The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the category “Transvestite”

Dress Up

originally posted June 8, 2014

closet-photo-730x285

Pa

I can still smell the sweet, musty scent of old perfume clinging to her elegant clothes; the tickley feeling of her long fur coat brushing against my face;  the smooth skin of her fine, leather high-heel shoes lined up neatly in the shoe rack.

My mother’s closet. It was the place I hid when I needed to feel safe.

When I was very young, and my parents fought, downstairs, I would run up to their room and slip into my secret fortress, pulling the door closed behind me.  I kept a flashlight hidden in the back. Sometimes, I turned it on. Sometimes, I sat in the dark. When I was in grade school, and the kids at school bullied me or called me names, when I felt myself weird and disconnected, that’s where I ran.   It was my secure, perfect little world, where every color,  smell, and texture was familiar and reminded me of unconditional love.

It was a finite place yet it contained infinite peace. The sounds of the world outside were muffled by tightly packed garments of silk, linen and wool. If my parents were shouting, I couldn’t make out the words. If I fell asleep, when I woke up, I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. I might have been sleeping for an hour or for years, and this too seemed mystical and magical to me, because there was always the possibility that I’d been asleep so long that when I emerged, everything would be completely different.

When I got a bit older that pleasure was no longer available to me. It was OK for a small boy to hide in the closet, but not at all appropriate for a thirteen year old. Which is not to say I outgrew the need or desire for it. I was just more afraid of being humiliated, especially by my father.

In order to recreate that feeling as best I could, I would sneak one of my mother’s silk shirts or casual dresses — something with her scent on it — or perhaps a pair of her shoes, and I would keep them near my bed. At night, I would pull them beside me, and they helped me fall asleep.

One day, when I was about 14, I put on her shirt, just to feel it against my skin, and I become sexually aroused.   This confused me and made me feel ashamed and yet, it excited me in such a primal way.

As I said, I never outgrew the need for the closet so I found another way to hide in it: by wearing women’s clothing.

There was so much shame involved in this practice, it colored everything else I did in my life. I hid this deep, important part of myself from everyone, including my wife. I lived in fear that my humiliation would be discovered. The mocking voices of my childhood classmates accusing me of being strange never left my head. I had to admit to myself,  they were obviously right. I was weird.

I tried so hard to control my need, but the more I resisted the more obsessed and stressed I became. The more stressed I became, the more I needed it. It was a cycle I could never break.   And every time I went back to it, after being “good” for a while, I was filled both with relief and a deep-sense of self-loathing.

This was the core of my life. The rest of it doesn’t matter. Not my job nor my family nor any hobby or interest. They existed outside of me. I played my roles well and nobody ever suspected — I hid myself that perfectly.

My entire life was all about what and how and when I could do it again; about balancing my need with my terror at being unmasked as a pervert. My entire life was a lie. I hid the most important part of myself from everyone and in doing so, sacrificed any hope that anyone would love me for who I truly was.

My life was a never-ending cycle of self-loathing, fear, determination to change, failure, collapse.   I suppose the only way to have broken that cycle was to accept myself as I was, for who I was.   It didn’t matter if nobody else loved me; more important, I needed to accept myself as the imperfect being I was. This is something, I never managed to do. Perhaps if I’d been brave enough to share my secret, I might have found acceptance, but I could not. The shame was too deep. It was a part of my DNA.

It was a secret I took to my grave.

____

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

Dress Up

originally posted June 8, 2014

closet-photo-730x285

 

Pa

I can still smell the sweet, musty scent of old perfume clinging to her elegant clothes; the tickley feeling of her long fur coat brushing against my face; her fine, leather high-heel shoes lined up neatly in the shoe rack. My mother’s closet. It was the place I hid when I needed to feel safe. When I was very young, and my parents fought, downstairs, I would run up to my parents’ room and slip into the closet, pulling the door closed behind me.  I kept a flashlight hidden in the back. Sometimes, I turned it on. Sometimes, I sat in the dark. When I was in grade school, and the kids at school bullied me or called me names, when I felt myself weird and disconnected, that’s where I ran.   It was my secure, perfect little world, where every color and smell and texture was familiar and reminded me of unconditional love.

It was a finite place yet it contained infinite peace. The sounds of the world outside were muffled by tightly packed garments of silk, linen and wool. If my parents were shouting, I couldn’t make out the words. If I fell asleep, when I woke up, I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. I might have been sleeping for an hour or for years, and this too seemed mystical and magical to me, because there was always the possibility that I’d been asleep so long that when I emerged, everything would be completely different.

