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.
Fiona
Part 1.
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!”
I hope you’ve been having a wonderful week as this glorious summer moves from inferno and forest fire toward another Covid surge. What curious times we live in! As we enter a little stifled Pride week, as few outdoor events are allowed, we are all making the best of the situation here in Vancouver.
Surprising as it may seem, I am quite well known in Huckleberry close, not only as a transgendered person, but also as an account executive in a very successful advertising firm. It was no surprise then when Mistress Meg came to me with an idea for advertising campaign.
I took the printed sheet that she held out to me and looked at the image.
“Hmmmm…” I said, sagely rubbing my chin. I find it’s always a good idea to at least look like you know what you’re talking about in these situations. “’Don’t be a dick, get the prick.” It might be construed as being just the tiniest bit in bad taste,” I said thoughtfully.
“I don’t see why,” said Meg.
“Well, it implies that people who have not had the vaccine are, well, somehow deficient,” I said as diplomatically as I could.
“They are,” replied Mistress Meg with her usual certainty.
“Be that as it may,” I continued, “why would you want to place an advertisement like this?”
“To help your wife’s friend,” said Meg.
“My wife’s friend,” I said, a chill running through me.
“You know, the one that looks like a pig,” replied Meg.
“Amanda?”
“Amanda. Yes, you know she’s in film and theatre. Mostly advertising parts, but she does occasionally get a decent role.”
“I don’t follow,” I said sounding confused.
“Amanda told me her parts were drying up,” continued Meg.
“I’m sorry…” I muttered.
“Her acting parts. She’s hardly done any lately,” continued Meg. “And until the Covid numbers drop down there’s going to be no filming and no theatre.”
“So you thought you’d help by placing an ad in the local paper,” I said, “telling people not to be a dick. Yes, I suppose there is a sort of logic to it.”
“We should all do our bit,” said Meg. “It’s a good job Amanda has that job editing Pig And Pig Farmer Monthly, otherwise she’d be in real trouble.”
“Yes,” I mused. “I met the publisher once. He seemed very fond of Amanda, though I can’t think why. He said that she was the apple of his eye. I think that’s a good thing. Mind you he did have a sty in it. Rather apt, really when you think about it.”
Meg gave me a stern look. I didn’t care much for that.
“It’s a good ad, but they might kick it out because of the wording,” I said and handed it back to her. “It might do better as a social media campaign.”
I want to say thank you to all the wonderful members who have helped me transition over from Patreon to an improved membership model. If you’re interested in joining one of the programs and becoming a member you can do so for as little as $1 a month here – http://FionaDobson.com/my-programs. For those who don’t wish to join as a member but do wish to help me along a little, using the advertising links on my site does help me as well. So, if you’re looking at buying a few little presents for yourself be sure to click through on some of the links on my site from time to time. You can browse a few things here – https://fionadobson.com/fionas-shopping-list/
Andrea is loosing her grip – and a lot more besides. Thank goodness Devina has thought of everything and is going to see that Andrea’s needs are all met.
Bernard has his little skiff out on the bay today and is pressing me to join him. What is an action transvestite like myself to do?
With a few good gusts blowing and Bernard urging me to join him sailing I know I have to be well prepared. And what could be nicer than this lovely looking wetsuit. This particular one is a 3mm neoprene one, providing enough UV protection to allow me a good afternoon’s sail without overheating, and should I end up taking a swim or capsizing, I know I won’t get cold. And all for less than $45.
Are you an action trannie? Be sure you’re suitably geared up for summer.
“You sound dreadful, Lucy,” David said into the phone.
“I know. Damn stupid cold. I’ve got a nose like a cherry
tomato. And it’s sore.”
He had to admit the poor girl sounded ill. Far too ill, and contagious, for him to offer to go round and rub her front. But he was her best friend. The least he could do was offer to post Day Nurse through her letter box.
“Do you want anything from the chemist?”
“No. I’m drugged up to the eyeballs already. A bloody con,
though. I don’t feel any better.” She coughed and spluttered, and David was
tempted to wipe the screen of his phone.
Ugh!
“But I need a favour. I’m supposed to play tennis this
afternoon. Can you cover for me?”
“Cover what for you? You’re not going to play are you?”
“Course not. I’m bloody dying here. I need you to take my
place.” On hearing a very deep sigh on the other end of the phone, Lucy added,
“It’s only doubles.”
David/Diana finds a fireman, but it’s going to take more than a few drops of water to put out his fire! Enjoy Mollie Blake’s contnuing saga.
