This Is Me Part Two free porn video

INTRODUCTION A while back I posted a piece called This Is Me. It detailed a time, years ago, when I was struggling to accept who I was, and how my first ever bra fitting helped me over-come issues of doubt. I was hoping it might inspire people as the actual time did me. I realised recently that I have, perhaps, not come as far as I think and wanted to take the time to write again about who I am. When I started to write the stories I have posted it was to help myself explore who I was, who I wanted to be, where I had come from and was going in life, as well as to hopefully entertain. For me, I've been to some pretty scary places and expressed some fantasies that have been nerve-wracking, so I wanted to slow it down and take some time to reflect. I thought this was going to be a snapshot of where I am now, but I have found myself looking back, so I hope you don't mind me sharing my journey. I'm not even sure I'll post this because I'm pretty much putting myself out there in the world. However, if you are reading this, I appreciate you taking the time and hope you find something here that helps or inspires, or maybe even makes you smile. And I would love to hear your thoughts. I'm sure a lot of you out there are further along your own journey, and perhaps negotiating your path more successful than I am mine. I wish you all the best in life. CHILDHOOD Like many of us, I've cross-dressed all my life; for as long as I can remember, anyway. I was forever sneaking about, looking for opportunities to wear my mother's panties. They might be fresh and laundered or dirty in the hamper. It didn't matter to me. I just knew how good they felt. How right they felt. Because I started to wear women's underwear at such an early age, they were irrevocably a part of my sexual awakening. When I was young, I masturbated a lot while wearing my mother's underwear. It soon wasn't just panties. I tried a bra, and that became an essential part of who I wanted to be. I didn't understand my desires; only knew how comfortable I felt, how happy, when I was wearing women's clothing. Was it an addiction? A compulsion? I don't know. I guess I didn't have other options in those early years, but it feels a little shameful now. But what else could I do? I was only being true to myself. I hit a nuclear crisis point several months ago. For decades I hadn't considered what I'm about to share, but, suddenly, I was drowning in childhood memories. I was breaking down in work. I'm lucky that I generally work in a lonely environment now. And I was lucky that I had a new friend, Misty, to help guide me through what I was feeling via email in those desperate moments. I was clinging to her messages like a drowning woman hanging off a bouy in stormy weather. And others, such as Lady Vinyl, have also helped recently. I'm still not sure where I am as a person, but thanks to these people and an understanding counsellor, I am more open and less confused. Fear about identity and gender is fading....And it is only now that I'm able to share the following with our community. So, deep breath, as a child I used to fall asleep wishing I was a girl. At the time I didn't understand why. But it was all I could think about. What it would be like? How wonderful it would be? I would cry myself to sleep because I didn't understand why I had the wrong private parts. And I would dream. Glorious, vivid dreams of being a girl. Of being accepted. That my mother knew I had been wearing her clothes and explained to my family why. The dreams were so real I would sometimes wake confused, wondering if it had actually happened. This disorientation would last for hours and I had to be extremely careful about what I said and did. When I was circumcised I was convinced I was going in for an operation that would fix me. My parents had realised the mistake that had been made. I was young and absolutely believed that when I had the operation I would be a girl. Everything would be right. Of course, that never happened and I have never been so hurt in my life. The feeling of betrayal passed, but I knew I could never talk about who I was or the fact that I was wearing women's underwear, to anybody. If my own parents didn't understand, who would? I was alone. UNIVERSITY I attended university late, basically trailing behind a girl, hoping one day we would marry. We'd been together for a few years. I was still dressing secretly and had a pretty good selection of clothes that I was forever hiding from people who knew me. They changed fairly regularly as I was purging a couple of times a year, if not more. My girlfriend at the time was very mature (in mind, not age), sensible and controlling. Things had to be a certain way. I'm a dreamer. I don't think it would have ever worked out; but if it did, I know I would not be as happy as I am with my wife. Back then, I thought I was in love, but I didn't truly know what love is until I met the woman I would marry. But, back then, I was destined to be with this