Is There Any Tea On This Spaceship?

I need to write more often. It keeps me sane. My biggest issue right now is simply finding time, and that won't be getting better any time soon. I am off work today, then have to work eleven consecutive days before heading to New York for a wedding. But enough belly aching.

One of my main reasons for beginning this blog was to get my thoughts sorted out in regards to my cross dressing behavior. Yet after nearly two months and 16 posts I have yet to address it, really. So, what the hell... No time like the present, right?

(For the record, I am not counting the two times I've dressed as a woman for Halloween in this discussion. Those were simply costumes, and not done for any other reason.)

The first time I remember ever wearing any women's clothing was in high school. My parents and sisters were visiting my grandparents, so I put on a pair of my mom's pantyhose. I'd always wondered what they felt like, and remember being disappointed, but don't remember exactly why I felt disappointed.

That disappointment led to me not even considering wearing women's clothes for almost 15 years. The next time I tried anything girly on was when my wife was still my fiancé, and her younger sister lived with us. Her sister was a cheerleader, and one day while they were gone, I put on the cheerleading outfit. This time I was not disappointed by how I felt, but I was extremely confused.

First, I was confused as to why I even wanted to put this tiny skirt and tight top on in the first place. What was making me suddenly say, "You know, my life is too normal. I need to see what it feels like to dress like an 18 year old cheerleader for a few minutes"? What the actual fuck?

Second I was confused that I kind of liked it a bit. It really wasn't surprising, but still was confusing.

Again, it was a few years before I did any more cross dressing.

The next time I did it, my wife and I were at a Halloween party, three years ago. She and her girlfriend had both dressed as burlesque dancers, and both looked delicious. At one point in the evening, my wife came up to me and stuck her panties in my pocket. About a half hour later, her friend did the same. Naturally I became very intrigued. A few minutes later, the girlfriend dared me to go inside and put on either of their panties.

I must clarify at this point, I had never discussed my curiosity about cross dressing with anyone at this point, even my wife. So why my wife and her friend decided I'd be OK with their little game that night is still a mystery.

I went into the house and chose the girlfriend's panties to wear, simply because she's a little bigger than my wife, and they fit better.

Ever since that night I have absolutely been a cross dresser. I loved the way the silky, lacy fabric felt on my skin. I liked that I suddenly felt sexy for the first time I could remember. I wanted to feel that way more often.

My wife was not very accepting of me wearing panties at first. I think she felt threatened by it, especially because her girlfriend was immediately accepting and even bought me the first pair of panties I owned, these cute red lace things that make my ass look amazing. It's been almost three years and I've yet to find another pair that make my ass look that good.

Eventually my wife came around and not only became accepting of the idea of me in panties, she's even bought me a few pairs. However, she kind of misinterprets why I wear them. She seems to think I wear them to be, for lack of a better term, a "sissy." She has even, on several occasions, been somewhat demeaning in her comments. I was changing one day several weeks ago, and was wearing a pair of light blue boy shorts. She started calling me her little bitch, her girly boy, things like that. I didn't take it very well at all, but as is my nature I didn't say anything (and still haven't.)

I've mentioned in at least one other post that my wife is unaware of the extent of my cross dressing. She has told me several times that she wouldn't be comfortable seeing me in dresses or skirts. This is the biggest source of conflict for me, because whenever I get the chance to wear full outfits instead of just panties, I feel better about myself than any other time.

I've got to figure out a way to talk to her about it. I need to at least attempt to ease her concerns, which are unfounded. (For instance, one of her biggest concerns is that by dressing as a woman I'll suddenly lose interest in women and become gay. Not even close to true.)

And it's becoming more and more obvious to me that I need to not drink around people. I went to the bar with some coworkers Thursday and when there was only one other person left, I spilled everything to her about this. She was cool about it, but still. I need to just shut my face sometimes.

One other thing that's been on my mind lately is that since I started this blog I haven't dressed in drag a single time. I've still worn panties, but no skirts, dresses, leggings, thigh highs, etc. I don't know if there's a direct correlation between the two or not, but it's certainly something I've thought about quite frequently.

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I've kind of lost steam on this post, because today was an emotionally draining day, which I'll address soon. As I said, though, the next 11 days I work, then going to upstate New York for a wedding. I'll get to it though.

Also, I am taking the advice of a friend and starting a second blog. It will be strictly for the erotic stories I write, so I won't be putting a link on this page. If you're interested in reading it once it's up, drop me a line and I'll send you the link.

The title of this post is from Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams. It's not really relevant, I just like that line.

