OK, so Richmond at last.

So after I picked up the motorcycle on Saturday (June 6),  I had time to ride it shakily around the neighborhood for 15 minutes, noting that it idled rough, but ran smooth — suggesting some congestion of the idle jets in this carb’d classic.  I’d have plenty of time for riding later, plus I needed carb cleaner, fresh gas, a helmet, riding gear, some proper boots.  I packed my things quickly and headed out for Midlothian, Virginia wherein my younger sibling and his lovely wife and new baby, my niece,  reside. 

I was semi-femme, wearing under jeans my spandex nude boy shorts because they wick sweat, and a dangly earring in my left lobe, and I had a spandex camisole on underneath my T-shirt.  I’ve lost a good bit of weight now, an honest 23 pounds, and I’m looking really good compared to my more abundant  self.

It’s nearly a four hour trip, no matter which way you slice it, and I opted for the less-traveled 29 to 58 to 360 to 288 route, rather than 40/85 to 85 to 95 Interstate path — too much traffic for my tastes.  I had a fat baggy, then recently procured, and I packed a glass bowl for the trip.  I was pretty high before I left Greensboro’s outer limits, and was able to maintain a nice buzz for the entire trip, which is, as they say, pretty much the point at least for me. 

Upon my eventual arrival all up in the Midl’n, I found my beautiful niece in the care of her maternal grandmother, who I’ve missed dearly since I last saw her.  The sweetness was sleeping, then Gama burped her a little, fed her a little, and it was the sweetest thing you ever saw.  I love that little baby already, and I just met her!  I held her, and she smiled a little smile among her random facial gestures (she was about 7 weeks old that weekend).  I wish I had children, I really do.  But wifey and I are on the rocks again, since the bike purchase she’s been highly disrespectful to me, so I leave her be when she’s like that.  I really, truly do not think that she loves me.  I’m pretty well convinced.

 

Kisses.

Asheville, cont’d. (SLP version)

I don’t know whether the SLP reference is too arcane or not, but I am of a certain age, darlings, and I love functional classics like the VCR, and the non-digital DVC camcorder.  Of the latter, I have a wonderful Panasonic PV GS320 with the 3xCCD video elements.  The only thing it’s missing is a microphone input for higher fidelity recording to take advantage of the CD quality sound – it has a mic zoom feature that is cool, and I think the GS300 had a stereo in, but there wasn’t one available on the ‘Bay when I was looking.    They’re not real expensive (mine brand new for under $300 Ebay), and the picture quality is probably close to HD, it also is a 3.2 Megapixel still camera, although it’s a handful to lug around just for that when you have a smart phone with a 5.0 MP still that will do video also.  But the video, especially the zoom, is really spectacular.

Okay, so where were we?  Oh yes, time to kill in Asheville, cash money to spend, some dope – I have a small wooden pipe, about the size of my little finger, that I carved from the crook of a branch that I removed from a pink flowering Weeping Cherry tree at the house we left in Virginia when we moved to North Carolina.  I loaded it as soon as I hit the road, that and a glass bowl with a little shotgun on the side.  I am a very cautious driver anyway, and well-trained, having grown up around the Washington Beltway in the 70s-2000.

Tonight’s state of mind: Light headed

Tonight’s drug of choice:  hacheech, at the moment

Expectations: dressing, high, writing

Soundtrack: Donald Fagen – Snowbound (Kamakiriad) on continuous (love the guitar solo, and it’s monotonous enough it fades into the background a little as I write).

Outfit: Sleeveless grey evan picone short dress, black hose, silver and black cat charm bracelet, silver 24″ add-a-bead chain, black 3″ heel boots, black corset bra with my “bust enhancer” elastics to give me some boobage – check the link out: http://cgi.ebay.com/Brand-new-black-bust-support-body-shaper-34-36-XL_W0QQitemZ300322000174QQcmdZViewItemQQptZUS_CSA_WC_Hosiery_Socks?hash=item45ec960d2e&_trksid=p3286.c0.m14&_trkparms=65%3A12%7C66%3A2%7C39%3A1%7C72%3A1205%7C240%3A1318%7C301%3A1%7C293%3A1%7C294%3A50

I usually use two, for extra mushing, as is the case tonight.  Underwear?  Boy shorts, in black – one of my favorites as you probably have guessed.

I know, I know.  Some of you are screaming “Get the fuck down to it already!  Focus!  Asheville!”  When people talk about an uneventful trip, that is really exactly what I had.  I literally rolled on to Asheville without stopping, didn’t see the first local representative of Johnny Law within a mile of me during my drive — about a 2.25 hour trip from when I really got out on the highway.  I got to town, I checked into my hotel room, unpacked my essentials, hit the head, and then I knew I had to scout out some dinner.  One place my wife and I had not had the chance to try the last time we were in Asheville was Tupelo Honey, a nouveau Southern cuisine place where I was fortunate enough to eat a lunch while in town last autumn on business.  So it was a natural choice for vittles.  The meal itself was good, but they had a pumpkin pie creme brulee that is worth thr trip if only for that.  So, decadent and well balanced between custard and delicate sweetness, and the pumpkin pie spices were applied prudently so as to be delectable, but not to overpower. Call ahead, check the online menu.  If you are ever fortunate enough to try it, drop me a comment.

