When Jensen finds he’s been made redundant by the company he’s given twenty years service, he decides to turn to a life of crime. Unfortunately his latest victim has other ideas.
Enjoy the first story in this new series.
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Sitting in the garden, just by where Ali had completed a rather unusual example of topiary depicting Cleopatra’s Needle and two of the Elgin Marbles, not to scale, I poured my wife a glass of wine.
“Darling,” I said. “have you ever had a boyfriend who liked to crossdress?”
“Well, I really don’t know,” she replied nonchalantly. “What they get up to in their spare time is a mystery to me.”
“Yes, but surely,” I persisted, “there must have been one who showed interest. I mean, so many men talk about it these days. I can only think there must be some women who find it, I don’t know, exciting?”
“Well, I’ve always thought men look rather odd in dresses. Not to mention heels.”
“I’m sure,” I replied.
“On the other hand,” she went on, her voice dropping a little, “it does give me a feeling of power.” At that point she paused and corrected herself. “That’s to say I’m sure it would. If someone were to, you know.”
I looked at her sideways.
“Are you quite sure you’ve never…”
“Well, there was this one young man in college. A very unusual chap, but certainly very liberated. Exciting even,” she murmured.
I could see she was leaving a great deal unsaid, her mind wandering through what seemed to be some happy memories. I decided it might be best to let it hang for a moment.
“I think it wonderful how much energy women put into their look, and it’s always seemed a little unfair. A man shows up to a date with a clean shirt and he’s considered well dressed. A woman spends two hours putting on corset and suspender belt and god knows what, and she’s not even remotely satisfied how she looks.”
“And ten minutes after you’ve left the restaurant they’re trying to get the damned stuff off! You have no idea.”
I kept my desire to say ‘I know exactly what you mean’ in check.
“Well, I must say I can’t help thinking that now and then a man should have to try doing that. Just to remind themselves how much trouble you girls go to.”
I topped up my wife’s wine.
“I think you may have something there. I think it would be a great idea to help men understand.”
I sipped my wine quietly.
“Well,” I murmured. “If you really insist. I suppose I could try.”
I’d had it in mind to tell my wife that I was a crossdresser for several months before I actually said the words. By the time I did I’d shown a more gentle side of myself on numerous occasions and in many ways.
I was already taking her for regular shared nail appointments and had a wardrobe of increasingly androgynous clothing. It can hardly have been a surprise when one day I said I was going to start wearing a kilt to the office now and then. There was a drama series showing at the time that she enjoyed. When a brightly colored kilt arrived from Amazon one day I put it on, and her first words were, “Oh god, you look like that guy in that show.”
“Hey, big boy, where’s your sword?”
I looked a little nonplussed.
“I don’t think I have a …. Oh, I see where you’re going with this.”
I didn’t expect the kilt to have quite that effect. The first day I wore it to the office I got a combination of admiring glances, and one or two interesting comments. By day three it was accepted and normal. Admittedly I wanted to wear heels and panties with it, but that wasn’t on the cards yet.
Before long my dress sense was being complimented, and my kilt was both ‘so very masculine’ and also considered daring. I loved it. As for my wife, she was in highland heaven every time I wandered in with it on.
It suppose it had been three months since I’d made the decision to start adopting these changes, before I eventually spoke a word to my wife about it. I’d been wearing the kilt every now and then for at least a month before I broached the subject. I decided that when I did so it would have to be somewhat obliquely. I like being married. I have children. I’ve been divorced before and it’s no fun.
This would have to be done carefully.
I gradually moved from a very masculine and Alpha style of clothes, to really looking at the feminine clothing I enjoyed and looking for first ways to move more toward the centre of the gender spectrum, and then becoming more overt about the clothes I was choosing.
It started with the colors. Then the cut. A more fitted pair of jeans. A slightly more tailored cut to my shirts, and then the complete exclusion of shirts. I would choose soft lambswool sweaters that could easily be mistaken for women’s clothing. Gradually some of my sweaters were being bought from women’s clothes stores and became more overtly feminine.
