What's in a name?

I have written that I, somewhat reluctantly, adopted the name 'Xena' when I met up with my straight friend for crossdressing sessions. But it did not feel right and I went along with this to humour him.

When I stopped seeing him, I dropped the name and went back to being a bloke in lingerie. I did nothing to increase a sense of femininity - I had bought a wig, a long blond thing but more because the lovely shop assistant in 'Transformation' in London seemed unable to accept a need to dress as a woman without attempting to be 'convincing' than from any real desire of my own (and see the terrible result in a picture below this entry) - so I had no makeup, no clothes, only lingerie and a pair of heels.

However, one develops and, as for so many, the internet was to be my teacher. The chat rooms... how often I sat silently in front of my computer and read all the buzz of femininity in the tranny chat rooms! I never dared contribute myself. Occasionally, one of the girls would attempt a conversation with me, usually addressing me as 'Honey' or 'Hun'. But I was so inhibited and little adept at even pretending to be someone I felt I was not. I still felt I was a bloke who happened to like wearing lingerie. I know this is common, especially among straight guys.

This all changed when a man initiated a chat with me. To his sympathetic ear, I poured out my story. Somehow, over a period of months of many chats and emails, I loosened up; somehow he uncovered my neurotic denial; somehow he gently led me to understand what was happening to me; somehow he was uncovering my sissy side to me! He encouraged a femininity in me that I had never dared or wanted to acknowledge. With him as guru, I began to choose a wardrobe...

Then, with his guidance, I came to see that I needed a name that would be 'me'. Now I can see clearly that in most of my dressing I was always hiding from myself. And I assumed I was doing this as a way of dressing for others. I was dressing to satisfy men, assuming that no man would want such a mincing sissy as I am. 

Yet when I think back over the past few years I see that when I was totally alone, and not dressing for someone else, then it was the mincing, little girl sissy that I always turned to in my mind and my imagination. I had just been in denial about her for a very long time – I suppose all my life really! Yet, I could not repress her – and this is why when I chose a name for myself as a result of those chats with Tom, I chose the name that had haunted me from early years. Nancy. I was a nancy boy. In choosing it I  came to feel that I was reclaiming the word for myself, deflecting its sense of being an insult in the way that blacks have reclaimed the word ‘nigger’ or gays the word ‘queer’. I am not just called Nancy – I AM a nancy and now want to accept it as an integral part of myself. I realize now that usually when writing to someone I sign myself as sissy nancy, not just as Nancy. This particular voyage I embarked on had been a long time coming and only now do the signs from the past make sense as I now have the courage to look and see their true meaning.

Ultimately, a name loses some of its sense of the unusual, the curious; it ceases to stand out. In a sense we become our names to the point whether it is no longer a matter of whether we like the name or not. Thus, I AM Nancy!


He still guides me and I value that. He is always there to remind me what I was always destined to be.

Latex fetish sissy

I have always been open to explore, always searching for the essence of myself! But here is something I have yet to achieve...

More pictures

 

 

 

Some pictures over the years.

From being a guy in lingerie to mincing sissy - part 1.

The Road to becoming a sissy, part two

I have written about a time spent fooling myself that I was a macho man who simply liked to wear lingerie – and after all this is evidently not uncommon in the heterosexual male. It has been suggested that such men are so in love with the feminine that they want to take it into themselves. I carefully avoided such analysis when it came to myself – I just knew that I got an erotic charge from dressing like this.

So I would set time aside and put on the few things I owned – first the corset – I loved and still do love corsets, not only for the way they transform the figure but because they are a kind of bondage device! The feeling of the corset tightening around me is still one of my greatest pleasures. Then a brassiere – no breast forms. Stockings – black, fitted to the suspenders of the corset. High heels – 6 inch stilettos in which I would totter for the time it took me to masturbate and cum. This usually happened in about five minutes.

And the first thing I would think as immediately I started struggling with the laces of the corset was always, ‘What a ridiculous thing to do. What an idiot I am. How stupid and ridiculous I look’ And there would be a kind of sense of shame and guilt and a resolve not to do it again.

In my first full blog post, I wrote about meeting a straight man who dressed me totally for the first time in my life. I was interested in what he was up to but… he had a number of traits which I did not share. He was working on being extremely 'convincing'; although married (his wife knew nothing, he assured me) he had a desire to appear as a real woman - hence his love of breast forms, make-up, despite his lack of skill, and he even had an artificial pussy. All of these he was keen that I should try. He had considerable guilt about his tendencies and tastes and finding someone who would go along with them and share them seemed to lessen his anxiety about himself as a pervert. By this stage of my life I was pretty happy with being a pervert in a number of other ways - of which more soon - but dressing was something that I had repressed for so many years that I am sure I, too, had 'issues' to deal with.

One of the things he insisted on was that I must have a female name - this was important, he assured me, and would help me relax into the clothes. I still had a problem about relaxing into the clothes and was reluctant to commit to this - or indeed to wearing the breast forms, wig or pussy. I wanted to be a bloke in women's clothes. I could not think of a woman's name that I could feel happy with - he it was who came up with the name Xena, after the eponymous heroine of a popular television programme. He argued that I was so macho that only a name with Amazonian associations would be appropriate. So with him I became Xena.

