when I felt the moment was right, I explained to her what I had been doing – during which I could see her nervousness mount – then showed her the book. And together we leafed through it as I explained who these people were and what they did and didn’t know about us.

 

I think that, together with her faith in me, proved reassuring, as did the pictures. Obviously there was nothing sleazy or underhanded about this group of people. She was also astonished at how good a lot of them looked. (I still have vivid memories of the first FPE meeting I took her to before we were married, where at one point one of the members dragged us into a bedroom and began showing us pictures of himself/herself in panties and a bra!)

 

I also explained to her that, if she wished, I would give her my MySpace password and she could check up on me and my friends anytime she cared to – i.e., I wouldn’t try to hide anything from her, even in this. She said she didn’t think that would be necessary. Nevertheless, we did agree on a number of restrictions, including no face-to-face meetings and no disclosure of our real identities, even to people I normally would trust with that information. Because of that I have done my best to honor that agreement even when it has put a strain on some of my online relationships. And, I’m sorry to say, there have been times when it has.

 

3

 

All of this happened last summer, and I have to say it was fun picking and choosing friends, even if they didn’t always pick and choose me. (Several accused me of being a fake.)

 

Then last September one of my friends alerted me to a feature story in the New York Times about the era in which I came of age girl-wise. “Casa Susanna” was the name given to a TG resort in the Catskills run by a Transvestia columnist, Susanna Valenti. I never met Susanna (though she wrote about me in one of her columns), nor did I ever go there. But I knew some of the people who did, including one who was quoted at length in the story.

 

“Fiona” and I had become pen pals during my most active period as Robyn, exchanging photos and lengthy letters at irregular intervals. Thus I was pleased to find her, with a change of name and sex, on the Net when I first began exploring some years before my re-emergence. For some reason I did not e-mail her then but, when I read what she had to say in the “Casa Susanna” story, decided to do so.

 

I wasn’t sure she’d remember me, much less welcome my inquiry. I couldn’t have been more wrong. She responded with a lengthy e-mail, recalling things, and other people, I had forgotten. Were that not enough, as a research librarian – one of the few things in her life that had not changed over the years – she still had files on many of the girls from the old TVia days, including yours truly. And that meant not only some of our correspondence (I had forgotten I used to use flowered stationery!) but, glory be, one of the pictures I had sent her as well. And that’s why the main photo on my profile page(s) is so much sharper and more detailed than the others – it’s the only one NOT to come from a magazine, being a computer scan of the original copy I had mailed to my friend more than three decades before. (Thank you, Kate!)

 

Nor was that the only “blast from the past” to emerge during that time. A few weeks earlier, at the urging of some of my online friends, I had finally extended my story beyond the time frame covered in my TVia profile. For security reasons I was careful about whom I shared this with, but one of those people was KC Tyler, the super-supportive proprietress of “KC’s Top Ten,” whose galleries and celebrations of other girls had been among my happier finds when I began looking for TG websites. (Recently revived, they’re still worth checking out.) She was convinced this story belonged online. I wasn’t so sure.

 

For reasons already gone into, security has been a concern from Day 1. I know these pages are looked at by all kinds of people and was particularly worried that the wrong ones might come across mine. But as time went on I had to admit that what might be called untoward contact had been minimal. In fact one of my more admiring messages came from a fellow who wondered if I were “into pantyhose.” Which wouldn’t have been so remarkable except it was clear from his pages that he’s a motorcycle cop – scarcely the kind of encounter with law enforcement I was afraid my profile might generate!

 

So gradually my resistance wore down and I decided that, if anyone were going to put my story online, it probably should be me. (With, of course, some judicious editing.) And since most of the impetus came from people who thought I also ought to be at Yahoo, I finally took that leap as well. (The once-dreaded URNA came later.) And that, dear readers, is how and why you happen to be seeing this today, expanded beyond even what I had originally planned on doing.

 

If you have found it interesting, I’m glad. If not, blame KC!

[1 comment]

WITHDRAWAL

September 4th, 2011 10:51 pm MDT

1

 

Around this time I stopped taking pictures, and to this day I’m not sure why. By then I had moved to a new, more spacious apartment where, if anything, I was busier than ever as Robyn. (Among other things, it had a rear entrance.) What’s more, I now had a girlfriend who could have held the camera. All I can think is that at that stage I had become confident enough of my appearance – i.e., I pretty much knew how I looked – and my female persona had become so ingrained that I no longer felt the need for any external validation. (Though, as I recall, it was still nice to get compliments.)

 

I actually talk about this in a letter from then, written to one of my oldest TG pen pals and unexpectedly supplied by her after we reconnected online many years later. (I couldn’t believe she still had it!) “I seem to find myself worrying less about dressing,” I say, “and even its motivations and causes now that I’m able to do it with complete acceptance whenever I wish. Somehow I just seem to BECOME a girl at those times, with less and less to-do over the transition.”

 

There certainly was a lot of transitioning, whether for my various stints working as a female or going out that way with my girlfriend. Hitting restaurants and stores, stopping by each other’s workplaces, taking in the occasional concert or opera. With an eye to making our relationship permanent, we even looked at apartments together as two women. But I knew in my heart of hearts she’d rather we do that as husband and wife, both for our families’ sake and for the long-term life we hoped to build together.

 

She wasn’t alone in that. However tempting the idea of fully transitioning still was at times, the reality was that it was also time to build a career, ideally with her by my side, and at that point my professional reputation, as a male, was growing and other opportunities were beckoning. Plus which the more other people began to think of us as a couple – and they were – the riskier it got for us to be seen together with me as Robyn.

 

So one day I did something I had never done before and cannot recall ever having done again. I sat down with a pencil and paper and made a list of the things I most wanted to see happen in my life. I’m not going to detail that list, except to say that nearly everything on it seemed pretty nearly impossible at the time, including our getting married. For one thing, we each had some legal issues surrounding our previous marriages (yes, she had also been married before) and it didn’t take much to imagine the kinds of complications that could arise if my female alter ego and our secret life as girlfriends somehow came to light.

