The Woman From Pennsylvania

My very first post on this blog was about a man from California, and how a lunchtime conversation helped change the way I look at things, even if it was only for a short while. So I felt it fitting to have my final post of 2015 be somewhat similar.

I had a lot of reservations about doing group therapy. My first instinct was to just bullshit my way through the 5 week program and just do whatever I had to do so I could go back to work. Now that I'm a little over half way through the program, I feel so lucky that I'm going through it, and giving it as much as I can.

I never intended to mention being molested, or my gender identity struggles. Yet I've been able, at times, to speak somewhat openly about the gender identity, and have at least mentioned being molested. I've even taken to wearing hair clips a couple times, like today.

The first week of group I didn't really say much. The first day the only thing I remember saying was when I was introduced and had to say why I was there. The second day I had to miss because one of the boys was sick and couldn't go to school. The third day, I think the only time I spoke was when I did my daily check-in thing.

Week 2 started off much the same. But a twist came along. Either Monday or Tuesday of that second week, I mentioned feeling socially awkward, as well as how I felt my wife and I are inevitably headed toward divorcing. During one break, a woman who had been in the hospital with me after Thanksgiving, and had started group a couple days after me, came over and tried taking to me about divorcing, how she and her husband are currently separated and if I needed to talk she'd be willing to listen. The whole time she talked to me (which was nearly the entire 15 minute break) my body was super tense and I just wanted to crawl inside myself, the anxiety was so high. During the other break, this young woman from Pennsylvania, who sat directly across from me, came over, and said she, too, suffered from social anxiety and felt socially awkward, and we could talk if I wanted. Same thing. My body was extremely tense, and I just wanted to disappear.

A funny thing happened, though. The next day (or maybe two days later, not sure, but I'm pretty sure it was the next day) I switched where I sat, and chose to sit next to the woman from Pennsylvania, a small table between us.

Over the past couple weeks, she and I have talked pretty frequently. It started off somewhat awkward - one day, we had to pair off to do our daily check-in, then report on each other. She and I were partners, and after going through our checklists we sat silently, as the other pairs around the room chatted casually and freely.

Ever since then, though, our conversations have been more and more casual. It doesn't feel awkward to me, and I believe she feels the same. We are almost always the first two in the room for group, and have a few minutes to chat. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't, and it's OK. Neither of us pressures the other into conversation just for conversation's sake. When we talk, we're both usually pretty engaged in the conversation. (I'll admit, since the most recent adjustment of my meds, I'm finding it hard to focus again. I'm getting distracted way too easily.)

Today after group, we even stood outside and talked for a few minutes. If my car hadn't been so embarrassingly dirty (a bunch of food crumbs all over the passenger seat, mostly. I need to vacuum) I would have offered her a ride home, since her car is in the shop.

I'm not looking forward to Monday. My friend, the woman from Pennsylvania, will be finishing the program and going home. I'm happy for her, and wish all the best for her, but the selfish side of me wants her to finish when I do, so I can have someone to talk to the next couple weeks.

If it hadn't been for the woman from Pennsylvania, I don't know if I would have allowed myself to accept and embrace group therapy as I have. She has done as much for me the past few weeks as any of my therapists. While the man from California had a fleeting impact on my life that only lasted a day or two, I feel the impact from the woman from Pennsylvania is going to be much deeper, last much longer. I am so very glad we met, and although there is a possibility we will never see each other again after Monday, I'm certain we will continue to email, continue to learn about each other, continue to be friends. I cannot wait to see what her future holds.

I'm Still Standing

Hey, all. I just want to let you know I am still around. I feel bad that I haven't written much lately, but with group therapy, individual therapy, meds constantly being changed and adjusted, the holidays, I just feel like I'm all over the place right now and stretched kind of thin. Unfortunately right now that means things I enjoy, such as writing here, have taken a back seat.

I'll be back soon though. I promise.

Title is the title of a great Elton John song.

Static

I'm going to visit work at some point this week for the first time since I went into the hospital. So about 3 1/2 weeks or so. I've had several people tell me there are a bunch of different rumors going around about why I'm out, and at least 2 people have told me quite a few people are taking shit about me.

But here's the thing: I don't care.

I'm done with worrying about the petty drama and high school attitudes. When I finally go back to work towards the end of next month, I will do so with the knowledge that I will do my job with passion. I will do so knowing that my managers have all the faith in the world that they can rely on me. I will do so knowing that, after finishing this therapy, the best possible version of me will be showing up for the first time. And I will do so knowing who my true friends are.

The rest, the people who don't matter.. Nothing but static, baby. Nothing but static.

I'm Not Okay, I'm Not O Fucking K

I was expecting to go into the hospital either Sunday November 29, or Monday the 30th. So when the nurse practitioner who prescribes my meds called Friday, the 27th, and said she wanted me to go in right away, I was freaked out. I convinced her to at least let me finish my shift, then go home and get packed and say goodbye to the boys, and check in that evening.

Friday was full of more internal turmoil than I've ever had, I think. I knew going to an inpatient treatment program was a good idea. And Tracy had been asking me for a week to check myself in. But now, it was mandated as a condition of keeping my job. So even though I had somewhat resigned myself to the idea, I was suddenly feeling extremely pressured.

Checking in sucked. Even though my admission was allegedly already set up, I still had to sit in the emergency room lobby for close to an hour while they confirmed with my shrink, therapist, and human resources department that I was actually supposed to be there.

Once everything got sorted and they took me up to the ward, that was when I truly lost it. It was real.

When I first went into the ward, I had to be weighed (215.7) and have my blood pressure checked. These were both done in the common area, and six of the other seven patients were in the room, watching TV. I tried to stop my legs from shaking, tried not to cry, but failed on both fronts.

Next was the "full body scan" - a skin check to make sure I hadn't cut myself anywhere, and that I wasn't attempting to sneak in any razors, shoelaces, plastic bags, or other suicidal implements. It was a lot more thorough than I expected, and I had to be fully nude for close to five minutes in front of two rather attractive nurses. Luckily the fear kept me from showing any "excitement" while they examined me. I was kinda surprised they didn't make me take the piercing out of my junk - never know, I might try to use it to pierce my jugular or something - but I got to leave it in.

They gave me a gown, some pants, and a robe to wear for the first night, because their policy is you don't get your own clothes until the doctor sees you. The first thing I noticed was the two random blood stains on the robe.

At some point during the middle of the night, a ninth patient was brought to the ward. She was a younger girl, mid twenties, and woke up damn near all of us. She started off agitated but quiet. Within about twenty minutes she was so loud and screaming that they sedated her and put her in isolation before she even made it into her bedroom. Fun first night for her.

There were ten beds in the ward, and nine patients - three men, six women, two people to a room. One of the guys couldn't have roommates for some reason, so we weren't going to get a tenth person on the floor.

I spent the entire first night in my room. And over half the day Saturday. When I finally came out Saturday, I decided to call the wife and check in, let her know how things were going. Within thirty seconds this proved to be a terrible idea. She started the conversation off by accusing me of cheating on her with her brother's girlfriend, saying that she'd already texted this woman saying if she wanted me she could have me. So, for the second time in less than twelve hours, most of the other patients saw me sitting there crying.

At dinner Saturday I finally talked to a couple of the other patients. Nothing of substance, just idle chit chat. But after dinner it was back to my bed with my books. I finished two books my first two nights.

Sunday was better. I forced myself to socialize more, and felt better after talking to one woman in particular. Let's call her "Stella." But I still spent most of the day alone, either reading or coloring.

Monday the actual therapy started, finally. First was a meeting with the chief psychologist and his four students. Talk about intimidating. Four doctors doing rapid fire questioning for close to half an hour. Then a group session, a small break, another group, lunch, visitation hour, then the final group. Between breakfast and lunch, five of the other eight patients were discharged. Also, after meeting with the doctors in the morning, I was finally allowed to change into some of the clothes I'd brought. So no more blood stained robe. Monday night several new patients were brought in, mostly guys, all of whom stayed in their rooms. I had a new roommate but didn't see his face the entire day, he just slept the entire day Monday. And most of Tuesday.

Tuesday was much the same. The other three patients who were in with me all weekend were discharged, the last being "Stella," so I was left with a whole new group of patients, none of whom came to a single group session the entire day. For the second and third group sessions, I was the only person who attended. The chief psychologist also informed me Tuesday that they were bringing my wife in for our Wednesday morning meeting so he and his students could basically see how we interacted. So, that upped the anxiety and I spent most of the day shaking and nervous because the last time my wife and I did any sort of therapy together, it was basically an hour of her and my psychiatrist at the time attacking me.

