Myths, Fallacies and Most Therapists Without A Clue

(Yep, at 92 my own hair – longest ever.)


Blog Post 76 – Influence On Our Lives

Sometime in our journeys as cross dressers I’m sure most of us have wondered if this strange yearning to wear female clothes has caused harm, been detrimental in pursuing our careers, in our scholastic achievements or in our search for a spouse along with a family. Sure, there is a small percent who knew something was wrong with their gender orientation before puberty. If they were lucky, parents paid for their transitioning though in most cases early compromising without parental support was most daunting. Nevertheless, those “born in the wrong body” are not included in this discussion for their desired path is already evident. Obviously, a teenager taking hormones and then going through a physical transition is facing a “game changer” head-on that will drastically alter their social, scholastic and career paths so there is no point including that group in this post. True that for reasons influenced by family, church or society their real persona may remain hidden even to mid-life. They will probably transition ꟷ physically or just psychologically ─ eventually. Whether putting off decision making intentionally or subconsciously they will, early on, have similar experiences to what the rest of us have or will face.
First, let’s consider our experiences from pre-puberty through the teen-age years: A poll discussed in an earlier blog revealed that roughly half of early-on heterosexual cross dressers are shy and introverted youngsters ꟷ characteristics usually carried forward into later years. I, being among them, wish to share a few of my own experiences in the hope that they will nudge you to remember similar events in your own early youth. I recall distancing myself from parties given by school-mates. Girls were like butterflies – okay to look at but not to touch. “Spin the bottle” was a popular game in those years but to kiss a girl on the lips was a real challenge for me. I recall a young lady well beyond me in enjoying the arts, theater, and academically ꟷ far more mature though we were of same age. Both sixteen, we would talk for hours in my family’s car returning from a dance but I never touched her. Assuming she was “normal” I’m sure that’s not what she had in mind. More than likely I was probably wearing a girdle swiped from my mother while on that date. In fact after the war ended I met her dad at a golf driving range. He told me that she was happily married with three children ─ wisely didn’t wait around for me to “grow up”.
Underdressing while going roller skating at a local arena (popular sport in the 1940s) was not unusual for me. Thinking back it’s amazing to realize that I didn’t seem concerned that I may have been injured and my secret revealed ─ today a consideration paramount when venturing out.
I did have several crushes during high school. For several years, for one gal in particular, I would leave a Christmas present on her doorstep without even signing a card. Certainly I would call that behavior as shy!
It was more than just the crossdressing factor on my part that made me reticent in pursuing a relationship. Then, after military, at age twenty, I still believed that I needed an education and a decent job before considering a family. True that many teenagers fall in love and get married despite the anticipated or not foreseen hurdles. I do believe that for me and for many of the readers of this blog, our cding feelings adds a degree of uncertainty to life’s decision making.

Of the poll alluded to we have seen that about twenty-five percent of us were not timid at all but blended in socially with our non-CD friends ꟷ no apparent problems. Another quarter were actually aggressive dealing with the opposite sex. Interestingly, in all three groups a number of responses mentioned that they were keenly aware that their genitals were smaller than those of their friends. The reactions in that physically concerned group would evidently conclude that they were likely more feminine in their bodily attributes; while in the more aggressive segment the genital-challenged segment recounted that they were attracting the girls through their penchant for oral sex to make up for their feelings of inadequacy. Should add to this paragraph that within the majority segment of heterosexual cross dressers that try over the years to perfect their feminine appearance to the greatest extent feasible there is an advantage of having less “junk” than others in order to tuck effectively.

In addition the desirability and attraction towards athleticism are diminished. Few young CDers become “jocks”. Not likely that too many early cross dressers become letter men at college. Recent publicity involving Bruce Jenner (an Olympic gold medal winner) and also a former Navy Seal who wrote a memoir are not exceptions to the above since they would be included in those groups that are already gay or bi-sexual at birth.

Obviously then, our cross dressing inclinations do effect the paths we might take towards our future development. Scholastically, Cding affects most of us grade-wise. As an example, I was in the bottom third of my high school classes for during that earlier period studying was shared by my time fixating on Cding. Of course the reader might cite exceptions but for the majority of us our social and scholastic progress were greatly influenced in the years before high school graduation by a hand we are unknowingly dealt by the time of our berth. For those who go on to college cding remains a diversion ꟷ influencing our grades to the same greater or lesser degree as it did previously.

As initially stated a small percent transitioned (Either mentally, physically or both) early on in life and are not included in this discussion.  However, this writer should add that those who transitioned in later years probably were subjected to, in the first part of their lives, similar diversions to those described above.