Writing Prompt #1

So a few weeks back I mentioned my friend Shannon gave me the idea to use a writing prompt site when I can't think of what to write. I've been waiting for something to catch my interest. It finally happened. So here is what I'll be writing today:

I love this format, combining two of my favorite short story writing techniques - using random elements, and staying under 500 words, which is much more difficult than people think.

The book I grabbed is A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore. Page 133. Here goes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He hoped that Madeline Alby had already died. It would be easier for him. I, on the other hand, hoped for a chance to say goodbye, even if it meant seeing the carnage first hand.

"She's going quickly," the nun said when we arrived. "You might have five minutes. Certainly no more."

He pushed the door to her room open silently and we entered stealthily as cats on a carpet. There was no need for silence, since she'd been deaf for years, but she deserved that small bit of respect.

Madeline had been the most brilliant woman we'd ever known. She would have been mentioned amongst the greatest scientists of her time, had it not been for her husband. Instead, here she was, months shy of thirty years old, dying in a small convent hidden from her bastard husband.

He had been beating her since before they were married. He’d destroyed most of her teeth long ago. By 25 she had lost her hearing due to repeated blows to the sides of her head. A year ago he’d taken her right eye.

No matter how bad he beat her, though, her mind stayed active, always churning, always searching for the hidden secrets of life. He had never been able to take that intellect and wonder from her.

The nun stood quietly in the corner as we moved to the side of her bed. I sat softly near her knees, trying to not disturb her too much, and took her hand. My brother softly stroked her hair. Tears began streaming down his face.

Madeline’s face, once so beautiful, was nearly unrecognizable in the soft light of the room. Her remaining eye was swollen so badly that we couldn’t see even a small hint of where her eyelids separated. Her lips were pulp. Her jaw was very obviously broken in at least two places, as was her nose. I could feel the broken bones in her hand, and suspected there were many more throughout her body.

Her breathing was uneasy, but the nun assured us she was comfortable.

“We’ve taken every measure to ensure her last days would be free of pain,” said the nun. “We are surprised she has held on as long as she has.”

“I’m not,” I said. “She is the strongest person I know.” Tears started warming my cheeks, as well.

As those last few moments of Madeline’s life passed, I felt saddened that I would never see her smile again. Silently, with a few gasping breaths, the woman I had secretly loved most of my life passed away.

We stood for several minutes, silently sobbing, internally saying goodbye to our friend.

My brother turned to the nun. “He broke her skull, didn’t he sister?”

The nun nodded. “I’ve never seen a beating this bad.”

“He left her with a broken spirit,” I said between sobs.

"Yeah, and brain damaged," added the sister.

A Public Apology

I need to apologize to someone for this rant I went on. I've done so privately, but I feel it's important to do so here as well, to be honest to anyone who may be reading this.

I overreacted horribly. There is absolutely no denying that. What I also did was come very close to throwing away a friendship I absolutely cherish. I acted like a child, and my behavior was unacceptable.

I also acted like a hypocrite. I got mad at her for talking to her husband about things she and I spoke about in private. Yet what am I doing? Putting some of that same stuff right here in this blog for the entire world to see. I am angry at myself for letting my initial feelings blind me to the truth of the matter.

I apologized in person today, and she insisted no apologies were necessary. Well, this is me insisting apologies are absolutely necessary. I'm sorry for acting like an ass. I'm sorry for not speaking to you for almost two weeks. I'm sorry for the rant, above all. That was completely uncalled for. I am very thankful that you've already forgiven me, and for giving me the space I needed to clear my thoughts.

You're a rock star.

God I Feel Like Hell Tonight

I don't think many of you will like what I have to say in this post, but I am just being honest. Believe me, I don't like what I say in this post too much either.

The Webster's Dictionary website lists nine different definitions for the word strength. I've been told multiple times that I am strong for surviving what I've been through. That I have shown strength in my ability to persevere. I don't know if it's because of how much I just don't like myself, or what it is, but to be perfectly honest I just don't agree.

I don't see myself as strong at all. I never have. When Mark was arrested for molesting another kid after I got away from him, all I felt was shame. I was ashamed I didn't report him earlier, and that he was able to do to another kid what he'd done to me. I was too ashamed to testify in his trial, because I knew if I were to testify my family would find out everything that I'd been through. I was ashamed to still be alive, to be completely honest.

