PURGING

Today I took a short-cut working on my femme wardrobe and purged everything.

Now before anyone says What?! I can't believe you would do something like that! Don't you know purging never solves anything??? Let me explain.

There was a time in the not too distant past where I would have advised anyone to not purge their closet of their feminine finery. I had purged my closet of Kelli's clothes a couple of times in the past and had deeply regretted doing that. I have not done a complete purge in twenty years!

Since my last purge, I've learned about autogynephilia. I've learned that this term applies directly to me and have since learned a few things about myself that I didn't know 20 years ago. For example, I have never had the same strong desire to dress as a woman as have my crossdressing friends. I've enjoyed dressing as Kelli over the years, but if I did that once a month, I was happy. My friends would prefer to dress every week if not every day. I found this confusing as I thought we all had the same outlook and reasons for crossdressing. I began to think that even among crossdressers there was something odd about me (and there probably is, but that is a different story).

After studying various theories about autogynephilia, I felt these differences between myself and other crossdressers was okay because we actually were dressing for different reasons. The way I see it, crossdressers dress to externalize their feelings of femininity. My feelings of femininity are almost all internal, and those feelings don't change much whether I am wearing pants or skirts. I can't really call what I am about to say a fantasy as it happens every day in real life, but I often see myself as a woman trying to pass as a man. The average person sees a guy when they look at me, and I know that beneath the shirt and pants, the Hanes His Way underwear, and the sport talc deodorant, and despite what the biology textbooks say, I am 100% woman!

Another reason I purged is because my wardrobe was starting to look very out of date. Much of what I had was donated from a former girlfriend, and that too was many years ago. She had wonderful taste in clothes, but I decided it was time to start purchasing new items. I haven't seen anyone wear stirrup pants in quite awhile.

Still, while going through all the hangers, it was like a trip down memory lane. I came across a sweaterdress that I really liked that brought back quite a few memories. The first memory was that there was a time in the past when I was small and thin enough to actually wear a sweater dress. Second was the memory of that dress being the first dress my ex-girlfriend saw me wearing. I had a very small wardrobe back then and I had just told her about Kelli. She surprised me the next day by asking to see Kelli. I hadn't expected her to bring it up that soon, but ducked into the bathroom and tried to use all the tricks to look my best. I cinched my waist. I padded my hips, I double-checked my makeup. I made certain my boobs were straight. At last I tottered out in my 2.5 inch heels and my girlfriend seemed to be genuinely surprised. She told me that at first glance she thought I passed and had "one hell of a figure". It was on closer inspection that she soon saw I was male. Coming from her, I took all that as a great compliment.

All the blouses, skirts, slacks, jackets, and cute PJs are boxed and ready to be delivered to a local thrift store. For this purge, I am actually very happy and looking forward to building my new wardrobe. I hope the recipients are as happy with this wardrobe as I have been.

Kelli

Jeannie or Samantha Stevens?

Mercy me, I'm giving away my age by resurrecting that old television debate. That question was frequently asked by young men my age when I was a young man of that age back in the day. The question simply asked who you would prefer (and I'll leave the definition of "prefer" to the reader): Jeannie, a genie and lead character of the I Dream of Jeannie television show, or Samantha Stevens, a modern witch and lead character of the Bewitched television show.

I never really took part in such discussions. That was due to my own definition of the word "prefer" which I took to mean "which woman would I rather be". In a gathering of a half dozen men discussing that question, I would bet serious money that I would be the only person thinking along those lines. Oh well, the other guys didn't know what they were missing.

In a serious discussion of which woman I would rather be, the answer is obvious -- Jeannie! She was cute. She was pretty. She was perky. She had a mischievous sense of humor. Her genie powers didn't seem to have all the rules and regulations of Samantha's witchcraft powers. And she was head over heels in love with Major Nelson. If you're gonna be a girl, it seems perfectly okay to have a nice looking fellow at your side. Plus that bottle looks a lot more comfortable than my current reality-based cramped quarters.

Alas, the only time I'll ever be able to wear Jeannie's cute genie outfit is at Halloween, and even then only for a good laugh. That's where the actual benefits of being a real genie would come in so handy. Feeling a bit bloated because you had cheesecake for desert last night? Just fold your arms over your chest, blink your eyes while bobbing your head, and the extra weight is gone. Now that is a feat NASA scientists should be working on.

A similar question of the day involved the television show Gilligan's Island and simply asked who you would prefer (again, the definitions are up to you): Hollywood movie star Ginger, or Kansas farm girl Mary Ann? Perhaps it is because of my midwest roots (familial, not hair), but I would have to side with Mary Ann for reasons of sweetness and perkiness. She also had a girl-next-door sexiness about her along with down home logic and practicality that I found both good and scary -- good in that all women need good "horse sense", and scary in that horse sense tells you it might be wise to consider "preferring" Mrs. Howell with her sweet disposition and mountains of money!

Hmm... that logic is too logical. Think I'll go back to my dreams of being Jeannie.