girl. And the break-up of our relationship, the fact that she asked me to tell my friends it was a joint decision, was heartbreaking. This was on top of the fact that around the same time my first attempt at a writing career was fizzling out. When I was 19 I was a published author. By the time I was 23, writing between hours at work, it was over. It was a success, but I've found it hard to consider it anything but a failure. I saw Jaws when I was six years old and fell in love with movies. One day I would direct (how's that working out, kid?), but to begin I would be a screenwriter. I was repeatedly put down, told that people from small towns had to get real jobs --- I still hear a variation of that occasionally, because, at 46, I'm still pursuing my dream to work in film and television. So, quietly, secretly like my cross-dressing, when I was 12 I started to write my first book. After several aborted attempts, I finished something and it was a draft of this story that was accepted as my first published book. Big time. Hardcover and paperback. It was only a pocket money deal and I never found a manager or agent. So 4 books later I handed in my latest manuscript. My editor said she thought it was my breakthrough, but was despondent when she came back to me. Because I didn't have representation the publisher was only offering the same deal. She suspected it was a strong enough piece of work to land a manager and a better deal, something a career might be built on. I took her advice and moved on..........And never found another publisher for it, or subsequent books. I'm sharing this because the break-up with my publisher happened around the same time as the break-up with my girlfriend. It really sucked. So when a girl started to flirt with me regularly during lectures and we hooked up, I decided crazily that I would tell her about my cross- dressing. I was at a real low point. On and off through my formative years I'd considered suicide and it was only the fact that my brother tried to kill himself, the devastating consequences that had on my family through the following years and decades, that I didn't do anything. Here was a new girl I was happy with. Happier than ever. She was loose like me. Everything didn't have to be prim and proper and always in its place. A glass didn't always need a coaster. A room in a house didn't need to look like it was actually in a museum. And I didn't want to keep secrets from her. I wanted her to know who I was, to the extent I understood myself back then. The first night we were together, I found myself trembling in her arms. When she asked what was wrong, I broke down a little and sobbed, confessed for the first time to anybody that I enjoyed wearing women's clothing. I didn't get the response I expected. I wasn't shown the door, kicked to the curb. She held me, told me it was okay, that there was nothing wrong with it. When I settled down we played through the night, satisfying each other over and over. It was an intense night. The next morning she gave me a pair of panties and said I had to wear them to our lectures. A few days later she turned up with a teddy and told me to go put it on before we headed to the library. I quickly understood that even though she accepted I was a cross-dresser, she wanted to control it, and, as her games became more and more daring, I believe that's where my desires to be humiliated were born. We ate a lot of take-out and she would send me to the drive-thru wearing women's clothing. Sometimes she would accompany me, and toy with me: maybe we should eat inside the restaurant today, she would smile. That kind of thing. Some evenings she would say we had to go for a walk. I loved going outside fully dressed on those occasions, with her support; hated the occasional beep from a car horn as I was spotted, and worse the fact she was doing this for her amusement. But for a brief time, I was outside, letting the world see who I was....... But whenever we were together the sex was incredible. She was tall, blonde, attractive and manipulative. And I enjoyed her games. One time she had me wear my sexiest lingerie and tied me to the bed, ankles and wrists. She teased me to the brink of eruption and then left the room. As my hard on settled, I called her name. No answer. It was just part of a game, I thought. Then the doorbell rang....and our friends started to arrive. Downstairs I could hear them having a great time. Sometimes I would hear people outside the door, going to the bathroom or upstairs for some other reason. I was stiff as a board at fear of being discovered. About an hour later, my girlfriend poked her head in the room and laughed at my predicament. I begged to be untied, but she talked about sharing our secret with our friends; told me that if she did I would be able to dress all the time. I pleaded with her not to, but she smiled, telling me they might be up later to see me. The girls might laugh at me, she grinned, but who knew what the boys might think? Or do? she hinted. I was frantic