Posting soon: “Influence On The Later Part Of Our Lives” as Blog 77



Myths, Fallacies and Most Therapists Without a Clue

Post No. 75

As my rather eventful life’s journey draws to a close two things keep bugging me and perhaps many of you too. The first: Have I contributed to this world I leave? Have I left a legacy? You might say, rightly, I’ve been brooding on this subject.
I will be quoting from letters received from a dear friend and a nationally acclaimed artist, who painted the cover of my memoir, Never Climbed His Mountain – Second Edition. Patrick X. Nidorf, or “Pax”, is a former catholic priest in the Augustinian monastic order, a psychotherapist and founder of Dignity ─ a catholic gender support group with over fifty chapters. His comments seem to resonate for me.  When I reached out to him for his thoughts on this subject his first comment was right on ꟷ “you are having the blues, the dark night of the soul”. So indeed I do.
My musings may seem disjointed but putting them all together you might see where I’m headed: There are over seven billion people on this planet with two eyes, two ears, one mouth and one nose and yet we all appear to look different from each other! Consider that each of our brains have more than a billion neurotransmitters wired in combinations unique to each of us. So I go on the assumption that I was put on this earth – brain wired in its exclusive way – for a special purpose. Will I have served that purpose before I leave? Will I have left a mark that will remain through the ages?
More than two hundred years ago two men before they were fifty, Napoleon and Beethoven, did that. So too Gandhi and Mother Teresa achieved that goal. John D. Rockefeller and Tom Edison and, very recently, Bill Gates accomplished that goal also at an early age ꟷ all memorialized for the ages.  But, like the billions born and died in our brief past history, and the billions coming tomorrow, as said in the chess community: “at the end of the game the King and the Pawn are put away in the same box”. We all return to dust into the planet called earth, this planet, one of a few planets bound by gravitation to whirl in black matter, we call space, around our sun, our solar system ─ one of billions comprising our galaxy and one of billions of galaxies in this cosmos  ꟷ rapidly fleeing, expanding away from each other. Making me feel even more insignificant was a recent findings in 2016 AD of the discovery of nine galaxies, gravitationally united, some eleven plus billion light years away ─ or long before the Big Bang created our universe! Point: Even those who, without question, stand out within these past few hundred years, they are still hardly a blip in our planet’s journey. So don’t I have audacity to even consider what indelible mark I could possibly make on mankind?
Still searching to find some meaning to my existence, to my relation to the grand scheme of things, I’ve been fascinated by bugs. Yes, bugs the size of a pin’s point. When I hover over one ꟷ size-wise I’m a Mt. Everest relating to a seed in a valley at its base ─ that bug in some unimaginable way senses the danger and tries to flee! What brain? What sensory apparatus is contained in that minuscule living thing? I’m at a loss of understanding and yet I see an analogy likening that microscopic speck ꟷ that bug ─ and me – that huge object hovering above. Let’s consider that, instead, that I’m that speck and the towering being above is really that grand designer of all, that omniscient being, who most of us call God for want of a better description.
I must turn to Pax to put my ramblings into perspective: “It’s certainly nice to believe that the world is a better place because we have been through it, and surely the good we do can’t possibly be measured; the ripples touch how many people (?). So we do our best and let God do the rest.” Then his comments reiterate my thoughts: “In the total scope of things, we are such little specks and our lives infinitesimally short, that it is beyond calculation. The one great gift we have is HOPE. At our creaky old age, we can rest in the belief that we weren’t and don’t have to have been perfect; that our basic goodness goes a long way to help off balance the evil in the world”. That passage hits a chord for I often wonder whether any of those literally – yes, literally ꟷ thousands of people to whom I was their boss, employer, co-worker or just friend and affected their lives in a meaningful and helpful way, remembered me? To Pax and to my readers – I hope so too. That’s all I have left ─ memories and that hope. As far as a legacy? All gone in a nanosecond, no matter.
The second issue of concern ꟷ how much did the predisposition for cross dressing affect my total life experience ─ will, due to the length of Blog Post 75, have to wait for the following blog.

