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Life Of A Crossdresser With Wife - Part 3
🕑 Added 2020-10-01 07:37:40 +0000 UTCI don’t know why I crossdress. I don’t know what caused me to put on my first pair of panties. At one time, I thought that my fascination with women’s clothes was merely erotic, but after a time I grew out of that and began to realize it was something deeper. I once thought that it was merely practical, that soft fabrics and skirts were more comfortable and more practical than suits. That didn’t explain the bras and pantyhose, but so be it. I once thought that maybe there were two psychological parts to me that were represented by my external wardrobes, but the more I dressed, the more I understood that there were hundreds of different threads running through me and while some seemed more prominent when I was in a dress, some didn’t and they were all part of the same me. The more I dressed and the more I thought about it, the more I discovered about myself.
There was one thing, however, that was consistently a part of me from the very beginning. I was a man and through it all, I never really wanted to be anything else. Being male was as much a part of who I was as my fascination with architecture, my need to be organized (I may have been psychologically as disorganized as hell but you’d never find anything out of place in my file cabinets or my reference shelves), my need to dress in women’s clothes and my love for Kathleen.
I may have wanted to look and feel like a woman, but I never wanted to be a woman.
And now, looking back at me from my bedroom mirror, was a woman. I was more confused than I had ever been in my entire life.
I think the same thing may have been true with Kathleen, or maybe my reaction was upsetting her a little.
"Like it?" she asked, her voice trembling and her face utterly without expression. "I kept it pretty simple, so you can probably do the same thing yourself next time. The important thing …"
I lost track of her voice as I continued to look into the face in the mirror. I wasn’t entirely sure of what I was seeing. Kathleen wound down after a bit and her silence became loud enough to hear.
"Honey, I don’t know what to say," I finally managed. "I’ve seen you made up a thousand times but I didn’t know it could make this much of a difference. I look so, different."
"Now you know all our little secrets, honey." She was trying to be flip, but she sounded anything but genuine. I don’t know what I heard in her voice, but there was a little fear, a little anger, some disappointment, and a lot of confusion in what I heard. I heard all that, but I wasn’t listening. It was like background noise to me as I was far too consumed with trying to cope with what I saw and what I felt. And I knew that it was more important than ever that I come to grips with "this," whatever "this" was.
Eventually, my heart resumed its normal rhythm and we spent the rest of the day doing what we normally did on days that Martha appeared, which was to talk and putter around the house and watch a video or two and not do much of anything constructive. Beneath that calm, my mind was churning and in retrospect, I’m sure Kathleen’s was too although we both did our damnedest to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary. We made love that night, but it felt very mechanical to me as if I was watching myself get excited and I programmed this body of mine to do what it had to. When I came, I was early and spurted all over my nightie. I apologized in a sort of perfunctory way and then rolled over and went to sleep.
A few days later, for no particular reason other than it seemed right, I shaved my legs and armpits. Kathleen smiled when she saw my now-smooth legs under pantyhose for the first time (I hadn’t dared before, preferring tights, long skirts, and pants) but she didn’t say anything. A couple of days after then I shaved my chest and within days after that bleached the hair on my arms. I couldn’t reach my back but I did the best I could, under the circumstances.
My life was becoming ritualized and I felt almost powerless to stop it. I was now wearing panties every day, which was no big deal. I’d come home from work almost immediately after the school day ended which was a change because I used to spend lots of extra time with any kids who wanted to use the library in the afternoon. As soon as I hit the door I’d be taking off my male clothes. I’d almost race to the bedroom to get a bra so I could put on my breasts. Then I’d spent an inordinate amount of time in front of Kathleen’s mirror putting on makeup before selecting a dress or skirt/top combination. I’d started buying lots of jewelry and would add whatever I thought worked with my outfit and only after I was utterly satisfied that I looked absolutely lovely would I go downstairs to begin dinner.