I would never have described myself as strong then, and I wouldn't now. Yes, I still wake up every day and go through the daily routines of life. I go to work to provide for my family. I create friendships. I exist. I do what billions of people do every day. But I also lie to myself daily. I hide a massive part of myself from the woman currently lying next to me. I destroy friendships for no reason. Or if not destroy, then at least put massive amounts of unnecessary strain on said friendships. I've done that several times in the past few weeks alone. One friendship appears to have survived my bullshit. Another, I'm honestly not sure about yet.

I hate being me. I hate myself more than words can express. To be completely honest, I felt like that even before Mark molested me. I've just never been a fan of me. One of my two current counselors or therapists or whatever recently asked me to list everything I like about myself, no matter what they were. My complete list was my eyes, my ass, and my dick. That's it. And no, I am not trying to fish for compliments or any bullshit like that. Those are the only things I like about myself. It's no mistake that they're all physical attributes, because my personality or emotional or whatever attributes are absolute crap. I cannot stress it enough. I don't like who I am.

That to me does not seem like strength in any way.

 The only time I ever feel even a little bit strong is when I am dressed in drag. The same counselor/therapist asked me what I like about myself when I'm dressed up. That list was a bit longer. Same three things, with the eyes, butt, and penis, but also I like how my legs look in stockings and tights. I like that dressing as a woman makes me feel sexy, which I had never felt before. I feel more confident. My self esteem is much higher.

But at the same time, I feel like a fraud. I can't tell my wife about any of this because she has already told me she would never be comfortable with me cross dressing. The only thing she says she would ever be comfortable with is me wearing panties. She is also fine with my toenails being painted, and she is usually the one who paints them because I can't reach them too easily. But if she was aware I wear her dresses or that I bought myself some tights, she would flip the fuck out.

So I am living a big lie, just as I was when all the other stuff was happening. I'm simply not hiding this as much as I hid being molested. I am, however, hiding it from the person I care about most. Again, this doesn't seem like a sign of strength to me.

Nor does this lovely tendency to cry that I've developed. During a conversation with a friend last week I started crying. She later told me not to feel embarrassed, that it was a sign of strength. I understand her meaning, in that allowing myself to show my vulnerability and let my guard down took strength, but it really just felt weak.

I know I'm too hard on myself. I know I don't give myself credit for accomplishments or positive traits, and that I am harsh and overly critical of any tiny mistake I make or flaw that I see. It's something I've tried to work on with every single therapist I've ever seen, yet I feel like I'm getting nowhere.

I feel like I'm rambling and lost any direction this post had. Maybe I should just shut up. I dunno. It's late and I'm exhausted and as usual I am trapped in my own head. But I'm also being brutally honest.

Today's title is from "Strong Enough" by Sheryl Crow.

I Can't Meet All My Desires

Monday 8 June 2015
2:31 PM

I have about four different posts I want to work on right now, but they are all kind of fighting in my head. My goal right now is to listen to a playlist of random stuff on iTunes, and when a song brings one of these four ideas (or possibly an unrelated one) to the forefront, then that's what I'll write about.

2:43 PM

Not much progress so far. And I only have about an hour or so to write, so hopefully it begins soon so I can finish. (That's what she said.)

2:53 PM

"Born Of Frustration" by James is on. How fitting. I am insanely frustrated right now that I can't get anything to come out of my head and into this text box. Now "White and Nerdy" by Weird Al is on. That concert was really really good last weekend. Still wouldn't list it among my favorite concerts ever, but better than most of his shows I've seen. If you follow me on Instagram, sorry for blowing up your feed with pictures and videos from the show.

3:04 PM

Obviously this plan has failed. I've been sitting here playing trivia games and listening to songs and adding to the general mishmash of noise in my head. Instead of forcing myself to write about anything of consequence, I'll do another music themed post. Because dammit I really like music.

Here are a few quick music related lists. I'm not going to get too fancy because I only have a short amount of time to write. They'll probably all be 5 items per list. We'll see how it plays out together.

Favorite songs to sing at karaoke:
1. "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" by R.E.M. - First song I ever sang at karaoke. Funny(ish) story behind it that I'll tell at some point.
2. "Nights In White Satin" by Moody Blues - Amazing song that I can sound OK on sometimes.
3. "Oh Boy!" by Buddy Holly - Usually the first song I sing any time I do karaoke.
4. "One" by Metallica - I don't get to let my anger out in constructive ways often. This is a chance to do that.
5. "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" by Neil Diamond - I don't sing it often but it's fun to do.