Myths, Fallacies and Most Therapists Without a Clue

On the day of Post 74

On the day of Post 74

Post 74

The thrust of Post 73 is so wrong! The word “Perhaps” is BS! Of all people I should have known better than to write that word (“Perhaps”). True, my libido is greatly diminished at 91 ꟷ almost but not quite gone. And, true, we are  all aware that the fetish factor ꟷ to a greater degree in some or to a lesser degree in others ꟷ greatly influences our cross dressing. But libido is a human instinct and for us ꟷ maybe 5% of the population ꟷ one of those instincts instilled in us is the desire to cross dress. We have explored with the great help of fellow CDs the chapter “Myths, Fallacies and Most Therapists Without a Clue” in my memoir along with the expanded knowledge revealed in these last 70 plus blogs. There is no doubt that what we have found is not an addiction, not something we can choose to turn on or off. So for me to have the audacity to imply that “perhaps” in later years I can turn off is way off base.

My apologies to the CD community and to those wives and relatives who had found false hope in my ill- chosen words.


Post 73


Quite possibly, Julie no more. For your consideration:
A number of past blogs discussed the subject of “Fetish”. By the way, this particular discussion does not include those who become transsexuals as fetish is not an issue for them. We found it not unusual for a CD to begin their journey pre-puberty when, seemingly, the sexual factor was not present. Teenage and young adult CDs appear to be the group most strongly into the fetish influence during this period when hormones are raging. Then, for most, fetish remains a force and for a very few the major influence during their life time.
I followed a similar route as curiosity, or whatever, triggered my inclinations at age five and by 15 I was strongly into the fetish stage with my mother’s clothes. At college, when I finally could leave the dorms for my own apartment ─ a pattern developed whereby I had active sexual activities with the opposite sex but continued purchasing and wearing female attire in the privacy of my home. As detailed in my memoir, while still a bachelor and particularly in Montreal where four orgasms a night with a Hungarian gal was not uncommon ─ my CD desires remained unabated.Hard to explain what happens to the fetish factor under this and similar circumstances when one’s sex drive has found a strong second outlet.

Where am I heading? Well for the following, roughly, 65 years including 52 years of marriage, my CD interests never diminished during my hetero life. Then, by 89 my brother and cousins had left this world and I was all alone with no one viewing my activities. Boom! Spent thousands of dollars on clothes, makeup and costume jewelry. Had my nails and hair done monthly and, evidently, this old lady passed! Added advantage — old ladies seldom receive a second glance. Fine restaurants, best stores ─ you name it ─ no problems. Other than occasional doctor visits to the VA I was 24/7 as close to being female as my physical appearance would allow. In fact, as testosterone diminished, my overall body features were changing including a now normal B-cup. Something else was occurring that I read would happen but, still, never anticipated to me ─ with lower testosterone came low libido. Whatever fetish syndrome was left that fueled my cross dressing no longer had an outlet. Simply put – few or no orgasms were possible. So now I had attained, deliberately or not, almost all the outward manifestations of a female but felt let down. Remembered words from a Sinatra song “Is that all there is?” There was no thrill, no rush any longer being Julie. The only attraction was that wearing female attire (without girdles) was far more comfortable. Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee feeling this way!

As I write this while in drab my thoughts are conflicting. Though I’m not aware of any immediate life-threatening health issues, my body is certainly wearing out at 91. Can I still depend on the Lord giving me ample warning or, instead, will I die in my sleep? In any eventuality should I be found as Julie or Julian for the long trip back to a Washington cemetery? Just perhaps Julie should remain only in my writings. Perhaps.

Family Pictures

.So Much More ………..                                                                                                       [After reading my 540 page memoir, the former Catholic priest who had painted its cover, Pax Nidorf, exclaimed: “Sure you’re a cross dresser but, Julian, you are more than that, so much more!”] Are you so much more?

Kindly right click for further information on Julian and Julie.

Big Mistake! Go to Post 74


My Very Own Hair With New Hairdo! Love it!
Picture 4Post 72

{Amazingly not obvious to me at the time — physical and mental damage continued undiminished ─ I was drowning in so many non-life threatening ailments that I was overwhelmed, mentally numb. Why were all these events happening to me? I still had a loaded revolver, from my Gaylord days, in my night stand and yet never considered using it ─ shows how oblivious I was to what was occurring or I would have ended my distress at some point during this period.}

Then a series of events turned on a light bulb in my head: I was laying in a hospital bed staring, mindlessly, at the off-white ceiling tiles when in walked the V.A.’s chief residence doctor followed by a gaggle of familiar-faced floor docs ─ each with note-pad in hand. He looked at the chart hanging from the end of my bed for all of two minutes before announcing “Over medicated”. Off they went to the next bed. Maybe, I thought, maybe they would take action to help me. But no changes were made in my medications in ensuring days, none. So what were those floor docs dutifully scribbling on their pads?

