So, just how unhealthy is self-abuse?

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room. You know, the one sat over in the far corner, winking, waving the packet of condoms and licking his lips.

Yeah, that one.

I’m going to come at this blogpost, if you’ll pardon the expression, from two angles – the first is as a dispassionate observer of all things ‘T’, a eunuch-admirer for example. And the second is as the person deep inside me who occasionally bubbles to the surface in this blog.

But first, why talk about it? Because it is the elephant in the room. Part of my realisation of Sarah has been a stark look at my own sexuality, and this post is my attempt to rationalise the way I am by looking closely at what it is I want and how I got there.

But, as per normal, I digress.

So, ladies and gentleman, and gentleladymen, let’s start with the dispassionate.

What aspects of my urges have a sexual component?

There you have it. The driest question ever to cover a deliciously difficult answer. My first *ever* sexual experience was unplanned for, unexplained (as I hadn’t had any of the birds and bees chats before it happened) and occurred when I was a: cross-dressed and b: in a situation of slight danger and excitement. Yeah, not the best way to introduce your body to the concept of an orgasm.

I’ve had 3.5 sexual partners (long story), all female. I’ve been married twice, and my current (and best relationship) has had no sex component for seven years. That’s a long time to go without it, and that’s from someone who isn’t driven by the whole sex thing. There’s love, in spades, but no physicality due to medical reasons (hers).

So I find myself a monk. As I said, I’ve never been driven by the sex side of anything, but come on, everyone needs an outlet of some sort.

But I’m evading the answers and I promised, I think, to be honest.

Yes, there is a sexual component to my dressing. But it’s not what you think it is.

I have always said that if you want to know what a man finds sexually attractive in a woman’s attire, get him to pick the clothes *he* would wear as a woman. For the majority of the male population this leads to outfits that practically define the statement ‘sex object’. But for some of us, who are firmly in sync with both genders internally, you get to see the beauty that a man desires.

And that’s how it is for me. Sarah dresses specifically in ways to sexually excite drab-me. When I look at Sarah I get aroused, period.

Oddly enough, and yeah, this raises a lot of issues that would be extremely expensive to chat through with a shrink, I *rarely* get aroused when dressing. For a start, female underwear cannot hope to contain a masculine rush. But more importantly, Sarah isn’t turned on by Sarah.

Damn, I promised not to lie. OK, sometimes Sarah gets turned on by Sarah, especially when posing in the mirror.


A lot of the T-community deny any sexual component to dressing. And I think that’s perfectly normal – there are so many different types of T-gender. A good example of this is the TV-Chix site (and yeah, I do have a profile on there that is constantly pounded, cough, by dirty messages from admirers). If you go and look at the forums it becomes apparent very quickly that there are a lot of T-people on there who are just out to get f*cked as fast as possible. And again, that’s fine. On the other side I know personally a number of T-girls who are practically abstinent (and I know how that feels) as part of their dressing.

But not me. There’s a considerable sexual component to my dressing, but to explain it I have to talk about serial killers.

Stick with me on this, I promise it will make sense. And I’m not a serial killer, if you’re suddenly worried.

When describing serial killings there are normally, at the most base, two types of serial killer – one who focuses on ‘the product’ and one who focuses on ‘the preparation’. ‘The Product’ killer is obsessed with the result of his actions, ‘The Preparation’ killer obsesses about the mechanisms by which they do their actions.

Me? I’m a ‘Product’ T-Girl. That means I love the output, the pictures. I personally really, really don’t like the process of being made-up. If I could be unconscious for the period between taking off he drab and opening my lash-heavy eyes I’d be begging for the anaesthetic.

I find the pictures I get after a session *highly* sexually exciting. I look at her and I want to be intimate with her. And yes, I will, err, relieve my tensions by looking at the pictures. Hey, it’s been seven years, cut me some slack πŸ™‚

So, let me indulge myself if you will. Look at the picture at the top of this blog. What I find attractive about it is:

Her bosom. Her shoes. Her stockings. Her nails. The way her wrist is held limply. Her waist. Her rings and necklace. Her hair. Her lips.Β 

In the absence of a normal (sic) sex life I accentuate what I find attractive and use myself as a model for it. That way I’m being loyal to my relationship, because it’s me (and therefore self-abuse).