I always got home before Kathleen and I loved to cook so making dinner was never a big thing but I was spending so much time in front of the mirror that I often didn’t get to begin dinner until just before she came in the door. This meant that we were eating a lot of hamburgers, grilled chicken, and salads. Not that I did a bad job on any of these, but they were quick and they didn’t get in the way of my fantasy world.
Since we first were married, dinnertime was special for us. I don’t know why, but food and good conversation seemed as intimately connected as we were ourselves. It didn’t matter whether dinner was something I’d prepared after coming home from work, or maybe one of Kathleen’s specialties on the weekend or take out pizza or even an evening in a restaurant, but this was the time where we talked about what was happening in our lives. Now, though, even that was changing because I was just so bursting with new energy and new experiences that dinner was becoming a monologue. We might talk about something that happened at work (either hers or mine) but sooner or later I’d bring the conversation around to something I did for the first time dressed en femme or some feeling I’d experienced for the first time. One part of me rationalized all this Martha’s introduction to the world but all parts of me failed to recognize that to Kathleen, it was all Mark and Mark were not only monopolizing what had been their special time but he was ignoring Kathleen for Martha. Not only was I beginning to push Kathleen into the background during dinner, but my continuing fascination with Martha’s coming out began to push dinner itself into the background. I never noticed it. Kathleen was saddened, and I didn’t notice that, either. It also meant that we didn’t eat out as much as we had because I insisted on spending as much time as I could as Martha and neither of us could imagine Martha in a restaurant.
Martha was also beginning to put a financial strain on us. Like Mark, I never was much of a clotheshorse but I’d always been presentable. Kathleen never spent much on clothes, either, which was fortunate. We both spent lots of money on books, food, music (I’m a jazzaholic, Kathleen a confirmed world music explorer and we both share a love of classical music and Anglo/Celtic folk music) and decorative art. We’ve never been poor, but we’ve also never been more than a paycheck or two beyond the mortgage. Now, with Martha spending every Saturday shopping for clothes and jewelry and experimenting while developing a style of her own, we added an entirely new category of the expense we’d never had before. The first time we’d ever bounced a check was that spring when I’d miscalculated how much money we had in the bank and the water & sewer bill didn’t clear. It was written the same day that I paid my credit card $500, which was about half the total (I used to pay my bill in full but we couldn’t afford to do that anymore) I’d racked up on clothes and accessories for Martha in the past three months.
It’s easy to see now, but back then I couldn’t tell that my life was spiraling out of control. I was out of control. This idea of being Martha had taken control of me and while I was still extremely careful outside the house, Mark had pretty much ceased to exist once I got home.
And this was not good. Not at all.
The first tear in the fabric came on a warm night in early May. The school wasn’t out yet, but it was winding down. I came home from work a little early, changed into some particularly lovely lingerie and a rayon robe before putting on breasts and makeup. I was absolutely meticulous with my makeup that afternoon and mentally congratulated myself on how beautiful I looked, then slipped into what you would have called a little black dress if it were black and not turquoise, faux pearls, and black pumps. I was sophisticated and lovely and late for dinner.
I didn’t even notice that Kathleen had come home and as I dashed by the den on the way to the kitchen. I said hello, blew her a kiss, and said breezily "Sorry about not getting dinner started hon. I’ll just whip up something in a jiffy and we’ll be all set."
"Don’t bother," Kathleen replied. "I had a big lunch. I’m not really hungry anyway."
I looked at her. "Are you OK, honey?" I asked.
She didn’t respond for a few moments. Then she looked up at me. "Dear," she said, "I don’t think you’re playing this role all that terribly accurately. Most women who come home from work take the dress off, wash away the makeup, and kick the pumps into the closet."
She gave a big theatrical sigh and settled a little deeper into the couch. "You might be working just a little too hard at this."
I was shocked into silence. My brain started spinning in circles, not sure if I should apologize, whip off a witty bon mot, a psychological explanation, or begin an argument. The apology seemed like a pretty good bet, although I didn’t have a clue as to why.
"Honey, I’m sorry. I just…"
"No, you’re not, dear." She smiled at me, but the smile looked tired and far too deliberate. "You’re not sorry. You just think that that’s the right thing to say, but it isn’t. It really isn’t."