When I got a bit older, of course, that pleasure was no longer available to me. It was OK for a small boy to hide in the closet, but not at all appropriate for a thirteen year old. Which is not to say I outgrew the need or desire for it. I was just more afraid of being humiliated, especially by my father.

In order to recreate that feeling as best I could, I would sneak one of my mother’s silk shirts or casual dresses — something with her scent on it — or perhaps a pair of her shoes, and I would keep them near my bed. At night, I would pull them beside me, and they helped me fall asleep.

One day, when I was about 14, I put on her shirt, just to feel it against my skin, and I become sexually aroused.   This confused me and made me feel ashamed and yet, excited me in such a primal way.

As I said, I never outgrew the need for the closet so I found another way to hide in it: by wearing women’s clothing.

There was so much shame involved in this, it colored everything else I did in my life. I hid this deep, important part of myself from everyone, including my wife. I lived in fear that my humiliation would be discovered. The mocking voices of my childhood classmates accusing me of being weird never left my head. Obviously, they were right. I was weird.

I tried so hard to control my need, but the more I resisted, the more obsessed and stressed I became. The more stressed I became, the more I needed it. It was a cycle I could never break.   And every time I went back to it, after being “good” for a while, I was filled both with relief and a deep-sense of self-loathing.

This was the core of my life. The rest of it doesn’t matter. Not my job nor my family nor any hobby or interest. They existed outside of me. I played my roles well and nobody ever suspected, I hid myself that perfectly.

My entire life was all about what and how and when I could do it again; about balancing my need with my terror at being unmasked as a pervert. My entire life was a lie. I hid the most important part of myself from everyone and in doing so, sacrificed any hope that anyone would love me for who I truly was.

My life was a never-ending cycle of self-loathing, fear, determination to change, failure, collapse.   I suppose the only way to have broken that cycle was to accept myself as I was, for who I was.   It didn’t matter if nobody else loved me; more important, I needed to love myself. This is something, I never managed to do. Perhaps if I’d been brave enough to share my secret, I could have found acceptance, but I could not. The shame was too deep. It was a part of my DNA.

It was a secret I took to my grave.

____

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

Lord of the Dance

 

Mic

I was Lord of the Dance. No. Not that one. I’m talking about the emotional dance that pulls people together in a tight embrace then sends them flying out, attached only by the clasp of a hand. Then back into a tango across the floor. Never too close for too long; never too far.

I knew how to lead, and the ladies followed, thrilled to the feeling of my arms safely around them; then momentarily frightened by the apparent loss of guidance. But I never lost control. They were always right where I wanted them; where I needed them to be.

Sometimes, I met a woman who tried to lead. It was an interesting challenge for a short time but I could never spend much time with her. For me, a good partner always trusted my moves, even if I sent her in a new direction, unprepared. A good partner went with the flow, the rhythm of the music. She never tried to turn a hustle into a waltz.

I had a few great partners in my time. You really have to hold on to them when you find them.

 

 

Note:

I feel a connection with each narrator. It’s as if I’m feeling their feelings and seeing the world through their eyes, while taking dictation. When I don’t know where to go next in a narrative, I just “go in” and ask for more information, and it comes immediately, and almost always as a surprise. I probably wouldn’t have chosen to be friends with of any of these narrators had I met them while they were alive, but I welcome them in now to tell me their stories.  

I’m noticing that I often get a few stories over the course of a day or two, all with the same kind of emotion or similar life situation or cause of death. A skeptic might claim this proves that the stories are coming from me – I’m thinking about a subject, and so I’m tapping that creative vein within myself. I can’t argue with that.

On the other hand, that’s not what it feels like.   It feels more as if I am inviting certain kinds of narrators to tell their stories because I find a subject interesting.

A skeptic might say, “She gets no specific details which could verify that any of these stories could be true. They’re too general. It proves nothing.” Can’t argue with that, either.

How it feels: I specifically ask for little or no identifying information.   This “project” is not about proving life after death. I believe, regardless of where these narrators are coming from, they having something worthwhile to say.   I want the focus to be on their messages, not on where the stories are coming from. (The narrators seem to agree, because they are playing by the rules.)   It does not feel as if I am making these up out of my own head, but if I am, they’re not coming from my conscious mind. It feels as if they were written by someone else.