 

Accordingly alongside each item I listed those things that might stand in the way of it being achieved. And in at least two instances they included my life as Robyn. That was tough, and I didn’t act on it immediately, especially with no guarantees of success. But I thought about it long and hard, and talked it over with my girlfriend, who was astonished I was even considering it.

 

This may sound strange but I found, as I had that day in the car when I decided not to go full time, that finally gaining acceptance, as I’d always dreamed of, gave me greater freedom to choose. No longer was it the unattainable goal, always beckoning but just out of reach. Instead, now having it, I could seriously ask myself how much I wanted it compared to some of these other things. And when it came to marrying this girl and having a life together, I realized I didn’t want anything getting in the way of that.

 

Please understand, this was not a guilt purge like those that had preceded it. Since coming to terms with who and what I was, I never felt that again. But the result was that, except for a few items like handbags and other accessories I passed on to my girlfriend, I got rid of everything, including not just the clothes, the wigs and the makeup but – and I can hear the moaning – the books and magazines, all my photos and correspondence and, hardest of all, my female ID. Nevertheless, within a year the miracle happened and we were married, with both our families there to cheer us on. And eventually some of the other things on that list followed.

 

So, knowing what I know now, would I do it again? In a heartbeat, if I had to. At the same time I can still remember what it was like driving away from the Dumpster that day, leaving every vestige of my female self behind. Except of course what was still inside me.

 

 

2

 

As expected, life without my female alter ego proved to be a lot less complicated. The trouble was it also got busier and, over time, a lot more public. So much so that, even with the marriage hurdle cleared, I foresaw problems should I ever try to bring her back.

 

Not with my wife. I think she always realized that Robyn wasn’t dead, just sort of in hiding.  But as we each became better known personally and professionally, she grew concerned about me being recognized. So initially I began dressing again only at home, then, after another move, on a very limited basis in public.

 

It was fun to begin with, but not as much as it had been before. I found that, without my wife joining me on my excursions, it was lonelier than I had remembered and that, if she were available, I’d rather be home with her, however I was dressed. After all, we had not only become man and wife – we had also become best friends. Then, as my male self began getting stopped by people in stores and on the street, I came to feel that even the occasional solo outing was now too risky, so I began to curtail those as well.

 

That meant, of course, that for all intents and purposes I was back in the closet. But that, too, was different than it used to be. For one thing, I wasn’t in there alone – this time I had my wife’s companionship and support. Also, with everything else that was going on in our lives, that way I didn’t have to worry about conflicting schedules between my male and female personae, at least not to the extent I had had to before.

 

(Even then it occasionally got tricky, such as the day I was home fully dressed and made up and got a call from a VIP demanding an interview that very morning. Without explaining why, I told him I was not able to do it then but would meet with him the following day. He seemed puzzled – I don’t think he was used to hearing the word “no” – but finally agreed. Imagine how puzzled he’d have been had he been able to see the person on the other side of the line!)

 

So I have to say life was happy, apart from the inevitable ups and downs, and so busy and rewarding that even when I had to go long stretches without becoming Robyn I found that was something I could live with also. Then two things happened to change that, to some extent: (1) After many years my schedule finally began to ease a bit, giving me a little more time than I had had previously. And (2) I finally discovered the Internet.

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TAKING WING

September 3rd, 2011 10:51 pm MDT

1

 

As it turned out, my wife leaving marked both an ending and a new beginning. Because in the midst of this domestic turmoil I had been accepted to graduate school in another city and another state. This represented a major transition. Not only was I embarking on a rigorous academic program but I was also newly divorced and, for the first time in my life, literally alone. No wife, no family, no roommates – I was, for good or ill, finally on my own.

 

That made things lonely but at the same time liberating. Here I was in the smallest apartment I had ever lived in, with a bed that came down from the wall. But I no longer had to keep my feminine self locked up in a suitcase or hidden away in boxes in the attic. At long last she was there whenever I wanted her, and I did not need to worry about being unexpectedly caught.

 

Just the same, I was still feeling my way, on top of which the program I was in didn’t leave me a lot of free time – not the first year anyway – or a lot of extra cash. After that first year, however, I began to experiment, cautiously to begin with. Wearing the clothes I had brought with me from California, I started taking short walks around the neighborhood. And, with the aid of my bare-bones Polaroid camera and timer, I tried a number of new looks, before settling on one I thought maximized my strengths and minimized my weaknesses.

 

Among other things that included having my wig restyled according to my specifications. Previously it had been long and full, with a Jackie Kennedy-type flip. Now I had it cut shorter, curling softly forward under my neck and ears, and set in such a way that I could brush my own hair up into it, an enormous aid to authenticity. And above all I did want to look real.

 

I also found to my delight that the new shape helped divert attention from my jaw – together with my height, the feature I would have most wanted to change. (Today they are able to do things like that, but it was not so common then.)

 

In addition I began buying women’s style books and magazines, paying particular attention to the beauty tips. Nor were they the only magazines that found their way onto my reading table.

 

Before leaving California I had begun to seek out other TVs, in the dim hope that I might not really be so unique. My initial efforts, amid much trepidation and reserve, were made through the infamous “correspondence clubs” of the day, perhaps more accurately known as “sex clubs.” I did make a few mail contacts, but it didn’t take long to discover that nearly all of them had a lot more on their minds than transvestism, and that ended that. One of them even asked me to give up my male identity for good and marry him – and promised to give up dressing if I would! That scared me so badly I was afraid even to write back.

 

Amazingly, though, considering the odds, I did locate one honest-to-goodness TV and pretty quickly she directed me to Transvestia, the pioneering cross-dressing journal founded by a lifelong CD in California who called herself Virginia Prince. Those early issues look fairly primitive today, but for the first time in the world at large I found that TVism didn’t have to be off-color, and that there were plenty of others who felt as I did about that.