to get off the bed, but was stuck in my favourite panties and bra. Later, after several false alarms, friends lingering and talking near the door, and visits from my girlfriend, our friends left and she came up to release me. I was so angry, yet she quickly shut me down indicating the wetness of my panties and for her it was just another easy seduction. But our relationship wouldn't last. The sex was incredible and while we enjoyed flirting with each other, there was nothing more there. It was a relationship built on play. We were both coming from long, stable relationships, and it was apparent we were both working out various issues with each other. WIFE I believe that as we move through life we should learn from our experiences. So, when I met my beautiful bride-to-be, within a few weeks of dating I told her about my need to cross-dress. I was terrified as the words fell out of my mouth, but knew I didn't want to hide the truth from her. She was understandably surprised and said she had to think about things. We saw each other a few days later. I was working nights and she came to wake me up. It was a pleasant surprise, and she had a present for me. It was a pair of panties. She said she had to learn where her boundaries were, but she was happy for me to dress if I wanted to. She wanted to take it slowly, so that she was carefully introduced into my feminine world, but also told me the choices were mine. She'd love for me to wear the panties, but if I didn't feel like it, that was okay, too. She was, and always has been, so caring and supportive and encouraging of my feminine needs. As I have been around her. I think it's important to note that while we may have desires we might not always understand and are sometimes scared of, our spouses and loved ones and close friends will also need nurturing when confronted with them. My wife and I were always there for each other, and always will be. I know how lucky I am. She has her limits and I respect them. Once or twice I have pushed for more than what she was ready for, and we have quickly aligned ourselves again. Like my previous girlfriend, feminisation was an aphrodisiac, but my wife also saw my boundaries. It was never more than fun, and only humiliating if we both agreed. For example, I used to be a projectionist at a small cinema. This was way before digital, when films would arrive in 20 minute reels to be joined together, and then broken apart when their run was finished. One time I was working late, taking a film apart to be returned to the distributor, and my wife had insisted I complete the chore dressed in a nightie and heels. She left with my clothes......God knows what I was thinking agreeing to it, but it wasn't the torment I felt with my old university girlfriend. It was fun. I was alone in the projection box, a nervous wreck at the thought that my manager might return, or one of the usherettes might call and want to be let back in. It took about an hour, and I jumped and dithered at every creak and groan of the old building. I carried the film downstairs and prepared to lock up. Then I realised with dread a couple of things that in my excitment at the prospect of the game I hadn't thought of. The walk to my car was about a minute. I could probably run to it in about 20 seconds without the heels on. And then, on a main road, I would have to get out of my car and lock the car park. Even though it was late, there would still be quite a bit of traffic. I swallowed deeply and locked the building. Headed briskly across the car park, the breeze biting at my bare legs. I walked, keeping the heels on. They felt good. I got in the car and breathed a massive sigh of relief. Then came the next part. I parked outside the cinema property as best I could to hide my figure as I got out to secure the padlock. Sure enough, I struggled to open the padlock, dropped it, fumbled with the keys and then- "Homo!" Up until then in my adult life I'd been laughed at occasionally. Sometimes heckled. Stared at with bemusement or confusion. But this was the first time I'd felt anger and hatred directed at me just for the way I dressed. "Look at the fag!" The guy wasn't even with anybody. Probably drunk. Thankfully nobody was around to hear. A couple of cars passed by. One of them slowed and I imagined I was being stared at. "Give us a blow job!" I was so grateful he was remaining on the other side of the street. I finally closed the padlock and dashed into my car, almost tripping in my heels. I raced off and prayed that the man would never visit the cinema and recognise me. Somebody else would. In my haste to get home, my fingers trembling, I was pulled over for speeding. After what I'd been through at the carpark it was easy to accept what was about to happen. The police officer was a woman, about my age. She asked me to step from the car, but when she saw how I was dressed she said I could remain inside. She was really surprised, but obviously took it in her stride and I was grateful, once I had explained what I was