First chance, after I came home, was to make an appointment with my primary care doc two weeks later. “Look, Julian, she said, you have seen half a dozen specialists. There is nothing more I can do. After all you’re 90”. No way, not acceptable I thought, I’d switch primaries.

Soon after I received a letter from the VA ─ had an appointment scheduled for an EED. What the hell was that? Turned out that it was a procedure attaching wires to the scalp to measure impulses or something. Report came back: “Over medicated”. A confirmation! Damn, why hasn’t someone reacted to the residence doctor’s diagnosis? Back to the new primary doc to find out how to cut back. “No idea” she said.” Thought back to a PhD of something or other who was on the Board of the Delta Society with me years ago (Delta is the group that brought animals like dogs, horses and dolphins into the mental health cure arena; service dogs to those in need of help and so much more.). Though we had veterinarians and other professionals on the Board too, she often referred to doctors disparaging as “MDiems” An old cliche: What do you call a person who graduates at the bottom of their class at the worst rated medical school in the Country? “Doctor”, of course. Excuse me but at that time in my life I had a low opinion of practicing doctors.

Okay, I decided, will do it myself. Cut dosage of some from three times a day to two, once daily to one-half. After two weeks I reduced more. For those meds that were already down to small amounts with no discernible changes in my health I then cut out completely. My symptoms, like fainting, didn’t get worse ─ but vastly improved! Within two months hallucinations and blackouts were gone! Still was only sleeping couple hours at night as the VA docs insisted on giving me anti-depressants (Require less paperwork than narcotics.). So what about the patient’s needs? A local non-VA doc ordered sedative-hypnotics, that’s sleeping pills, for me. Oh joy. Now getting sleep in spurts of two to three hours at a time but added up to at least six by end of night. First time in years! Could I get addicted to them? At my age – so what?

So, by being proactive medication-wise I had wiped out many of the symptoms and just maybe the actual ailments that had made me so miserable!  I’m sure that I’m confusing the reader at this point. The various pains and discomfort from the further degenerating of the neck and spine were still with me as were the occasional flair up in my GI track. But I was clearing up the rest of my complaints, as enumerated above, that were evidently caused by over medication.  Don’t want to give an impression that one can cut their medications haphazardly. I read the literature that comes with each prescription, looking especially for directions that indicate that said medication should only be used for limited days or weeks whereas I was put on them for an indefinite period. Those were the first ones I began to cut back to zero. I didn’t cut out a full dose regimen to nothing over night; but, rather, gradually reduce intervals and dosage. I found a few required reversing — particular ailments started to flair up again. For those I increased amounts back to almost the original dose and then reduced at a later date ─ may have to do with interaction with other pills that needed to be eliminated first. Pharmacists are supposed to police one’s dosage but unless you specifically ask, I think they rely on patients reading the, usually, three-page fine-print descriptions.  Not giving advice but only recounting my own experience ─ you’re on your own. True, my actions could have ended in total disaster, but it could have, would have but didn’t.

The above long narrative was not written to denigrate doctors ─ other than warn the reader to question doctors if not comfortable with a diagnosis, even get a second opinion. Also good idea to read the literature that comes with medication to verify that the side effects are worth the risk. A recent example: After eye surgery for cataracts a “non-VA care” doctor with a great reputation prescribed a medication that arrived as a pill rather than the expected eye drops. Reading the literature accompanying it warned of possible serious, life-threatening side effects. WOW! Found out it was the doctor’s error! Further, as mentioned above, were they meant to be used for only a limited time? One caveat: if you have a life-threatening malady don’t try to be your own doctor ─ get a second or third opinion first.

No, the point of the above long but true account was, from my own experience, to illustrate how quickly one’s health can deteriorate ─ out of control ─ often without realizing that that your life just might be ending. That “heads-up” a cross dresser so badly needs may not be forthcoming! I urge that you create a game plan now to anticipate all the scenarios, the available options before you have to enter one of the doors described above.

Now, am I following my own advice? Have I eliminated all evidence of cross dressing ─ clothes, makeup, boudoir table, perfume, “personal products” and anything else of a feminine nature? After all at 91 and living alone wouldn’t that be the smart thing to do? Nope. Betting on physically being able to do all those things before my remains take that long journey back to Washington. Doesn’t make any sense but you CDs understand why I’m procrastinating even if I won’t admit it to myself..

Good luck. God Bless!

See developing revelations in the next post – Epilogue.