Wednesday came and the session with my wife went much better than I'd expected, but was still uncomfortable. At least this time when she tried to go on the offensive the doctors reigned her in. The best part of Wednesday, though, was being told that I'd finally be going home Thursday. The rest of the day was, as usual, the three group sessions, which most of the other patients still refused to join in on.

When Thursday morning came I was excited to be finally leaving. By the time I finally left, that evening, my anxiety had shot back through the roof. My biggest fear then, and still now, was this: when I came close to killing myself, it was near the end of my week of vacation. Now I was being sent home, and being told that I wouldn't be going back to work until early January, while I did the outpatient treatment program. So I was suddenly being put back in the exact same situation I was in when I felt suicidal - home by myself the majority of the day for an extended period.

I started the outpatient program today. They changed my return to work date from January 11 to January 25. So an extra two weeks alone more often than not.

This scares the fuck out of me.

Title from My Chemical Romance, "I'm Not OK (I Promise)"

I Am Feathered By The Moonlight Falling Down On Me

"All your life is such a shame, shame, shame. All your love is just a dream, dream, dream." - Counting Crows, "Murder Of One"

"Side by side in silence, without a single word... It's the loudest sound I've ever heard." - The Cure, "The Loudest Sound"

"Following the silent hedges, needing some other kind of madness." - Bauhaus, "Silent Hedges"

"Self confidence leaks from a thousand wounds." - Bauhaus, "Silent Hedges"

"Nothing or no one will ever make me let you down." - Siouxsie and the Banshees, "Kiss Them For Me"

"My mind is filled with many things resembling a thought." - Teenage Fanclub, "December"

"Every time I see your face, you know I softly die." - "Softly" by Soup Dragons

"The way you drop is like a stone. Making out you're flying, but you've just been thrown." - Jesus and Mary Chain, "Drop"

"Suicide isn't painless. It hurts like hell. It's set aside for the famous - a little suicide sells. Nothing lasts forever. But, then, nothing ever did. It's big, but it's not clever. And it's really not that big. So no more tears, you're a big boy now. We'll have a few more beers, we'll sort it out somehow" - Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, "Suicide Isn't Painless"

"I'll pick some daisies from the flowerbed of the Galaxy Theater while you clear your head. I thought some daisies might cheer you up." - Eels, "Daisies Of the Galaxy"

"Where you should be there's no one around." - Counting Crows, "Raining In Baltimore"

"You people are mistaken if you think that I'm awake and celebrating anything that I've become." - AWOLNATION, "Run"

"In the dark of night those faces they haunt me but I wish you were so close to me. Yes I wish you were by my side." - INXS, "By My Side"

"If I could be who you wanted. If I could be who you wanted all the time." - Radiohead, "Fake Plastic Trees"

"Watch out. You might get what you're after." - Talking Heads, "Burning Down The House"

"Today is the greatest day I've ever known. Can't wait for tomorrow, tomorrow's much to long. I'll tear my heart out before I get out." - Smashing Pumpkins, "Today"

"I just remembered that I'm through with people today." - Parastatic, "Through With People"

"There are things I want to say but I don't know if they will be to you." - Teenage Fanclub, "Alcoholiday"

"Why try when everything I do seems half right?" - Toad the Wet Sprocket, "High On a Riverbed"

"In the dark of night, those small hours, uncertain and anxious, I need to call you." - INXS, "By My Side"

"There's a perfect kiss somewhere out in the dark, but a kiss ain't enough." - Psychedelic Furs, "Heartbreak Beat"

"And you know I'm fine, but I hear those voices at night sometimes." - Killers, "Spaceman"

"I feel nothing. I feel nothing at all." - James, "Lullaby"

"I wish it would rain. It blends in with the hurt and pain." - Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, "My Defeatist Attitude"

"I've got no far horizons. I don't wish upon a star." - Phil Collins, "Take Me Home"

Thanksgiving Thanks Given

Thank you for being my friend for over twenty years.
Thank you for making me get help.
Thank you for being there when I need to vent.
Thank you for not judging me.
Thank you for giving me the strength and confidence to buy my first dress, even if it didn't fit.
Thank you for being the two best managers I've ever worked for.
Thank you for introducing me to mandalas.
Thank you for not making me feel small for telling you I had a crush on you.
Thank you for not hating me for telling you I'm in love with you, and will be until the end of the world.
Thank you for the conversation debating what constitutes reaching "second base" and what constitutes reaching "third base."
Thank you for pushing me so hard to want to be a better person.
Thank you for not treating me differently when I admitted to being the one who said you had nice breasts.
Thank you for the happy hour conversations, and offering to go to the cross dresser support group meeting with me.
Thank you for inviting me to see your play a couple years ago, and for the hug that I still feel from when we first saw each other that night.
Thank you for sitting with me in your office and taking the time to actually listen to me when I first told you about being a cross dresser, and talking to me about the Katelyn Jenner interview, and actually asking me questions about how I have felt going through different stages of this self exploration.
Thank you for calling me out on my bullshit.
Thank you for caring.
Thank you for listening.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for hugs.
Thank you for letting me cry when I need to, whether it's in your office, on the phone, in person, or just during a random Instagram or WhatsApp chat.
Thank you for making me get help.

Thank you all for being so immensely supportive as I explore who I am.

I hope my upcoming hospital stay will give me the knowledge I need to better be the person you see in me, but that I still can't see in myself. I'm trying, I promise.

Fuck You, November

I have really come to despise the month of November. Ever since I met my wife November has sucked. The only good (ish) one was the first one, ten years ago, when I proposed. It's all been fucking downhill since then. Her birthday is in November, as is our wedding anniversary. Beginning the year were got married, we've been fighting on one or both of those dates, beginning with her birthday 15 days after we married. I don't remember the details of that fight, but I do remember we almost went and got our marriage dissolved because of it. I sometimes wish we had. We got married in 2006, so this makes the ninth fucking terrible November. This is the first one we aren't fighting at least. This time all the bad shit is my own fault. I've gone completely mad, for one thing. I should take my friend Tracy's advice and go to an inpatient psych program. I've lost my shit at work, although in this case I feel absolutely justified - tell me which of you wouldn't feel insulted being told you're over paid. Then today happened. I completely fucked up one of the greatest friendships I've ever had. All because I had to tell her I'm in love with her. Fucking idiot. Next year I'm skipping straight from Halloween to December 1st.

Fuck November.

It Feels Like Love, And It's All That We've Got

My heart is a mess right now. I'm so madly in love, but it's not at the right time. It's definitely the right woman, just the wrong time. Of course... There's nothing saying that she would ever feel the same.

I know my heart is all over the place. It's something I've always had to deal with. I've always gotten crushes on women very easily. But this one is different. This one is full on undeniable caps lock bold italics underscore LOVE, which has only happened once before, and neither time was with my wife. Yes, I love her, but I don't LOVE her the way I should.

I've spent almost two hours crying and cannot stop. I've been shaking uncontrollably. I don't know what I expected in return by telling her how I feel. It's not like I was expecting her to say, "I feel the same! Leave your wife and move to ________ and we'll be together forever!" It would've been asinine to think that. I honestly wasn't even expecting the "I feel the same" part. So why am I so god damned crushed that it didn't happen?

I hate that I'm so unstable right now that I've put myself in this position. I hate having a heart. I hate that the only two women I've ever truly loved are my two best friends and that I'll never be lucky enough to be with either. Even if I were to divorce, one is married, and the other is on the verge of beginning a new relationship after having her heart broken. And who's to say either of them would want to be in a relationship with my ass while I'm dealing with all.... this. This mess of a person that I am.

I'm just so grateful that she dealt with my absurdity kindly and graciously. I'll never stop loving her, but that's my burden to bear, not hers.

Title: Psychedelic Furs, "Heartbreak Beat"

Writing Prompt #2

I'm having a nice bout of writer's block again, so here's another entry based on a writing prompt.

My first kiss is one that I actually remember quite well. It was in 1989, the summer between eighth grade and high school. The girl's name was Mandy, a classmate who I dated for about a month. She was a redhead, a little on the chubby side, and had a billion or so freckles.

We lived out in the country, so even though she lived about seven miles away, she was closer in proximity than the vast majority of my friends - which, admittedly, I didn't have many of at this particular point in time. While we had lived in the general area for a little over two years, we had only lived in our house for about six months at that time, and even then my friend-making skills were less than stellar.