 

Accordingly I rented a post office box, in both my names, in order to receive it and other publications on a regular basis. And Virginia had all kinds of things available to enhance the female form. Years earlier I had purchased a padded girdle from Frederick’s of Hollywood, but found the hip and fanny pads too small and not especially well contoured for my frame. Virginia sold foam rubber padding that could be individually shaped to suit the wearer. And while I found each piece usually took a lot of shaping, in a girdle the end result was pretty convincing. As were the inflatable breast forms that could be filled with her own liquid chemical compound (which could be tinted with makeup) to provide not only a realistic shape in the bra but also a realistic warmth and bounce.

 

(Later, after I had established myself in public, I was even fitted for a sleep bra while wearing these, with no one the wiser. In fact at one point the salesman even tried to give me a “feel,” which I did not accept graciously. But I was gratified that he thought he was dealing with the real thing.)

 

2

 

How serious was I about all this? Looking back, it’s hard to say. I’m sure I wasn’t planning on transitioning full time – I didn’t think I looked good enough for that. But at the same time I had also taken the first steps toward establishing an alternate legal female identity.

 

For obvious reasons I don’t want to go into too much detail on how I went about that. I will say this, however. I never used that name or that identity to defraud anyone and honored every contract and agreement I entered into under it. Also, I didn’t steal anyone else’s identity but created this one afresh. In my eyes this was still me, just the female me, which is how I wanted to be regarded.

 

To begin with – and I don’t think this could be done today – I applied for, and got, a Social Security card. I also paid attention to the various promotional offers that came in the mail, especially those with an official-looking ID of some kind, and was able to find some that could be judiciously altered to the name of my alter ego. I also added Robyn (not the name I was using at the time) to several of my credit accounts, with cards in that name being sent along in due course. So superficially at least, there was enough in my purse to confirm my female identity, if one didn’t look too closely. (And it WAS exciting to look at, for me anyway.) But I’m not sure it would have gone any farther than that except for an unforeseen incident one day at the post office.

 

You have to remember that, despite what may seem like some pretty public outings, I had up to that time avoided any situation that would have required me to speak to someone as a female. Thus, if I were dressed, I usually limited my visits to the post office to the late-night or early-morning hours, when I would be less likely to run into other people. But one not-so-early morning in December I stopped by to check my box and on the way out noticed a young woman with a clipboard heading directly for me across the busy floor. Uh-oh, I gulped silently, I’ve been read. However, once she had succeeded in heading me off, she said, “Hi, we’re taking a survey. Would you say you’re sending out more or less Christmas cards this year?”

 

What a relief – she seemed to think I was what I appeared to be. But now, all of a sudden and without warning, I had to SOUND like what I appeared to be. So raising, and softening, my voice to the best of my ability, I said, “Oh, I think it’s about the same.”

 

“Thanks,” she chirped brightly, while writing down my response, and moved on to the next victim.

 

I couldn’t believe it. My voice had passed! So I spent the rest of the morning driving around buying newspapers, gasoline (these were the days of full-service stations), perfume, anything I could think of to test it. And no one seemed to think there was anything wrong. Even on the telephone (happily before the days of caller-ID) it seemed to work. And for years I had been too afraid to try.

 

It wasn’t long after that that I decided to try for a driver’s license. I can still remember how nervous I was that cold winter morning as I walked to the test bureau in a simple black sheath with ¾ sleeves, a black skimmer topcoat and 1½-inch black patent-leather heels. Even at the time I was aware the whole thing could blow up in my face at any second, but happily it didn’t. The disinterested girl at the desk accepted my fake ID without a second look – one of the few times I’ve ever been grateful for the general indifference of civil servants – and in another half hour I had completed the written test and been issued my learner’s permit as a female! Again, I could scarcely believe it. But knowing that would be accepted as official ID, I headed downtown to use it.

 

3

 

I remember taking out a library card, opening a bank account, shopping, all kinds of things. For the first time in a dress shop I found what it was like to be treated as a woman, with no indication that they thought otherwise. It was like a dream come true, only it wasn’t a dream, and on the way home in the car I realized I had a decision to make. Apparently, if I so chose, I could actually live as a female. But at the same instant that came to me, so did another realization. If I made that choice, what about my schooling? (This was well before the days of routine transitioning.) What about my friends, and other commitments? And, most important, what about my family? I knew they wouldn’t accept this and that, if I did make the switch, it would amount to a permanent break.

 

(Interestingly that supposition was dramatically, if unexpectedly, confirmed many years later when a younger cousin – without anyone knowing this was in the works – DID transition, male to female, with a legal name change and everything. The result has been that only about two people in the whole family still speak to him/her. And of course the double irony is that, as far as I know, no one, including her, has any idea of MY history in this regard. And even at this late date I’m not sure I’m willing to risk letting her in on it.)

 

Anyway, I knew in a flash that, whatever else happened, I couldn’t abandon my family. And that’s been dramatically confirmed over the years also. There’ve just been too many times they needed me, and I don’t want to think about what might have happened had I not been there. So that afternoon the decision was made – this was going to be a part of me, but, with few exceptions, it was going to have to be a secret part of me, to avoid hurting people I cared about and who cared about me.

 

Among those exceptions were my CD/TV friends, with whom I had begun to associate several months earlier. Not only had my early story appeared in Transvestia, but I had affiliated with the local chapter of FPE, the international cross-dresser “sorority” Virginia had established. That meant a face-to-face interview, in male mode, with the chapter president, to which I nervously took my picture album. But happily we hit it off, and subsequently not only saw each other at the meetings but ended up socializing, one-on-one, away from them. Making him/her one of only two people in the organization I knew principally as a male, and one of the few who ever knew my real name.

 

(Later he even arranged for the two of us, out of all the FPE members in that area, to receive free electrolysis at a downtown hair-removal clinic that needed subjects for its trainees to work on.)

 

The other was a CD from out of town who, having seen my story and photos, very much wanted to meet me. Normally I wouldn’t have touched something like that with a 10-foot pole. But in this instance he came highly recommended by my friend and, I have to say, on what turned out to be our various outings he always behaved like a gentleman.