More next time.

Kisses!! KM

A new addition to the household.

More about Asheville, next time, promise.  It’s a story worth telling.  But now, I’ve got an itch.  Sorry, writers’ prerogative.

The weekend that I was to have the great honor and pleasure of welcoming Anna Cecile to the family with a visit to my brother’s house (in the greater Richmond metropolitan area) turned out to be the weekend that I did “it” again.  Well, not exactly it – I told her beforehand this time.

A little prologue.  In 2001, I became enamored of shopping for motorcycles online.  Ebay, Cycletrader.com, and Craigslist hadn’t really arrived on the scene yet – certainly not in or near Danville, Virginia.  So one fine day, I saw the perfect bike, and I bought it.  Found it in dealer inventory in Rhode Island, I think, fresh from the crate (NOS) with 125 miles on it – not even broken in.  The delivery fee was less than 400 clams, it was a great deal on an essentially new 1996 Yamaha Virago 535, red v-twin cruiser with a nice windshield, and a fringed Mustang seat with pillion and backrest.  I didn’t tell my wife what I’d done until the bike was due at my house the next day.  “Honey, I think I did something bad,” was how I started the conversation.  I’d been muttering about doing so for some time, I have friends who ride, and I thought I was quite coordinated enough to do it quite well.  I’ve always been very athletic, good eye/hand coordination, and my last moving violation was in 1987 when I was 47 in a 35, and probably should have been thrown in the clink considering how much alcohol my girlfriend and I imbibed that night.  She was fresh in AA for (not alcohol) substance abuse, and I was out dining fancy and drinking with her, all the eve the both of us barely able to keep our hands off each other.  And who could blame me, as this young lady had a gafurchin like a lima bean in a tiny little hoodie.  Indeed, the guilt sort of straightened me out in a lot of ways for a good long while.  But I digress.  This little bike was so pretty, the 50-year-old lady next-door mentioned to me that she thought it was “beautiful”.  I recounted said encounter to my raconteur brother-in-law and he views her attention to the bulbous curves and gleaming metal between my legs as a come on:  “Yeah, I think she wants to fuck ya.”  I’m telling you, this guy has dragged in some nice talent to the annual Thanksgiving dinner at mom-in-laws, he knows something about what motivates women.

I will tell the full tale on another occasion, but suffice to say for now that I had an accident with the beautiful motorcycle wherein an elderly lady could not keep herself from running me down right in front of my house one evening in November 2001.  I purchased said motorcycle in September 2001.  Neither the accident, nor the bike purchase to begin with, was exactly how this was supposed to have gone down, but no use any of us crying over spilt Chopin.

Now, on with it.  So about Tuesday, I spied an ad on Cycletrader.com – an online motorycle and motor sports vehicle classified service.  A lot of dealers put their used inventory up online here and it will sit there until somebody looking for one happens upon it, and boom, dealer hasn’t put in much work to try to sell it.  That is how I found the pristine Yamaha.  This time, after 8 years of thinking about it, and after reflecting long on my accident and the lessons I learned, I’ve been yearning for, searching for a Honda VFR 750 in the 1993-1997 (version 4, FV) era.  I was emailing people and calling about bikes from California to Maine to Michigan, to the panhandle of Florida, trying to find just the right bike.  The right one popped up only 35 miles from home, and it had all the right stuff.  I called the guy, a private owner (!), and we chatted about the bike.  He offers to email me some photos, but I told him we were so close I’d just come by and see it in person.  He seemed to like that.  He had a no-haggle deal – you pay the price, or you add an extra $1000 to the price and try to haggle him down.  So on Friday I pulled out $2400 in cash from the bank, and had some walking around money, bitches.  I went to see the man about the horse, so to speak, it was a fine steed as advertised, and he agreed to ride it to my house for me, since I haven’t been on a bike in 8 years, and I wasn’t licensed or insured.  I gave him an extra $100 and a ride home for his trouble, he seemed to enjoy the last ride on his VFR, at one point on the highway he blasted past me going at least 90, so that I could see it accelerate like a scalded dog, and so I could listen to the aftermarket D&D slip-on can.  So it’s mine, mine, mine all mine now, and can I just tell you – this is one helluva machine.  I’m hoping to have some really good times aboard that bike, and to stay safe and keep the rubber side down.  I’ll tell you about my plans for riding safe in a future blog.

I promise I’ll tell you about Richmond next time.