doing and what had happened, to be let off with a warning. A few days later she visited the cinema with her family. She gave me such a knowing glance. Over the next year or so, I saw her quite regularly. She was always friendly and only ever alluded to what had happened once. It was about six months later and she just asked, in a caring manner, if I was still dressing. I admitted I was, that I sometimes struggled even with the encouragement of my wife, but I enjoyed it. "Just be safe," she told me, and those words stuck. On the few occasions I've been out, I've always been polite and friendly and respectful of those around me, but I've never dared stray into too unfamiliar territory. I've had a scare or too, but nothing bad has ever happened. I hope it's the same for you. HOME LIFE The relationship with my wife was going great. We saved hard to be married in the States. Returned several times after that. We were having a lot of fun. At home I could dress as little or as often as I wanted. A couple of times I asked about going out for the day, but the idea was obviously uncomfortable for her so it didn't happen, and I didn't push the subject. Now and then she said, so long as I was careful, I could go for a walk late at night. Midnight walks. I guess we all know about them. And even then, she was worried and fearful about what might happen. But I needed to go out. I don't know why. On those occasions I looked my best, but it was just about the feel of the clothes outside, the challenge of walking in heels on uneven pavements. It was a thrill until...... I decided to get more daring about where I walked. At first I was finding quite country lanes. It was peaceful and serene, but I wondered if I was seen, because it was late at night and would only be the occasional person passing by, surely I would be accepted. I didn't count on the type of people who might be out that late. My walks took me into suburbs and then closer to town centres. Finally, I was checking out a salon's prices as I thought about going outside in the day-time, when a man wandered by. I didn't think he had noticed me as he ducked into a pub, but as I walked back to my car I was called out by several of his drunken friends. "That blokes in a dress!" "Tranny!" "Fancy a midnight snack?!" I hurried on, not daring look back, and put the brakes on the idea of a midnight walk for a while. The next time I went, I returned to the suburbs. On this occasion I was laughed at by passing teenagers. I decided any more walks would take place on the quiet, country lanes. In our home, when dressed, I loved finding girlie hobbies and doing all the housework. I stayed on top of the chores, enjoyed leafing through women's magazines, even cross-stiched occasionally. I day-dreamed about joining the local craft groups and being accepted for who I was. One evening I was wearing a pretty dress and ironing when my best friend, a man, visited. I'd known him since early childhood, and thought if he and his fiancee accepted me it would give me another outlet to dress. We frequently spent time together. My wife loudly called who was here from the entrance and I quickly kicked off my heels and got out of the dress. I put on a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt from the laundry and, during his visit, continued with my chores to his amusement. I was still wearing bra and panties, tights, and I don't know if he noticed or not. He never teased me or said anything. Over the last year or so I've been keeping my body shaven, and last summer he noticed my bare, smooth legs. He didn't stop taunting me about it, so I'm sure if he had seen my choice of underwear back then I'd have known about it. One day my wife and I went shopping and she surprised me when she suggested I should have a maid's outfit. "Do I have to?" I asked, a token protest because deep down I loved the idea. I believe she knew what I was thinking and smiled. "You're my husband and I'm forever yours, but let's be honest. You're also my maid, so you might as well dress properly when working." I couldn't believe what she was saying. We visited Anne Summers and I almost collapsed when she said she wanted to see me try the uniform on. The manager agreed and so I was ushered into a fitting room with the outfit, other customers sniggering a little at what was happening. I heard my wife talking to the manager, but couldn't make out the words. Then she stopped outside the fitting room. "Are you not coming in?" I asked, thinking I would quickly try it on and then get changed. "No. You can pop out when you're ready." I blushed so deeply, remembering the cinema incident. That while we knew our limits, she also knew that I was turned on when I was humiliated and liked to play now and then. It was always spontaneous, at least it appeared to be, and it was always a pleasant surprise. I think she largely played at being dominant back then, but it wasn't her true nature, so it was always a kind gesture when she let my fantasies out a little. I started to