 

4

 

I never really thought of these meetings as “dates,” though I suppose in some sense they were. (Good golly, we never even kissed!) At the same time I discovered how nice it could be to be squired about by an attentive and considerate male escort. And the fact that he was taller than I didn’t hurt the illusion either.

 

The first morning we got together he called for me at my apartment and took me to breakfast at a nearby restaurant. Typically, I was as jumpy as a cat and, as we entered the dining area, I could feel nearly every head turn, their eyes focusing squarely on yours truly. “Don’t be nervous,” my escort whispered, sensing my anxiety. “They’re simply looking at a beautiful woman.”

 

I also discovered how useful it could be at times to HAVE a male escort. On a subsequent visit I persuaded him to take me to the DMV office so I could take my driving test in his car. (Remember, up to that point I had only a learner’s permit.)  And he was great. He not only did it but seemed to enter into it with enthusiasm, cheerfully engaging the examiner in casual conversation and, until he had to, never leaving my side. That was something I had never experienced before, namely how it felt to lean on a man for emotional support. And while I never really mastered the art of dealing with other men (women were a different story), for some reason that wasn’t true around him.

 

Anyway, I passed the road test (hooray!) and we went out to celebrate. I knew he was in town for a convention and on the way to the hotel restaurant he coached me in case we ran into anyone he knew. For the remainder of the day I was his “convention girl,” the assistant who served as chief trouble-shooter and general factotum for these events. At our first meeting he had told me a little about himself and shown me a picture of his wife (not bad!) but mostly we had talked about me. This time he opened up a little more, recalling some of his own dressing experiences – not altogether successful, I gathered – and telling me how much he admired what I had been able to accomplish. He also told me that, if I ever needed a personal reference, I was to feel free to use him. Which, on a couple of occasions, I did.

 

Other FPE-related socializing often consisted of lunch dates with other “girls” from the group, which I usually enjoyed. In fact I usually enjoyed them more than the meetings themselves, where, despite my best efforts, I didn’t always feel comfortable. (My male friend, when I mentioned this to him, said that was because I was “real,” whatever that meant.) Of course I was also able to exercise a certain control over these other kinds of get-togethers, choosing not only the venues (some less public than others) but the people whose invitations I accepted.

 

I tend to go along with the dictum, once put forth by another Transvestia writer, that your ability to pass goes down in proportion to the number of other TVs you are trying to pass with – i.e., it’s easier to spot two or three of us in a group than it is to spot one. But some of the girls not only looked good; they were also a lot of fun to be with and, in a couple of instances, the source of some stimulating conversation.

 

5

 

Generally, though, I preferred the company of real women, or “GGs” – genetic girls – as they had come to be called in cross-dressing circles. And those I met virtually everywhere – on the train into town, trying on dresses and shoes in the stores, but most of all wherever I happened to be working. And as Robyn I ended up working a lot.

 

Not full-time jobs. The demands of school and the fact that, to pass really close inspection, I had to pluck my beard out every 10 days or so made that impossible. But I was able to secure a position with a temporary agency through which I could fill various short-term assignments, usually as an office worker. I can still recall the afternoon I went downtown to apply, wearing an olive-green coatdress with light brown shoes and a bag to match. The office was packed with girls, most of them younger than I, and as they called our names I could see that they were also nervous. The tests weren’t easy either, but my 80-words-per-minute typing skills stood me in good stead and, by the time I left, I had been added to the roster.

 

Even then, the calls didn’t always come at convenient times. But they were pretty good about understanding (they knew I was in school; they just didn’t know how or in what) and, once I had proven myself, always tried to accommodate my schedule. Also, at those times I WAS available, I was fairly adept at throwing myself together on short notice to fill in on a real emergency, and I think they appreciated that too.

 

The first time I was called to help out at an unfamiliar company, I was scared to death. But when I got there it was clear they really were under the gun with some big project and the other girls couldn’t have been happier to see me. They introduced me around and showed me where I would be working, and in short order, and for the first time in my life, I felt like “one of the girls.” That was true at most of the other companies as well. So much so that, after they had gotten to know me and seen my work, I was frequently asked if I could extend my time with them, and they nearly all requested me, specifically, again. (One company – probably my favorite of the ones I worked at as a temp – even approached me about coming back full-time, which technically they weren’t supposed to do. But I wasn’t about to tell.)

 

As for the other girls in the office, sometimes we’d go to lunch or on coffee breaks together. (I was amazed at the way they sometimes talked about their boyfriends, and at some of the language they used!) One supervisor – female – even wanted to get together outside the office for the occasional movie or concert. They all seemed to be impressed by the fact that I was still in school and working, though several wondered why I wasn’t married. (I never really knew what to say about that!)

 

Were that not enough, one summer, when things weren’t quite as busy, I applied for and got a position as an Avon representative. (I think basically I just wanted to see if I could do it.) And I still remember what the area supervisor who interviewed me said just before she told me I had the job. “Well,” she said with a smile, “I must say you look the part.”

 

Sometimes it was little comments like that that were as thrilling as anything. Things like the ticket-seller at the train station telling me how pretty I looked that morning. Or another woman in a waiting area asking me where I’d gotten “those cute shoes.” Even the occasional wolf-whistle. (I particularly remember a downtown construction crew one sunny spring day who really got into it. Ever prim and proper, I didn’t respond, but secretly I loved it.)

 

But something else had happened during this time. Once again, heaven help me, I had fallen in love.

 

6

 

You don’t plan these things, obviously. But by now it should be just as obvious that, if nothing else, I am an incurable romantic. Otherwise, after what I’d gone through with my first wife, I probably wouldn’t have even been open to another affair of the heart.

 

In this instance we had met in church, then on campus (where she was in a related program), and a short time later found ourselves in a class together. When it became clear that the attraction was mutual, and more than academic, I knew I couldn’t let her go on without knowing about me. Especially since by that time I was really out and around.