He also had BDSM interests... With these I was more familiar, having been involved in the leather fetish world from my early 20s. I think this was another example of me trying to present myself very much as a macho male; wearing leather and uniforms projected a stereotypical masculinity. I was particularly happy with BDSM in this context because I could allow the dressing to happen so long as I connoted it with the idea of being forced. Hence my interest in 'forced feminisation' which of course is not forced at all but something I now eagerly rush towards, not shy away from. Still the complexities of the human psyche are such that the IDEA of being forced to wear the clothes of a woman is still a huge turn-on.

I still have a couple of photos from those early sessions, some ten years ago. In front of me as I write, I have a picture of me in full, ghastly make-up, bound to a St. Andrew's cross.

Looking back, I see now that I was something of a selfish prick - I used his clothes and gear and essentially gave him nothing in return. After a number of sessions, we drifted apart. There was no sex involved and I would have liked that, though not with him en femme; the idea of 'lesbian sex' - sex with a man who was also crossdressing - had no appeal for me.

I wanted to have sex with a man. I had always had sex with men – but little by little I began to see that I wanted to have sex with a man with me dressed fully as a woman.

The road to becoming a sissy.

I am a gay man, generally very masculine in appearance, not your stereotypical fag or pansy, who after years of crossdressing has come to realise that I am not a transvestite as such but rather a sissy. Now it is clear to me that while all sissies are crossdressers not all crossdressers are sissies. Rather than attempt a hard and fast definition here and now as to what constitutes a sissy I am pretty sure that this will emerge in the course of this blog over the coming year.

I say I am a masculine gay man and, indeed, for the most part that is true - but my masculinity is assumed, I feel, and has been developed over many years to hide me from my sissy self. For, truth to tell, I was very definitely a sissy boy. The prepubescent me was 'sensitive', disliked boys' sports, and had a liking for girls' playground games. Given a choice between a football and a doll (though I was never asked to make this choice) I would have plumped for the doll. Of course I was innocent and naive and had no idea that I was proclaiming myself to the world as a sissy. A degree of self-knowledge came with the onset of puberty.

In addition to an evident attraction to boys - always older than me, more young adults than boys - I started dipping into my mother's wardrobe and trying on her clothes. They felt so much more sensuous than boys' clothes. I particularly loved a pink girdle which, with stockings and my mother's pink wedding dress, became my favourite outfit. However, though these dressing sessions would culminate in a fierce orgasm, I was always left feeling so ashamed and guilty that they were not by any means common occurences.

Also, of course, I was now a teenager and my peers were by no means so accepting of my perceived sensitivity and bookishness as they had been just a few years before. Now the name calling began... girlyboy, nancyboy, sissy, pansy. The sports master at my all boys' school was also prone to using any and all of these names to produce results on the sports field.

I resolved to end all this by 'butching up'. I became much tougher, I courted girls, I forced myself to take an interest in sports, I became a pretty damned good rugby player. And the name calling stopped. I had learned to pass as a man in a world that clearly hated the feminine if it showed itself in any way in a masculine context.

Inside my mind I was not so convinced. As my teenage years passed I waited for my homosexual feelings to disappear - I hoped that this was a phase I would grow out of. They did not and I hid from them. By the time I went to university I had abandoned all crossdressing activities, weaned myself away from allowing them to come into my mind. My secret life seemed secure even if I was not at all secure in my own mind.

However, I started behaving in a more natural way when I went to university. In the first place it was mixed, male and female, and I discovered that I was really happy in the company of women. I do remember one of my friends telling me that her brother was rather effeminate and was inclined to 'swish' a little - she saw it as an endearing, lovable trait. She added that no one could ever possibly say the same about me. I was alarmed - I thought she was being ironic and was intimating that I, to, was swishy. But no - she was serious. To her I was in no way effeminate. Some years later when I came out as gay to my friends, I reminded her of this conversation and she said that no, she had in no way been ironic, that I came across as super-macho. This was in the 1970s when there was still a tendency to equate homosexuality with effeminacy. The irony, in fact, was that her brother, despite his pansy manner, was straight through and through, whereas I, the butch rugby player, felt inside that I was a total sissy who would not accept it.

And for the next twenty years or so I kept up my masculine act. You could say it became second nature to me and did not feel like an act.

I had a terrible contempt for the effeminate homosexual - I accused them of leading people to think that all gay men are effeminate. I particularly hated drag queens, or the stereotypical poufs that cropped up on television. Warning - be very careful of what you decry; it is usually a sure sign that you fear the same thing in yourself.

And yet... deep down I had never forgotten that I had been sexually excited by women's clothes and as I came to terms more and more with who I felt I was I began to think that maybe I should investigate this again.

So I met a nice straight guy on the internet and after a lengthy correspondence finally acted on his offer to borrow some of his things. I met him on a number of occasions and loved everything I tried. I was particularly attracted to the corset - the feeling was incredible and I loved the way it transformed me. I added black stockings, high heels, a bra with breast forms; he had a go at applying make-up (his skills were rudimentary to say the least); silk panties went on - instantly turning me into a panty fetishist; a classic little black dress went on; and the whole ensemble was finished off with a black wi

It was a startling sight that met my eyes when I looked in a mirror - I was grotesque! The make-up was really bad! And yet... I loved it. I loved the transformation, I loved the difference in the way I was forced to walk as a result of the heels and the corset.

I was hooked - but this was only the beginning of my journey to sissydom.

A new blog

I had a blog on Multiply but it was deleted without notice. Surprising as I thought it was wholly innocent! I'd like to make this less innocent ;)