Sleepy kisses, KM

not to buy the boots? (or, ’something of a fundamental question’)

My apologies for being late on getting this up, and it’s condensed at that.  Let’s make a rule – I promise never to promise to do anything “tomorrow”.  That may seem downright lawyerly, but you can’t be disappointed ever if I promise to get to something “next time”.  I’ll keep that promise.  But promising to do something “tomorrow”, in cyberspace, seems rather pointless.  This is the only space in which we have some control over at least the forward movement of time.  The past is the past, of course.

Okay so I’m in Asheville, hippie-town western NC, with a nice little dimebag, some girlie underwear and makeup, and some time on my hands before an amazing musicfest known as Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam.  What does a girl do .  .  . hmm . . . oh yeah – we go shopping!  I actually looked at high-heeled boots in ShoeCarnival while on a earlier business trip to Asheville.  The saleswoman there that afternoon actually offered to let me use the dressing room if I wanted to try anything on.  That was an unsettling moment for me, as accepting her offer required an admission that I was not yet ready to make.  That was a pivotal moment for me, especially in terms of making progress toward accepting that I am transgendered, a crossdresser (CD).

More about Asheville, next time.  Not wanting to turn this into another boring southern confessional pretending to some facsimile of the ”great american novel”, I’m going to take some breaks in the storytelling for some current events.  I’ll usually have a thread or two running through these entries, keep things spicy.  It’s how my mind works, it’s a little easier that way.

 Til then, kisses!!  KM

To buy the boots, or . . .

My trip to Asheville in December to attend the Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam was something I looked forward to for months – I thought about it all summer, and I purchased my ticket() the day they went on sale.  I asked a number of friends if they were interested in coming along, but the economy of September 2008 was just scary enough that all of my concert-going buddies begged off, having expended their concert funds already on a steady diet of jam bands and music festivals, and in the case of one musician friend, regular troubadoing sessions in bars and at festivals across the Commonwealth, playing in a working band.  He was, until he entered rehab in August after a twenty-five year marijuana and hallucinogen binge that claimed one marriage, nearly another relationship or 3 along the way, including raising a young boy in that environment.  I deleted a nonsequiter here, as there’s a lot here to tell and I don’t want to get side-tracked.

So up until my impending trip to Asheville, I’ve never had the opportunity to be on my own, with a wardrobeI plan ahead for, and in a place where no one knows who I am for a weekend of music, makeup, a wig, a little weed, some fine dining, great surroundings and other peace-loving people.  Yes, it’s like that, a very free place.  So you can imagine the testosterone was running wild that whole week, knowing I had Friday off for my trip to Asheville from Winston-Salem.

The weekend really began when on my day off for the trip I got the call from the friend of a since-abandoned acquaintance met through Craigslist.  Yes, people really meet other people on Craigslist who don’t (or haven’t) kill them.  His connection hadn’t come through yet, but they were getting together to jam, so I went over to the studio, listened to some singing tracks, and smoked a little, and then scored enough crystal-laden bud via gift to make it an interesting weekend, and headed for Asheville from there.  In my luggage I discreetly packed a few pairs of my panties, maybe a blouse and skirt, some shoes I picked up at Goodwill – black suede 2-1/2″ heels, as well as some ordinary male drab, my not at all sexy, but quite necessary cpap machine so I could sleep, and my stylish Dooney & Bourke kit bag.  My wife at the time was aware of my dressing, we’d had the talk, and she didn’t bat an eye.

I hate to do this, but it’s way past my bedtime, I will continue this tomorrow . . . swear to god.

 

Kisses!!!! KM

The, um, “situation” takes a whisker, and a turn

First, the turn.  While my wife of now 17 years initially was somewhat accepting of my cross-dressing, we’ve hit a few potholes along the way.  For example, one night while dressed up in my “man-cave” room above the garage, I felt like having a cigarette.  I don’t smoke in the house, so that involves me walking down the main staircase in the house, and out the back door to the screened-in porch.  I walk down the stairs in drag (no makeup, no wig that night) and spousy says, “ohhh, why are you doing this?”  And I am thinking, uh honey, we just had this conversation a couple weeks ago, and I told you I don’t really understand why this brings me comfort and excitement, but that it does.   She also has vocalized a concern that I not “flaunt” it, but I remind her that I’ve been hoarding my women’s clothing for more than a year, and she didn’t even know. 

But then I asked her to pick up some skirt hangers next time she’s in a store that has them, and what do you know, she does!  Brought me five skirt hangers for my femme wardrobe.  And she stopped snickering about my choice of underwear in the morning now – most of the time I choose panties to wear beneath my very conservative suit, dress shirt and tie.  I really enjoy the consciousness I have of my underwear throughout the day.  I have very comfortable panties, for the most part – still sexy to me, in that they fit me well, and I do own some very cute ones that are a little skimpy, but nothing shocking.  Oh, and if you didn’t miss a detail, I needed skirt hangers because I was out shopping recently, and I picked up some nice finds at the local Goodwill.  I’ll tell you about my haul some other time, but let’s say I made a killing, and purchased some killer threads for a song – yaay!

