How Wicked Is Your Witch?

Life for a covert dresser can, without doubt, be somewhat challenging.  Not necessarily because of the constant fear that your secret persuasion might be discovered, but because of the harm, the upset or confusion you might unleash on those closest to you.  Or even those in your wider, historically-secure friendship or work circles, the ones who for years have only known you as a veritable ‘deep-voice-man-guy’.  I am reaching a conclusion that dressing has almost an A-class narcotic allure – once tried, always yearned for.  The smoothness of the stolen-apple silk is all but soul-enveloping.

So, you dabble along, nudged here, prodded forward there; trying out, getting further entrenched into a secret lifestyle which you try so hard to rationalise, to accept as your ‘norm’.  It is undeniably you.  Your go-to home base.  Your ‘why can’t they just accept it for what it is’ world.  But, what of the impact on your SO?  What about her – did she know about, or sign up for this?  Did she know before she committed to you?  That’s a toughie, isn’t it.

It’s an incontrovertible fact that this subject troubles the secret dresser more than anything else in their CD life.  In their yin-yang world, the yin is the silky secret pleasure, the yang is worrying about its impact on others; their Significant Other, their soulmate, and most importantly, their wife.

There are as many different outcomes of that dreaded impact as there are wives, and they cover quite the spectrum – from instant divorce, right up to happily sharing her wardrobe with you, and even girls-together shopping trips to keep it beautifully stocked.  But in that dark-side place, that no-man’s-land of worry, you constantly wonder, is there a metaphorical bullet with your name on it?  And it eats you up.  Stealthy is unhealthy, you’d best never forget.

For now though, let’s assume that not only have you dissipated any of the original guilt you might have felt, you have come to a comfortable secrecy, or even a sort of peaceful ‘DADT’ (don’t ask, don’t tell) environment, where you balance your pleasure with your good lady’s tolerance.  It works.  She’s fine.  You’re happy.  She is too, sort of, at least on the surface.  But then, something changes – a woman’s prerogative, after all.  She now does a U-turn: ‘I was sort of accepting, but you know what, I’m not now. Sorry hun, I think we need to…’

And then comes the dreaded bombshell you thought was just for others: the dreaded D-word. Or the one-way street called ‘trial separation’.  You probably thought you were in a ‘cake-and-eat-it’ world.  Now, suddenly and abruptly, you aren’t.  The vase is mid-air between her hands and the cold, cold floor.

A friend here on CDH (and, re upcoming pronouns, I have checked; he is happy to be referred to as a male dresser, especially in the following context) has his dressing life quite balanced out, it would seem – and so does his dearly-beloved and tolerant wife of considerable years.  Like the proverbial Lady Justice, she may choose to wear a blindfold, she balances the dressing persuasions out on her scales, but she also bears a sword.  He wisely keeps one eye on the sword, for if it were ever to get lifted, even slightly, he is certain that “if it came down to my marriage or my dressing, my dressing self would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West”.

I deeply admire his ultimate commitment to his wife. I just wonder though, could I commit to such, even in the face of the ultimate sanction, the about-to-fail marriage?  Is the allure of my ‘witch’ too strong?

Could I really control it?

Could you?

It surely begs the question: how wicked is your witch?

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