Around mid-June, Mandy invited me to a party at her house to celebrate finishing middle school. It was the first time I'd been invited to any sort of social gathering since moving from Cleveland so naturally I jumped at the opportunity. The party was decent, but most of the time I spent alone sitting on a tree stump watching everyone swimming and having fun. Toward the end of the party Mandy and I sat at the picnic table and decided we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend.

Ahh, young love.

The next time I saw her was the Fourth of July, when she invited me over for a picnic. When my mom dropped me off, I realized I was the only person there. It turned out just being Mandy her parents and I - my first "real" girlfriend, and I already had to go through the parent test!

We walked to a park down the road that her dad took care of, as part of the township's tiny parks and rec department. He was dragging the baseball field, which for those not into baseball is when you drag a rake, chain link fence, or other such device around the infield to smooth the dirt.

Anyway.

When he finished we rode back to their house with him to eat. After dinner her parents left, so it was just the two of us at the house. We sat at the picnic table, and she told me I needed to kiss her.

The thing that has stuck with me the most over the years was the taste. I don't remember how soft her lips may or may not have been, or how exactly the tongue play went, or any of the other million tiny details that come with kissing. But I clearly remember that her mouth tasted like mustard from the burgers we had eaten.

We made out for close to half an hour before my mom pulled in to pick me up. I gave her my Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat (horrible move!!) we parted ways, and that was the end of our relationship. We didn't talk the rest of the summer, and when we started school in the fall she was dating someone else.

So, there's my first kiss.

The Drugs Don't Work They Just Make You Worse

I'm so tired of feeling like I'm crazy. I hate that my meds are affecting my memory, which is normally really damn good. I hate that I can't control my temper or moods, that from minute to minute I have no clue how I'm going to feel. I'm sick of feeling suicidal, which has been happening much more frequently the past few months. I'm tired of feeling like a bystander, an outside observer, in my own life. I hate not knowing what's going to happen with the fucking tuberculosis. I'm exhausted with having to put this god damned façade forth, pretending I'm happy to be me. Or that I'm happy to be alive.

But most of all it's the feeling like I'm crazy that I can't take anymore. It's really pushing me to the point that I might have to call a damn suicide hotline. Or admit myself to a treatment center or something. Because I'm afraid that I'm going to hurt myself. Or my wife or kids. Or my stupid fucking dog.

I was on vacation the last, like, 9 or 10 days. Whatever it was. At least once each of those days I sat alone in my house bawling, for absolutely no reason. Or for a million reasons. Who knows anymore. Today I put insulation in the attic, and had a nice brand new razor to cut it with.

I came so close. So close.

Title: "The Drugs Don't Work" by The Verve.

What Do You Want From Me?

I've been on vacation for a week now and haven't written a single thing. That's really disappointing, but the truth is, I really don't have anything to say right now that isn't rehashing the same stuff I've been talking about since I started this blog in the first place. Maybe I should just shut this thing down, keep my pissy little complaints to myself. I feel like all I'm doing is whining and bitching about things that, in the end, aren't important. So my wife won't let me dress as a woman. Big fucking deal. It's not like she has let me control a single part of my own life for a decade now, so why should this be any different? What the actual fuck did I expect? And now that I've got this shitty illness to deal with, she's acting like I'm one of our kids, treating me like I'm a fucking idiot and incapable of taking care of myself. Good times.

So, dear readers, what do you want from me? I wish I had some options for you to choose from, but fuck... I don't even know what I want from myself anymore.

Title is from "Keep Talking" by Pink Floyd.

So Much For That.

November Somethingth 2015 2:07 AM.

I can't sleep. Probably better that way.

All the happiness I was feeling is gone. Well... Maybe not all but the vast majority. Nah. All of it.

My wife and I were making progress. We have been talking all week about everything, and for the most part it seemed to be going well. The immediate talk on the way home from the party didn't go so well but all the talks since seemed to be making progress toward some sort of amicable agreement regarding me dressing as Emily. Regarding me being myself.

I told her at least five times this week how Saturday night made me feel. How I felt happy being me for the first time in decades. How the feel of my own skin, for once, didn't make me uncomfortable. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

I'm destined to be miserable and hiding in shadows forever.

I Came To This Strange World Hoping

It was Halloween, but it definitely wasn't a costume.

Sure, we went to two different costume parties, and sure, to make dealing with it easier, my wife dressed as a guy. But it definitely wasn't a costume.

We go to two Halloween parties every year. One is thrown by our youngest son's babysitter, and is usually pretty tame. The other is hosted by a close friend and is usually very sexually charged, both in costumes and behaviors. They usually don't happen on the same night but since Halloween was actually a Saturday, they both wanted it that night.

I couldn't think of a costume this year to save my life. I would have been fine doing something Stat Wars related, naturally, but didn't have the time to go shopping. Then, a couple weeks ago, my wife texted me one sentence that I never thought I'd hear from her: "Well, here's your chance to dress as a woman."

I had to explain to her that even though it was for Halloween, and even though it would seem like some kind of joke costume to a lot of people, I was going to take it very seriously. No fake exaggerated tits, for starters. Just my little tiny A cup boobs. Also, I wanted a dress that wouldn't look like a joke, wouldn't be ill fitting, wouldn't be worn once and thrown away. That was probably the hardest part for her to accept, that I wanted to keep the dress so I could wear it again. A few days before Halloween, before I'd even bought a dress, she was still making comments suggesting she was hoping I'd throw the dress away after that night.

I went to a thrift store, and Shannon had to help me calm down, talk me into focusing on the positive, help ease my anxiety so I could actually look at the dresses without running from the store in shame. Not an easy task to accomplish from several states away. I was able to buy a dress. My first dress.

Unfortunately, it didn't fit. Major setback. That meant I would have to go through all the anxiety again, trying to find another dress that actually fit.

That night after dinner my wife actually accompanied me to another thrift store to look at dresses. She was very helpful and suggested different styles that might work with my body. It was very unexpected, but very welcome. We found a long black gown, and I did something else I never expected I'd ever do. I took it into the fitting room, so there wouldn't be a repeat of buying a dress that didn't fit. The fitting room attendant gave me an odd little smile when she checked what I was taking in, but she didn't say anything. I guess being two days before Halloween, she'd seen plenty of guys trying dresses on for costumes.

This dress fit much better. The only issues were that it had a seam right under the boob area that was really tight and uncomfortable, and that it was just an extremely plain, dull dress. I didn't buy it, but kept it in mind as a last resort if I didn't find anything else.

The next night we went to the store to buy the kids new winter coats, and I decided fuck it, I'm going to look at new dresses. I still don't know what urged me to do it. I found a dress, and again took it to the fitting room. This time, though, I wasn't feeling quite as brave and hid the dress between several pairs of jeans. (This ended up being unnecessary, as there wasn't a fitting room attendant at this store.)

The dress could not have fit more perfectly.

I had my first dress (version 2.0) and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. The feeling was one of pride, of joy.

I was so ecstatic that I sent Shannon and Tracy a picture of me in the dress while still in the fitting room. I had intended on waiting until I was fully dressed for the party, but I couldn't wait. It was impossible.

Saturday afternoon I still had to figure out what to wear on my legs, and what accessories I'd wear. I have a pair of maroon over the knee socks that would look very good with my dress, but I also thought some tights with bats, spider webs, or other Halloween theme might look good as well. I couldn't find any Halloween tights, and the knee socks just kept rolling down being annoying, so I settled for some black tights. Nothing flashy, just straight black.

There was one more thing I wanted to talk to my wife about before I started getting ready. My legs. Ever since she suggested I dress as a woman for Halloween, I had a desire to go as far as she would let me. But I had one major goal of shaving my legs. When I asked her if she would be OK with it, her initial reaction wasn't great. But she told me to do it if that was what I wanted.

I never realized just how much hair was on my legs. I'm certainly not as hairy as most males, and it's actually something I've always been a bit self conscious about. (Stupid thing to be self conscious about, I know.) I used electric clippers to take most of the hair off, but it still took three razors to get my legs smooth.

I haven't been able to stop rubbing my legs. It feels so amazing! I know I can't keep them shaved permanently, but I'm definitely going to do it for a week or two, pretend it's just taking a long time for it to grow back, or something.

My only other accessories were one of my wife's necklaces, and some pink lipstick. I would have preferred burgundy or a dark red, which I feel would have gone much better with my dress, but that's the only color my wife had. So pink it was.