get hard. "But-" The manager smiled. "Just buzz if you need anything." I closed the door, not understanding, and then saw a little buzzer on the wall for if assistance was needed. I slowly undressed, taking my time to build my nerve. Then put the uniform on. It was sexy and gorgeous, black and flaring out with a lacey white apron, more fitted on top to emphasise any bust I had. I tied the ribbon and then put on the delicate hat. My legs looked great in the tights I was wearing, but I was concerned about the revealing hemline. I stared at the buzzer. Finally dared to push it. A few seconds later the manager came in. "You look great. I bet you'll be really busy when you get home," she smiled. I'm quite personable and we joked for a minute or two, talked about the uniform, how it was sitting on my body. "Do you have a bra with inserts?" I told her I had a few, but when I went out dressed in male clothes I preferred an unpadded one. "When you wear the uniform pad them a little. You'll look fantastic." "Does she really want me to go out?" The manager nodded. "It's okay. I'll be with you." I didn't know whether that was policy or if she was genuinely that kind- hearted, but she remained at my side as, heart pounding, I stepped out of the fitting room. She did get a giggle as my wife asked me to turn and bend over and stretch up. Finally she told me to curtsy. "He'll look unbelievable in heels. He has got nice legs," the manager commented. At first, hardly anybody noticed. We were at the back of the store. But then my wife asked me to walk around the store so she could see how the uniform moved. That's what she said, anyway. It gave everybody in the store a chance to have a good laugh as the manager escorted me through different sections and then back. It might sound cruel. But, despite being mortified, I was loving it. On a high I hadn't felt for years. Yes, I was a cross-dresser, but a part of me, since my university girlfriend, had yearned to be humiliated. While it wasn't my wife's favourite thing in the world, she knew how much I enjoyed it and occasionally, very rarely, endulged me. It was usually spontaneous like this, which was even more frightening, because anything could happen at any time. I was allowed to change and after the manager finished the sale she considered me: "Enjoy your housework." I did. Whether dressed or working as a maid, I loved it all. Our house had never been so tidy; my wife never so pampered. I was dressing more and more to the point that I was only wearing male clothes when I went to work. In the evenings we had a couple of scares when friends would visit unexpectedly, and that eventually led to conversations about if we should tell anybody. We narrowed it down to one couple; my closest friend since school and his fiancee. I mentioned them above. I would have loved them to know as, even though I had my wife, I still felt like I was hiding. I would have particularly loved to have more female companionship who knew about my feminine side. But, ultimately, through fear of losing their friendship, we decided against the idea. I started to feel a little trapped. And it was then that I started to seriously think about going out in the day-time, or during sociable evening hours. We talked about it a lot, but as my wife was fearful of what might happen, we agreed that I should not do it. And then one day we had some amazing news. My wife was pregnant. We had already lost Harper during a mis-carriage, so to have this news just a year later was the best thing that had ever happened to us. I now have an amazing son, but in those early years my wife and I agreed I should stop dressing. THE FIRST TIME I couldn't have clothes in the house, anywhere accessible. It was the purge to end all purges. My own rule because I was afraid of the temptation. I cleared out everything. Shoes, make-up, dresses. Little bits and pieces like hair grips. There was nothing to stop me using my wife's, but if I couldn't dress there would be no reason to fasten my hair back. Over those four long years, I faced temptation after temptation. I would find myself holding panties from my wife's underwear drawers. Sliding my hands through the straps of a bra. Each and every time I stopped myself. Outside, I would consider the different outfits women were wearing and long to have an opportunity to dress in something similar. I would wander women's clothing stores and wish I could treat myself to a dress or a skirt. Just for a little while..... But I resisted. Our thinking was this. When our son is old enough we might tell him about how his father prefers to dress; he may find out by himself. But, while he is young and impressionable, we didn't want him to discover it. Most times I believe that my cross-dressing and the chance to express my feminine side is a blessing; but there are times when I see it as a curse, times when I hate it and I hate who I am. I dressed from an early age and as irrational as it may sound, I didn't want him on a similar journey unless that is