So that brings me to the whisker.  I’ve begun experimenting with shaving various parts of my body, including my armpits, the small of my back (furry, otherwise) and my chest down to my nipples.  I wanted to shave my legs in their entirety, but for now I am satisfied with having one thigh, my left thigh as a matter of fact, shaved smooth.  I want to shave most of my manly hair off because it is a little unsightly when I’m dressing well enough to otherwise “pass”, but I have hairy legs, back, chest or underarms that show under, through, or around my outfits.  I could wear something less revealing to be sure, but I am 5′7″, and I have lost a lot of weight on my way to an athletic body, and I have the potential to look like a very nice looking woman.  When I get my body where I want it, I want what every girl wants — to be able to dress in a way that I enjoy, to wear clothes that are fun, and to feel sexy and dressed up when I’m, well, dressed-up.  So this fall, when short pants are put away for a month or two, well, we’ll see if I have the guts, won’t we?

 Sorry it’s been a while since I wrote, so many things to write about and so little time.  Tonight, for the curious: black cotton elastic bikini bottoms – bits tucked under, black argyle hose, cleavage-maker and black corset bra (to hold up my little tiny squeezed-together manboobies), ankle-length black leather skirt (Goodwill, $5), 3″ black leather heels, grey microfiber t-top, and a silver/onyx and tiger-eye earring in my one piercing – left ear (of course!).  I’ll try to let you know when I’m stylin’ if you’re interested in what’s in my closet besides me.  Mwaaah.

Kisses – KM

on becoming an uncle

I do my best not to ascribe ulterior motive or even ill will to the otherwise interpretable actions and words of others.  I give others the benefit of the doubt unless circumstances or past history with that person counsel against extending the courtesy of taking someone at his/her words.  But it struck a nerve in me when I called my brother on Saturday to check on the progress of his wife’s pregnancy — she has been on bedrest for more than four weeks due to an unexpected condition that ended with her water breaking last week — and he announced, with some surprise in his voice, “you’re an uncle!”  I said, “well congratulations!  So she must have just had the baby?”  He tells me, “No, she had the baby Thursday, didn’t you get the email?”  My first niece, Anna tipped the scales at 4 pounds, 2 ounces, born four weeks early, poor dear, but I understand she’s doing very well and breathing unaided, and feeding by mouth already.  Huzzah!!  A fighter already, a very good sign, in my eyes.

A fucking email?  Are you shitting me?  A goddamn email — a “blast” email sent to all of proud papa’s friends and distant relatives, and btw, to my work email address, sent during a week in which I was out of the office on vacation , and in response to which an ‘out of office’ reply message would have issued to the sender — to announce the birth of the first child of our family’s next generation?

I was gracious, and congratulatory, and didn’t display any hurt feelings at all, and I even sent a text msg to my dad’s mobile congratulating he and mom on their achieving grandparenthood.  I didn’t even let on to anyone that anything at all was amiss, until dad wrote me back  and asked whether I saw the baby on the NICU-cam.  I wrote dad back, told him I was not provided the link/password, and that i didn’t even hear about the birth until I inquired of my brother how everyone was doing.  Did dad write back with the link?  No, his voicemail message back to me questioned how it could be that I didn’t get the message, because he could see that the email had been sent to my email address at work.  He allowed that it might have been snagged by my spam-blocker because it had been sent to a whole stack of recipients.  Uh, okay so you’re either questioning my truthfulness, or you’re flat-out calling me a liar and telling me it didn’t happen — when it did.   This exchange typifies my father’s attitude and approach to me, his wisest son, whether he knows it or not.  Son #1 is a bit of a fuckup, and has never been reliable, responsible, or particularly interested in being part of this family, although he is quick to jump on a bandwagon if he sees one form up – his main attribute, a weird sycophancy for the authority figure in the room, which blossomed from a mainstay survival tool in high school.  Son #3 is the “brilliant” doctor who did equally as well as I in school, who doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, working hard, or thinking for himself.  No, I am the apple that landed closest to the tree (I’ve exceeded dad on a number of counts, for which he ought to be proud) in terms of my work ethic, intellect, professional temperament, academic and worklife promise, and in actually living out the teachings of Christ in my dealings with my fellow man (whether I go to church or not), and yet I’m black sheep, baby.  Second, when he’s not calling me a liar to my face (why would I lie about not getting notice of the baby’s birth from a person in my family who  was in the know?), he’s completely missing the point as usual — in my worldview, in finer times than these, births in the immediate family merited a telegram.  Now, oh a telephone call to a brother is probably the minimum socially acceptable method for announcing a joyous occasion like the birth of a first-born.