Even when I was getting dressed, I wasn't sure if I would be able to leave the house in my dress. I'd never done it before. The anxiety level was off the chart.

But I did it.

When we got to the party at the babysitter's house, the women in the living room actually all complimented my dress. They still laughed, thinking my outfit was a joke costume, but they complimented the dress nonetheless. Then the sitter's husband came in from the kitchen... I know my gut is kind of large. It's because I drink way too much soda. I can eat healthy, do yoga, go for walks, all that jazz, but can't get rid of the belly because I can't lay off pop.

He thought I had something under my dress and that I was pretending to be pregnant. It was embarrassing as fuck.

I sat very quietly for the hour or so we stayed at that party. I think I said three or four sentences the whole time.

The other party was a different story altogether. There are five of us at this party every year - the host and her boyfriend, my wife and I, and one other guy. The other dozen or so people each year are a rotating cast that are never repeat attendees. Usually I sit in a corner and barely talk to anyone but the other four "regulars." This year, I was super confident. I was happy. I didn't sit in the corner for a second.

It was amazing.

It's been a couple days, and I'm still smiling. My wife is fine with me keeping the dress, but still doesn't want to see me in it again, so I'll still only be able to wear it when I'm alone, but I get to keep it. Small steps.

Before I wrap up, I want to do one more thing I didn't know if I would ever be comfortable doing. Here's to pushing boundaries.

It was Halloween, but it definitely wasn't a costume.

Title today is from "New Soul" by Yael Naim. It's not an overly appropriate song lyrically, it's just a song that always makes me happy when I hear it, due to the music and tone.

Quick thought.

Someone at work actually asked me today to describe what it physically feels like when I'm on one of my downward swings, as far as my depression and everything. I really didn't know what to say, because every day is different. Today it feels like there's a beehive in my head, just thousands of thoughts slamming into each other with none taking hold for more than a few moments. Other days my joints feel like they are trying to burst through my skin. Many days I'm just blank. I think nothing, I do nothing, I feel nothing.

Only By Being Prepared For Your Death Can You Ever Truly Live.

Grief is one weird mother fucker. It's kind of crazy, the things that pop in your head (well, my crazy ass fucked up head) when someone dies.

My dad had a friend that died about a week and a half ago. He was 48, actually closer in age to me than to my dad. He was someone I was always genuinely happy to see, because he gave the impression that he absolutely loved life, and he was just always fun to talk to. There was not one single conversation that I ever had with him where I felt bored, not one conversation I wished would end early.

He gave the impression he loved life. In the end, that's all it was. A false impression. He battled depression daily, and in the end he took his own life.

The single biggest thing my dad's friend and I had in common was our love of reading. We both loved Stephen King (although I haven't read a single one of his books since the Dark Tower series came to an end). We could sit at a bar, out in my dad's garage, or wherever, and just talk about books.

The last time I saw him was at the big cookout/bonfire that my dad had in August. Of course we talked about books. He told me about a book he'd just finished called Dream London. I told him about the new Christopher Moore book, about how he'd become my favorite contemporary author (nobody will ever surpass Poe, for me) and about some of his other books I thought he'd enjoy.

I didn't get to go to the funeral. I had to work. I didn't get to say goodbye to my dad's friend. To my friend. I'll never get to tell him what I thought about Dream London, which I went out and bought this past Monday. I'll never get to hear what he thought about Christopher Moore.

I hope he has found peace. I'm sorry he couldn't find it sooner.

Title is from A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore

There Is A Pleasure Sure, In Being Mad, Which None But Madmen Know

It's going to take a while for these meds to kick in. I understand and accept that. What I don't understand, what I don't accept, are the side effects I've been dealing with since I went back on them. The brain fog thing I kind of get. Brain chemistry is being altered, so it's bound to cause some lack of clarity. At least that is starting to ease up a bit, and I feel like I'm able to put together full thoughts a bit more frequently.

The Wellbutrin is putting me to sleep, which I simply cannot tolerate. I am supposed to take it in the morning, so naturally I'd expect it to not make me drowsy. Last time I was on it it certainly didn't have that effect. Yet nearly every morning I'm coming extremely close to falling asleep while driving down the highway at a more or less steady 72 mph. So now I take it in my car once I arrive at the parking garage and hope I can stay awake all day.

The side effect that I'm really having trouble with, though, is actually affecting my behavior. The two meds I'm on... One is an antidepressant, the other an antipsychotic. You would think they would keep me from flipping out. Yet it is at the point I'm honestly worried I may put my job and/or my marriage in jeopardy, because small things are suddenly bothering me very much and making me really angry, and things that in the past would have normally made me angry are putting me in a state of rage that I can hardly control. I'm having meltdowns the likes of which I've never had at any point in my life, and it's scaring the living shit out of me.

I don't go back to my shrink until November 3rd. I'm trying to find other outlets for all my emotions, because I've felt way too unfocused to write, as evidenced by the rambling turns I took in the post about my grandparents.

This is the first time I've ever been afraid for myself without it being related to suicidal thoughts. I don't know how else to explain it.

I'm losing my mind.

Title is from The Spanish Friar by John Dryden.

Nobody Can Do For Little Children What Grandparents Do.

Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.

There are very few positive memories of my life before I turned about 25 that don't involve sitting around the kitchen table at my grandparents' house. They lived on W. 105th Street in Cleveland, in a not so great neighborhood that was probably a lot nicer when they bought the house. If you drove past their house you probably wouldn't have looked twice at it - a two story, light blue, unassuming house with a swing on the front porch and a front lawn that was, quite literally, about 4 feet wide from the sidewalk to the porch. But to me that house was a second home. It was the gathering place. It was the hub that connected the spokes of my mother's far spreading family.

My earliest memory at my grandparents' house is actually my first memory of anything, but it's not a great one. My uncle was very sick when I was very young, and died when I was five. My only memory of him is sitting next to his bed in what would later become my grandparents' bedroom. As he lay in the dimly lit room, his body being torn apart by several different types of cancer at once, I sat in a kitchen chair next to his bed and read a Paddington Bear book to him.

When I asked my mom about this the other day, just to see if my memory was correct, she said that I would read that book to him every day, but also a Curious George book and a Sesame Street book every once in a while. She said that my uncle, who was only 23 when he died, wouldn't let anyone in his room except me and my grandparents.

When I was growing up my dad was an Ironworker. While the money was awesome, there were many very lean times for us whenever he was laid off, which typically happened at least three times a year. Sometimes it would only be for a week or two. Sometimes it would be as long as six months. During the longer layoffs, food became somewhat scarce in our house. Not only were my parents trying to feed myself and my two sisters, but for several years my cousin lived with us as well. During these times my grandparents basically sustained the four of us kids. We would eat dinner there a minimum of four times a week, and if it was summertime when my dad was out of work, some or all of us kids would stay with my grandparents for weeks at a time to help ease the burden on my parents.

Times weren't great for my grandparents during this time, either. Another uncle is only 9 years older than me (my mom is one of eight siblings - four boys, four girls). When he was 16, he was at a friend's house getting stoned with a group of friends. While screwing around, someone knocked over a motorcycle. My uncle was laying on the tree lawn near the bike, and when it fell, the gas tank caved in his skull. It took four years for him to be able to put together a complete sentence, and it was nearly a decade before he could walk without a cane or walker. Yet even with the mountains of medical bills my grandparents incurred, they still made sure we didn't go hungry, and although my parents won't talk about it, I'm almost positive that it was because of my grandparents that we kept our house.

Not all of my memories at my grandparents' house are sad ones. In fact, almost all the rest are extremely positive.

It's a mystery to most of us as to how my grandparents stayed married for so long. After my uncle died, my grandfather became a raging alcoholic. There were times when he wouldn't go home for days - he would work a twelve hour shift at the aluminum plant he worked at, get off work at 3 AM, sleep in his truck until the bar around the corner from work opened at 5:30 AM, and drink until it was time to go back to work. Yet, whenever he was home, drunk or sober (admittedly, I don't remember him being sober often), he was without question one of the nicest people you could ever meet.

He was also extremely quirky. He owned almost 300 acres of land in the mountains outside Bradford, PA, where he grew up. We would go camping there in the summer, and in the fall he, my dad, and several other guys would go deer hunting up there. One time when we were camping - I must have been 6 or 7 - I caught a frog in a creek. I ran up to him -"Grandpa, Grandpa, I caught a frog!!" He scooped it out of my hands and before I could even blink shoved it in his mouth and started chewing. The frog's legs kicked and twitched for a moment, then went still right before he sucked them in and chewed them up as well, and swallowed the damned thing. Naturally, being the emotional mess that I've been my entire life, I bawled like a baby.