 

I still remember how hard that was for her. The day I first told her I don’t think she believed what she was hearing. The next time I brought some photos and I don’t think she believed what she was seeing. Then finally we arranged a meeting where she could see me for the first time as my feminine alter ego.

 

That took place at a neutral location on campus where we had a good chance of privacy even in the middle of the day. I made sure I was there first, waiting for her, and can remember how startled she looked as she entered the room, saw me sitting over by a window and made her way over. Later she told me that, even after seeing my pictures, she still was not prepared for the reality and that, as we talked – I in my normal female voice, which she was hearing for the first time – she was shaken not to see ME in there anywhere. That person she knew and loved, but this girl was a stranger. Somehow I must have sensed that (and I do remember seeing tears in her eyes as her trembling increased), because for the first and only time as Robyn I quietly let my voice drop to its normal male register and said, “____, I’m still here.”

 

Apparently that did it because, after some more conversation, she began to smile and literally embraced me as a friend, suggesting we go out together. Which we did that very afternoon. Were that not enough, our first stop was at her business office where she introduced me to her co-workers as her friend Robyn.

 

After that there were lots of joint outings and shopping excursions, including trying on earrings together at Marshall Field’s. (And we still have those earrings.) On one such occasion I took her to one of the tall shops I shopped at downtown and – I could not believe this – the proprietress accused us (me specifically) of being agents for a rival firm! So I guess nobody was questioning our authenticity.

 

(Later, after she got to know me better, that same shopkeeper surprised me by offering me a job as her assistant. What a temptation that was! As related above, most of what I had been doing up to then was secretarial and/or office work. But for a number of logistical reasons I had to turn her down, one of them being that that very morning I had registered for fall quarter.)

 

So by my third year I found myself balancing school (as a male), work (usually as a female) and an active love life (sometimes as one, sometimes as the other). Life was complicated, to say the least. But, I have to say, it sure was fun! Moreover, I now had, for the first time ever, a sympathetic female perspective on my dressing.

 

That meant advice from my lady love on clothing and hair, recommendations on jewelry and purses, even hosiery, and occasionally a healthy dose of feminine intuition. I remember one day in particular in this regard. We had just come back to my apartment after a full day out and about and it was time for me to put Robyn away. (At that point I also had an evening job as a male.) “It must be hard for you to change back,” she observed quietly as I began to remove my dress – a bright yellow shirtwaist – along with my wig, makeup and nail polish. And she was right. As good as it felt to slip out of my white pumps after eight hours straight (they may look great, but they don’t always feel great), it saddened me to have to say goodbye to my female persona.

But say goodbye I did. And, as it turned out, for a considerable period of time.

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BEGINNINGS

September 2nd, 2011 11:28 pm MDT

1

 

One of my friends believes that, until we hit our teens, most cross-dressers’ stories are pretty much the same. I wonder.

 

Did any of the rest of you dream you were a girl when you were a child? I did, around age 3 or 4. In the dream my hair was dark and curly and fell all the way to my shoulders. And I can still remember the color of the dress I was wearing (purple, a color I almost never wear today). I also remember that when I woke up I was both disappointed and relieved – relieved, because I felt vaguely guilty about having had such a “sissy” dream. But the stirrings were obviously there.

 

However, I don’t remember doing anything about them until I was 5, when I came down with a serious illness that kept me home in bed for several long weeks of recuperation. Mom certainly must have had her hands full keeping me occupied. In any event I remember seeing a skirt of hers on a chair one morning and asking her outright if I might wear some of her clothes. She didn’t seem particularly shocked but was mildly surprised. She questioned me briefly to make sure I was serious and then, to my surprise, presented me with that very skirt and one of her blouses, telling me I could keep them if I wanted. She also gave me one of her bandanas to tie over my head to cover my short hair.

 

Never had I experienced anything to compare with the thrill I felt when dressed in these things. And during the brief moments I was allowed up my delight must have been evident, because a few days later Mom told me she had something else she thought I might enjoy. That proved to be the understatement of her life, as her second surprise consisted of an old pair of her nylons and a pair of spectator pumps. Everything was much too big of course, but I’ll never forget how the nylons looked and felt on my legs. From that point on, I think I was hooked. At last I felt like the girl I had dreamed of being, and with my mother’s approval. I must have floated around the house all week.

 

My father, however, was far less sympathetic. Once he returned home from his business trip, I enthusiastically got dressed to show him what we had been doing, only to be greeted with sarcasm and derision. I was crushed, and never mentioned it around him again. I love both my parents dearly but had seen a reaction to my innocent desires that I never wanted to see or feel again. Only days earlier I had discovered the magic of dressing; now I had learned something of the guilt and shame that can accompany it. Soon I began hiding my things under the bed and even stopped dressing around Mother. I imagine Dad’s reaction had an effect on her own, because from then on I was always afraid of her finding me in her things. Indeed, I’ve often wondered what impelled her to give me her clothes in the first place. Probably humoring me because I had been so sick.

 

As for what might have impelled me to ask for them, two things have always intrigued me about that: (1) How, except for that isolated dream at 3 or 4, the impulse to wear that skirt seemingly came out of nowhere, almost full-blown as it were, and (2) the astonishingly early age at which it came.

 

2

 

My return to school saw the resumption of what seems to me to have been in every other way a pretty normal childhood. With one interesting exception: I was the only boy through third grade who had a steady girlfriend, a little girl with whom I had been terribly smitten my first week back. I remember announcing to her one day on the playground that she was going to be my girlfriend. And she was, until two years later when we moved. At the same time I had plenty of friends among the guys and quickly became the elected leader of the group both in and out of school. I don’t recall thinking much about dressing during those years, but I’m sure I must have, as I do recall wondering how my friends would react if they knew.

 

Clearly my early adventure with cross-dressing had been more than just a lark, but I tried not to let the implications prey on my mind. Since I had always liked girls, I remember thinking that I would probably lose this urge to wear women’s clothes once they began to grow up and wear the same things. I would, in a word, “outgrow” it, so there was really nothing to worry about. Whistling in the dark!

