Hi there. I’m back again. I found and joined this site several months ago. It seemed like a nice place but as I read others’ stories, I seemed different from everyone else. So I left. But the weekly newsletters have continued to come nevertheless, (sorry, you can’t “out” me, save for the likelihood of a couple dozen Russian hackers, nobody else sees my emails), and I’ve read a couple dozen stories from them. And, if I’m going to be a “silent partner”, receive those weekly newsletters for the rest of my life, I thought I may as well rejoin just to make a couple of comments and to tell my own story.
My comments on others’ stories first.
Comment One: The Health Benefits of Cross Dressing.
As I’ll mention in greater detail later, I like to wear bikini panties. Maybe some of you do too. Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror wearing nothing but those panties? My self esteem is generally adequate but me in those bikinis is not a pretty sight; besides the unsightly bulge in them, the belly above them is too big and (at least mine is) too hairy. And the bigger the belly, the worse it looks — like a walrus in a tutu. It’s not like anyone else will ever see me that way but when you even gross yourself out, something needs to be done. Give up the bikinis? Please, no. Shave the hair off? Possible but it wouldn’t have much effect as long as the belly was much too large. So I started walking a mile or more every day. And I went on a diet. Oh, the deprivation I endured — all empty calories avoided, even the nectar of life, Coca Cola. And over several months, I lost 30 pounds, (from 180 to 150) and, still didn’t look as good as I’d like to in the panties, (I’d love to drop another 20 pounds but further progress has been very, very hard to achieve). But my doctor was pleased at my annual checkup that both my blood pressure and cholesterol numbers had gone down, as had my body-mass index (BMI), from slightly obese to the middle of the healthy range. And if I hadn’t decided to commit (more on that later) to wearing those panties, I’d likely never have lost the weight.
Comment Two: Rockin’ Around the Holidays
I don’t mean to diminish people’s feelings of loneliness, particularly at the holiday season. I’ve lived alone for the last 40 years. In a sense, every season is Christmas for me. I keep a landline telephone only so I can call 9-1-1 if needed because, other than con artists and scam calls, the thing never rings. But, while it doesn’t take the place of friends or family, the Christmas season does provide a definite bonus for a cross dresser. For a month, or even two, prior to Christmas, you can go wherever you like and look at, and buy, whatever outerwear you like; dresses, skirts, blouses, coats, sweaters, scarves, shoes, handbags and nobody will know whether you’re buying it for your mother, your wife, your daughter, or dear Aunt Bessie. Garter belts, fishnet stockings and undies for Christmas might be a bit sketchy. But don’t despair. That’s what Valentine’s Day is for.
ON TO OUR FEATURE STORY: THE CRISS-CROSS DRESSER
I’m a “saver”. Not a hoarder, exactly. I do keep my house in order. (An electrician doing work in my house a couple of years ago asked, “Do you always keep your house so neat? I assumed he was asking if I’m gay, especially ’cause I don’t have any deer antlers mounted on the wall.) But my dad lived through the Great Depression and instilled in me the logic and desirability of hanging on to anything that still had any use left in it. So I have, er, had a stack of tee shirts with frayed collars and/or holes in the armpits, (good enough for mowing the lawn in), and shoes with the heels worn away, (good enough for mowing the lawn in) and jeans whose worn spots on the front of the thighs had progressed into full fledged tears, (but they’re good enough to mow the lawn in — who knew they’d become the height of fashion one day?). Yes, I looked a mess when mowing the lawn.
So, anyway, I turned 70 years old. How I managed that is a complete mystery to me since I’ve been smoking since I was 18. I guess I’m the “exception that proves the rule.” And, with no wife (ever), no siblings, or kids, my relatives will have to see to my burial, (I’ve already made the arrangements), and clean out my house so they can sell it. And I was bothered by the thought that someone will go through all my things one day and I’ll have no control over it. I thought of all those tee shirts and shoes and torn jeans, as well as the six packages of brand new tee shirts, (gifts from my mother while she was alive), that I have stored in a suitcase, the six pairs of shoes I currently have, and the four pairs of perfectly sound jeans I have (as well as half a dozen pairs of non-denim trousers). “Some of this crap has to go,” I thought. “Let’s start throwing things out.”
So, after chucking out all the ragged tees and shoes and jeans, I started on the bottom drawer of my nightstand where resided a dozen old Playboy calendars, (hard to imagine that the young lovelies pictured on those things are probably in their fifties and sixties today), half a dozen complete Playboy magazines, a number of centerfolds and pages of jokes from those same magazines as well as a Penthouse magazine containing photos of one very hairy woman that I’d kept assuming that her image most closely approximated what I’d have looked like if I’d been born female. (I guess I was destined to live alone whichever gender I’d been). Egads, what would finding those things do to my post-demise reputation? The old perv.