He was also known to eat live snakes - head first, "Because they go down smoother." He would eat a block of Limburger cheese without flinching. Yet the moment he smelled or saw baby poop, the flood gates would open and he would puke so much it was hard to believe that much stuff was coming from one person. My sister, when we were teenagers, was at the kitchen table with Grandpa, watching TV and eating a Ho-Ho. She chewed some up and in her infinite wisdom said, "Look Grandpa! It's poop!" and opened he mouth showing him the chewed up chocolatey goodness. He didn't stand a chance. He started dry heaving, and almost - but not quite - made it to the bathroom before he puked.

Watching my grandparents interact with each other was kind of amazing. I only heard either of them say something negative to or about another person once (when we were grown {I think I was 22 or 23} Grandpa called my cousin, the one who lived with us as kids, the "laziest piece of shit" he'd ever known), yet they were rarely civil toward each other. The quote my sisters and I always use when talking about them is from one of the most random acts of "what the hell did I just witness?" They were arguing about who knows what anymore, and my grandfather yells, "Jesus Christ, Marion! We're you born on fucking Mars?" Grandma yells back, "No, Jack, but you make me wish I was! Now go fuck yourself!" If you ever wonder where I get my foul mouth from you need look no further than my grandparents and my dad.

The best memories I have from my childhood are from being at my grandparents' house Christmas Eve. It was easily the most important day of the year for our family. We would get there around three in the afternoon, and over the next eight or nine hours - we rarely left before 11 PM - we would get to visit with what seemed like everyone my grandparents had ever known. Great aunts, great uncles, distant cousins, and even my grandpa's best childhood friends who still lived in Bradford would come to town. Most of my mom's siblings would be there, and many of their friends that they grew up with would come to visit. It was a constant rotation of people coming, visiting for a while, and leaving, only to be replaced by more faces we only saw on Christmas Eve. In all the years my grandparents hosted this party, I don't remember a single argument or fight, and even my grandparents were genuinely nice to each other for the night.

Above everything, my grandparents loved their grandchildren unconditionally, but my sister and I were undeniably the favorites. It was probably because we were the closest - one of my aunts was in the Air Force lived in Brazil, Washington DC, and Florida while her daughters were young; another aunt and two uncles didn't have kids until my sister and I were teenagers; my other uncle has a son who is a year or so younger than my sister but I've only seen him once my whole life. Finally there was the cousin who lived with us for a few years, who Grandpa called lazy. Once he moved back in with my aunt, they moved to Tampa, where they've lived for about 25 years now.

I've really gotten off point in this post.

Another favorite memory of my grandparents' house involved a whole lot of law breaking. My grandparents both smoked like chimneys when we were kids. Grandma smoked Winston Lights, Grandpa smoked Pall Mall non-filters. Across the street from their house was a cigar store, and beginning when I was about 8, they would send us to the store to get their smokes. At first we had to take notes from our grandparents, but eventually the guys who ran the store knew as soon as we walked in to put a pack of cigarettes on the counter, with a pack of matches on top. My grandparents would always give whoever was going to the cigar store enough money for the cigarettes, a can of pop (I always chose Cotton Club Creme Soda), and a candy bar (Twix or Baby Ruth for me).

If I had to guess, I would estimate I spent about a third of my life at my grandparents' house up until I was 16 or 17. The vast majority of those times were some of the happiest times of my life. When they passed away, when I was in my late twenties (he went first, she went four months later) my uncle who had gotten hurt by the motorcycle inherited the house, and immediately sold it. The weekend that we moved everything out of the house was undescribably sad. No one talked very much, we all just kind of stayed in our own little worlds.

A few months ago one of my younger cousins told everyone the house had been purchased by developers, along with several other houses on the street, and that it would be torn down. One of my uncles had a cookout in late June, and afterward I decided to drive past the house to say one final goodbye.

I was too late. The house where many of my happiest memories resided was nothing but a pile of rubble.

I've never really dealt with the death of my grandparents properly. Or at all. I've only been to their gravesite once, the day we buried their ashes together. It's been twelve years and I've never gone back. I miss them every single day, and wish they could've met my kids.

The title and line at the beginning are a quote from Alex Haley.

I Climb The Walls Of My Mind

I haven't been in a very great place mentally lately which is surely not a surprise to anybody. Or maybe it is. I've gotten better at hiding it, it seems. One major issue is that I haven't been on my meds in a long, long time, so I finally decided to remedy that. I went to my psychiatrist last week for the first time in over a year, and she has altered my meds a bit. So, you know, fingers crossed and shit.

During the conversation with my psychiatrist I told her how I've been struggling with my gender identity, as well as about being a cross dresser. She admitted she has no expertise in this area but steered me in a few directions to get some help, or guidance, or whatever you want to call it.

The first thing she gave me was the name of a psychiatrist who specializes in LGBT issues, as well as sexual/intimacy issues. (My current psychiatrist doesn't know I'm having problems in that area, I just noticed it when I looked up the new doc.) I've already decided I'm no longer going to see the other counselor I'd been seeing, because of the way she seemed less and less like someone I feel comfortable talking to. Hopefully with this new psychiatrist being someone who focuses in the areas she does, I'll finally be able to get some help that is actually useful.

The other bit of information she gave me was about a support group for cross dressers and their spouses, family, and friends. From reading the information in their website, I'm very torn, for several reasons.

First, I feel this is exactly the kind of group I need, to help me understand more about myself. The website describes the setup of the meetings, which seem designed to enable a lot of socialization. There is an initial social period followed by dinner, then a speaker, then another social period at the end. In reading some of the testimonials it seems these social periods are the most important parts of the meetings.

The meetings also require that, well, the men be dressed as women. This is where I become torn. Other than panties, which I wear nearly daily at this point, I've only worn any female clothing out of the house a couple times - I've worn tights/leggings/whatever to work two times, and one day back in February, when my wife was in Kansas and I was off work a few days, I wore one of her negligees to the library, the mall, and the grocery store. But in each of those cases everything was concealed and nobody knew what was under my clothes.

I don't know if I'd be able to wear a dress or skirt in one of these meetings, even with knowing the other men in attendance would be in drag as well. The idea of dressing up in public gives me quite a bit of anxiety. I'm just not sure if I can do it.

The other issue is that I don't think I'd be able to go alone. With my wife being completely uncomfortable with the idea of seeing me dressed as a woman, I can all but guarantee she would not be willing to go to one of these meetings. I couldn't ask any of my friends to go either, so that would leave me going alone. Being alone would mean I'd have to rely on myself to interact during the social periods of the meetings, and that's simply not going to happen because I am absolutely terrible in social settings, unless I'm the right amount of drunk, right before I become obnoxious.

All that being said, all anxiety and inhibitions aside, I am going to attempt to attend a meeting by the end of the year. I feel it would benefit me immensely. Even if I only end up attending one meeting, I need to at least try it.

Today's title is from "Crazy" by Barenaked Ladies. It's a good song. You should check it out.

My Anaconda Don't Want None (part 2)

One of the main reasons for writing my last post was to discuss why I didn't like sex. Then I spent most of it taking about the things I like about sex. Yeah, I'm a dumb ass.

As I said in the previous post, while I am a pervert and a flirt and talk about sex a lot, I don't actually enjoy having sex. While the reasons behind not enjoying getting head should be pretty obvious by now, the actual act of intercourse is only slightly more enjoyable for me.

Sex has always caused me a lot of anxiety. I become extremely self conscious and feel really awkward. One of the biggest complaints I've always gotten from women is that I'm too quiet during sex, because I don't make a sound. Several partners (my wife included) have commented that the only way they even know I'm having an orgasm is because my breathing changes very slightly.

At least this tendency to be silent is extremely easy to explain. The walls in our house were paper thin, so when I was a teenager I had to be quiet when I masturbated so my parents and sisters didn't know what I was doing. Also, I had to be quiet with Mark so anyone around didn't hear us.

I almost just wrote that sex doesn't really interest me, but that would be inaccurate. It certainly interests me, it doesn't excite me. The only time I'm really extremely excited about it is when I'm with someone for the first time.

The other thing I don't care for about sex is that it really just doesn't feel that great, to me. Orgasms border on painful, plus my body is such a fucking mess that there's really only one position that's comfortable. So it gets kind of boring, too.