Bands/singers I would love to be in a tribute band to:
1. The Cure. Duh.
2. James. So much better than anybody knows.
3. Depeche Mode. Just because.
4. Peter Gabriel.
5. Paul Simon/Simon and Garfunkel

Five songs I wish were erased from history because they absolutely suck and make me want to claw out my eardrums:
1. "Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Ugh. Such a shitty song. It really should never be played outside Alabama. Or inside Alabama. Or anywhere. Ever.
2. "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC. Well, anything by AC/DC sucks, really. This one just stands out in its level of suck.
3. "Waterfalls" by TLC. God damn this is a crappy song. We get it. People are stupid and do stupid things. Welcome to humanity.
4. "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette. Because it's not.
5. Anything at all by KISS. Because they are terrible and make really boring music. And because fuck KISS.

Five songs that have made me cry:
I'm not afraid to admit it.
1. "Unanswered Prayers" by Garth Brooks. If you've never heard this song, go listen to it right now.
2. "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead. I don't know if the song itself got me, or if it was just coincidental due to what was happening at the time, but either way, I cried while it was on, so it goes here. Oh, and it was for the acoustic version in the Clueless soundtrack, if that makes any difference.
3. "Calling All Angels" by Jane Siberry and k.d. lang. Such an amazingly beautiful song.
4. "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones. The best way I can describe how this song hits me is this... If your heart was going to make a wish, these would be the words it would use.
5. "Hold On" by Sarah McLachlan. "Angel" and "I Will Remember You" are probably the first songs that come to mind when you're thinking of Sarah's sad stuff, but "Hold On" blows them both away, lyrically. It's got a much quicker tempo than either of those songs, but the lyrics... so depressing.

3:54 PM

I would keep going but I have to leave. Maybe I'll come back to this tonight and add a little more, but I'll probably just leave it as it is.

Post title is from "Born Of Frustration" by James

"The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things..."

Today's title is obviously from "The Walrus and the Carpenter," which in turn is from Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll.

I don't really have anything specific I want to talk about today. However, I figured since I'm home from work, and everyone but the troll in my basement is gone for the day, I should take advantage of the opportunity to write on the computer, instead of on my phone as I usually do. I think this will only be the second post, maybe third, that wasn't written on my phone.

One thing I've been debating since I started this blog is whether or not to include some of my short stories on here. I really would like to, you know, actually have people read them, but unfortunately I think I'll have to hold off for now. Most of the audience reading this is coworkers. (As far as I know, anyway, since only two people have ever left comments. :( Sigh.) Most of my short stories are erotica. Not exactly a combo that works.Enough of you know enough about my perversions already without reading straight up porn. So no short stories, at least for now. I am trying to write some that aren't dirty, but to be perfectly honest, I am very good at writing that sort of story. I have some that are extremely naughty and graphic, and others that are quite tame, and many that fall somewhere in between. Maybe I'll just start a second blog strictly for the erotica. That could be fun.

I also toyed with putting some of my old poetry on here. I don't really write poetry anymore, though, and haven't since about 1997 or so. The bulk of what I wrote was around 1990-1994, and now that I've gone back and read some of it again... yeah... Really not good stuff. Even the one poem I had published in 1994 is just... it's so juvenile. I'll put it at the end of this post, just for shits and giggles, but it really isn't good, other than one phrase, which is my favorite part of any poem I ever wrote. I'll let you decide which part it is.

Other than that, I really don't know what direction this blog is going to take. I really don't want to continue the trend I've started of dark post followed by light post followed by dark post and so on. But I don't want it to be strictly one or the other, either. That would get boring for both you as a reader and me as a writer. I will try to make it a little more unbalanced, though. My goal right now is to go two to three positive posts between darker posts. Will I succeed? Who knows. But it's a starting point.

My biggest question to you, dear reader, is this: What do you want to read? I really would like your feedback. In all honesty I don't want this blog to be completely one-sided. I really like when people give me ideas of what to write about for the simple fact that right now there are about 3 dozen ideas for posts spinning through my head, so if someone mentions something to pluck one of them from the whirlwind, that's what I'll write about. It's what happened on the last post, for instance, regarding regrets. And as much as I was beating myself up in that post it was actually one of the more fun ones I've written, simply because it just flowed right out and didn't struggle at all.

So, yeah... Just spew forth ideas and I'll snag something out of my thinker. I really do want to make this a more enjoyable experience for you as a reader.

Well I am going to wrap this up. The troll has come forth from her lair. Before I go, though, as promised, the poem I had published. Here's a little back story, first.

