So, I’ve been trying to write a blog post for a long time, which is unusual for me. Normally I can bash out a blog post in an hour, but this one was….difficult.
Because I was writing about the (deliciously) dark side of my fetish. It was (and is, I promise to finish it) all about those other urges, the ones that stretch into the physical and the psychological, that most of us have and address through, well, porn, or in my case making my own erotica. It’s a wonderful position to be in, being able to craft your own dirty pictures and I have both a good imagination and pretty low levels of control. Anyway, I promise to finish that one, although it’s taking a while to sanitise the pictures to the point that they won’t get my blog account banned….
Pictured – it takes a lot of effort to black-square out all the bits that people could get offended by. Especially in some of the far more raunchy photos…..
Plus I’m having one of the hysterically mad periods of life that comes along once a while, where everything becomes a whirlwind of having to be places, working insane hours and, because I’ve committed to doing a marathon length night walk in London in a couple of weeks, training as hard as a lazy, beer-swilling, cheese-eating fifty year old idiot can.
Which brings me on to one of those first-world tranny problems that just make life hysterically funny. Received a couple of parcels and, I kid you not, here’s what was in them – a pack of blister plasters designed for long-distance runners, two pairs of padded running socks, a pair of running tights (which I was amusingly testosteronally annoyed at the fact they were called ‘tights’ until my other half, with a high degree of irony, pointed out that I’d worn a lot of tights in the last couple of years so what on earth was the problem of calling them running tights for men?) and then two packs of stick-on false red nails, a pack of six eight-inch multi-coloured hair bows and a book on Pregnancy for Women (a prop, I’m not pregnant regardless of what the beer gut looks like). Talk about mixed messages Amazon.
Pictured – yeah, I’m doing another preggers look but this time I had to buy a false pregnancy belly, all three kilos of it, because training for the walk has shrunk my child/beer gut to the point I can’t push it out far enough any more to simulate being on the wrong end of a drunken night’s lovemaking….
So what’s this post about? Well, normally I have a point, or at least I try to start the post with one, but this time I’m just going to ‘stream of consciousness’ a post because that’s where I am right now. I’m on the verge of a session, complicated by the fact it’s midweek and I have a prickly meeting to go to the next day which is going to be a minefield anyway, so showing up freshly shaved with the traces of superglue on my finger-nails from wearing gorgeous red nails the day before will either give me the superpowers I need to not go postal or give me a delicious rush of fear. I’m working on training for this walk which seems to entail walking daftly long distances in daft temperatures (22 miles week before last in 26C, 15.6 this weekend in 24C) which has the amusing side-effect of causing me to lose toenails (don’t worry, it’s not leprosy, it’s a standard injury for idiots who don’t make sure their shoes are fitting correctly and decide they can ‘walk through the pain’ – going to be fun painting the toenails when half of them are absent though).
And I’m feeling the urge. If you’ve never dressed, or if you don’t have a fetish (and if you don’t, please go get one, you don’t know what you’re missing) you’ll not know the feelings I’m having right now. That delicious, naughty, hot sweat feeling that comes over you when you imagine yourself made-up putting on the frocks that currently hang, limp and lifeless, in the closet. Those wonderful little thunderbolts of shock when the idea of what you are going to do seeps into your daily life – I was briefing some high level execs at a bank last week and halfway through they called in one of their PAs to sort the next meeting and, not kidding you, she was wearing one of the dresses I’ve got hanging in my closet waiting for the next session. I’m sat there in black jeans, stubble in a ‘God in heaven, it’s not the eighties any more, just shave it’ way and a black t-shirt with something techie on it looking at her in her tidy little yellow dress, black and white check collar and cuffs, pussy-bow at the collar and thinking ‘yeah, I’ll look so good in that frock’. And then the little fizzle of hot sexual electricity that thankfully didn’t convert into any physical reaction.
Pictured – similar to that which explains why I found the meeting a little confusing after she had left the room
And I’m getting a lot of those right now. It’s as if she is waking up again after a brief Snow White-like sleep and he has to give her room.