I think the strangest thing about all this is that while I don't care for sex, I still masturbate at least once a day. Usually it's hiding in the bathroom right when I get home from work, and more often than not it's while imagining my wife with other people, usually men. Sure there are times when I'll think about different women from work or whatever, but I'd say at least 80% of the time I'm imagining the wife with another guy or several guys, and 15% of the time I'm thinking about her with other women, or another couple.

I'm sure you are getting sick of listening to me bitch, so I'll end this here. Hope I haven't chased too many people away with these last two posts.

My Anaconda Don't Want None

Warning: This post talks about sex. A lot. Some of it may be a bit too much for some of you, but I hope you'll all still at least try to read it. I honestly thought about keeping this a very bland analytical post, but honestly that would be a disservice to me as writer just as much as it would be to you as reader. So some of this may get graphic - I don't know quite which direction I'm going to go with it yet - but it will definitely not be graphic simply for shock value or just to be rude. If it's there it's to serve a purpose. I'm also probably going to use a lot of indelicate language, because let's face it, saying "blow job" is a lot more fun and honest than "oral sex." Oh, and there's a reason the quote in the title stopped where it did. On with the show.

I was having a discussion last night and this morning with a friend, and was telling her how exhausted I am from the crazy work schedule I've had this week. At one point she jokingly made a comment suggesting that my exhaustion was due do too much sex with my wife, at which point I admitted something I don't really admit to anyone - I don't actually like sex.

This will come to a surprise to a lot of people who know me, because I am a massive pervert and talk about sexual things quite often. But talking about sex, writing my erotic short stories, and flirting with people hides the fact that I generally dislike the actual act of having sex.

I like the idea of sex quite a bit. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. Hell, I've even had very vivid fantasies about at least a dozen women at work in the past week alone. But fooling around with them in my daydreams is way more appealing to me than the thought of actually physically doing anything with any of them. And that is not some kind of "I'm married so it can only be fantasy" kind of thing, because we've had some extramarital fun and I still didn't give a damn about sex. (More on that later, I'm sure.)

Obviously my earliest sexual experiences probably have a lot to do with my feelings toward the act now. The very first blowjob I ever got from a girl (no clue what her name was) was when I was 16. She used her teeth so much that i was actually bleeding in at least five spots (I even still have scars in two spots). I told her multiple times to quit because it hurt, yet she kept going, a little bundle of enthusiasm and incisors. She kept telling me it was fine. It was supposed to feel that way. I may have been a completely inexperienced teenager who had only been sucked off by a middle aged man, but even I knew that I wasn't supposed to be bleeding. I sometimes wish I knew that chick's name so I could find her and tell her she's an asshole. Unfortunately we met at a party and it's the only time I've ever seen her. Oh well.

Because of that girl, as well as Mark and all that crap, I have never liked getting blowjobs. I met my first real girlfriend about three months after that party, and she insisted on giving me head. I finally let her do it, on night in the middle of my dad's front yard (he has a huge unlit front yard and we were about a hundred yards from the house, another fifty or sixty from the street). I didn't enjoy a second of it, even though there were no teeth involved, but she seemed to enjoy herself, so that's really all that matters.

Over the years, several women I've dated or hooked up with have been completely fine with not blowing me so it really hasn't been much of an issue. Most women, though, get upset for some reason when I say I'm not into it. I find that somewhat amusing, because there's kind of always been this message put out that women don't enjoy giving head, yet most women I've slept with have pretty much insisted on doing it. It's just kind of baffling.

When my wife and I first met, she was one of those who insisted on doing it. When we were discussing it, I mentioned to her how no woman had ever gotten me off by blowing me (she already knew about Mark so the "no woman" part didn't surprise her). She actually took this as some weird kind of personal mission, that she absolutely had to get me off with a blowjob. Her determination paid off, as she was successful, but it still didn't change the fact that I don't like blowjobs, which disappointed her quite a bit because she loves doing it. This was actually one of the biggest factors that led to us having our extramarital fun. (Again, more on that later.)

I do find it odd that with as much as I dislike sex, and hate blowjobs, I enjoy going down on a woman more than anything in the bedroom. I could eat a woman out for hours and love every second of it. The irony? My wife hates that about as much as I hate blowjobs. She also isn't a fan of my other major fetish either - feet. I love feet and she can't stand to have hers touched, even for a foot rub. It's really quite sad. (Hmm... Maybe one of these days I'll just write an entire post about fetishes. That could be fun.)

While blowjobs have never done much for me,  actual intercourse has at times been something I enjoy very much, but usually in less than normal situations. When I lost my virginity, for example, I was 17 and the woman was 25 or 26. I still remember she didn't believe I was actually a virgin because I lasted for well over an hour. While she and I never hooked up again, I still look back fondly on our night together as being very enjoyable. The next time I had sex, however, was about six months later and it was the first time where I really didn't feel anything at all afterward, positive or negative. It was with a girl who was about a year younger than me that I went to school with, and it ended up ruining our friendship because neither of us really knew how to deal with the aftermath. We weren't dating, it was just a random hookup at a party she was hosting, and it just created way too much awkwardness between us.

The times that I have really enjoyed sex, as I said, where in less than normal or ideal situations. My ex-fiance Missy (who I am working on a rather lengthy post about) and I had a pretty decent sex life during our 7 years together, especially once we began introducing other people into the mix. Whether we were being joined by another woman, playing this hybrid strip poker/truth or dare game with a married couple we knew, or I was watching her with my best friend, there was always something different going on. After she and I broke up, the first two women I had flings with were both married, and that sex was outstanding. The first was a woman around my age and we only hooked up twice, and I would have given everything I had at that time to get her to leave her husband for me. The second woman was much older than me - I was 28, she was 56 - and we slept together at least twice a week for almost a year. I didn't particularly like her as a person, but the sex was absolutely amazing.

Which brings us up to the wifey. When we first met I flat out told her, before we even met in person, that I was not interested in a monogamous sex life, regardless of what level our relationship went to, and she was completely fine with that. When we first started dating we went to the fetish balls held at various bars in Cleveland. They are held monthly, with two major annual events, one held at Halloween and the other usually around Easter. While there is no nudity allowed at these events, the definition of the word nudity is definitely pushed to its limits. Women commonly walk around with nothing but a tiny g-string covering the naughty bits, and electrical tape covering their nipples. Men are usually much more modest at these events, but have been known to be nearly nude as well.

Through these fetish balls we met some single women as well as other couples who were open to fooling around with us, but most of these ended up being dead ends, as we would make plans and sometimes even get together, but some spark would be missing and nothing physical would happen. While I would normally sympathize with my wife's disappointment, inside I would be more or less unaffected. There was one woman we would usually hang out with at these events that my wife has had a bit of a relationship with for the past decade and who we still see on a fairly regular basis, but other than her we don't talk to anyone from that scene anymore.

The time I've enjoyed sex the most in my life so far was the period of about three years before our first son was born. There are several bars in and around Cleveland that are swinger clubs, and for nearly three years we belonged to one of them. We would go to this club almost every weekend, usually both Friday and Saturday. We hooked up with several other couples, but for the most part I got my enjoyment from watching the wifey with other people, either gender. There were quite a few times where I didn't participate in any way shape or form, and I actually preferred it that way. She could hand out blowjobs like they were candy, fool around with other people, then we would go home and have some great sex. It kind of worked out perfectly. Then came kids, and it was like turning off a lamp - one weekend we were at the club like usual, that Wednesday we found out she was pregnant, and we just never went back.

Since then, we have only had sex once, maybe twice, every three months or so. And it is completely because I just don't want it. When I got my dick pierced a few years ago, once it healed there was a period of about three months or so where we were fucking like rabbits again, but other than that it's been very infrequent. When I get my second piercing (finally!!!!) on October 1st (the anniversary of the first piercing) perhaps we will have another several month period where we have sex more often. I hope so, simply because my wife enjoys sex about as much as a 16 year old boy - she wants it all the time. Hopefully I'll be able to accommodate her for a while.

Title today is obviously from "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot.

The Village Feast (A Short Story)

Note: I wrote this story in 2011, as an assignment for an English Comp. class in college. It is one of only a handful of short stories I've written that isn't erotic in nature. It's also something I've thought many times could turn into a much larger story - this brief story could very easily become the first page or so of a novella, if I had time to work on it. This is the first time I've read this in years. The only copy I had was posted on my Facebook page, which has been deactivated since 2012. I have wanted to go on there to retrieve this story for close to a year now. What finally made me do it was actually the difficulty I've had writing the other story I've been working on. I've kind of promised you guys a story, so had to fulfill that promise. So, here is the story, complete with my original opening note from Facebook. Hope you enjoy.