Which is absolutely fine. For him.

So, that’s the dispassionate side. Now the passionate side. And to answer this part, I’ll let her do it.

How does the dynamic change when dressed? What does Sarah feel and want?

He has a fixed idea of what is sexually attractive and I get to wear them. When I wear them I feel attractive in a way that he never does. It’s a completely different feeling for me, as Sarah. I feel warm, I feel complete, and I feel comfortable in a way he never does.

A little piece of history that he hasn’t shared yet – there was (and probably still is) a chain of shops in the UK for transvestites called ‘Transformation’. In the early mid-1990s they opened a shop in Bristol, but unfortunately chose the worst part of Bristol to open it at. He’d been a visitor to the shop in Birmingham a number of times, never having a changeover but buying lots of stuff, clothes, make-up, shoes, videos, magazines. It was always a massive thrill for him, the adrenaline going nuts as he walked past the shop a couple of times to make sure no-one was watching before diving through the door, his heart in his mouth.

When the Bristol shop opened he was aware of it because the Birmingham shop had told him about it, so he decided to pop in on the opening day. The woman who ran the chain, a transexual herself, was there, and he chatted to her about how cool the shop was while buying some stuff, and then zipped out and back to his car before driving back to his parent’s house where himself and his partner of the time had a room.

Fast forward to 6:00pm that night and he was eating food with his parents and his partner when the local news announced the opening of ‘Transformation’ in Southmead as an ‘amusing’ end of news-report.

With footage.

The minute the segment started and the camera panned over the shop-front he went cold all over. If he was to walk into frame, or into the shop, or out of the shop, while the camera had been filming, then everything was over. The T aspect of his life, at that point, was highly secret and only known to him and his partner.

The segment lasted three minutes and for those minutes he was cold all over, a rictus of a grin on his face as the words from the reporter flooded over him. A couple of disparaging comments from his parents about perverts and he knew that if he appeared, his life was over.

He didn’t appear in the filmed segment. But that rush of cold was very important, because it showed what he really thought deep down inside. That the T-side of him was shameful, something to be terribly guilty about.

Fast forward twenty-odd years and I’m sat outside a nightclub in central London at 1:30am-ish, having a deep conversation with his best friend. I’m fully enfemme, not entirely comfortable because my shoes are killing me, and very much drunk.

So drunk I made a pass at his best friend. Granted, it wasn’t that much of a pass, and it was gently rebuked. I asked for a kiss, he gently turned me down, rightfully so.

But the difference was this – 1990s him would have caught fire with shame and guilt at even the thought of doing that with a: a man, and b: his best friend. But not now.

But why did I do it?

Because it felt *right*. It wasn’t demeaning to him (drab me), it was just what I, Sarah, would do in that situation. Luckily, or unluckily depending on your opinion, his, no, *my* best friend was there and was a gentleman about it. It would have become awkward very quickly. To be honest I did feel guilty about it, not because I’d made a pass, but because he was in a situation that he hadn’t even been aware of until very recently, and he’s one of the most decent and straightest blokes I know. Some part of me, or Sarah, just thinks it was a little naughtiness.

And if he hadn’t been there? Or what will happen *when* I go out again?

I’ll change the subject – ask me again what sexual component my dressing has.

And so, a summary of sorts

Drab me finds Sarah sexually attractive. I’d do her. And I’m not just saying that because it’s physically impossible and will never happen, not at all πŸ˜‰

Sarah knows that drab me is turned on by her. And Sarah likes that.

It’s a perfect situation. As long as self-abuse is satisfying. And Sarah can behave herself when she goes out.

And if I crack and Sarah gets to mess about? I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, but I’m not ashamed at the thought. It’s why she dresses the way she dresses πŸ™‚

So, bit of a deep one that. I promise to lighten up and talk frocks and fashion next time. Ish.

Stay beautiful people. And stay true to whoever you are. It makes things much more simple.

And for my friend, the picture below. ‘Sorry’ πŸ™‚




One thought on “So, just how unhealthy is self-abuse?

  1. Hey Sarah. I just discovered your blog (off your Flickr site). This post is fabulous; thanks for being so honest about everything. So many little flashes of recognition (and yet others that don’t seem to apply to me at all).
    All the very best,


    Liked by 1 person

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