truly who he is. Not because he saw me in clothing of the wrong gender. So, around him, for years, we were super-careful and he never saw me dress once. Because, even though it was incredibly difficult, I didn't. For four years I felt trapped and I began to wonder if it was more than just the temptation to dress. During this time I found, and lost, a manager to represent my script- writing in Los Angeles. We had a good year together, but ultimately, he was relatively new in the business and didn't have enough contacts to get many script reads. I was working a day job that meant I was lucky to even see our son first thing in the morning and last thing at night. In a management role I was expected to put in loads of unpaid over-time and I was on the road for my commute for about two hours every day. I had a change in line manager and found myself at loggerheads with my new boss; I was told repeatedly that I was shit at my job, that I was holding the team back.....Meanwhile the team repeatedly told me that they never saw any gratitude from anybody but me and that if I wasn't there it was a horrible place to work where they didn't perform. It became a horrible environment, but I couldn't leave as we were financially over-extended and spiralling into bad debt. In the end we made the decision to sell our dream home (only a semi-detached property, but it was ours and where we envisioned our son growing up) to downsize and this enabled me to look for other work that would give me more time with my son. It was a bad time. Then our son started school and my wife told me I could start dressing when he was out. I was so relieved and believe dressing helped to save me from a massive depression. My self-esteem had been eroded away and a lot of the time I hated myself. But instead of being conflicted about dressing, I started to hang onto it. I genuinely embraced who I was, started to build my wardrobe (again) and told my wife I would soon go out dressed. She understood and when the day came she asked what I would be wearing, gave me some advice on my appearance, and cried a little. She said she was sorry she was not strong enough to be with me. I understood, though, and told her everything was going to be okay. That morning I got up early, shaved all over. I snuck to the car wearing a gorgeous matching set, tights, a pencil skirt and white blouse, and the only pair of heels I had. Four inches. It felt great. My make-up was a subtle day look and I carried a handbag over my shoulder. My nails were painted a soft red. I also carried a back pack which I dropped onto the back seat. This contained clothes for my return home. I first drove to Cheadle to have my hair done. The drive took about half an hour and when I parked near the salon I couldn't get out of the car. I sat for at least five minutes. Turned the engine on twice and then turned it off. Then I considered how open and friendly the receptionist of the salon had been. Even though it was unusual, she hadn't been phased by my enquiry about having my hair styled like a woman. I don't know what possessed me, but I got out of the car. I walked carefully across the parking lot, aware of occasional stares. Then down the high street, my nerve strengthening with every step. People could stare. One person laughed. But this wasn't about humiliation. I wanted to be accepted for who I was, so I tried to be immune to anything around me. I was greeted warmly in the salon. I had my hair rinsed and teased into a better shape, volume added. I explained I couldn't do anything permanent as at the end of the day I would have to return home dressed in male clothing. While it was a bit feminine, it was also a little disappointing. My own restrictions meant I couldn't have curls or colours or too much actual cutting or styling. However, the hairdressers were so friendly, and again, while a couple of other clients threw me funny looks, I simply dismissed them. They might be curious or close-minded, but I wasn't going to let them ruin my day. I walked back to the car much more confidently, and decided then that when I next went out I would have my hair done again. I caught myself checking my appearance in window reflections. It was a sunny day with the slightest of cooling breezes. I felt good. I then drove out to Manchester for a shopping trip that would be shorter than I hoped. I parked and again, found myself not even getting out of the car. It seemed so busy. Even here in the car park. So many people. What was I doing? What was I thinking? Why was it not enough to have a loving wife who was happy for me to dress inside? Why did I have this compulsion within me to show the world who I was? I opened the car door. Breathed deeply. Stepped out. Tried to find comfort in the sound of my heels. Focus on that one thing while I crossed to the elevators......the elevators. Big mistake. I waited at the doors praying nobody would join me. It was only as the doors slid apart, I realised that people might already be inside. