So, here I am. Feeling a bit sorry for myself, drinking glass after glass of whisky as I wonder where I go from here. Yea, okay, I am Scottish (but I don’t wear a kilt!). I am not sorry for who I am, but sorry that none of my family or friends would accept me for what I am. Like most other folks here, I am a cross-dresser. And have been for most of my adult life. I never go ‘all the way’. I have never really used makeup, although I do admit to having used lipstick on occasion, and I did once have a try with eye shadow. I loved it! I could almost see myself going all the way at that point. And a wig, yes. I bought myself a blonde wig because blondes are supposed to have more fun. But it was only a mirror reflection, although I certainly did look different. But I have never dared step outside. Nor do I want to.
I have been a member of this site for a number of years and have never really taken part in any of the discussions, I know I am not alone when I admit to being an ‘elderly citizen’. I am seventy-three years old (in my 74th-year as some would say) and I enjoy wearing a skirt. I am frustrated that I can’t wear one as a matter of course. As I sit here at my PC I am wearing a navy calf-length pencil skirt over a black waist slip and black nylon panties. Above the waist I am wearing a white shirt, cos I am ‘still a man!’
My beloved wife of fifty years died two and a half years ago, but she really hated any thought that I might be into cross-dressing. She knew I did it, because she found my stash on more than one occasion, and clipped everything into little pieces so it couldn’t ever be worn again. All sexual relationships were cut off twenty-five years ago. With hindsight and 20-20 vision as they say, I am sure I could have latterly broached the subject, as she was bedridden for her final two years. But that might have really upset her and brought on her earlier demise. Oh God, or Goddess, I wish she was still here to share my life. In her latter days any thought of ’you’ and ’me’ went out the window. We were an ’us’ and I really would have loved to care for her in a skirt and heels.
So what am I rambling on about? I really don’t know. I love ‘prancing around’ in a skirt and heels. But heaven help me if my daughter or son were ever to discover their father’s abnormalities. When I die, and at seventy-three that day cannot be that far off, what is my family going to think when they find skirts and dresses (which would never have fitted their mother in her latter years) in my closet?
I really am a mess.