I’ll give you an example. I saw a wonderful frock on the American ‘Unique Vintage’ website. It’s the kind of dress that most girl wouldn’t look at twice, a bit old fashioned (vintage is the hint there, drab-me) but there was a picture of a woman wearing it on their reader’s page (and also another one of those hot fetishy flush moments, I’m on their reader’s page as it picks up tags from Instagram – amusingly it has me on their ‘dolled up’ page and links to the shop. I’m such a sellout….).
It’s a white dress, long sleeved, collared with a slightly ruffled front, gorgeous floral pattern. So I bought it. And when it arrived I gave it a quick test spin, and it fitted perfectly (even without my undergarments and shaping), and as I posed in front of the bathroom mirror I got that feeling.
Pictured – ‘that feeling’
It’s hard to describe but if you’ve had it you know it. It feels like your nether regions have been dipped into the perfect temperature bath. It feels like little stars blink brightly into existence deep in your mind. It feels like a rush of delicious happiness.
So I took it off, mentally marked it as a definite for the next session, hung it on her side of the wardrobe, and forgot about it.
Or so I thought. Every now and then the idea of that dress would drop uninvitedly into my forebrain and I’d get that little rush again. I know, when I’m fully made-up and in Sarah mode, shaped, beautiful wig in place, slipping gently into the dress, which has a stain lining which makes it oh so wonderful to get into, when the zip is done up and the little clip fastened at the back of the collar, that I will be in that little bit of heaven that I only ever get when completely transformed.
And every time I open my wardrobe and see it hanging there I get that rush. I have never got that rush for anything else in life – love, sex, relationships. I know deep inside that it is probably (nay, definitely) the result of emotional trauma as a kid, but right now it’s the thing that gives my life the spice I crave and need just to feel me. Her. Him. All of us.
Pictured – who doesn’t get that thrill from putting on a pretty little green dress with white polkadots and white high-heels? What do you mean, most of the population?
And I get that feeling a lot with the outfits I choose. The vintage stuff, which is an acquired taste for a lot of people, just gives me the best head rushes. The idea of slipping into a 1940’s shape dress really shouldn’t be this exciting but for me, it just is.
It’s a clinical fetish but hell, I’ll take it.
The thing is, over time it has changed. When I first felt the urge to dress it was the more formal dresses of the 70s, the maxi-dresses, followed by the feminized power dressing of the 80s (I still get the same rush if I happen to catch a picture of the stars of Dynasty or Dallas, that over-emphasised Americana power dressing, the bright neon colours, the padded shoulders, the BIG hair, all of it) then the tight PVC/leather outfits of the girls into hair-metal and the like in the early nineties.
Pictured – and oddly enough 70’s style maxi-dresses with their odd patterns still do it for me
Then Sarah went to sleep a bit, partly because I was in a relationship and partly because I’d done the worst thing someone of my mental make-up could do, which was listen to society and assume I was the broken one. So I had time out from the rushes, from the naked enjoyment of the dresses.
Side effect of that was I got fat. And lazy. And let myself go, which should have been a huge wake-up but wasn’t.
Fast forward to when Sarah burst back out of the pink prison in my head and her, or rather my, tastes had changed a little with time. Now it was the exaggerated femininity of the forties and fifties that struck the pink chord inside, the hourglass figure and glamour of the forties, the petticoats of the fifties, the hairstyles, the handbags, the shoes, oh Lord, the SHOES……
Pictured – THE SHOES! Gotta love pink heels…
And bang, I was a retro-inspired vintage wearing 21st century girl with 20th century tastes. Translation – the warm rush came when I perused the websites of Vivien of Holloway, Collectif Clothing, Pretty Retro and Hell Bunny.
Tastes change of course, but to be honest I don’t see me getting the same girlie squee-rush looking at bodycon frocks or club wear of the noughties. That’s someone else’s bag, nothing wrong with those styles but I don’t get the warm-water-in-the-veins effect from them.
So girlie-retro seems to be the in-vogue fashion for my inner-girl and as long as she is happy, I’m happy.
Anyway, I have a week until my session and some toenails to save….
Stay beautiful and remember that a fetish isn’t a terrible thing, it’s actually a wonderful and rewarding part of you.
Pictured – of course, most people’s fetishes wouldn’t cover a sensible floral dress, mature hairstyle and almost sensible shoes. But then again, I’m not most people, which is pretty obvious from this and many other photographs…. 🙂