Life Of A Crossdresser With Wife - Part 1

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PARTS - PART - 2  | PART - 3 | PART - 4 

SUMMARY - A crossdresser is caught when his wife comes home a bit early one day.  Through the course of the next year, they both go through substantial changes until you have to wonder just who is changing who the most.

I couldn’t imagine a more delightful way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

Outside, it was a cold, dreary late November day. The sun woke up in the morning and then decided not to bother, leaving a gray pallor over just everything. And while it wasn’t raining or snowing, those clouds certainly wanted to do something and the air was just as damp as if it were raining.

Inside, though, I was curled up on my couch, my stockinged feet tucked under me, some Stan Getz on the stereo, a chilled glass on Italian white wine in one hand, and a Linda Barnes mystery in the other. I love Linda Barnes’ books. Part of it, of course, is that she’s a great writer whose books are as funny as they are engrossing. Another part of it, though, is that I imagine myself as Barnes’ character, Carlotta Carlyle. I may not have a beautiful shock of thick red hair (my hair is dark brown and a little on the short side) but we share a 6’1" height and size 12 feet. One big difference between us is that I have much better fashion sense than Carlotta.

I guess if I was chasing bad guys all over the place I might settle for jeans, T-shirts, and sneaks, too, but I don’t chase bad guys and I wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans, T-shirts, and sneaks. Take that Tuesday, for instance. I was wearing a knee-length Stewart plaid jumper over a soft, bulky ivory cowl-necked sweater. I loved that sweater, which looked like Angora but wasn’t and I knew it worked well with the jumper, which I picked up the spring before for $10 at an end of season sale rack at Sears. I usually wore this outfit with black tights but today decided on pantyhose instead. I don’t know why. I’d kicked off my sensible 1" pumps and they were lying beneath me on the floor. I wasn’t wearing much makeup, just some lipstick (as bright red as the red in the plaid!). My earrings were gold-colored with faux opals placed just a bit off-center and I’d borrowed a couple of my wife’s gold bangles and a gold leaf-cluster pin for the jumper. It was the season, after all.

My wife’s bangles and pin, I hear you say?

Yes, my wife’s. I’m a crossdresser, have been as long as I can remember and I take every opportunity I can to indulge. Those opportunities usually take place when Kathleen (that’s her name) is working and I’m not. I’m a librarian at a private school and generally work Monday to Friday, but we get lots more vacation time than most folks. This week, for example, was Thanksgiving week and the school was closed, so I took care of some paperwork and administrative matters on Monday and took the rest of the week off. Since it’s a private school, too, none of the faculty or students live in the area, so I never have to worry about meeting someone from work when I shop. Kathleen, on the other hand, is the assistant manager of the customer service department of one of the last local banks in our area. She works Tuesday through Saturdays.

At the very least, then, I get all day Saturday for myself. I’ll usually go shopping in the morning, maybe pick up something new and cute, maybe something functional, maybe nothing at all. Then I’ll get dressed the way I feel that day, in something romantic, or professional, or casual, or silly. I’ll work around the house a little, then relax with a nice book and some music, and around 4 o’clock or so I’ll begin preparing dinner. By 5:30, I’m back upstairs, changing into my boy clothes again before Kathleen gets home. She doesn’t know, you see.

I’ve never told Kathleen about this part of me. I didn’t mean to be deliberately deceptive, but it just never seemed right. I mean, you just can blurt out one day at dinner, "By the way, honey, I’m a crossdresser. Does that bother you and can I borrow your silver strap sandals tonight?" And if I was going to do something like that, I should have done it years ago. Now, after eight years of marriage, there’s not only the crossdressing but the fact that I’ve been hiding it for ten years (we dated for two years before we got married) would be an issue.

Besides, what possible benefit could there be to telling her? On the downside, I could very easily hurt the one woman I’ve ever truly loved. She could leave me. She could become disgusted with me. She could hate me. I don’t think I could bear any of those things. Was there an upside? She could accept me, but then what? I could dress more often and more openly, but what would that mean and would that be worth the risk? All in all, I think I’d prefer to keep Martha (my female alter ego) in the closet with my dresses and lingerie.

Every once in awhile I agonized over these thoughts, but those mental torture sessions were growing further and further apart. These days, I was more often than not perfectly content to enjoy a few hours as Martha, like I was doing that Tuesday. The CD-changer had replaced Getz with Anita O’Day. The book was beginning to get complicated. I was dimly aware that it was starting to rain and the wind was picking up. I wasn’t aware of all of the key turning in the front door lock.

"Hi honey, I’m home early. There was a power failure and they close the bank " Kathleen’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper when she saw me.

I don’t know which of us was more shocked. I know that my heart just stopped dead. My brain froze. I couldn’t move. A million thoughts raced through my mind. Should I bolt out of the room? Begin to "confess?" Leave with as much dignity as I could muster? Pretend there was nothing wrong? Cry? Promise I’d never do it again? I wanted to do all of these things and needed to do something but I couldn’t move or speak.

Kathleen was equally paralyzed. Her mouth was open as she stared at me. I could tell that her brain was sending messages to her tongue, but I could also tell that nothing was coming out. Her hands still held the keys in the lock that she had just opened.