Up until this time I’d not mentioned the shifts to my wife. There was simply no need.
Then one day we had a conversation that moved into how we felt about something or other.
“I don’t really feel very strongly about it, darling,” I said. “I don’t know, I feel a little more sensitive these days. I feel more inclined to accept a softer approach. What do you think?”
At first she looked at me a little strangely. After all, I was usually the forthright one of us.
“Well, I think you’re probably right.”
In that moment I was aware she’d seen a shift, not in my clothes but in my nature. And there had indeed been one. I was accepting so many things ina less aggressive and Alpha manner. I was allowing the softer sides of myself to emerge. It seems a small thing, but really it’s not.
Gradually I started allowing myself to think differently and be more gentle in my approach to life. It so happened that I replaced my vehicle around this time. Instead of looking for the fast muscle car that perhaps was more expected from a middle aged advertising executive, I opted for a powerful – but understated vehicle. That raised more eyebrows than my gradual shift to less gender binary clothing.
One day my wife said to me, “I like that you’re being more thoughtful these days. It’s like you’re maturing.”
I smiled and let it go. It was lovely comment.
Then one day I suggested, “Hey, when was the last time you had a pedicure?”
“I don’t know. Months I guess.”
“Well, why don’t you have one this week. I’d like to go with you.”
“Sure,” I said. “There’s a couple of guys in my office do, and I wondered what it might be like. Besides, we have a new client who want’s us to start promoting their chain of nail salons. I might as well know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I guess,” she said.
Of course, I paid. And made a follow up appointment. And got spectacular nails as well.
Over the coming months we went several times and before long my wife was booking appoints for us both, aware I enjoyed it. If she didn’t travel so much I’ve no doubt we’d go even more often.
Ali, my gardener, is a Syrian refugee. He arrived in Canada a few years ago after fleeing Syria with his wife and two little girls.
After being in the country a week, he found himself on a bus travelling to northern Alberta, with over a hundred other Syrians who went up to Fort McMurray to help fight the forest fires that had encroach on the town and were burning it to the ground. A group of Syrian refugees had seen that the forest fires were devasting the area and volunteered to go and help the country that had offered them a home.
Like all refugees he had a story. In his case he was a professor at Damascus University and taught Botany. It would be hard to find a more educated gardener. He also speaks excellent English when he chooses to, but doesn’t allow this to stand in the way of his random comments about my neighbours garden.
“Marjory’s chlamydia is out early this year,” he might quip. “The vulvodynia is coming along nicely!”
Currently he is on his hands and knees head to the flower bed pointing east. He’s either praying or carrying out the jihad he’s declared on the weeds in the garden.
I like Ali very much. He is wise beyond his years, and I often listen to his advice. He is something of a fundamentalist, in a botanical sense rather than an Islamic one.
“Ali,” I said when he’d finished what he was doing, “how would you go about telling your wife you were into crossdressing?”Continue reading “The Crossdresser’s Guide To Marital Bliss – Part 6.”
Just as the yin yoga helps my body find that impossible position after a gentle and gradual approach to the objective, so I can see my members finding a solution to how they approach their partners.
Amanda is my wife’s best friend, and a woman of particular personality. She has an association with tweed that few crossdressers will understand. I certainly don’t. I suspect even her underwear is made of the coarse material, she seems to wear it with such frequency.
For all Amanda’s faults, and they are many, she also has some interesting views on things. The fact that she has known my wife for so many years is a point in her favour. She’s been a good friend to her. And then there’s her journalism. She is editor of Pig and Pig Farmer, a publication that shot to prominence under her editorial guidance when it came out and endorsed Donald Trump for president in 2016. There’s just too much there to go into, so I shan’t be drawn.
“How would you feel,” I asked her, “if you learned that your partner was interested in dressing as another gender.”
“What,” she said in panic. “Has Marjory told you something?”Continue reading “The Crossdresser’s Guide To Marital Bliss – Part 5.”