I wrote this poem in 10th grade (1990) about a girl in math class. She was a freshman who sat about halfway across the room, and I had a massive crush on her. However, back then I would never let her know that, because I was insanely shy and would shake really bad if I even thought about speaking to a girl I liked. So instead, I wrote this poem. And never gave it to her. I never even spoke to her, actually. A few years later when I was living with Jennifer, I saw an ad in the newspaper for a poetry contest, and on a whim entered this poem. It ended up being accepted for publication, but was not one of the top twenty or whatever that won prizes. I didn't care, though. Just being able to say, for the rest of my life, that I am a published poet was definitely prize enough for me. Before you judge just remember I was a 15 year old virgin at the time. Ha.

Oh, and vampires weren't the cultural phenomenon they would become yet, either.

"Amy"

A golden-brown haired figure sitting,
Her lips as red as pouring blood.
Her skin gets paler while I'm sipping,
And withers, dead, like a black rose bud.

Her blood was warm and much enjoyed.
The taste of her dead lips was sweet.
Her endless blue eyes revealed a void
Imagination could not defeat.

Her silk-smooth breast, warm inside my mouth,
Was blissfully enchanting - no doubt.
And then I bit, and the blood pumped out.
Her voice of angels would not shout.

Instead her penetrating blue eyes
Looked down at teeth sunk deep in her breast.
She did not even try to ask why,
She only wanted to get her rest.

As I Went Home On Wednesday Night As Drunk As Drunk Could Be...

Someone suggested I write a post talking about regret. Specifically, regrets about my life choices that ultimately resulted in ending up in my current career.

Where to begin?

First and foremost, high school. I regret not being a better student and not getting good grades. I spent too much time just screwing around. I never did homework, and half the time when I bothered to do it I wouldn't turn it in. I failed Algebra II my junior year, then had the same teacher my senior year. The second time around I actually tried my ass off, but still failed. She gave me a D so I could graduate, since she saw the difference from the year before but if I'd been in anyone else's class I would have been fucked.

The only classes I did really well in will probably not surprise anyone - English, Spanish, and all the art classes I took. Everything else I just kind of skated through, at best.

After graduating I didn't go directly to college. After getting out of the bad situations I was in and moving back in with my parents, I just worked shitty odd job after shitty odd job. Taco Bell was where I worked the longest during this time, and that was about 6 weeks or so.

After that I moved in with a friend from high school and spent most of the next two years stoned out of my mind. Major regret number two. We worked for a landscaper making $12/hour under the table. We worked about 10 hours a day six days a week, from late March to mid October. I don't even want to calculate how much money I made those two summers, because no matter how much it was (a shit ton) I have exactly nothing to show for it. I blew damn near every dime on weed and alcohol.

After moving back home yet again I met the girl I would end up spending the next seven years with and who I would be engaged to, Missy. She was going to Kent State, and encouraged me to enroll. These became regrets three and four.

There were so many things about my relationship with Missy that I regret that I couldn't even begin to list them. If I did, this post would become a novella. Let's leave it at that.

I really regret going to Kent. My instincts told me I wasn't ready to jump back into school, especially at a school with a reputation for being a party school. I got back into some bad habits, and while I didn't get back into drugs, I essentially drank myself out of school. Three years worth of tuition that is still hanging over my head. Three years of going to maybe a third of my classes each week. Three years of shoving my face into bottles and mugs full of beer and countless shots, usually tequila. Such a complete waste.

After Missy and I split, I actually kind of got my shit together. For a while, anyway. I moved in with my mom (my parents had divorced by then) and started working for my dad. After a few more alcohol related incidents that nearly landed me in jail and nearly cost me the relationship I'd finally built with my dad, I cleaned my act up completely.

One night I was out partying, and had no idea where the apartment I was in was located. No clue what city I was in. I called my dad to tell him that, yet again, I wouldn't be working that day. The next day when he picked me up, he told me (in a nutshell) shape up or piss off. It was a very calm conversation, but the meaning was very clear.

I worked for my dad for another year or so, and did not miss another day. Wasn't even late once.

Finally, at 29 years old, someone had gotten through to me.

Which is, without question, my biggest regret. There is no way to deny that I completely wasted a decade of my life. I can blame it on all the shit that came before, and that's certainly a big part of it. What it really boils down to, though, is that I was without question an alcoholic, too concerned with getting hammered to care about getting an education or finding a career.

A few months before I turned 30 I met my wife. While the past decade has certainly not been perfect by any means, it has definitely been much better, both personally and professionally. But that's a story for another day.

Title from "Seven Drunken Nights" by the Dubliners.