 

As it turned out, of course, my desires did anything but abate, and I spent the next few years getting secretly acquainted with my mother’s wardrobe. At first it was only about twice a year. Then, with the onset of puberty, my experiments grew more frequent, each going farther than the last. All this despite my sincere resolve after every episode never to do it again.

 

By now I was really starting to get scared of what this might mean. Not only was I finding it impossible to quit, but I found myself thinking about it more often as well. So I deliberately cultivated all sorts of time-consuming hobbies in a campaign to rivet my attention on something else. Stamps, coins, model trains, tropical fish – you name it. The net result of this all-out effort was that I became an extremely versatile and accomplished hobbyist and an extremely guilt-ridden TV, or transvestite.

 

I didn’t know I was a transvestite, however. In fact I didn’t know what I was, and as I entered the early years of sexual awareness it bothered me no end. Whereas before I had been outgoing and athletic, I now became more introverted and studious. My grades soared while my spirits sank. No one else could possibly be like this, I kept telling myself. What was wrong with me? Was this some early manifestation of homosexuality? I doubted it, since nothing else seemed to fit what I knew about that. Even so, I found the smutty stories the other guys told both repulsive and embarrassing and began to lose confidence around girls. Adolescence was, in short, miserable. But it didn’t stop my dressing.

 

On the contrary, by the time I reached high school I was holding down a part-time job and had begun to purchase clothing of my own. As I could still wear Mom’s dresses and money was tight, I bought only the things I could no longer borrow, such as hosiery and shoes. That was when I discovered how thrilling it could be to buy myself something new for the very first time. And how marvelous it was to really have my own things for a change. Still, I always pretended to be buying them for her, and always felt terribly guilty about the whole thing. And not just because of the dressing but because of the deception as well. I have never liked lying for any reason. So time and again I would solemnly renounce it all and plunge myself into some terrifically masculine activity in order to “prove myself,” only to return eventually with renewed energy and zest.

 

All along I avidly read everything I could lay my hands on concerning my problem and did manage to learn that I was, as I say, a “transvestite.” But as my sources had little more than a generalized idea of what that entailed, neither did I.

 

3

 

Around the same time I began to encounter a nagging sense of inadequacy regarding my feminine role as well as my masculine one. When viewing myself in the mirror, dressed, I began to be highly critical of my appearance and conclusions were not at all encouraging. As badly as I wanted to, I just didn’t look much like a girl, not an attractive one at any rate, and the realization that I might never be able to filled me with great regret. This dreadful frustration persisted for some time, but I suppose the absolute nadir came shortly before my senior year, when I went to a theatrical supply house on the pretext of representing a drama group (a reluctant liar, but a resourceful one) and purchased my first wigs. This was well before fashion wigs became popular, and the colors and styles of these two were not well suited to me at all, something I discovered when I got them home. I could barely wait to try them on. They had looked so pretty on the stands. On me, however, they looked simply horrible. My unskilled attempts at makeup only made matters worse. It was an awful disappointment and I recall thinking that, if I were going to look like that, there wasn’t much point in dressing. So they were destroyed along with everything else a few weeks later in another one of my purges.

 

Things had a way of repeating themselves, however, and it wasn’t long before I had re-outfitted myself from the local stores and my mother’s closets. Over the years I had paid particular attention to the things she no longer seemed to be wearing, some of which I liked a great deal. From these I would select one or two suits, a couple of dresses, a slip and a blouse, which, together with the things I had purchased and the necessary foundation garments, gave me a nice little wardrobe. All this I kept hidden in a suitcase in my closet until the inevitable purge, at which time the things I had borrowed would be duly, and silently, returned. While this may sound awfully foolish, it seemed to me a safer risk to run than that of being trapped should the rest of the household return before their appointed hour. On occasion they had done just that, and only a miracle had spared me in each case. The problem wasn’t so much getting out of Mom’s clothes (I could stage a quick “shower” and take care of that) as it was getting them back before she entered her room and discovered the disarray. This way I not only avoided the hazards of such impromptu “raids” – it also gave me secluded access to my things at any hour of the day or night.

 

Self-recriminations notwithstanding, I must have thought myself a pretty cool customer, deftly spiriting these things away from her closets for such prolonged stretches. Then one day I outsmarted myself. Among my regular confiscations was a darling little blue-tweed suit. A little way down the rack, in “verboten” territory, was the perfect light blue blouse to go with it. This time I took it along with the rest. After all, I told myself, wasn’t the whole place “verboten”?

 

Breaking rules seldom pays. Sometime later Mom missed that blouse and mentioned it to me. “She knows!” was my first thought. What should I do? Return the blouse and hope she thinks she merely misplaced it? I never got the chance. She was so bothered by its absence that she spent the whole day taking a thorough inventory of her closets. All I could do was stand by and watch my goose slowly getting cooked. I was sure it wouldn’t take long for her to figure out where everything had gone.

 

So when she announced she knew the identity of the culprit, I could manage only a weak “Oh?” Yes, she continued, it had to be – the cleaning lady. I could hardly believe my ears. She had never suspected me for a minute! My relief, however, was considerably mingled. Not only was an innocent person getting blamed, but her words extinguished a flickering hope of mine that she had known about me all along and was merely using this as a device to flush me out. But I consoled myself with the thought that the heat was off now and the worst that could happen to the poor cleaning lady would be to lose her job at our house.

 

No such luck. My alarm mounted as Mom began spreading news of the “great theft” throughout the family. Then one morning she came into my room to tell me she had phoned the police, giving them a list of the missing articles, and that they were on their way to pick up the cleaning lady. This was more than I had bargained for. I knew I couldn’t let an innocent person go through that and braced myself for the most difficult confession of my life. “Mother,” I said, “T___ didn’t take your things. I did.” 