I sent dad a quick reply to the effect that a telephone call would have been nice, and his response was, hey, to be fair, d has been under a lot of stress with the decision to induce labor, and all that entails.  To which I say, to paraphrase john binder in the breakfast club, yeah,  well what about you, dad?  Picking up the phone to tell me what is happening is just asking too much for you and mom to handle?

Boys and girls, nothing, and i mean nothing, says “I hate your stinking guts, fucker” more than neglecting to include you in one of life’s truly joyful moments when you had a right to be in the loop.  But that’s my family for you, the apple hasn’t landed far from the tree.

kisses, km

Drinking it all in;

Today is as fine a day as you will ever see in North Carolina.  I am fortunate enough to be on holiday this fortnight, so that I can enjoy the glory of the Carolina blue sky, the persistent breeze pushing the treetops into arrhythmic motion, clumsy doves blown sideways, then correcting course.

Having a dreamy smoke and an ice-cold Mexican beer this afternoon, I’ll graduate to rum and Coke soon enough this evening.  Wearing my ‘last-night’ black lace panties-named as such because they called to me from the Marshall’s rack as an appropriately sexy pair to wear the last night spent in my apartment in the West Fourth apartment I utilized while commuting from Danville a couple days a week-and a light, silky black camisole under my jeans and a loose gray t-shirt, I am currently barefooted and perfectly comfortable with the springtime ambient temperature close to 75f in the shade.

I just refreshed with a chilled Magic Hat #9, now listening to a live Dead show from 1970, Jerry playing like a rock lead guitarist that night at the Fillmore.  All I can say

is that days like this, when I don’t have to work at all, are the reason I work as hard as I do the rest of my days.

Well, the week is just beginning, no telling what might happen — I’ll post again soon.

til then, kisses! KM

Unlikely victory on the soccer pitch . . .

I play in an adult soccer league in my town, in the Over-40 division, of course, and in connection with the league, we play our 90-minute regulation games against other Over-40 teams on Sunday afternoons at some public fields just north of town.  We played our fourth game (we’ve had a few rainouts) against the top-ranked team from last year, also the current leaders in league standings, and prevailed by a score of 2-1.  It was a hard-fought match, with both the S defense, and our goalkeeper tested time and again by the strong, swift and decisive forwards of our opponents.  Both of our goals were supplied by one of our strikers who was in the right place at the right time for the first goal, and who had a spectacular fast-break goal for his second of the afternoon.  Weather conditions were perfect for gardening, though a little warm for soccer, with temperatures in the low-80s (F), and a little humidity.  Our goalkeeper put in an amazing performance also, covering the entire net all at once, it seemed.

While I love the game, and I’m definitely having a ball getting out there and playing again, I seem to be feeling my age a little, as my knees in particular take a few days to mostly recover from the pounding they take on the field.  I started taking a Glucosamine, and Chondroitin supplement to help me with my joint discomfort after the games, and the ibuprofen seems to help too in keeping the pain manageable for the first few days after we play.

While in my younger days I wore an athletic supporter for, um, well, support during my sporting, I find that today, Sweet Nothings(R) brand lace-leg boy shorts provide enough elasticity to keep the boys from jangling around down there, yet they are hydrophilic, wicking moisture away where it counts the most.  Just a tip for the dressing, sporty man, so to speak.

Stay sweet – KM

Obsequiousness, and the “empty chairs” in the White House press room

I watched the press conference of President Obama last night, “Number 2″ in a series, apparently, and I was really captivated by his remarks and responses to the reporters’ questions for the first 30 minutes.  Perhaps it was just the by-now odd scene of a President holding forth competently, even masterfully, on a wide range of subject matter in the context of an unrehearsed, televised press conference.  This spectacle is something we’ve grown accustomed to not seeing for the past 8+ years.  But then as if someone hit a switch, I suddenly became almost painfully aware of a kind of verbal tick of this young President that seemed at odds with the image he is or should be working to project.