I knew it wasn’t but I didn’t know what else to do. I desperately tried to think of something to say but nothing coming from my brain seemed to connect with my tongue, so I remained speechless.
"I know how important this must be to you, dear, but it just isn’t working for me. I’m trying incredibly hard to imagine myself in your mind, but I just can’t do it. I can’t imagine myself coming home from work and willingly putting on a girdle and pantyhose. I can’t. I can’t imagine why anyone in the world would want to wear high heels if they didn’t have to.
"And then my imagination starts to run wild. What are those heels and that dress doing for you? What need are they filling for you that I don’t? Or can’t?" Her voice was gradually rising in pitch and intensity. Then her voice dropped and she looked at me directly.
"Or do they replace me? If you can look like the woman of your dreams yourself, what do you need me for?"
"Kathy, you can’t begin…"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP," she screamed at me. I was stunned.
"Just shut up." She was quieter now. "I love you, Mark, I really do. But I don’t know who Mark is anymore. I don’t even know if you still exist. You are confusing the hell out of me. I know I’m not a lesbian but for months every time, I make love I’m making love to someone in a nightgown and lipstick. I wake up in the morning and watch you get out of bed and put on a pair of fucking panties. I come home at night and get a peck on the cheek from someone wearing a dress who has bigger boobs than me. What does that make me?" She was beginning to sob. "What the hell does that make me?"
I started to sit down next to her but she pulled away. "Don’t," she said. "Don’t touch me."
For almost five minutes we stood still in awkward, painful silence. Kathleen, huddled in a corner of the couch, trying desperately not to cry as she hugged herself, staring into space. I, dressed for a cocktail party, staring at her, not daring to move.
Finally, Kathy pulled herself up. "I’m going to bed." She shook her head a couple of times and then headed upstairs without looking at me.
That night I slept on the couch rolled up in an afghan. When Kathy came down in the morning, I bolted upstairs to take a shower, get rid of my makeup, and grab a robe (my male robe) before coming down to make breakfast. Kathy and I were civil to each other and then she left for work and I got dressed for work right after. That evening, we were polite and civil and nobody said a word about our flare-up the night before.
And that’s how it went. On the surfaces, our lives had returned to what they used to be. We went back to all our old habits and rituals and we smiled and were polite and life went on. At first, I stopped dressing completely, but it wasn’t long before I found an excuse (to myself, anyway) to wear panties instead of jockey shorts to work one day, and then another, and so on. I never let Kathy see me dressed anymore, but I found occasions to dress anyway, just like I used to.
There were a couple of moments here and there. There was the time I hadn’t finished putting away the laundry when Kathy came upstairs. She saw me folding and putting away panties that obviously weren’t hers, but she went on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. One afternoon, too, I was feeling particularly guilty about the state of our marriage and loaded (almost) all of my clothes into three or four big Hefty bags and was hauling them down to the car to bring to Goodwill. Kathy walked into the garage just as I was getting ready to put the last bag in the trunk. She asked what I was doing and I told her.
"I wish you wouldn’t," she said and went into the kitchen. I left those clothes in the car’s trunk for almost two weeks before hauling them back upstairs and putting them away. Again.
Several months went by like this. Spring faded into summer, summer into fall. The coolness between Kathy and I gradually dissipated but I can’t say it was replaced by anything warm. I wanted desperately to move the clock back a year, for Martha to never have left the closet but we both knew that wouldn’t happen and I didn’t know what to do about it. Kathy seemed to have built a cast-iron box around that part of our marriage and while she was obviously and laboriously carrying that box around, she refused to even see that it was there.
Until one day in late October. It was one of those beautifully sunny fall days that occurs all too rarely. Most of the leaves had already fallen and the sunshine just poured through the bare branches to flood the still-green grass. I was puttering around the kitchen, brewing a second pot of coffee, and doing a little cleaning while Kathy was sitting at the kitchen table pretending to read the paper and letting her coffee get cold. I was putting away the dishes from the dishwasher when I felt her eyes following me around the room. I tried to ignore the feeling for a bit, but I couldn’t. I just turned around and looked at her.