 

Her reaction more than made up for the one she had given my request when I was 5. She looked as though I had clouted her over the head with a board. “YOU did?” she stammered. “But … why?” I told her it was a long story and it might be well the give the police a quick call before they set out after the cleaning lady. She did so and then I tremblingly unfolded the whole sordid tale. It left her incredulous, confused and afraid that I might be homosexual. (I assured her that, to the best of my knowledge, I wasn't.) As for my “initiation” years before, she had forgotten all about it. Now that she knew its consequences, she blamed herself. I wish I could have told her then what I suspect today, that even if it had never happened I probably would have ended up a cross-dresser, with or without help. She then demanded to see my suitcase and, as it was opened, her disbelief quickly melted into horror. Piece by piece she took out everything I had and I think it nearly killed her, especially when she came to the lingerie and foundation garments. For myself, I felt sick and ashamed, but exquisitely grateful for what seemed like a merciful reaction to what I thought surely must be the world’s darkest crime. Moreover, just in telling someone, I had the sense of having a heavy burden lifted from me for the first time in years.

 

4

 

As I had fully expected the world to cave in, I thought Mom was pretty generous about the whole thing. To my relief, the family was told that the missing things had turned up after another search (which was true). But there was still the piper to pay. She warned me that something like this could easily ruin my life (I hardly needed to be reminded of that) and insisted that I see a psychiatrist. Great, I thought, at last I’m going to be cured. Any hopes I may have had of that were quickly shattered by my first few visits. I had the distinct impression that the doctor knew even less about transvestism than I did. Not only was I getting more depressed the more I saw of him, but I had the sneaking hunch the sizable amounts of money I was forking over for treatment might be better spent elsewhere. (Guess where.) So I told Mom that he had straightened me out and there was no need to go back, a solution that left her faith in the powers of psychiatry undiminished and my bank account likewise.

 

Mom had returned all her things to her closets and I had destroyed all mine – everything, that is, but the shoes. Though my promise to reform had been in earnest, for some reason I had hung onto them. Some months later I was glad I had. This time, however, I didn’t break any rules, so nothing was missed, even though I took many of the same things I had liberated in the past. It’s really easy to get attached to things. In fact I was so attached to them that I didn’t even return then when I left home to enter the Army, but hid them in a trunk in the attic awaiting my return. Already I had let dressing make me a liar. Now I had allowed it to make me a thief.

 

When I came home on leave six months later I could hardly wait to get my clothes out again. Just the sight of them has always been able to arouse in me the most indescribable feelings. I had no sooner put on my girdle and stockings when the bedroom door opened and in walked Mother to tell me something. For what must have been the first time in my life I had forgotten to lock it!

 

What followed was a real nightmare. This time she was furious. I had betrayed a trust. Not only that, but she certainly could never wear any of these clothes again, she said, not after a man had worn them, and I was ordered to take them all out to the dump and dispose of them. I did as I was told and we never discussed the subject again.

 

Still, I understood how she felt. To some extent I felt the same way myself. So much so that, when I got out of the Army, I made a real effort to quit and didn’t dress at all for more than two years.

 

I thought about it a lot though, and eventually drifted back into the old intrigues. This time, however, everything was freshly purchased and nothing, but nothing, was borrowed – from anyone. I adopted this policy for two reasons: (1) I had promised myself never to steal anything else again, and (2) I vastly preferred having my own things anyway.

 

I also began to give greater attention than before to my face and hair, with a correspondingly greater degree of success. By now fashion wigs had caught on and, after my earlier venture, I knew what to avoid. I first ordered two from a mail order house, choosing colors and styles from those they had pictured. They turned out to be excellent, but were not, ironically, the first I got. Once the order was placed, my enthusiasm mounted to the point where I became impatient. When it was clearly going to be some time before those first two arrived, I couldn’t wait. Bracing myself for whatever might transpire, I marched into a beauty salon and bought one “for my mother,” specifying the color and style “she” desired. Next to buying my first corselette, this was about the bravest thing I’d ever done. But they were very co-operative and had my wig ready that evening. I could barely wait to get it home, but restrained myself until I arrived. By some miracle the rest of the family was going out that night and I would be alone. That was happy news, and I smuggled my new hairpiece into my room and sat looking at it until they were safely out of sight. Then, remembering my bad experience of yore, this time I dressed and made up completely before trying the wig on. When it came time to slip my new, gently curled tresses over my head, I was so excited I could hardly hold them. But somehow they went on and I took my first look in the mirror, afraid of what I might see. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, looking back at me, was a young and reasonably attractive girl, as I had always dreamed of being. That night I went out on the streets for the first time, tingling all over with wonder and excitement.

 

5

 

The next few months were just heavenly, as I was able to spend nearly all my free time getting the “feel” of my new role. Then something happened to change all that. I met a girl with whom I fell deeply and passionately in love. Lacking any other explanation, I had come to assume that, for me, dressing simply acted as a sex substitute (albeit a pretty unusual one), and one with which I would have to be content.  Being with her taught me how wrong I was on both counts. Not only did it bring me more happiness than I had ever known before, but I knew that dressing alone would never completely satisfy me again. Indeed, I was thrilled to think that my adventures in that area were finally over – that I didn’t need it anymore. Later I was to learn how wrong I was about that too.

 

At the time, however, I was more optimistic about successfully quitting than at any other time before or since. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I cleaned out my closets and without a moment’s hesitation burned everything. This, I was positive, was at long last the end. Still, I felt she had a right to know what I had been, so one night I told her. It seemed a tremendous risk; after all, I thought, what girl could ever love a man who had done the things I had? She was baffled, but, as I had assured her I had quit, passed it off as something over and done with and, therefore, unimportant.

 

But it wasn’t over and done with. Far from it. For while dressing had proven no substitute for sex, neither, I found to my discouragement, was sex a substitute for dressing. In the months that followed, true to form, I began thinking about it again. Then reading. But I still managed to abstain from dressing itself … though not in spirit. All in all, it took me about a year to go back, and by this time (for reasons having nothing to do with dressing) I had a new girl and a whole new confession ahead of me, made even worse because now I was back at it again. As we were contemplating marriage, I had to let her know about me, especially since I knew I could give her no assurances that I would ever stop. She too was surprised, but very understanding. Nevertheless she made it clear that she would prefer to have me quit, but that, if I couldn’t, at least I would never let her see me dressed. I never broke that promise.