Post 71

Continuing the saga of this past year’s horrible experiences:

Along with fainting came something new and strangely exciting ─ hallucinations while wide awake. Examples: blank surfaces like hospital walls or sides of kitchen counters became blackboards covered with intricate mathematic formulas in white chalk, or black and white sketches of a seated woman or a female face (Nope, didn’t recognize her.), trees with perched birds; half of flooring in my vision became part of the walls. By the way complex mathematical formulas are totally foreign to me so why did they appear? Yes, I also became a rooster ─ saw myself walking aimlessly down an empty corridor with feathers covering my body. Asked by two nurses where I was going and replied most seriously that I was a rooster going to bathroom. Obviously, it never really happened.

Another event, to this day I’m not sure that it ever took place: Taken to a wing on the sixth floor of the West Palm Beach VA Medical Center and wheeled into a dimly lit room. Near the door sat a man next to a table ─ he was reading a newspaper. About a dozen men lay in cots ─ I joined them.  Then the attendant with urinal in hand made the rounds, hourly waking each one up, if need be, to pee. It seems that each of these patients had been wetting their beds while in their assigned rooms and by making them urinate on demand it saved the hospital staff the need to keep changing their sheets. Seemed a logical reason. No idea how long I stayed in that room or even whether it ever existed.

I also kept believing that that the presence of a woman I could not describe or recognize was in my apartment for hours while I was there. I was always wide awake during these episodes.Then, perhaps at bedtime or when having diner I felt she was gone! Many times I would actually check the front door to verify it was locked ─ no way could she have put the latch on from the outside! My former wife had died three years ago and Renee was in a nursing home so whom was she supposed to be? In fact I often hesitated turning on the bedroom light for fear of disturbing this person who isn’t there. Even at times, when I reminded myself that she was a figment of my imagination and proceeded to turn the light on, I would still furtively glance back to confirm that there is no one lying on the bed. My mind is going to hell along with my body!

Amazingly not obvious to me at the time — physical and mental damage continued undiminished ─ I was drowning in so many non-life threatening ailments that I was overwhelmed, mentally numb. Why were all these events happening to me? I still had a loaded revolver, from my Gaylord days, in my night stand and yet never considered using it ─ shows how oblivious I was to what was happening or I would have ended my distress at some point during this period.

Continued on Post 72














Post 69

[This realization was brought home to me around November of 2014 when, looking back on the events it was like an unexpected water slide — helpless to change the course of my demise because, simply put, I didn’t really know what was happening or its significance as related to my final days on earth.]

My situation at that time: Now all alone, I had three burial locations from which to choose (Lucky me.): The family plot in Flushing, New York still had room left in it. Now contains my grandparents, mother, father, uncles Jack and Lester and brother Mort along with memorial inscriptions for cousins Stanley and Jerry (All included in my memoir). Since first visiting eighty years ago, Long Island’s jammed highways and a multitude of cemeteries now congest the Queen’s landscape and no longer allow what was once a rural environment of birds, small animals and trees. I often visualized the inhabitants must be buried standing up in order to have room for so many. Smog now obliterates the distant skyline of Manhattan. Yes, I would be with family members but I felt crowded just visiting. Foolish I know.

The second location was in New Jersey at the plot that now interred my two aunts, their spouses and Howard, cousin Renee’s departed husband. Recently I had placed a reserve order on two of the remaining sites. In this manner, after agreeing to grow old together, Renee and I, this would be the spot for us to take the eternal ride in each other’s company. Of course that wasn’t to be with Renee developing Alzheimer’s and her youngest son drowned in insatiable greed., I decided to transfer my reserved site at Renee’s family cemetery to the eldest son for, after all, his father and grandparents were buried there and with Renee in a nursing facility it was no longer feasible for me to keep it. As fate would have it within months of my transferring the plot to the eldest son he died at 68 of cancer.

So, my location of choice were the two plots, maintained by Lutherans no less, that I had bought in an untrammeled  landscape on the mainland opposite my last home in Washington state, Camano Island. Vera had wished that, despite our divorce, she still wanted to be buried here, the spot we had both picked out. Instead her nieces decided to cremate their mother, Mary, aunt Grace and Vera together in an unofficial Cree ceremony of their own making. They then pocketed the proceeds of her insurance and half of what we collected in 52 years of wandering. So now I have an empty space next to mine in an untrodden countryside ─ with mountains looming behind my head and the Pacific Ocean at my feet. Oh yes, the stars I sorely missed. Since moving to Florida, the moon, an occasional planet and maybe Orion, just after a thunder storm had scoured the sky clear enough of humidity, were all I could see of God’s heavens. Silly perhaps but the day’s scenery and the night’s blanket of billions of stars would be mine to cherish as God’s gift to me.