Specifically, as if suddenly, almost uniformly President Obama’s responses to questions contained references to people not in the room, and not behind the podium.  More than once I heard the President state, “You don’t have to take my word for it, [British Prime Minister Gordon Brown, for example] said the same thing.”  He also said, ugh, “and my colleague John McCain also questioned that.”  In purely logical terms, it should be apparent to most that just because someone says the same thing that you recently declared, or if they profess to believe what you believe, doesn’t mean (they or) you are right.  But on a more fundamental level, the brand of thinking that such comments reveal suggests that President Obama may still be grappling with the burden of winning the Presidential race, rather than making a smooth transition to effective national leader, actor, and commander-in-chief.  His remarks and responses, by repeatedly offering that, “I have this idea, and well, hey, look at all these other smart guys that agree with me!”, seem way, way too deferential to the viewpoints of those lacking the stature of, ahem, the President of the United States.  Mr. President, we care what you think, and know, and understand and decide.  We don’t particularly care whether others agree with you — indeed, we elected you with the understanding that you were here to shake up Washington, and to bring a much-needed, and different brand of responsiveness to the needs of the citizens to our 21st century political process.  We want results, we want you to lead us, and to lead the debate in Washington.  We want you to persuade us that you are right, that you are leading us in the right direction, and that you will get this country back on track.  Besides, you never know when one of the people you cite as a learned authority could become your opponent in 2012, or who could try to throw a big wrench in your plans for this country – you need to be more thoughtful in where you look for support for your decisions and ideas.  Essentially, if you mean it, if you do your due diligence, if you use sound judgment, and if you make the tough decisions that need to be made in order to get the Winnebago of our economy out of the drainage ditch and back on the road to recovery and prosperity, you will shine on your own, and all those other guys will fall into void of the historical obscurity that is the road behind us.

President Obama, have confidence in yourself, and in the righteousness of your ideas, and your well-reasoned conclusions, and insightful observations.  You know this stuff, you handled the press conference, otherwise, like a President.  So stand on your own merits, and quit quoting other, lesser figures as support for your positions.  It will only diminish your stature before the American people.

Kisses – KM

NC snow, and a miserable common cold

We had a little weather excitement here this week in the Piedmont Triad, receiving more than 5″ of snow between Sunday night, and Monday morning.  We were able to get out OK, although to my Northern readers that should be a given – 5 inches?  That’s a light dusting in Lansing, Michigan, from whence I hailed.  But it was pretty, and the birds were especially active at our feeders the last several days.  Our dog Greta likes to make snow angels, and she put on a little show for me last night, making two angels in the front yard.  Precious!!

I’m cold-blooded, to a certain extent, and the cold weather doesn’t particularly bother me – except when my wife brings home a raging cold from one of her office mates.  I had a fever yesterday, and I just could not get, or stay warm.  I shut the door to my office, and turned on my outlaw space heater, put on a sweater, and I generally ached and sneezed through the day, nose running constantly.  I emptied my box of nice, aloe-coated tissues, and went to the supply closet for a new box, but I found the office manager bought a carton of cheaper boxes, with the tissues that feel like fine sandpaper on your face.  Yeah, I had quite a time enduring yesterday.  I came home, fell into bed, watched a little Biggest Loser, took some medicine, and slept a decent night’s sleep.  I feel marginally better today, in that I do not seem to have a fever.  I’m pretty medicined up now, but my symptoms are mostly still there, looks like I’ll have to put up with this another day.

I took a couple swipes at my thigh with  a razor in the shower yesterday, and when I was done, as much as I’ve fantasized about it, I think I actually like the bare leg look, it feels even better than it looks, and so I find myself actually yearning to do a more complete job shaving my legs all the way down to my toes, and up to my . . . I’ll keep you posted as I work this little kink out – that ought to keep you on the edge of your seat, my little naughties.

Kisses – KM

all up in the knoxville hilton tonight

I’m actually back in Winston-Salem today as I try to finish up this post, which started from the road.  I played soccer in our adult soccer league (over 40s!) on Sunday, I felt good, and my conditioning has improved substantially from last fall when I picked up the sport again after a 25 year layoff.  Honestly, the whole sporty life I’m liiving now is as much for my physical health and well-being as it is an attempt to get my figure to a more pleasing body fat ratio so I look better ‘en femme’.  I’m running a delicate balance, trying to maintain enough fleshiness to be able to approximate small but apparent female breasts (with a little coaxing from spandex in the right places) for when I’m all dressed up and trying to pass, but becoming slender and toned enough to lose the double chin that has crept in with age, and general sedentariness.  Toward that end, I received my package from England last night when I arrived home from my quick road trip to Tennessee, and it contained my two (one black, one white) corset bras, size 40B.  They fit perfectly, I nearly filled out the cups as it was, although that plan comes to fruition when I receive the other geegaws I ordered – an elastic thingamabob that’s supposed to mush all my back, side, and gut fat together to make for some believable cleavage up front.  Hell, I oughta post a picture when it comes together.  The sites I’ve been reading suggest that these little silicone ‘biscuits’ secured to the bottom of the cups in the corset bras will push ^ ^ up my boob flesh to complete the effect.  We will see how that all turns out – I’m not interested in taking hormones at this time to grow my own pair, so to speak.