 In our comp class, we were told to write a short story which contained the following elements: A dragon, a beach ball, dinnerware, and a thunderstorm. This is what I came up with.  

 The Village Feast

     The sun blazed in the sky, a scorching yellow beach ball against a sea-blue backdrop. The dragon alit from the castle parapet, the force of the wind caused by the beating of its massive wings rattling dinnerware in cupboards throughout the valley. As the dragon rose into the sky, the sun prismed through its translucent wings, decorating the hillside like a stained-glass window.
     Antoinette looked up from her loom, despair filling her eyes as she watched the beast climb into the sky. She moved around the house quickly, gathering what few precious items she owned and storing them in a small hole under the floor. She ran out of the simple house toward the nearest of the caves in the hills surrounding the village. As she reached the entrance, the first screams from the far side of town pierced the air.
     Antoinette carefully made her way toward the back of the narrow cave, her eyes adjusting to the darkness enough to see the shapes of four other townspeople ahead of her, but she was unable to recognize them in the gathering gloom. She sat against the cold dirt wall, hoping more villagers would make it to the safety of the cave. As the minutes wore on, however, her hope turned to dread, as only one more person entered the cave that day, a younger man, by the sound of his breathing.
     Six people, hiding in a cave that used to hide nearly one-hundred. Back then they would be packed in so tightly it was difficult to breathe. With only six people in the cave, there were vast oceans of isolation separating them. Antoinette pulled her legs to her chest, waiting out the long, terrible day, falling asleep to the sounds of screams and the faint smell of smoke.
     During the night, she awoke to the sound of distant thunder. Gathering her courage, Antoinette made her way to the mouth of the cave. The destruction before her was worse than usual. The acrid stench of smoke, mingled with the copper-rich smell of blood, filled her nostrils. Not a single dwelling in the village remained standing. Each building was now a smouldering pile of embers or a wind-strewn scattering of splinters and ash, and most of the fields were trampled or scorched.
     Antoinette carefully scanned the sky for any sign of the dragon. As the moon peeked out from behind a cloud, she could see the creature perched again atop the castle in the distance. Done, then, for another year, she thought.
     She carefully made her way to the smoking remains of her home, thankful that the darkness hid the carnage that surely must be strewn throughout the valley. She circled the foundation of the house as the first drops of rain began to fall, searching for an opening to reach the hiding hole in the floor. Finally finding a gap, she picked her way through the rubble, cautiously avoiding the few small fires still burning. The wind began to gain speed, the storm beginning to gather strength, as she carefully uncovered her hidden treasures. Lightning streaked across the sky as she removed the last few boards over the hole...
     Antoinette stared, disbelieving, into the small hole for several minutes, tears and rain streaming down her face. Everything she held dear, every remnant that held the memory of her husband, destroyed. All that remained were ashes and a small puddle of molten metals.
     Around her, the thunderstorm raged. "Sleep well, dragon," she uttered, her voice quiet but strong. "Next year when you come to enjoy your feast I shall not hide."

To Do List

I haven't posted recently because I've been trying to work on a short story. It's not going well though, as I've only conjured up a total of two sentences so far. Perhaps I'm trying too hard. Here's a regular post instead. The story will come eventually.

I follow one of my teachers from college on Instagram, and she's doing this "40 Before 40" thing - essentially a bucket list of things to do before she turns 40 in the spring. It's made me start thinking of things I'd like to do (or at least attempt) before I turn 50.

In no way will my list have 50 things. I mean hell, I've been thinking about it for a few weeks and only have like 10 things so far, if that.

So here are my things to do before I'm 50... So far.

1. Audition for a play
2. Travel to Europe (especially Spain and Ireland)
3. Go on a cruise
4. Go to a drag show
5. Write a book
6. Finish the painting I started in high school
7. Actually get a role in a play

That's pretty much it so far. As much as I'd like to put in there something like go back to school to get my bachelor's degree, that's simply not realistic. With two young kids who are getting into sports and a full time job I simply don't have the time, nor do I have the desire to incur more student loan debt than I already have.

I think the most attainable of these goals is obviously going to a drag show. There's a gay bar in Akron that's only a few miles from my house that has drag shows several times a year. That one is just a matter of getting up the nerve to go.

The least attainable, in my mind, will be going on a cruise. That is simply due to my issues with motion sickness. I don't know if I'll be able to talk myself into risking the chance of being sick as a dog for a week just so I can go see some whales and icebergs. (It would be an Alaskan cruise, if it were up to me.)

Other random thoughts that have been on my mind lately:

- I need to bake more. I haven't baked too much lately because of dieting. I've been too afraid that making some tasty treats will cause the waistline to expand again. What I should do is bake a bunch of stuff and take some to work, and send some to work with the wifey. I love being in the kitchen. Baking things from scratch is very peaceful for me.

- Masturbation is a billion times easier and more fun in a skirt.

- One day I might be honest about why I didn't finish getting my degree when I went to Kent State. I told my manager last week, and that was the first time I've ever actually been honest about it. The lie I've made up, which I already talked about in an earlier post, is actually way less embarrassing than the truth. By leaps and bounds.

- My friend Shannon got engaged recently and I don't think I've ever been happier for someone to get engaged.

- This bout of writer's block I've had while trying to write this short story has felt like a swift kick to the nuts.

I guess that's it for now. Nothing particularly eventful is happening at the moment - at least, nothing I'm in the mood to write about, anyway.

Two straight posts with dull titles. What is this blog coming to?

Paranoia and Other Madness

A wise woman has told me repeatedly that I need to quit telling myself stories. In other words, I need to stop assuming things and imagining problems that don't actually exist. I also need to stop being so insanely fucking paranoid.

I think that's my biggest issue right now - paranoia is starting to affect far too many aspects of my life. I feel like things are my fault even when I have absolutely nothing to do with them. I've also fallen into a vicious cycle of feeling like people are out to get me.

The bad thing is, not all of my paranoia turns out to be unfounded. For instance, another person at work who I trusted enough to confide in regarding cross dressing has decided to break that trust. She told another woman we work with, and that woman, in turn, directly approached me about it.

It's making me feel, yet again, like I should have never opened myself to anybody. I don't know who I can trust anymore, or who I should have trusted to begin with.

I've often said I'm not a great judge of character. It's been especially true with people I work with - not just at my current job, but nearly every job I've had. Often times I trust people I shouldn't, I dislike people that most people like, things of that nature.

I've kind of gotten off track a bit.

Back to the coworker who exposed my secret...

This was the first time I was actually not extremely upset about someone telling someone else about my cross dressing tendencies. I was a bit unhappy, yes, because while I do talk about it openly to those I've shared that information with, and speak about it very openly (yet essentially anonymously) in this blog, it still felt like a bit of a slap in the face when this woman came up to me Monday and said, "I know your secret..."

My initial instinct was to flat out deny everything, especially when she said the woman who told her was drunk at the time. Then I felt myself becoming extremely pissed off. For once, though, I was able to fend off the anger very quickly, for two reasons. First, like I said in an earlier post apologizing to someone else, it feels hypocritical of me to write about all this stuff on this blog, so I can sort out my feelings, yet expect people I dump all this on to not need to talk to others to sort out their own feelings. Second, the woman who approached me Monday is someone I would have eventually told anyway, I think. At the very least, I'm not ashamed she knows, so that's a good thing.

Sorry for the dreadfully long post. I've just had a lot on my mind and no time to write. My next post will be a short story I'm working on. It's being written using one of my favorite techniques, where someone gives me three random items, and I have to include each of them in the story. Not the most sophisticated of writing prompts, but it's fun.

No fancy quote for the title. Sorry.

Pull Out Some Hope For Me

I have realized lately that if I were to live as Emily full time, I would never be able to speak to most of my family again. Maybe not any of them at all. That is such a sad feeling, knowing that I would be more alone than I've ever been. Yes, I would have the love and support of some people, but losing the love and support of my family would be absolutely devastating. My dad, especially, would be unlikely to ever speak to me again if he knew about my current level of cross dressing and my deep down desires to be a woman.

Just as I was typing the above sentence, my dad sent me yet another meme making fun of Caitlyn Jenner. He sends at least three a week, along with several each week ripping on gay marriage, and often other offensive memes. How do I deal with his ignorant bullshit without exposing the real me? Hell if I know. This is what I'm up against, though. This is why I feel so completely trapped.