The dilemma: with a military funeral and, hopefully, a “missing plane” flyby overhead, I would feel silly dressed in an evening gown. After all I wouldn’t be around to explain my antics to the Veterans Administration doctors or the funeral home in Washington receiving my remains. Just accepting the fact, sadly, that there are still too many lacking knowledge and acceptance of  the TG community.

Okay, here I am a few months from 91 with my annual VA medical check-ups still indicating no obvious symptoms of impending demise and an apartment full of mostly female clothes. What to do? If I ditch everything now I could look forward to months or years feeling miserable and frustrated that I can no longer be Julie having my hair or nails done, shopping at department stores for lingerie or mingling at the supermarket. With my brother and cousins all passed, this past year has been mine to do what I knowingly or subconsciously wished for. Do I dump everything now or hope that I will be blessed with a heads-up warning from my Maker? Sounds familiar? Further thoughts on my personal dilemma in post 73.

Continued with Post 70





Ready For Bed

Picture 3Must I, a CD, Make a Final Purge Before I Die? Must I? Would I Know When?


The following posts, starting with No. 68 – are a year late in posting. They should, in their own way, explain the tardiness of this author, Julie. The fact that I’m able to write means that I have avoided entering one of death’s doors — at least for now. Being a CD in one of the many variations that it manifests itself during 91 years of living makes this subject very relevant – morbid yes, but inescapable.

Before recounting my personal experience when, surprisingly, I wasn’t really aware that I might be entering one of these doors that would end my mortal journey, let’s review the “end game”.Two VA ER nurses contributed their experiences on this subject:

Instant death, the most obvious exit door. Here we have no say at all. An 18-wheeler falls off a bridge onto our car; a stray bullet meant for another; we happened to select a commercial airline where on this one day the copilot decides to end his life — you get the idea. Well maybe we do have some say if, for example we are en fem on that day, on that trip. Whoa, not so fast. “When I’m dead I no longer care”— heard that one more than once and maybe it is your honest opinion, maybe IF you are single with no close family. Or is that comment just an excuse for delaying, for vacillating? Do you have close or distant family and business associates that might attend your funeral, none of whom know of your CD inclinations? Don’t care? Really? For those who live a secret life wouldn’t that mean that our CD proclivities are presently confined to that one room or apartment? Revelations do affect those close to us. Does it matter? You know that as well as I. So yes, we don’t know whether this will be our destined doorway — and if it is — how old will we be? At that time will I have a family just growing up or having already left the nest? Obviously we can’t answer any of those questions but when is the decision time to plan or ignore? The planning options are very limited — confine your inclinations within restricted locations and time and still there are no assurances that the grim reaper doesn’t find your secret places. If you have a spouse or partner should you not prepare for an abrupt departure? Decide now what the arrangements should be regarding a funeral home and burial ─ how should that still living person dress your remains? Dispose of your clothing? Talk about it now and plan your final departure. “I don’t want to talk about it” isn’t facing up to the inevitable.

The impending doom door — your doctor summons up his most serious demeanor to announce you have a terminal condition. You have only weeks to live, give or take two years or so — doctors have predicted wrong before. If there is a spouse or partner on the scene you may arrange for clothing to be donated to a charity and the rest dumped. If single at this critical time the chances are that your appointed executor hasn’t the slightest clue what you are all about — time to tell them? Hopefully you are physically able to dispose of your years’ collecting precious belongings while there is still time. Or perhaps you have arranged with supportive family members to bury you dressed drab or en fem. If you haven’t, now is the time to do so. CDs often request a closed casket from the get go if they opt to leave this earth dressed in their finest regalia. Burial preparations differ with various religions so consideration and instructions are required to follow or ignore. Each situation is unique. Take comfort that this door at least allows you time to act ─ God’s Will has made up your mind for you, no stalling

For all practical purposes the last two doors can be combined for they only differ in urgency. In the first part of this group you have, say, a heart ailment or some other malady that will likely do you in down the road a bit, could be years, but in the meantime life is good. Children have left the nest and your SO is in fairly good health. She also allows you to indulge in CDing either in an acceptance mode or supportive. Still there is no guarantee that new health issues don’t change the forecast. So the same decisions must be determined as previously discussed, i.e., who knows? Who should know? What will be the burial arrangements?