Anyway, the road trip to Tennessee was to attend a trial in a court in Knoxville.  I left straightaway from the football match, a bruising affair where we were pretty well clobbered, as much by the weather (30F, 20 mph wind at our backs first half, in our face second half) as by our opponents, 3-nil.  But I exited the pitch without any injury, definitely sore and exhausted, but my blood was pumping, and the adrenalin rush, coupled with one “5-hour energy”, a fresh pack of Doral Lights, and a small bowl full of homegrown lasted me to Knoxville, which was all I needed.  I will say that the nighttime drive from Winston-Salem to Knoxville is a bit hairy, especially once you leave the straightaways and gentle hills of Asheville, and keep heading west.  The spaghetti-like hairpin turns through the mountains as you near the Pigeon River and the Tennessee border are only for the bold or fearless when you’re running near 80 mph, passing transfer trucks that are confined to the right lanes, somehow squeezing through the very narrow space between their rattling frames and the double-height concrete Jersey barriers, hoping you don’t have a sudden muscle twitch, or a sneeze, or drop your goddamned burning cigarette in your lap.  But the intensity of it helps keep me focused – probably an ADD thing, honestly.

I love to get on the road, turn on some traveling music – this time, a live concert of The Black Crowes, doing some originals (great and rare live version of By Your Side, one of my favs), and some nice covers, including Up on Cripple Creek, by Little Feet. 

I will be in Staunton Thursday, Richmond Friday, Raleigh on Saturday – just a travelling trick this week.  Can’t wait to slip on a fresh pair of panties, some stockings, a camisole, and change my earring for a fun weekend of music and parties.  Ciao, bella.

Kisses – KM

Bust(ier)ed

My wife was, uncharacteristically, putting my freshly washed (mens) underwear away for me on Friday morning, as she was expecting a friend from out of town later that day, and I was already at work, when she found a pair of my black lace hipsters that I had slipped into my drawer the night before. After her friend left yesterday afternoon, she confronted me, and asked who they belonged to – she suspected me of having an affair. When I knew I’d been caught cold, I told her the truth – “they’re mine, they belong to me.” At first she thought I was lying, that I had concocted a story to cover myself if I got caught, but then we had a pretty long conversation about what I’ve been up to, my dressing, the urge to do so, the urge to go out in public dressed, makeup, it explained my earring for her, and I showed her my stash of clothes and shoes to dispel any doubts that may have lingered.

She was a criminal justice major in college, and she took a lot of classes about abnormal psychology, and the like, so she understands that people can be “hard-wired” this way from birth or a very young age, and I told her about my history with cross-dressing, which goes back to feelings I had early, early on in childhood. She is accepting, she prefers I do it in the privacy of our home, rather than be out on the street (she’s worried about someone wanting to hurt me), all in all I’m so glad I got pinched, because she now seems to understand me a little better. I told her how much I hated the deception, and apologized for not telling her long ago – she’s relieved this is all it is, I was able to do a load of intimates last night that needed washing without fear of being busted. The best part is, she sat down, and went through her jewelry stash last night, and picked out a few things for me that she doesn’t, and wouldn’t wear because they’re not her style, including some earrings, necklaces, and a pretty filigree pin!

OMG, what a relief this was for me – she understood why I kept it a secret, she was so loving, understanding and kind about this, and I told her she couldn’t know what this meant to me, how it had lifted a burden from me.

Thought I’d share, I knew there was some possibility I’d get caught at some point, despite my best efforts to hide it, but I did not imagine my wife reacting positively the way she did, and being accepting of me dressing at home just like that.

Kisses, KM’s been outed :^)

all dressed up, nowheresville

This morning, I am blogging from bed via my Nokia N800 internet tablet. I wanted to put a thought or three down before I turn in. After being a member of Laura’s Playground for more than a year now, I observe that one of the most common reactions from girlfriends and spouses when their mate comes out to them as a cd’er is for the s.o. to ask if we are gay. For the record, I am straight, not homosexual. I have had two homosexual experiences in my life, which from the statistics is more than most men will admit to, even though Kinsey’s results show such (especially adolescent experiences)experiences to be typical throughout the population. My particular homosexual experiences were also incestuous, and they both occurred before I turned 18, so technically and legally speaking, I was not capable of consenting to either relationship, although the relationship with my brother was certainly voluntary and not forced upon me except perhaps in the sense that I looked up to my brother and perhaps he took advantage of my youth as well as the fact that he was maturing sexually sooner than I, him being a year older than I. My uncle is another story, however. He lured me with praise, special attention, gifts, he let me use his cameras (he was an amateur photographer) and the like, all the while ridiculing my brother so I would feel special. We went skinny-dipping together down at the creek behind our home, on the premise that he and his siblings used to do it all the time when they were young, and this was a right of passage. I swam in the nude, my young athletic body must have been tantalizing to him, as I tried to hide my erection underwater at first, and then as I quickly lost my inhibitions and allowed him to see my manhood. That was when he photographed me, and I posed for him as an artist’s subject. Later, he took me to a cast party for a play he was crewing on, enticed me with the beautiful Amanda, who as if scripted, teased and flirted with me as he fed me hard liquor, and got me so drunk I vomited by the side of the road on the way back to his rented townhouse where I would sleep with him that night. He is a pedophile who had done this before and I’m sure he has since, and I am a coward because I never told anyone about it until revealed it to my psychiatrist when I was 20. I am now 42.