Kelli

Sandra Dunaway Finishes 3rd in Mayor's Race

I mentioned this news item a few entries back and figured I'd be remiss if I didn't follow up on it. Sandra Dunaway, a TG woman, finished 3rd in the Amarillo mayoral race today. That's the Amarillo, conservative little city located in the Texas panhandle where the tumbleweeds are plentiful, interstate drivers frequently do 90, and the women... ah, it's not just the panhandle. All the women in Texas are bea-u-ti-ful!

Anywho, Sandra's run for the office of mayor created something of a buzz not just in Amarillo, but throughout the TG community. She ended up placing a distant third behind a couple of apparent political heavyweights, but considering there were eleven people on the ballot, I think Sandra did pretty good and did a lot better than many people would have predicted. With her platform, I'm sure folks will be hearing from her again.

You can read about Sandra's run and get the election results at the Amarillo newspaper's website.

Now if we can just find a TG to run for president.

Kelli

Terror On 17th Street Update

Things have calmed down a bit at my place, and I'm overjoyed to say that I think the mouse is gone. True to their reputation, the critter appeared out of nowhere and returned to nowhere. I don't know how he got in and I don't know how he got out. I do have a theory as to why he visited my place, and those circumstances have been dealt with and eliminated for the moment. In the end, only I know how badly my tough guy image was shattered. It could have been worse... I could have been an elephant.

Was reminded of the movie Shallow Hal in which a guy is hypnotized into seeing people as they really are on the inside. For example, his girlfriend is incredibly... ah... er... heavy... no, maybe large is the word.... Anyways, he is hypnotized to see the inner person which is a funny, sweet, beautiful young woman. Fleeing from this mouse made me glad no one could see my inner sissy. Still, if such hypnotism actually existed, bad things would actually look bad to you and you could avoid them. For example, that peeping Tom that use to live down the street from me would look like the creep that he is, or that chocolate Sundae that I enjoy so much doesn't look so good when it has moved to your waist. Then again, why am I considering the pros and cons of something that doesn't even exist in the first place? I'll blame the mouse for this one.

My private life sometimes sounds like I live in some sort of institution decorated with plush wallpaper, but I really do live a normal life and can come or go as I please from my apartment. Only difference is that I'm a guy who sometimes wears sneakers and sometimes wears heels when I'm on the move.

Go Red Wings!!!

Kelli

There's A Mouse In My House

This is not funny. There is a mouse in my house, and I'm just a little bit... ah... nervous about it.

I had just locked the front door for the night and was picking up a box on the dining room floor when I thought I saw something move in the kitchen. I stood still for a moment, then saw a large mouse scamper from behind the stove to the far end of the kitchen and somehow disappear. I can only say that he "somehow" disappeared because I took off running in the opposite direction. Yuck! I hate mice!

I threw on some clothes and ran out to buy some traps. I really, really, really wished I was a girl at the moment as most people could sympathize with a fretful young woman buying mouse traps, but a big, strong, fretful man buying mouse traps is a bit ridiculous. Okay, I'm not that big and strong, but it still doesn't look right. I really hate mice.

Returned home and started setting the traps. Oh, if one of those varmints had jumped out at me I would have jumped up on the nearest chair or counter top and screamed. I set two mechanical traps and two glue traps. I really wished the store sold something more drastic like land mines and unmanned drones, but beggars can't be choosers. I'm calling the landlady tomorrow. I hate mice.

I turned out the lights and retired to my bedroom, but didn't really feel like going to bed. Began updating blogs and such when I heard one of the mechanical traps go off. I put on my shoes, cautiously entered the living room, and turned on the light. Everything okay. I entered the dining room and turned on the light. So far, so good. I peered into the kitchen but could only see one trap, and it was still set. I turned on the light and actually entered the kitchen only to find that the trap closest to the kitchen door had been sprung, and there was no mouse in it. Now I knew, that sadistic little monster was toying with me. I turned out the lights and returned to the bedroom. This is going to be a long night. I hate mice.

All of this has got me feeling like a complete sissy. It's bad enough to look like a guy but feel like a woman inside. It really messes with my mind when I find myself acting like a "stereotypical" woman in certain situations, and for the record, I have never made fun or laughed at a woman because she was scared of mice. I share total empathy on this subject because I hate mice too.

I'm now barricaded in my bedroom, armed with a broom and several shoes, waiting for daylight or the sound of another trap in motion. It's times like this I'm glad I have always given general instructions for my funeral ("Just bury me in my best suit" male or female, "I want to look as natural as possible" male or female, etc.), just in case that devil mouse gets the better of me tonight. Dang it, I'm just plain old scared of mice!

Kelli

Happy Anniversary... To Me...

Came across this picture sometime during my internet surfing adventures, and thanks to my little ol' autogynephiliac brain, I immediately knew what was happening. Once again, some poor guy has been involved in a terrible accident, knocked unconscious, taken to the hospital, mistakenly given a sex change operation, and has awaken to find he is now a gorgeous, curvaceous, sexaceous (probably not a real word) gal. At least in the world of TG fiction, one man's tragedy can be another man's unfulfilled dreams.

