Never has the Chinese motto/curse ‘May You Live in Interesting Times’ seemed more apt and more depressing than the current world state we are in; I was hoping, beyond hope, that post-Covid would be a much more fun place to be but Putin seems to be dead set on spoiling that (I’ll refrain from geopolicitics as a blog on retro cross-dressing isn’t the best platform to do it, but let’s just say someone is living in the past when it comes to understanding the modern battlefield; fighting physically is not the way it works anymore and someone is going have a hell of a shock when his people can no longer buy the basics or enjoy the luxuries assumed from a 21st century lifestyle).
So to cheer myself up a little I’m writing a little blog on the naughtier side of the hobby/compulsion/lifestyle I have. And yes, as per normal, I know it’s been way too long; see world-events, January/February funk, various physical and mental ups and downs for details blah blah. This post is part of my own twisted internal therapy so bear with me; may be NSFW as well depending on how much sinsation I fancy.
Maybe it’s down to the continual (though hopefully ending) isolation but wow, I’m seriously horny all the time at the moment. And it’s a new type of horny, possibly down to my messing about with internal chemistry (don’t do it at home, kids) and possibly down to an internal response to the Jan/Feb blues, but it’s delightfully odd and, in the absence of being able to have a session (although I have setup an emergency one this coming Saturday to scratch my Sarah itch with some adorable new outfits from Hell Bunny, Collectif and Bombshell HQ), it’s letting me get through the days.
For all the pictures I have I’m basically in the closet, although a very nice pink and frilly one. I don’t go out as a rule and it’s because of the funnest reason that I realised a couple of months ago. I don’t like pubs and clubs. Never have, really (I spent my adulthood trying to find comfortable, quiet drinking holes with little to no success); clubs we’re always too loud, too expensive and pretty much an exercise in terror for someone with shyness and limited social skills (oddly I have *way* better social skills when dressed as Sarah as I do when ‘normal’, something about being under a layer of makeup and not being, to the most extent, recognisable gives me a freedom I have never had).
I do fantasise about breaking the cage at some point though; I was truly hoping that post-Covid society would do the old Weimar Republic thing (go watch Cabaret but ignore the ‘tomorrow belongs to me’ bit for details) but that has yet to appear.
Fantasies are healthy (to a point, unless you are fantasising about something that is harmful to yourself, physically or mentally of course) and mine are all over the shop at the moment. I fantasise about what it would be like to be a proper, if you’ll pardon the old-school non-woke terminology, ‘wife’. Compared to my actual life the concept of cleaning, cooking, housekeeping and all the while in a flowing 1950’s dress and petticoat is just sublime. The only thing I’m missing, of course, is a loving hubby and that would take it from fantasy into a whole sphere of delightful silliness.
I’ve always wondered why there aren’t dressing services that offer the full role-play experience but it comes down to needs and wants. For someone like me the idea of behaving 100% as the housewife is a dream come true, but for the other person in that fantasy there’s not a huge amount of men out there who want that role-play experience without something more (batting around the bush but you know what I mean; my idea of a fantasy encounter would be greeting my husband after a long day of work, cooking his tea, getting his drink, whereas the majority of red-blooded men’s version of that fantasy would require me to be on my knees a lot of the time. Not that that doesn’t have it’s appeals; I’d be lying if I said the majority of my ‘first thing in the morning/last thing at night’ fantasies didn’t entail me performing that role in some way or another).
And that’s the crux of the matter that will always be somewhat of an issue for people with my kind of fantasies; men, bless them, will always have an endgame involving you being penetrated in some fashion. It’s in their hormones. And yes, it’s a lot of fun to write that paragraph as an exasperated woman. Again, see fantasies for details.
That’s where I am at the moment. I’m not a woman but hellfire, messing about with that little chemical really has an effect on your sexual perspective. The hilarious warning sign I’ve been ignoring is this; I get a raging erection at the idea of taking a 2mg Estrogen tablet. That sentence kinda sums up why I shouldn’t be doing it (yet I still am). Anyway, cue lots of hot flushes and very odd dreams, which tail nicely into the ‘first thing in the morning’ bit of fun.
At some point the urge to scratch the itch will become unbearable, I think. I’ve often compared cross-dressing, amusingly, with serial killers and again the comparison holds up; serial killers have this tendency to give themselves allowances as they progress; it’s why a serial killer doesn’t start in what they call berserker mode. They have to give themselves ‘permission’ to up the ante.
Cross dressers like me (again, there’s a huge spectrum and I am but a tiny little slither of the range of beautiful people) go through these phases; normally binge/purge but also stepping up what we do, climbing to each plateau that we thought we would never go to. For me this was shaving my chest (which I now have lasered, again another ‘permission’ to do something I would never have considered when I was starting on the path), glueing nails on, wearing female underwear, being outside (SQUEEE). They are all steps that lead to an interesting, yet still unseen, endgame.
So that’s what I mean by ‘sinsation seeking’. I’m currently looking for the next step, the next little crossing of the threshold. In all likelihood it will something as delightfully simple as, say, going to a museum or an art gallery in London as ‘daytime Sarah’; doing something completely normal for 51% of the population but completely alien and exciting for me; presenting in the outside world as a woman.
Or it could be something as radical as, say, accidentally showing up at Sweet Wednesdays in London, which has a basement where, well, I’ll leave it up to you to Google and smile/frown. That would be a big step but something I’ve considered in the warmth of my bed during that delightful period of fantasy. I know the real world would be vastly different but a girl can dream.
Anyway, that’s enough before I get hot under the frilly collar and suggest something a lot more overtly sexual. You get the idea though; yet again I’m in that odd little wavelet of compulsion experience where it’s ‘you only live once, go for it’. By the end of the week I’ll probably have subsided back to the ‘I really must get myself another Tea Dress from Vivien of Holloway’ levels of delighted fantasy.
But for now my morning and evenings are distinctly and delightfully feral.
Stay beautiful and remember that we’re only here once; regardless of the overall crapness of the world in general you have only one time so do it doing things that give you pleasure.