 

In fact I almost thought I had it licked again. We courted for another year before our marriage and in that time I was able to stop completely. Still no guarantees, but I’m sure she thought I was through and with all my heart I prayed she was right.

 

We had been married only a short time when the old urges returned. And this time, considering what I now had at stake, they were more terrifying than ever. Finally, hoping that maybe just “a little bit” of dressing would be all I would need, the next morning I bought myself some lingerie and hosiery, nothing more. Again I was wrong. I had gone too far for that. Now nothing could satisfy me short of the total image, top to toe. Within 24 hours I had purchased everything I needed to create that image and soon found myself dressing on the sly when my wife was out. It was awful – I felt like a thief in my own home.

 

6

 

To compound the guilt, I had also begun reading TV literature again, most of which was available only in stores I wouldn’t have been caught dead in otherwise. Worse, nearly all of it had given me the feeling that what I was doing was “dirty,” something it had never seemed on its own. I was horribly confused, especially since I still loved my wife.

 

I kept everything carefully hidden, however, and even though I was now shaving my legs and plucking my eyebrows (in my case absolutely essential for a properly feminine appearance) she never seemed to suspect. For extended sessions, I was fortunate to have a relative who lived nearby and was fond of taking trips away from the city, during which I had the run of her home. A sham business trip of my own, timed to coincide with her absences, would sometimes give me as long as two or three days, all of which I would spend as a woman.

 

On such occasions I sometimes found it handy to assume the role of my own “wife.” The first time I tried this, I loaded my things in the car, picked up my wig at the beauty salon, then drove all the way to another city where I registered for the night at a motel as a married couple (my “wife,” of course, being in the car). The rest of the evening was then spent plucking my beard out completely (my own idea, and another “first” on this trip) and doing my nails for the next day. The following morning I made up very carefully and put on my smartest outfit, a camel suit with a beige blouse and black kidskin shoes. I then proceeded to check out as my “wife” and drove the 120 miles back to my relative’s house, where I could now arrive as the very girl the neighbors would be seeing over the next few days. And those next few days were sheer delight. Using her place as a base of operations, I took walks, went shopping, took short scenic drives and even paid occasional visits to the park – all in the daytime, a brand-new experience for me.

 

But eventually my misgivings about deceiving my wife got the better of me. So one night I very tenderly told her I was having problems again, a little bit about what I had been doing and how terrible I felt about it. I didn’t know it at the time, but that confession set the seal of doom on our relationship. I had made a serious and irrevocable mistake, and from that night onward it began to prey on her mind. Before long I realized that her image of me as a husband had been shattered and she was no longer able to accept me in that role, even sexually. And with that bond severed, we gradually began growing apart in other ways as well. I was heartbroken, and I’m sure she was too. But nothing I could say or do could weaken that mental block or alter her responses in the slightest.

 

This didn’t dawn on me all at once, though. (Sometimes I’m pretty slow.) For a time I simply moved all my feminine things to another apartment where, without my wife’s knowledge, I commenced a strange sort of triple life, filling, besides my regular identity at home, the roles of both husband and wife (under assumed names) at the other place. My new neighbors, of course, seldom saw the “husband” (working during the day). But the lady of the house quickly became a familiar sight, whether working around the house and garden, hanging out the wash or going shopping. I reveled in it while it lasted, taking long, sunny walks to the store or around the neighborhood. Naturally all this dream-time had to come from somewhere, so my work may have suffered for it. No matter. It was worth it.

 

But our marriage wasn’t worth it, and, as the situation at home became increasingly clear to me, I resolved that for my wife’s sake this would have to end. Not just the “other life,” but dressing as well. How could I expect her to try with me making almost no effort at all? So in a final purge I got rid of everything, once and for all – and I’ve always regretted it. Not just the wigs and women’s glasses – I could always get those again. No, I lost things in that grand resolve that I was never able to replace. Things like that camel walking suit, and a beautiful flowered green dress I wore almost everywhere. When they were gone, they were gone for good.

 

Had it all given me back my wife, no price would have been too steep. As it was, it was too late, and, in view of my actions, I couldn’t blame her a bit. Still, I actually quit for a year, completely, and it didn’t seem to mean a thing. Whenever we quarreled (our philosophies were radically different by now – on lots of things) nearly every tension in our home would boil down to the declaration that she wanted a husband (a pretty normal desire, and one I wholeheartedly approved of) and I, as a cross-dresser, couldn’t fill the bill. Even though I knew she couldn’t help the way she felt, this really hurt, because I wanted to fill the bill, but she wouldn’t let me. Frustrating to say the least, and after a year of it I gave up and went back to dressing.

 

And this time I really went back. Not only did I build up my wardrobe again from scratch, but in so doing I built it up carefully, vowing to myself never to destroy anything again. That was getting too costly. Should I decide to break it off, I would simply hide everything until next time, secure in the knowledge that, come what may, sooner or later I would be back. Moreover, I began taking pictures for the first time and selected a name for myself, all of which gave me an increased sense of feminine identity.

 

Nevertheless, in keeping with my pledge before our marriage never to let my wife see me dressed, I kept all evidences of my recent return carefully hidden away. However, one day while I was away she pulled a secret inspection and found the whole works. I knew nothing about it until we were in bed that night, at which time it all came out. As bad as it had been, though, the very worst, the last straw, had been the pictures. She didn’t say anything about them at first (I wasn’t even sure she’d found them) but simply began to cry as hard as she could. Something else was obviously up and, when I pressed her for it, she broke off her wailing long enough to sob, “You’re better looking than I am!” I didn’t agree, but I would be lying if I said that didn’t thrill me. For years whenever we discussed my dressing, she would always point out how senseless it all was, since I must look absolutely ludicrous. Still, I guess it turned out to be the costliest compliment I’ve ever had. Within a month she had left me for good.

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