The final door, or second in this illustration, finds you in good health with no hint of when you will leave this world. So you have the best excuse to put off thinking about a subject that you MUST eventually face. Point? Since we don’t know which door will open and when  — should we not now have a game plan before one of these doors does open?

Two other events are often encountered: Wife, rightly, believes that there is no longer a need for a large house and senior communities would be less work and, often, cheaper. Sure , but you would probably lose that little secret that you and spouse have shared all these years. Another scenario — you are alone and doctor suggests assisted living or whatever else you call it. Are you willing to trade a nice apartment or home for a bedroom and shared bathroom? Do you know how close to that exit door you really are? Frightening only if you put off determining a future course of action.

This realization was brought home to me around November of 2014 when, looking back on the events, it was like an unexpected water slide — helpless to change the course of my demise because, simply put, I didn’t really know what was happening or its significance as related to my final days on earth.

Continued with Post 69


This picture is a perfect example of autogynephilia for after all who else would want a 90 year old author?

Post No. 66 is the second half of the preceding post, number 65. We continue with samplings illustrating the wide diversity in feelings, behavior and the raison d’etre voiced by CDs for being what they are — each with their own opinion.

“I dress because I like the comfort, the fashion, the styles and the feel but I have no desire to be a woman.”
Noted that an equal number prefer the restrictive feel of corset, bra or pencil skirt rather than the comfort.
“I do not feel complete without firm support and figure sculpturing. I love the feel of thi-hi hosiery anchored by six stocking snaps.”
“I want to be dressed as a woman, hopefully mistaken for one but I do not want to remain one. I really do not know about my feminine side and really do not care”.
“I dress to let the feminine side run rampant through my closet. While doing so I like beautiful clothes.”
“I want to give full expression to both my masculine and feminine attributes; to soften the harsher aspects of my masculine side; to be all I can be.”
“I’m never the woman I can be without foundation, powder, concealer, rouge, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eye-shadow and brow powder. I always feel and look years younger and really fell naked without my makeup. And finally, a good perfume brings out my femininity. Of course, my toe and fingernail color must match my lipstick. Then I’m ready to pass. Must be careful to wear subdued makeup during the day, when shopping or I won’t blend in. Only then am I me”
“Every three weeks I have a manicure and pedi. My gal is sure to try new colors on my toes. It’s the highlight of the week.”
“I sometimes shop drab but usually en femme in stores that know me and, though all chains are happy to take my money, certain stores are friendlier. It took years to summon the courage to ask to use the lady’s fitting room and even longer to have the ultimate high — to be fitted with the proper size bra or girdle. Now, I understand, most of the major chains provide courses to their sales people on the proper approach and, “for God’s sake, don’t be rude!” The highlight of a shopping spree is when a GG asks me what color nail polish I’m wearing or where did I get those earrings.”
“I’ve learned early on that if I present myself with self-confidence, poise, a smile and a half-way female-pitched voice — I can go and do anything a proper GG can.”
One CD likes to vacation on the Jersey shore while en femme. His day starts with a five mile jog before going to the beach in a bathing suit to acquire a tan. His one complaint is often repeated by others shopping at Malls: “I pass to everyone except teen-age girls. Somehow they invariably start giggling. How they are able to “read” me I’ve no idea.”
“The sound of my heels on concrete and pulling on sheer hosiery over newly shaved legs are my turn ons.”
“CDing gives me considerable satisfaction of that side of me that brings on sweetness, delicacy, feminine behavior, love of colors and fashion trends. Takes me into a lovelier world.”
“When I see a beautiful woman wearing a lovely dress I’m envious of her outfit first — I want to be able to wear it. My attraction to have her in bed is a distant second.”
“I started between 5 and 6 so it wasn’t sexual. Became a sexual turn-on in my teens but not so much since then. Never thought of being with a man because I like everything about a woman too much.”
While the following excerpts from e-mails offer additional motivations, the “Why” for a single conclusive, definitive explanation will remain elusive forever – this writer’s considered opinion.
“Long story short! I decided I’m not hurting anyone so why not make myself happy?”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever know OR if it even matters.”
“My wife said that she finds my taste in music harder to understand than my want/need to wear women’s clothes. So I finally got over the ‘why’ and think of it like everything else.”
“The only answer I can come up with is: I’m just being the true me! If you can’t be true to yourself then who can you be true to?”
Your best course of action is to embrace who you are and celebrate that to the greatest extent possible in your situation.”
“I’ve kept a comfortable income flow my whole life, put a kid through college, crushed anxiety and depression, overcame stuttering and, believe it or not, enjoyed a lot of cross dressing. That’s all there is to it.