It seemed to me that we just looked at each other for hours, but it could only have been a few seconds. Abruptly, Kathleen spun and walked out the door without saying a word. A few seconds later, I heard her car start up and pull out of the driveway.

I was devastated.

I went upstairs and almost ripped my clothes off. I’m usually very careful to pack everything just so when I’m getting ready to dress as a boy again, but that day I just crammed everything into a bag and flung them into my closet. In the bathroom, I rubbed my lips raw trying to get rid of my lipstick. No matter how hard I tried, though, every time I looked in the mirror I saw traces of bright red lipstick mocking me. I didn’t think I’d ever get back to the way I "should" be.

After a while, I gave up. Got into my khakis and a golf shirt and went downstairs to wait. I watched television but I couldn’t tell you what was on. I didn’t know if Kathleen was coming back. I desperately hoped she was, but I had no idea how to act or what to say when she did. A million scenarios danced in my mind, none of them good.

I wondered if I should leave.

I swore to myself that I’d never do it again. Never. A voice in the back of my head kept whispering that I could not possibly "never do it again," but I tried to shout it down, saying that I had to. I had to put Martha behind me. I had to.

Kathleen came home about an hour later. I was incredibly relieved to hear her car pull up but terrified as to what would happen. As she came in the front door, she avoided looking at me.

"I don’t think I want to talk right now Mark," she said. "Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I’m just going to fix myself something to eat and go upstairs to read."

That’s what she did and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening brooding in the living room. I tried to read and tried to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate. I reheated some leftover Chinese chicken but spent more time moving it around my plate than eating it. Finally, a little after midnight, I slipped softly upstairs, undressed, and go quietly into bed. I don’t know if Kathleen was sleeping or not, but her back was turned to me and she didn’t stir when I got into bed. I don’t know if I slept that night either, but I don’t remember the sun coming up and I don’t remember Kathleen turning over and placing her hand on my hip. That’s where it was, though, early the next morning right before she stretched, yawned, and got up.

I gave her about 15 minutes after she went downstairs before I got up. It seemed to take forever to brush my teeth, shower, and dress but it was really only a few minutes before I clomped downstairs in jeans and my most macho flannel shirt. That was kinda funny, too, because when I reached the kitchen, Kathleen was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt.

"Kathy, I am so sorry about yesterday. I’m"

"Stop talking Mark," she said with a smile. "I’m not upset. I’m surprised. I’m a little unhappy, I suppose, that you felt you had to keep your hobby a secret, but I’m not upset."

I don’t think her words registered with me right then. "You have every right to be mad at me." I looked at the floor, then at her, then at the floor again. "I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I promise I’ll never dress up again."

"Don’t be ridiculous, honey, of course, you will."

I must have looked puzzled.

"If you’ve gone as far as I think you have, and what I saw yesterday tells me you have, you’re not about to stop now. Just tell me this honey." She paused and looked out the window. "Is it just the clothes, or is there more?"

I was confused. I didn’t know what she meant and my confusion must have been apparent.

"Mark, honey, do you just like to dress up, or do you think you’d be happier as a woman?" I heard her voice catch and I realized that my entire future rested in the next few minutes. I’d heard about one’s life passing before one’s eyes. Now I knew what it meant.

I’m 32 years old and to this day I don’t know why I enjoy wearing women’s clothes. I remember being 5 years old and being fascinated by my sister’s Easter dress. I remember a few years later staring at the girdle ads in the Sears catalog. I remember raiding the laundry hamper to try on my mother’s things. I remember the first time I bought my own clothes, terrified that someone I know would see me. Of course, nothing fit right that first time but it didn’t matter. I remember the first time I wore panties to work and how I couldn’t concentrate all day. I remember getting the nerve up to approach a saleswoman to tell her that I was a crossdresser who’d never had the opportunity to buy my own clothes and ask her help in getting me sized properly. I remember how her smile and reassurance made me feel absolutely wonderful. I remember the first time a salesperson asked if I wanted a gift box and I said "no thanks, it’s for me." All these images ran through my mind all at once and none of them had THE ANSWER stamped on them. I just opened my mouth, let my heart do the talking, and hoped it would come outright.

"Kathy, darling, I love you more than anyone or anything I’ve ever known and I know that you love me too. I don’t want anything to spoil that, ever. I don’t want to be a woman. I really don’t and I don’t think that’s ever been part of it." Our eyes met for the first time since that moment yesterday afternoon when she came home.

"But you’re right, I don’t think I could stop. At any rate, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t stop and not go crazy. I don’t know why I like to dress up, but I do. I know I really like feeling pretty. I love, really love wearing soft, pretty clothes. There’s some part of me that feels completed, fulfilled when I’m dressed in something lovely.

"All I can do is hope you don’t hate me and we can work it out because I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you."

"I’m not going anywhere, honey." Her smile was warm but there was something in her face that was distant. "I loved you yesterday and I’ll love you tomorrow. I don’t understand this at all, and I don’t understand why you couldn’t share this with me 10 years ago, but I’m not sure that matters. It’s still you and me, honey. I promise."

We both started to cry and then hugged each other.