That drawer emptied out, I opened the next one. And there were half a dozen pairs of bikini panties. I’d tried for a long time to be a good boy. I’d bought men’s low-rise briefs and considered them to be a suitable substitute for bikini panties. But I’d kept the panties in that drawer, as mementos as much as anything. And now I was planning to throw them away. But . . . I hesitated. I couldn’t. I must. I can’t. I have to. So I threw the three pairs of cotton ones in the trash — and kept the three pairs of nylon ones. Well, that was stupid. My reputation would be just as stained by having one pair as having six. What, I asked myself, did I want to do about those panties? I finally reached an accommodation with myself — defer the decision. Sleep on it tonight and decide tomorrow.
The next morning I went to the drawer to get clean underwear for the day. I grabbed one pair of low-rise briefs and the waistband was torn away from the fabric half way around them. So I reached for another pair, and those had several holes formed where the elastic was preparing to tear away from the fabric. A third pair had frayed at the leg openings so badly that the elastic underneath was exposed. And none of them was more than six months old. I was going to need to buy more underwear. But I’d come home from the the past two shopping trips to both Target and Wal-Mart, (where I usually bought them), empty-handed. The low-rise briefs had been replaced by long legged boxer briefs and other even larger and more elaborate styles of undies. The retailers had abandoned me. And the products they’d sold were shoddy when they’d had them.
I thought about the decision I had to make with regard to the bikinis. Then I thought about my own death and the aftermath. My parents and all of my aunts and uncles had already died. And I knew how long after their deaths they’d even been mentioned at family gatherings. It seemed entirely likely that, scandalous gossip or not, I might be remembered, spoken of, at the next Thanksgiving, Christmas, and maybe at what would have been my next birthday before my memory would be swept away by the passage of time. Why deprive myself of something I would enjoy for the sake of influencing the opinions of people, dear as they are to me, who would barely remember me six months after my death? Not to mention my fear that one day I might need to transition to Depends. If I was ever going to indulge myself by wearing bikinis, it seemed like it was a case of now or possibly never. And, who, until house cleaning day arrived, short of an ER nurse or a mortician, would ever know what I’d been wearing under my trousers? Would I be harming anyone? No, I wouldn’t be harming anyone at all. So why should I not wear what I wanted to wear? Condemned for wearing the wrong piece(s) of cloth? Oh my God! How silly! I kept the three pairs of nylon bikinis and went online and ordered ten more pairs; cotton ones, nylon ones, blue ones, green ones, purple ones, yellow ones, pink ones, black ones. And I’ve worn them everyday ever since. (And, unlike the men’s low-rise briefs, I’m still wearing the panties I ordered that day and they still look, fit, and feel like they did two years ago when I first got them. Not a tear or a blemish in any of them.)
Then I thought that the most damning garments that I have are the panties. Anything else I might like to wear would be strange (to others) but not as taboo as “wrong sex” underwear. So I went online and did some more shopping. I got three soft, warm, women’s mock turtleneck tops. And two pairs of women’s stretch jeans. Three pairs of women’s anklets and a couple pairs of women’s crew socks. A pair of white twill shorts and a pair of “Daisy Dukes” and three pairs of leggings. A flannel shirt, (had to get size XL in order to get sleeves long enough to cover my wristwatch, and then the darts in the sides that expanded the body of the shirt to accommodate a size XL woman’s bust left excess material in the chest — but I like it), a pair of women’s sneakers, (the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever had), and a pair of black leather Skechers ankle booties.
You’ll notice that I didn’t buy any makeup, bras, breast forms, pantyhose, blouses or wigs. The reason I’ve given such a(n almost) complete inventory is as a way of saying that I don’t get made up and padded up and become Paula Rae when I put those things on. I’m always Paula Rae. I generally wear (besides the undies) one or more of those items on any given day. I’ve had to make frequent trips to an eye doctor downtown for the past several months. I generally wear to those appointments a pair of women’s crew socks, the Skechers booties, and possibly one of the mock turtlenecks, with boy jeans and a boy shirt. That’s why I titled this criss-cross, (defined in my dictionary as “a confused state of mind” and “to go back and forth”). Even when deviating from societal norms, I don’t seem to do it right.
And yes, you may have noticed that I have a tendency to wear the kind of things found in the “juniors” or “misses” department. As if wearing female clothes weren’t outré enough, I wear items meant for girls or adolescents. But if it’s considered wrong to wear female clothes in the first place, why would age matter? “Well, he’s a cross-dresser but at least the things he wears are age-appropriate. Not like that delusional old bitch Paula. Who does he/she think he/she is?” (As I’m writing this I’m wearing yellow bikinis, black boy socks, my women’s sneakers, a women’s red tee shirt, (an old one from back before showing cleavage was in vogue, when the neck openings were the same size as men’s shirts), and a large, droopy grey sweatshirt, (don’t know which gender that was intended for). Basically, I think, what I’m doing is being me while also playing the part of my own girlfriend, the person I’ve always wanted to meet (or be?) but, especially at my age, never will. But I’m having fun — and fun can be hard to find when you’re 72. But I am curious as to whether anyone else criss-crossdresses like me. (I kind of hope not, I like the idea of being completely unique.) But, regardless, I’m gonna do what I wanna do for as long as I can do it.
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