“You might as well try to figure out why you like the color red. Just accept yourself and enjoy.”
And lastly passages from the nom de plume “Lorileah” (from on this subject:
“There are those who look at things the way they are and ask why…I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?” Robert F. Kennedy
“Is there something there that is pathological? No. Is there something there that will make you a worse person? No. Is there something there that will lead to ruin? Yes if you fret and worry it will consume you.” Reference: More often read this observation of pending disaster among those in transition rather than those in CDing.
They are just clothes. They don’t have magic power. You don’t step into oblivion by donning a dress. You like it; it harms no one, just do it. When the end is near you can be happy or you can be sad because you decided to follow the crowd and not your heart.”
Note: As briefly mentioned previously there is a new breed called “Metro-men”. They often wear clear polish on well-trimmed nails, skin moisturizer with skin-tone foundation, lip gloss, well dressed and no paunch. The difference, basically, is that they do not wear clothes that a CD might; other than bikini or nylon shorts or thongs often made for men, but you must have a slim figure to handle it. Metro-men may also get permanent waves to keep their hair in the style desired. From a sex or gender stand point there is not enough research to label them as other than well groomed men.
Readers may well wonder at what point does a man who has achieved the goal of usually passing (to his own mirror or to others) ever crosses over into the bi-sexual arena or, possibly, he was actually gay but not aware of his orientation until turned on by cross dressing. No, doesn’t work that way. Because one has achieved a high level of proficiency in their presentation doesn’t automatically change one’s gender – you have to have been born that way.
Some CDs mention that when deep in the Pink Fog they may have fantasies of being held in the arms of a strong male. After all, the purpose of dressings, for most, is the desire to appear or feel as female as possible. So naturally when one is accepted or passes in public by GGs and men, the next progression would be to be hit on and then date a male. Nevertheless, when reality sets in we know that 80 to 90% find that acting on that fantasy is repugnant or revolting to the point of mental anguish (Never doubting their born identity).
When one reads comments such as: “Have dated men as a girl for years and love it.” OR
“I want to be loved, feel loved by a man.” — We have entered into that, roughly, 10% of cross dressers who are not heterosexual. They fall into one of the categories discussed earlier in this chapter. In fact they very likely had an unbalance, such as in chromosomes, since pre-birth but were not aware of it until cross dressing brought submerged emotions to the surface. .
Have we discovered a single genetic, hormonal, chromosome, or environmental influence that is responsible for “straight” CDs? The answer is no we haven’t. But what we have found is that there are a number of answers that are equally correct. Excuse the comparison but to make the analogy a statistical one – after huge expenditures in money and talent we now know that there are many cures to cancer just as there are many types of cancer. So we also know that there are many variations in cross dressing and at least as many correct causations.
Environmentally we should include among the possible correct answers a dominant mother who becomes the role model to the baby boy, but since such influences have caused many other dysfunctional outcomes we can only list it as just one more out of dozens of possible causes.
We know there is no “cure” waiting for a gay person (Verified by the AMA.) despite those quacks, and governors,who insist there is. A gay individual may be aware of his orientation early in life or not until having fathered five children; while a CD’s “trigger may happen while a child but the propensity to be a CD may remain suppressed for years until they eventually surface. Meanwhile a spouse or GF, relatives and friends must put up with an irritable, grouchy and often insensitive individual without a clue what is really troubling him.
To once more stress our present insignificance along mankind’s time span — in the context of our dressing habits — we can draw upon Africa, the birthplace of civilization. There remain tribes where only the male members celebrate peace or conflict by wearing the body, face and headdress decorations once ritualized by their ancestors a thousand years ago. Likely they were imitating nature where the male bird flaunts gorgeous colors while the female is drab; or perhaps the male lion with the great mane and the female with no distinguishing markings. No, Mother Nature has always been far ahead of we CDers.                                                                                                          In prior millenniums the reigning pharaohs of Egypt wore eyeliner and makeup. Flash forward to European and Oriental noblemen and higher hierarchy in our history wearing the finest of garments and in some countries wigs as well. It was, obviously, a mark of their social standings. Now suddenly, in the present miniscule period along civilization’s time span, clothing takes on an onerous specious connotation not previously associated with its wearing — a sexual stamp condemning a segment of our population. What judge set these artificial standards?

Obviously our present society has become disoriented. Let’s not perpetuate this artifice!
Evaluate our fellow humans based on their good works and not superficialities. Just my humble opinion.