My father isn't the only person who I would have to stop taking to. My mom, most of my aunts uncles and cousins, and a very large percentage of my friends would all completely shun me. My sisters and many of my other friends might possibly be accepting down the road, but not for a long time. I can honestly say the are only about a dozen people I care about who would be mostly accepting of me long term.

But still I hold out hope.

I hope one day I can truly be myself. I hope I can live my life without fear of rejection. I hope for so many things...

So many things.

Title today is from "Long Day" by Matchbox Twenty.

We Got No Innocence

I think one misconception a few people have about me is concerning my sexuality. My desire to be really feminine and my wish that I could be a woman have absolutely nothing to do with who I'm attracted to. Just because I want breasts doesn't mean I'll suddenly stop wanting to play with other breasts. Let's face it, breasts are insanely fun to play with. Can you really blame me for wanting a set of my own? Yes, there are a few guys I think are attractive. Yes, I have wondered what it would be like to be with a guy when it's on my terms, not forced upon me. But it's not something I actively pursue.

All the girls and boys makin' all that noise 'cause they found new toys.

I think a lot of people confuse gender identity and sexual identity or sexuality. When I was younger I did the same. Then I took a human sexuality class at Kent State, and learned just how little I knew about humans as sexual beings. I am not going to tell you some story about how that class twenty years ago was what made me first think about becoming a woman, because that would be a blatant lie. While I did find the class very enlightening into the way I looked at sex, sexuality, and gender, the only thought about a woman in that class was about the woman who sat next to me, and how I could hook up with her. (Spoiler - we didn't hook up. Shocker, I know.) I'd also like to discuss some of the things I learned in that class, but again, twenty years ago. Exactly half my life has passed since then. I can remember conversations with the hot ass teacher (who moonlighted as a bartender, at a place where her uniform was basically a skimpier version of Daisy Duke's outfit.) I also even remember certain assignments, including one where we had to go to an adult video store, and another where we had to create a poster with words and images of what sexuality meant to us, which basically turned into a porn display - even the women in the class got pretty naughty with that assignment. I also remember the teacher putting a condom on a double ended dildo with her mouth, and how half the guys in the class (myself included) wished she was doing something else with said dildo, with any of the several attractive females in class.

But sadly, as much as I remember these specific things, I don't remember specifics about what we actually learned in that class. However, I do know that class opened my eyes quite a bit in the way I saw people. I was one of those asshole kids who thought of cross dressers as freaks. (Yeah, I know...) I spewed "fag" and "homo" and "queer" from my mouth on a regular basis. Then I took that class, and the blinders were removed. I no longer saw cross dressers as some carnival sideshow bearded lady wannabes. I rarely used those slanderous words after that class, and have since removed them from my vocabulary almost completely. (I'll admit it. I slip once in a while.) To be fair to my younger self, though, I only knew three gay guys up until that point. One was a kid I went to high school with who was one of my closest friends, but who I didn't actually know was gay until my mid twenties. (Suspected, but didn't know.) The other two were Mark and the guy he would sometimes pimp me out to for rent money.

If that don't suit ya that's a drag.

I've drifted off topic quite a bit. I really just want to clarify, I am still like 95% straight. Or 85%. Somewhere in that range. I have noticed lately though that even though I'm not sure I would ever want to actually touch another penis, I thoroughly enjoy the look of other cocks. I have been paying a lot more attention to the boy bits when I'm browsing porn, and have found that I rather enjoy the look of the male genitalia. Again, still not sure I would ever want to play with one, but they're nice to check out.

One other thing I wanted to clarify for anyone reading this... It may not be important to you, but it's something I feel is important. The entire time I was with Mark, we only engaged in oral sex. The only butt stuff that ever happened was he would stick a finger in me most times, but it never went farther than that. I just wanted to clear that up. And no, I can't really say why it's so important to me to get that out there, but it is.

I think that's enough sex talk for one night. I've certainly got more to say on some of this stuff, but I need to keep my faithful audience in mind, and some of you are certainly not the type who are comfortable reading about stuff like this. Thanks as always for reading. Leave a comment below if you feel so inclined, or drop me an email here.

Also, one last thing. I've gone back through all the earlier posts and updated them so when I say what song a title was taken from you can click it and check the song out if you're curious. I also did the same on the one post that I had all the little lists of songs, each one is now an active link.

Today's title and headers are from "School's Out" by Alice Cooper.

We'll Kiss On A Mountaintop

I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof.

I feel a rather stupid amount of happiness right now because of two people. Even with everything going on with my wife and the anxiety and unhappiness that come along with it, two of my friends have continually made me feel loved, accepted, and insanely happy. This post is a tribute to them.

I want to walk with you on a cloudy day.

I have known my friend Tracy for over 25 years now. My friend Shannon I've known for about a year and a half or so, but we've really gotten close since about Christmas. Without these two women I would be having a much harder time with everything I'm going through.

Tracy was one of the few extremely pretty (OK, gorgeous) girls who would speak to me in high school. I had a crush on her from the first time I ever saw her but never made a move because I felt like she was way out of my league. She was always a very warm person, kind to pretty much everyone. She was also the sole reason I joined the drama club to do sound production. I was too shy to ask her out but at least I could use drama club as an excuse to hang out with her.

When we graduated we lost touch, as so many people do. Especially in the early '90s when we didn't have cell phones or the internet to stay connected. It wasn't until our ten year reunion that we saw each other again. There were only three people I wanted to see at that reunion, and Tracy was on top of that list. Unfortunately we didn't get a chance to talk because we both spent much of the evening on opposite sides of the room.

We didn't really begin to connect as completely as we now have until five or six years ago, via Facebook. Ever since we connected on there, we have continued to grow closer and closer. She has unquestionably become my best friend, and knows more about me than anybody else does. She was the person I talked to the most when my wife and I were discussing possibly divorcing, and along with Shannon has been the biggest help with me becoming comfortable with who I am now.

While I'm safe there in your arms.

Shannon and I met through Twitter, and I will freely admit that I really started following her because she is hot as the sun. However, she is also hilarious, and extremely caring, which is why when I deactivated my Twitter account, I made sure to find a way to keep in contact with her before I left. We have stayed in contact through Instagram, and although I still flirt with her a bit too much, my appreciation for her grows daily. Her kindness and support amazes me even more because we have never actually met in person.

Back in February, Shannon was my support for when I was being adventurous and wearing some sexy garments out of the house for the first time. Over the course of two days I ventured out to the library, grocery store, and mall while wearing either a white negligee or a purple corset-type body suit thing under my clothes. The first day, when I went to the library, I was absolutely petrified sitting in the parking lot, but she helped me find the courage to go inside.

It was mostly because of that day that Shannon was the first person I asked to call me Emily.

Sorry, had to block out names... It goes her, then me, then her.

I love that from the very first second she was accepting.

I could go on for hours about Tracy and Shannon, and how much they have impacted my life. They have both been so wonderfully accepting of me, and as I said, without them I don't think I would be anywhere near as comfortable as I am with who I am. Instead of talking about them though, I would rather show just how awesome they are.

Tracy asked if she could call me Emily before I even had a chance to ask if she would...

The first time Shannon called me Emily...

Tracy gets me like nobody else does...

Every time Shannon calls me Emily, my heart smiles.

Same with Tracy. Happy smiling heart.

The first time Tracy gave me a nickname, I could hardly contain my joy!

Tracy is also very good at being very real with me.

I asked Shannon to never call me Larry again, after asking the same of Tracy.

More nicknames from Tracy.

My favorite message from Tracy in the history of ever.

My favorite message from Shannon, when discussing body issues and wanting to be more feminine. I almost cried from this one.

The final thing I want to discuss is just how much Tracy gets me. I pride myself on being able to express myself in writing, much more so than speaking which I am horrible at. When my wife told me she is no longer comfortable with me wearing panties, I was pretty much a wreck. (And still am a lot of the time, to be honest, since we haven't had much chance to discuss anything further.) I was at a loss to describe how I was feeling and what I wanted to say to my wife, and even myself. Tracy summed it up better than I possibly could have at that time.

Come away with me and I'll never stop loving you.

To Tracy and Shannon, I love the two of you more than you will ever know. I don't know if I will ever be able to repay you for everything you have done for me, because I don't know if there are enough words to describe the size of the debt or enough years to repay it

Tracy, I cannot wait to see you again. Shannon, I cannot wait to see you for the first time. You both mean absolutely everything to me.

Title and captions today are from "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones, a song that Tracy introduced to me and which means a lot to us.