I will say this: I am a very vain writer. I polish and take pride in every word. I love being quoted (as I am all over the place). I would never (and have never) claim another’s words as my own. It’s a matter of pride, not morals.   If I pass the words and ideas of others off as my own, eventually people will notice. That will cast doubt on the originality of my own words and ideas.    Furthermore, I write them exactly as they come to me. I don’t edit; I don’t polish; I don’t change. Occasionally, in rereading I will tweak a small word here or there or move a phrase, just to make things more clear, but they are pretty much verbatim.

I do think these stories are beautifully expressed so if I felt they were in my own words, I would be thrilled to take credit for them. But I feel absolutely no pride of ownership. I don’t feel as if I am creating these narrators. It feels very much as if they are coming to me. Claiming these stories as my own work feels like lying and plagiarism. I imagine if I did that, the narrators would get annoyed at me and stop coming.

 It feels as if I am merely a conduit. Perhaps they have chosen me because a) I made myself open to it, and b) as a writer with a profound life-long interest in human emotion, I am able to express their stories in a more compelling way than perhaps a non-writer could.

Dress Up

closet-photo-730x285

 

Pa

I can still smell the sweet, musty scent of old perfume clinging to her elegant clothes; the tickley feeling of her long fur coat brushing against my face; her fine, leather high-heel shoes lined up neatly in the shoe rack. My mother’s closet. It was the place I hid when I needed to feel safe. When I was very young, and my parents fought, downstairs, I would run up to my parents’ room and slip into the closet, pulling the door closed behind me.  I kept a flashlight hidden in the back. Sometimes, I turned it on. Sometimes, I sat in the dark. When I was in grade school, and the kids at school bullied me or called me names, when I felt myself weird and disconnected, that’s where I ran.   It was my secure, perfect little world, where every color and smell and texture was familiar and reminded me of unconditional love.

It was a finite place yet it contained infinite peace. The sounds of the world outside were muffled by tightly packed garments of silk, linen and wool. If my parents were shouting, I couldn’t make out the words. If I fell asleep, when I woke up, I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. I might have been sleeping for an hour or for years, and this too seemed mystical and magical to me, because there was always the possibility that I’d been asleep so long that when I emerged, everything would be completely different.

When I got a bit older, of course, that pleasure was no longer available to me. It was OK for a small boy to hide in the closet, but not at all appropriate for a thirteen year old. Which is not to say I outgrew the need or desire for it. I was just more afraid of being humiliated, especially by my father.

In order to recreate that feeling as best I could, I would sneak one of my mother’s silk shirts or casual dresses — something with her scent on it — or perhaps a pair of her shoes, and I would keep them near my bed. At night, I would pull them beside me, and they helped me fall asleep.

One day, when I was about 14, I put on her shirt, just to feel it against my skin, and I become sexually aroused.   This confused me and made me feel ashamed and yet, excited me in such a primal way.

As I said, I never outgrew the need for the closet so I found another way to hide in it: by wearing women’s clothing.

There was so much shame involved in this, it colored everything else I did in my life. I hid this deep, important part of myself from everyone, including my wife. I lived in fear that my humiliation would be discovered. The mocking voices of my childhood classmates accusing me of being weird never left my head. Obviously, they were right. I was weird.

I tried so hard to control my need, but the more I resisted, the more obsessed and stressed I became. The more stressed I became, the more I needed it. It was a cycle I could never break.   And every time I went back to it, after being “good” for a while, I was filled both with relief and a deep-sense of self-loathing.

This was the core of my life. The rest of it doesn’t matter. Not my job nor my family nor any hobby or interest. They existed outside of me. I played my roles well and nobody ever suspected, I hid myself that perfectly.

My entire life was all about what and how and when I could do it again; about balancing my need with my terror at being unmasked as a pervert. My entire life was a lie. I hid the most important part of myself from everyone and in doing so, sacrificed any hope that anyone would love me for who I truly was.

My life was a never-ending cycle of self-loathing, fear, determination to change, failure, collapse.   I suppose the only way to have broken that cycle was to accept myself as I was, for who I was.   It didn’t matter if nobody else loved me; more important, I needed to love myself. This is something, I never managed to do. Perhaps if I’d been brave enough to share my secret, I could have found acceptance, but I could not. The shame was too deep. It was a part of my DNA.

It was a secret I took to my grave.

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