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was empty. I quickly stepped on and waited for the doors to close. My heart was in my mouth. The elevator started to descend and I thought everything was going to be okay. I'd just ride the elevator down and then back up and get going home. Not quite what I had in mind when I left this morning, but I was scared and alone. Before it reached the shopping mall, the elevators stopped. I waited an eternity for the doors to part and looked down as four younger men got on, two on either side. They continued their conversations, but as the doors slid shut they fell silent and I could tell they were trying to stifle their giggles. I could see them nudging each other, laughter threatening to burst out. The elevator stopped on the ground floor. The doors parted. "Ladies first," one of them said, gesturing. They all burst into hysterics as I stepped out, drawing nearby attention. I walked as quickly as I could away from the elevators, but the damage was done. Not only were people staring, but I was terrified. I felt like a dear in headlights and it was all I could do to not freeze. Just keep moving, I told myself, and finally reached Boux Avenue where I had arranged a bra fitting. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The manager assured me they had many male customers who either enjoyed cross-dressing or were on a bigger journey. We enjoyed chatting and I spoke a little bit about my own circumstances. I realised during that hour that I wasn't really sure who I was anymore. After checking out with several items, she told me to take a deep breath and that I was welcome to duck back inside if I needed to. I didn't move. My feet were not working. How bad can it be? I thought and thanked her one last time. I started out of the shop and barely made it across a walkway when my eye caught a woman nudge her husband. She giggled and he called out, extremely loudl: "Look at the giant lady!" The heels......the four inch heels. I felt great in them, but they pushed my height to six foot three. Probably a touch more. I realised for the first time I was towering over most genuine women amongst the shoppers. I kept my head down and hurried along. "She's a giant!" I thought his wife might stop him, but when I glanced she was laughing her head off. People were staring again. I wondered why people were afraid of, or had to mock, anything different. I ducked into Anne Summers and pretended to look at lingerie, secretly wishing I was back in the safety of my car. Which I still had to walk to yet. I thought about kicking my heels off and sprinting, but that would bring more attention to myself. I hoped if anybody approached to help me it would be a woman. A kind, understanding woman. I wandered into the next aisle. "Need any help?" I turned to face a young man with a beard. When he saw me his expression softened. "First time out?" he asked. I nodded. "It's okay. You look great. You're doing fine, I bet." I relayed some of the horror I'd experienced and he smiled. "I haven't been out for a while, but it gets easier." We chatted for about fifteen minutes and then he wished me well. He told me if I could stop, I would, but if I had come this far I would probably go out again......I laughed, almost outrageously. "Sure," I said, not believing him. Like that was going to happen. I thanked him for his time, and for making me feel relaxed and like I was doing nothing wrong. When I left I held my head up. I endured my share of stares, but there was no more heckling. I kept walking. Browsed casually in a couple of shops just to prove to myself that I could do it, and then returned to my car. I queued to pay my ticket, but when I reached into my handbag and inserted it into the machine, it quickly rejected it. What now? I thought, trying again and again, my hands starting to tremble. People started to grumble behind me, but I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. "Calm down, Honey. I think you've got your tickets mixed up." I turned to see a pleasant woman. We stepped out of the queue and she helped me search my handbag. There were no other tickets. "Maybe you left it in your car," she suggested. "Do you want me to walk with you?" I thanked her, but said I was okay. I found the correct ticket in my car and, when there was no queue, quickly returned to the machine. I paid and quickly left, driving out of the city until I could find a quiet road to park on. I pulled over and turned the engine off. I started to cry. What had I done? Why had I gone out like that? I thought about removing the make-up and nail polish, wetting my hair, getting dressed in my male clothes......not male, normal, I convinced myself. How could I dress like this? What kind of father was I? I sobbed for a short while and then cleaned myself up. I got changed and while I knew I would dress at home, I vowed never to go out again. AFTERWORD I'll write more, but for now I'm wary this is getting long. I hope you have enjoyed reading so far and would love to hear your thoughts.