For Our Eyes Only.
The droplets from his raincoat began to pool beneath David’s feet like globules of transparent bubblegum. What’s with the weather in this bloody country? It’s the middle of June, for Pete’s sake. He eased the drenched coat from his shoulders and carried it, together with a dripping umbrella, into the bathroom, where he vented his anger with the cold, wet weather on the offending items by shaking them with an indulgent ferocity before hanging them to drip into his bath.
He stared at the mirror and cringed. In one hour’s time a guy would be waiting for him, or rather for Diana, across town, and it was getting late. He had hoped to be able to take his time to put his make-up on, desperate to try a new eye shadow that arrived in his mail yesterday.
The music is by The Monks. It’s great – and fit’s this weeks message very nicely. If you listen the the words you’ll get a lot out of it! Jules Sanderson talks about passing, and how it really isn’t important while crossdressing.
There was a steady stream of water falling between Ali, my Syrian gardener’s legs.
“Ali,” I said. “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
“Ah, madam. I’m watching Max’s premature ejaculation. He did it for his mother…”
I paused. I’ve learned that’s a good idea with Ali. I’m never quite sure if he’s serious, or just confused.
“His water hose… He’s got it hooked up to Google – that online house thing. It waters the flowers. Well, drowns them actually. It’s coming on prematurely and the water pressure’s too high.”
“I see,” I said. I decided I had better talk to that English teacher of his.
“I prefer to use a more natural method such as this watering can, madam,” he said as he continued to water the flowers.
It’s been a strange week. Sylvester had a couple of his Navy friends staying. Billy Bates, a Quartermaster on a missile cruiser, and his friend Simon Steyns. Simon was recently demoted back to Ordinary Seaman following a nasty shoreside incident involving another member of the crew and a very worried looking hamster.
To round everything off Amanda brought her sister over and her revolting daughter. Chelsea, Amanda’s elder sister doesn’t approve of Amanda’s relationship with Marjory. She say’s it’s against God. I have to say I told her that Amanda is against God. I mean really! What immortal hand or eye would frame that fearful symmetry… urgh.
Chelsea Chizit and her daughter Emma are cut from the same cloth. They’re the sort of uncultured slobs that know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
It’s the perfect time of year to get into Pink!
And to top it off Max is besotted with Emma. To be fair, she is not entirely unpleasant to look at as she glides around the garden half naked in the sunshine, like some sort of fae. Yet Max just stares slack jawed and drools. It’s most disturbing. He wanders around moony eyed murmuring “Emma Chizit… Emma Chizzit.”
“Ali,” I said as firmly as I could, “Do you happen to know if Amanda is next door visiting Marjory?”
“Oh yes,” he said. Not much gets passed Ali. He knows the comings and goings of most of Huckleberry Close. “She wrist deep in …”
“Ali!” I said firmly.
“… in tomatoes. They’re canning the tomatoes she grew in her greenhouse. Making sauce…”
As everyone starts to get back to something approaching normal I am delighted to say I am enjoying occasional days like this where friends visit and life seems almost as it did before this infernal pandemic.
I am pleased to say I am double vaccinated, as are most of my friends. I hope you are to, and I’d encourage you to get it done as soon as possible, for your own good and the good of all those around you.
I hope you’ve been enjoying The Dating Game by Mollie Blake. It’s been featured this last few weeks on the website, Remember there always new content on the site, and I do get on now and then to chat with my members on the web chat functionality. If I happen to be on when you are there, be sure to say hello.
What could be a nicer color to celebrate summer. Check out this spectacular swing dress for just $31.99.You going to look delightful. Check it out here – https://amzn.to/3iq4a2v Fiona
From the minute we are born we encounter key moments in our lives—opening our eyes, the first smile, the spoken word, and those first steps. Before we know it we give our first kiss, lose our virginity, get our hearts broken. Yet all the time most of us are living the life that was prescribed in the most basic of forms even before that very first day we entered the world—as a man or as a woman.
Professor David Forbes does not fall into this basic category of ‘most of us’. For him, and many others, life isn’t that simple. He is a man who accepts that he is a man, but who is happier wearing make-up and a dress.
And now one of his student’s has discovered he is a crossdresser and is asking for his help.
David handed Hector the cup of tea and sat opposite him at the small table in his office. “Have you spoken to anyone else?”
“N—no. Just you. And, and it’s good of you to listen to me. It—it’s been a help to get it off my chest.” The stammer was beginning to creep back into Hector’s speech.