More later, kisses-KM

Birthday reflections

Today is my birthday, #42 for those of you who are counting, which I have always shared with Dr. Martin Luther King, much to my delight over the years.  I have had, as many of you know, one hell of a year, at least emotionally speaking.  It started out badly, with the Staunton debacle — a case of being too high, too angry and bitter, and I managed to forever alter several friendships that I thought were lasting and loyal.  

The ugliness continued throughout the year, as my relationship with my wife deteriorated once she began to make it clear that she doesn’t respect me for a variety of reasons — primarily among these is my addiction to celebrating 420.  Look, I have a good job, a beautiful home out in a beautiful area in the country outside of town, some wonderful small animals I care for and share my space with.  If I’m a head, on my own time, outside of work, and in a way that does not interfere with my day job, if I keep my stuff picked up, if I meet my responsibilities at home, and in every other aspect of my life, then I feel if I choose to smoke, that’s my choice.  If I was a drinking man, and I wanted to take a drink, and it didn’t make me mean, or brooding, I’d feel the same way.  She doesn’t want to be around it at all, and I respect that by keeping it away from her, and mostly out of her sight.  But her feelings on the subject are strong, and she has branded me a loser, and someone not worthy of her respect.  More than that, I deserve harsh, unforgiving, inconsiderate, and disrespectful treatment by my spouse because I have this little addiction issue.  Things have reached a pretty serious level in my book, because I have found in recent weeks that I am losing interest in this woman I have spent the last 15 1/2 years of my life caring for, and loving – showing my love in so many ways, large and small, moreso than telling her how I feel about her.  I think once they lose respect for you, whether it’s your fault or not, it may not be possible to get that back.  Honestly, once the respect side of the equation is gone, I’m not sure anything can be done to restore the respect, and rebuild the relationship.  There’s a danger that the relationship will always be partially false, a lie we tell each other to rationalize remaining in the same house.  I think part of my emotional upheaval of this year has been dealing with the slow death of my marriage from the thousand cuts it has suffered this past year.  It’s affected my outlook on life, caused distractions in my work, and has led to my isolation, in large part, because I have lost a certain trust in people for all my tribulations.  If a spouse, my soul-mate, can lose respect for me, and breach trust, and if she looks at me the way she has expressed she does, is there any hope for a straightforward relationship with any acquaintance?  I’ve known my wife for nearly twenty years, and I have been married to her for 15.5 years — I am her best friend in the world, I know her better than anyone.  She thinks I’m a complete shithead cuz I dabble in the Kush in my downtime.

Being something of a narcissist, I probably spend too much time thinking about myself, and not thinking of others.  I think it can be difficult to strike an appropriate balance between looking out for one’s own interests and taking every opportunity to enjoy this one life with which we have been blessed, versus becoming introverted, and isolated from others, and losing sight of the undeniable fact that we are all members of the human family, interconnected by our suffering as much as we are our triumphs.

I found myself this past year becoming more isolated, more introverted, and feeling more and more often like it’s barely worth the energy to resist choosing a path that leads to something close to a hermitic life, with minimal contact with others beyond the polite, arms-length “acquaintanceship” that we most often share with our work colleagues.  You see, it takes energy, commitment, and desire to participate in a group activity, to go out and spend time with other people, to make small talk, to go out to lunch with the fellas from the office, to visit a family member.  I find myself spending more and more time alone — alone in my own thoughts, doing things that I alone enjoy, much more so than being with others.

As far as I know, my wife is ignorant of my cross-dressing.  I’ve kept it secret, hidden it from her as best I can.  Occasionally, I’ll wash my panties and other dress-up clothes in the washing machine at home, and I’ve accidentally left the settings on “delicate” for washer and dryer.  She’s probably noticed, but has not, as far as I know, figured out why I washed a delicate load while she was out.

 

The greatest blessing this year has been P’s trips to Danville, Virginia once per month to get her hair done at her favorite salon, and to visit with and dine out with her friends back there.  I usually jet out of work close to 5:00pm (unusual for me), and skedaddle my ass back home for a few hours of dressing, makeup practice, and luxuriating in my feminineness.  While I had questioned her about the need to travel 180 miles round trip every month to go to a hairdresser that she thinks does a “decent”, but not bang-up job on her ‘do, I’ve come to enjoy (even long for) her scheduled absence, and I hope she never changes hairdressers . . .

So, with that and with my constant nagging concern about the impact of the gyrations of the global economic mess on my IRA account investments, you have the lions’ share of my problems in this life.  Not too long a list of the bitch for 42 year, eh?  Well, we haven’t yet talked about my mother and father, so there will be more to discuss on this topic later.

 

Birthday kisses,

KM