I am wearing some lovely patterned leggings. I do yoga in them with my personal trainer, Sebastian. He’s a very good sport and I know he likes the way my body moves. He looks at me at times with a sort of lustful hunger, and I have to say I enjoy it.
But before I go too far telling you about Sebastian, let’s go back to Rose – so much older than myself and a woman who knew very decisively what she wanted. She would dress me up, make me up and then use me like I was some sort of toy for her amusement. In every respect I was bought and paid for. The degradation and the humiliation came right along with the discomfort of allowing her to do things to my body that certainly weren’t covered in my biology studies in high school. It was disgustingly wonderful.Continue reading “The Crossdresser’s Guide To Marital Bliss – Part 4.”
The Crossdresser’s Guide To Marital Bliss is a series of episodes taking a hilarious look at how one crossdresser brought his wife to a place of understanding and acceptance. It’s also instructive and full of good advice to those of us who wish to introduce our dressing to the principal relationship in our life. I hope you enjoy it. Get all episodes here.
I sat in the garden enjoying the cool spring breeze. Sylvester crossed the lawn carrying a tray of tea and ginger biscuits.
“I’ve just had yet another experience with one of my members that leaves me feeling quite sad,” I said as Sylvester’s ham like fist gripped my delicate tea pot and poured.
“What was that, then?” he asked.
“Well, I had this chat with another member who just felt he couldn’t talk to his wife about crossdressing. I mean, really, it’s awful. So many of my lovely gurls are out there and barely even able to talk to anyone.”
“But that’s what you’re here for,” said Sylvester.
“Well, yes,” I replied. “But there are certain things that a wife can do that even I may struggle to!”Continue reading “The Crossdresser’s Guide To Marital Bliss – Part 1.”
There are stories which we choose not to share, for one reason or another. Perhaps it is related to shame or embarrassment. Or maybe we just hold them so dear, that in sharing them they would become devalued.
A friend of mine recently acquired a rather unusual collection of note books which I feel sure you will be delighted to read. He was an elderly man, I will not give very many details, as I would not wish to identify him in any way.
Wrapped in brown paper, of the sort people used for parcels many years ago, these note books were dusty hand written relics. I can well imagine them being tossed out with the trash when someone moved house, or recycled along with old copies of magazines when clearing out a loft or basement.
My friend explained that they had been among some personal papers found in a house that was being sold. The contents of these papers were at first a mystery, then quite surprising – and ultimately quite shocking.
I am thrilled to release these notes in their original sordid and salacious form. They are available to all my Seahorse members. Be sure to sign up and enjoy these extraordinary documents.Join as a Seahorse member today.
The first time it happened I think I was about seven. I’d recently been sent away to boarding school and was still in that confused state of not being sure of what I had done wrong to deserve this most terrible of fates.
As was normal every day I had got up with the wake up bell at 7 am. I’d stumbled bleary eyed and mussy haired toward the bathrooms at the end of the dormitory. There the cream colored paint, still peeling today in my memory as it was then those many years ago, caught the fresh cold morning sunshine, leaving irregular shadows on the walls. There were other children stirring, all young and as lost looking as I was myself making their way toward their morning ablutions.
I went into one of the stalls and peed onto the frozen surface of the water lying inside the toilet. It would unfreeze soon, and the heavy galvanized iron mechanism of the flush would clunk unsatisfied, until it did. Probably the spent waste of three children would be enough to generate the heat that would unfreeze the water.Continue reading “My Mother In The Mirror.”
The Visitor from Outer…Place. Part 2
From Part 1
David closed his eyes and wanted nothing more than to escape to his bedroom and feel the cool silk of his new negligée next to his skin. It would look perfect with those slippers. He began to feel clammy. “I need a drink.”
Sandrine looked around and spied the kitchen. She handed the slippers to David. “Why don’t Lucy and I get the drinks while you go and make yourself more comfortable?”
David hesitated a moment. “Are you FtM?” …
Wait. He of all people should know better than to ask such a personal question to a woman he barely knew. And she was a work colleague. What the hell was he thinking?