Given the number of times this scenario plays out everyday in real life (approximately 0 times a day), it seems a bit odd this would be such a popular storyline. However, I'm not a critic, just a fan of non-pornographic TG fiction, and I probably enjoy dreaming about such stories as much if not more than the next TG person.

This humble little blog celebrates its first anniversary today (Yay!). In retrospect, I haven't accomplished all I wanted to do in the first year, yet at the same time, I was fully prepared to have no "followers" much less passing readers during the first year. I just wanted a little spot on the www to tell people I was a conservative Christian transgendered person and to let others who consider themselves the same that they were not alone. Praise the Lord, I've done that, I've met others like me, and they in turn have met others. I know how encouraging it can be to a person to find out that they are not alone, yet I am available to fill the role of a lone voice crying in the wilderness anytime that is needed.

It seems that the first year anniversary is the paper anniversary, so it is also a bit odd that the internet has done much to eliminate the need for paper and traditional printed communication. Over twenty years ago, I received the Grace and Lace newsletter in the mail. It was a simple, mostly typewritten little paper, carefully photocopied and mailed out in a plain white envelope. The publication schedule was a bit random, but the publisher, Lee Frances Heller, had a love for the Lord and for His people that shone through the pages of that newsletter. I never knew Ms. Heller personally, but I like to think that in addition to passing on the Lord's love to others, I'm continuing her type of ministry in a small way.

Returning to the picture and storyline mentioned at the start of this post, I myself am a bit of a wuss when it comes to pain and would probably not like to find myself literally in the same situation. However, I am totally open-minded to the possibility of sci-fi transporter device malfunctions, male-female body switches, landlady forcing me to dress like a girl, and prescription drug mishaps that cause my estrogen to spike and my body to feminize. We shall see what the next year brings.

Kelli

Don't Know Anything About Breasts

Saw a story on the television news recently that scientists are having amazing success growing female breast tissue. The breast tissue is the person's own body tissue, so there are no problems with implants or tissue rejection. Doctors are worried about cancer cells in the new tissue, as they theorize the acceleration process in growing healthy cells could also accelerate diseased cells. Also, they don't seem to have a way to definitely stop the growth process, and say it is possible the breast tissue could continue to grow out of control.

All this exciting news really sent my little ol' TG'd brain into overdrive. Growing my own female breasts would be a dream come true, and who knows what else they might be able to grow by the time they perfect this process.

The shape and form of the female body has always been incredibly important to me. Some crossdressers are happy to just put on a dress and maybe a wig. They would never pass in a million years. The female shape and form has always been intensely important to me since my earliest crossdressing days. It was never just enough to put on female clothes. I had to make my body as feminine as possible.

For example, I always wanted a corset, but could never afford one. I solved this problem by buying several old leather belts and cinching them up as tight as I could stand. I would have four or five belts on at time, making certain my feminine waist was the smallest point and the other belts not cinched as tightly.

I saw an advertisement for a crossdresser's padded garment designed to give the hips and thighs a more womanly figure. After experimenting on my own, I found I could get some cotton padding from a craft store, cut it to size and shape, and with the help of a good pair of pantyhose, achieve feminine hips and butt.

The breasts were a bigger challenge to me. I have a bit more up top than most men and could achieve some decent effects with taping and falsies, but it wasn't enough for me. I wanted a pair of breasts that would have the straightest, most homophobic man in town drooling all over himself like the village idiot when he saw me, and a padded bra just wouldn't do the trick.

By accident, I heard about latex prosthetics used in theatrical productions and saw some pictures of female impersonators using fake bosoms. Good heavens! That was the answer! So I found a book with instructions for making latex prosthetics and memorized it. I bought some plaster, some petroleum jelly, shaved my body, and made a mold of my upper torso. That was the easy part, and it turned out pretty good if I do say so myself.

Next came the hard part: making boobs out of modeling clay and putting them on my plaster torso. I am not an artist in the realm of sculpture. Heck, little kids often have to ask what I am trying to make out of kid dough. I could not make a pair of breasts that I was satisfied with.

I then began studying female breasts for several months. I girl watched every chance I could get. I read fashion magazines and bought lingerie catalogs. I read health books at the library. My attention was riveted on television news reports about women's breasts (cosmetic surgery, health, fashion, etc.). Mind you, I didn't consider myself any sort of pervert... I just wanted a great pair of breasts!

However my studies could not make-up for my lack of talent with sculpting, so I packed everything away for future experiments and concentrated on using fashion -- proper bra size, padding, breast placement, etc. -- to achieve a look I could be happy with.

Around that time I came out to my girlfriend. It was still early in the relationship, and she was going to meet some fellow crossdressers. She was helping me get dressed and we were talking as I put on my bra and got my breasts arranged.

"You're not going to wear your bra like that, are you?" she asked.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I mentally reviewed all the fashion magazines I had read, all the catalogs I had memorized, and all the girl-watching subjects I had referenced.

"Yes," I replied, "does something not look right?"

"Oh dear, you don't know the first thing about women's breasts," she informed.

Kelli