"Yes?" I smiled, but it wasn’t a confident smile.
"This isn’t working, is it?" She was staring at me but I could tell that she wasn’t even looking at me. I was getting a little unnerved. I must have looked bewildered.
"This isn’t working. You, me, your ‘other’ self, any of it." Finally, she broke eye contact. "We are working way too hard to pretend this is a couple of years ago and I never saw you in a dress and you never made love to me in a nightie. I never bought your tits." Her voice was getting quieter but her eyes were filling with tears.
"No, I never doubted your masculinity," she almost whispered, with the sarcasm fairly dripping from her tongue. "I never doubted that you were a man and I never doubted that I was all woman for making love to a ‘man’ who was wearing lingerie that was prettier and sexier than anything I owned."
"Goddamn it," she said, her voice beginning to rise. "I was married to you for 16 years. I thought I could deal with a husband who occasionally wanted to explore a little but I couldn’t. I couldn’t." She stared at me again. I was frozen stiff. "I couldn’t." She started to sob. "Believe it or not, I could handle seeing you in a dress. I really could. I think I know what it means to you and I love you and I need you to be happy. The first time we kissed and you were wearing lipstick I thought it was the sexiest thing." She giggled through the tears.
"But what I couldn’t take was what this was saying about me. Did this mean I was a lesbian? I don’t want to be a lesbian. I mean, I am who I am and I don’t exactly relish the idea that all of a sudden at 42 I’m supposed to accept that the love of my life has bigger tits and nicer hair than I do? I know they’re fake and I know the plumbing’s still right but now I’m supposed to tell my brain to start fantasizing about, I don’t know, Cindy Crawford instead of Clint Eastwood?"
I felt like I needed to say something, anything, but I also knew that to open my mouth right now would be a mistake. A Serious Mistake.
"But you know what got the most?" She continued. "I couldn’t look at you and see you being a better woman than me." Her sobs became louder. "I couldn’t stand you being prettier than me." At this, she completely broke down. "I was never a very pretty girl. I was always too fat. I spent too much time reading and not enough time talking about boys and makeup. I didn’t look anything like the girls in the ads in Seventeen and I knew I never ever would.
"So I never even tried. I read books. I talked with adults. I only bought clothes when I had to and everything I bought was navy or white so I never had to worry about how it would match. I only would think about things that were important. And I carved out my life that way.
"Then I met you and we fell in love and I knew that everything I had been doing was right. You were absolutely the right man for me and I felt it in my bones and I knew that everything I thought about high school that was stupid really was stupid." She has quieted down a little by now and for the first time since this outburst, she was looking directly at me.
"Then I see you in a dress. And at first, like I always do, I intellectualize it. I go read about crossdressing. I do the research. I try to put myself in your brain and I try to understand. And we talk about it and I tell you it’s OK with me and I even help you out and try to share this with you.
"And then one night all my defenses just fell apart. I couldn’t help it, honey, I just couldn’t. You just looked better than I ever had in my entire life. Your clothes looked beautiful together and on you. You had just finished your makeup and were looking at yourself in the mirror and I went crazy with jealousy because you obviously loved the way you looked and I always hate the way I look. And not only that, but I thought you looked like one of those women in the fashion ads too. You really did look great. And I’m standing out of sight gazing at you and my hair looks like a rat’s nest, I’m not wearing makeup, my blouse is wrinkled and has sweat stains under the pits, I have on one of my seven knee-length navy skirts and I’m wearing my grandmother’s shoes. And for a second, I hated you and then I hated myself for hating you and then I got so confused I fell apart.
"What are we going to do, honey?" She was spent. There were no tears left and precious few words. "What are we going to do.?"
I pulled up a chair next to her and hugged her tight. "I don’t know Kathy. All I know right now is that I love you more than I’ve ever loved you or anyone else before. Beyond that I don’t know…I don’t know."
I was wrong about the tears.
