We have glossed over the gender issues I have previously because this blog isn't really about that. I have one for chronicling my journey of self-discovery and don't wish to link the two or make this one yet another just spicier version of the other. This blog is about unrestricted kink and playing dress-up as I like to think of it is just a small part. It has been a non-existent part lately because its hard to feel femme when you are a couple of months since you last waxing..(ladies, am I right here?)
Cliff Notes on gender:
Gender Identity is what you have between your ears, (no not your mouth - Pervert!) It is what you perceive in your brain as to whether you are a "boy" or "girl" as defined in your particular culture. Sex is defined by your actual genitals. Sexual Preference has to do with what sex you find yourself attracted to and has nothing to do really with the other two but is inexorably linked in most peoples minds.For me these three permutations present thusly: I perceive myself as not quite a boy, less so a girl. Maybe 65/35 male female. I am decidedly endowed with all of the primary and secondary sexual characteristics of a male with no plans or desires to alter my optional equipment package. I am assuredly gynephilic as far as my orientation. Too sum up: I am a male fetishist crossdresser that digs chicks.
The reason this hasn't really intruded into our love-life is that no matter how I feel - I like chicks and fortunately I married one. The other reason this has been a non-issue is that until 6 months ago I was deeply closeted from the world, my wife and in hindsight, even myself. I mean I was aware that the dude in the pantyhose in the mirror was in fact me, but I wouldn't have described myself as a transvestite. I knew I was something, but didn't have a term for a straight crossdresser which if I had coined the term I would assume that it was an oxymoron. My reluctance to ponder these occasional closeted urges were probably rooted generically in some homophobia, and specifically in the unfortunate results of the experimentation of a pre-schooler being thoughtlessly crushed by a misguided, over-reacting mother.
Now that I have shared this (and by shared I mean got caught with a satchel full of women's clothes) with my wife, we have had fun figuring out where my femme persona fits in sexually. We still don't know but its one of those "the trip is more fun than the destination" sort of things. We have discovered that so far if I was gay I apparently would not be a bottom, except maybe in a prison sort of situation. I do think it is a little insulting to women and lesbians alike to describe myself as a lesbian trapped in a male body. Because I'm not sure any lesbians want a clit my size.
Prior to my "sharing session" with my wife...(now THAT was an interesting exchange) I had only crossdressed maybe once in bed as a lark, she thinks she initiated it I think I did. I liked it. A lot. I was embarrassed to say so, so I spent the next 15 years dressing up only in my mind when we role played say two girls at a slumber party.
At the time that I had purchased that satchel of thrift store clothes to figure out my sizes with the help of an online acquaintance that was also an crossdresser admirer. I had figured out that I was a bulging size 14 skirt and maybe a 16 top.
A word about the proportions of man my wife married. When we met she probably had me by 20 lbs. Before the eventual wedding she lost 25 and her country cooking raised me 20 so that on her wedding day she had what every bride wants, a scale reading lower than her groom. I was always of a slight build having given up upper body development to the ravages of genetics, indifferent eating habits and endurance sports. I had to have custom tailoring or sometimes with great (but ironic now) chagrin at buying from the juniors department.
A decade and a half later at nearly 170 I could buy off the rack at any mens department. Sad commentary on our society that mens wear requires a minimum of 10-12% body fat. Men carry their weight around their waist and above, women in their hips. The most androgynous people if you notice tend to be slender. The reason is that it is the distribution of fat that most closely identifies the differing sexes in the human species. Evolution says hips and breasts mean ready to birth children, and a big beer belly means one can feed extra mouths.
I was by no means obviously fat, but I had found my stamina down and that I couldn't run because of joint problems and some bionic hardware from an adrenaline related mishap. I begin to diet with a stated goal of 135. I went from 14, to 12, to 10, then 9, 8's and now depending on how its cut to accommodate my size 14 clavicles and ribcage, I can squeeze into a size 6 gown. I'd puff out my chest with pride but male rib cages tend to bust seems in prom dresses.
Along the way, the lovely Fellatio Artist, who on at least 5 occasions did not complete her task resulting in 5 additional mouths to feed, has been losing weight at nearly 2 to one clip. We have a fairly friendly competition going. We refer to each other as "Bitch!" at each new low the other hits. I still weigh less but she is rapidly closing in as I hit the practical and probable healthy bottom of the plunge. I got compliments at 155, questions about what besides diet and exercise accounted for the loss at 145, and concerned looks from some when I finally crashed through the floor of my goal. When I hit 130 I tried in vain to break the healthy eating habits and portion control but I still slid lower hitting 128. I feel great, and if I was actually working out or running, I could probably be healthy at 115. Now approaching my bulked up wedding weight it sets an impossibly low bar to ask the mother of my 5 children to limbo under. I (and apparently hundreds of you lingering over the pictures) think she looks great but she is as I said competitive, and no tranny husband of hers is gonna weigh less.
The other day combining disparate conversations of late on gender roles, dominance/submission, and weight loss I suggested a practical incentive for me to remember to eat. Any day I dipped below 130, I am her bitch for the day.
Yesterday was the first of my sub-130 'subbie' days. The Fellatio Artist, though talented in many ways besides her ability to suck the chrome off a tailpipe, does not count dominatrix among her varied job descriptions. I assured her that I was simply abdicating decision making responsibilities, as my diminished weight didn't provide the nourishment such high level thinking requires. I said I simply planned to serve her for the day at her pleasure. I explained that I was going to do some housework while she was at work, and just needed her to point me in a general desired direction. I also pointed out that we are both concerned about my long hours spent online and that she might well both suggest some limitations on both time and content of such activities. With a grin she offered me the choice of cleaning the bedroom or making her a photography studio out of the garage. The garage was out..not because it is man's domain, as her bitch I'd gladly give it over. My future track car is stuck in there and the spring is broken on the jammed door so there just isn't a way to carve out room without taking a torch to the car and hauling it out in pieces, and I was pretty sure that that was not going to be required of me.
She called a while later and set me on a schedule of 30 minutes work, 15 minute online specifically watching cunnilingus. She announced that on her return she would be having a quick shower and laying back to allow me to show her what I had learned in my time online for the day. I got a bit hyper focused on cleaning the shower, then the entire bathroom as well as washing towels and her soft pink fluffy robe that I spent a couple of my breaks cleaning and fund the whole thing fairly relaxing.