He was about to apologise when Sandrine replied.
“I like to be fluide. I don’t put myself in just one ‘ole. Is that ‘ow you English say it?” Sandrine flashed her eyes at David before fixing them on Lucy.
Uncharacteristically Lucy had been silent for the past minute and a half, her nerves possibly still reverberating from asking Sandrine if she was a lesbian. Now her eyes were on David, and he couldn’t help thinking she was worried for him. Well let her be!
He needed space to breathe. “I think you mean ‘box’ but ‘hole’ works too. Help yourselves.”
“Oh, come on,” said Lucy, heading to the kitchen, never one to hide her impatience, or linger at the back of the queue when there was a glass of wine to be had.
The Visitor from Outer…Place. Part 1
“Why can’t Professor Daniels take her to lunch? It’s his department she’s come to visit. I know bugger all about 17th century French poets!” David heard his secretary’s long sigh on the other end of the phone.
“Professor Daniels has to complete his paper on ‘Horses in the Middle Age—”
“Has to complete his paper? He’s been writing that thing for the last five years.”
“Well, he says it’s urgent now.”
It was David’s turn to sigh. After catching a brief glimpse of Madame Lafayette with Daniels, he could understand why the professor may well wish to finish the paper he wished he’d never started. At five foot two and almost as round as he was tall, the professor was in his early sixties, wore a bow tie and waistcoat daily, and regarded anyone who didn’t know the French poet, Jean Chapelain, as something you might have the misfortune to find on the bottom of your shoe. The university’s guest from Paris, on the other hand, was tall and skinny with poker straight, raven black hair, and he guessed, in her mid-thirties. Her black tailored trouser suit accentuated her ghoulishly pale skin, and David couldn’t help thinking she resembled a teacher of the dark arts in a Harry Potter novel. No doubt she knew all there was to know about Jean C, but Daniels was probably scared stiff of her.
A Singapore Sling
In the third part of Mollie’s story we continue to follow David, or ‘Diana’ and Lucy. Part 1 can be found here.
“You’ve got a free trip to Singapore? You lucky sod!”
David’s best friend, Lucy, had him chuckling into his phone. “Yeah, but hey! I have to work for it.”
“Work, my arse! You’re just gonna chat about your precious topic on some quantum physics shite, and then have a ball with whoever’ll fondle yours for you.”
“Fat chance of that with Singapore’s lack of LGBT rights. Anyway, I’m scheduled to give three lectures with Professor Amanda Lo. I’ll be flying home before I know it.”
David cast a quick glance at the sleek turquoise gown hanging on the back of the door. At the very least he planned on having an evening out, just for himself, with the chance to be who he wanted to be.
“You’re just jealous.” He laughed, relaxed now that he was almost ready to leave his apartment for five days. “I promise I’ll bring you something back.”
“It had better not be chlamydia.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
In the second part of Mollie’s story we continue to follow David, or ‘Diana’ and Lucy. Part 1 can be found here.
David ripped the last length of wax from his leg, wincing only slightly and pressing his hand against the newly smoothed skin to relieve the sting.
A broad smile smile stretched across his face as he remembered his first encounter with a spatula of wax and strip of tape.
David shot bolt upright on the makeshift massage table. “Fucking hell! That hurt!”
There was no compassion from the sadist already applying another strip of hot wax—was Lucy sure it had to be this hot?—to the next stretch of hair on his leg.
This was a bad idea. Why didn’t he just stick to the black leggings? They felt good on him, beneath the grey chiffon dress.
“Come on, don’t be a wuss. Are you gonna’ man up to be the woman of your dreams?”
“Argh!” Wince, wince. Maybe he’d just have one leg done today, the other next week?
But Lucy’s torture was relentless. “Keep still, or I’ll have to go over that bit again.”
David could hear the taunting in her voice. For a petite five foot nothing slip of a lass she was a formidable character. It would make her day to keep him here all afternoon, subjected to burning pain, followed by everlasting smarting.