“Right.” David got to his feet. “That will do for now. Hand your papers in by the end of the week.”
He sauntered across his office to the far window and gazed down at the concourse beneath. Students were stretched out on the lawn enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. A tutorial on the lush grass would have worked well today, but it was too late now. Hopefully, there would be more opportunities to work outside. It always made a welcome change from the confines of his office. Not that it was a bad office.
“Professor Forbes.”
David turned around to see Hector hovering at the doorway with some reluctance to leave.
“Yes, Hector?” He waited to hear what was holding back this mature, postgraduate student.
Hector hesitated a moment before closing the door and approaching the table where he had been sitting with three other postgrad students. He hovered behind a chair. “I—I just wanted to let you know. I was in L—L—London recently.”
Part 1 can be found HERE. Find all episodes of The Dating Game HERE.
When David – AKA Diana – puts on the clothes he’d bought to go out dressed on the ski slopes Diana comes alive. This holiday on the slopes is going to get very hot.
David didn’t think he could do it, even after spending a fortune on tight-fitting ski pants and a mink coloured padded jacket with a fur-lined hood to die for, plus a pair of tortoise-shell Ray-Bans where the salesman had obviously seen him coming! There was no way Diana could go skiing in the French Alps.
But here she was. Standing in the boot room complete with hair gel, lipstick and mascara. No one batted an eyelid. The waiter had even held the door open for her at breakfast this morning.
David grabbed his skis, ran his tongue over lips coated in ruby red lipstick and headed onto the slopes for another day cruising down snowy mountains, with only the swishing sounds of his skis for company.
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.
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.
“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.
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.”
First of all I’d like to say that I hope you are loving my programs. We have over 2500 gurls enjoying my helping hand… Wait, that sounds a little wrong. If you are not already in one of the programs you should sign up today. Anyway, I thought I’d share what I’ve been getting up to this week.
With all this sunshine I’ve been spending a lot of time in the garden and at the beach. I do love to sail, and Bernard’s boat is finally in shape. It’s so good to live in a city in which the outdoor lifestyle I love is so accessible.
My gardener, Ali Ibrahim, pulled into my drive way in his Smart Car this Tuesday. He’s been doing some topiary in my garden. With him was Sylvester, my mechanic. Now, Sylvester is a very large man and seeing him struggle out of Ali’s tiny car was rather like watching a man get out of an overcoat that is three sizes too small for him.
“I had no idea you knew Ali,” I said to Sylvester.
“I don’t. He gave me a ride from the highway. My truck broke down, again! Very kind of your friend Mr. Ibrahim to pick me up.”
The irony of this was not lost on me.
Sylvester was speaking very slowly, so Ali would understand him. So slowly, actually, that one might assume he thought Ali had some extreme form of learning disability. Sylvester was, of course, unaware that Ali had been a professor in a university in Damascus until fleeing the country and finding his way to Canada.
“He just pulled over and offered me a lift, and it turned out we were both coming to your place.”
“How fortuitous,” I said. Sylvester was looking a little dubiously at Ali, who in turn was smiling happily, as is his nature.
Sylvester took me aside and looking a little worried said “he keeps saying he can’t get his whores in his car.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s very small.”
“Car no good for hoes,” said Ali, catching my eye, and nodding and smiling happily.
“Yes, Ali. I’m sure,” I said smiling.
I turned to Sylvester and said, “Ali is struggling a little with his English, but I think he’s trying to tell you that he doesn’t like the smart car because he can’t put his rakes and hoes and spade in the back. He’s got his small tools for working in the garden, but his large tools get… stuck. But you’d know all about that.”
Sylvester sniggered and turned to Ali and said, “Hoes, eh? Well come by my shop in the morning, ok?”
Ali smiled his enormous smile and nodded enthusiastically.
When Ali showed up at my place the yesterday to continue his work on remodelling my bush he came with the most extraordinary collection of tools on the back of his Smart Car. Sylvester had given him a nice new gun rack, salvaged from a car that had been written off.
Ever the inventive soul, Ali had fitted it and now uses it to carry his hoes and rakes and larger tools. And we all like larger tools.
But that’s not the main reason I am writing. I am thrilled to say I have a few spaces available in our Whatsapp Group. You can find all the details here, if you like chatting with other CDs.
In the second part of Mollie’s story we continue to follow David, or ‘Diana’ and Lucy. Part 1 can be found here.
Wax Lyrical
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.
000
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.
Waxing makes all the difference.
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.
“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.”
