I am a submissive sissy faggot transvestite.  That is what I am.  

It may be something of a problem if I gave my Wife a rather different impression of me.  Alas, I hope this isn’t unwelcome news, but I don’t see any alternative but to live as I feel.  Besides, if I learned anything this week (euphemism alert:  binge of drugs and crossdressing), it’s that all of the reasons why I haven’t been my SissyFuckinSelf have been social anxieties.  My analysis of the situation is simple:  I used to be quite “normal” and miserable; but now I’m a sissy freak and I’m happy.  That’s only two data points.  You can’t draw a graph, but my instincts tell me that I’m onto something.  

Dom/Sub.  Straight/Bi.  The combinations are endless.  I never got a chance to develop a sexual identity.  I went from a geeky and naive child directly into an environment where conformity was the highest virtue, where one presented one’s date to the Commanding Officer for inspection, where homosexuality was illegal.  My social and sexual immaturity lead me straight into the clutches of two women who seemed to sense how easily I could be manipulated.  Being humiliated makes sissy’s hopelessly aroused, but of course I didn’t know that at the time.  They hated me.  I obeyed and paid. Nostalgia is hell.  

I seem to have kept much of my sexuality a secret, not only owing to social conformity, but also because it has taken my entire life to figure it out.  I’m most comfortable when I’m dressed as a feminized slut.  I am intensely submissive.  My fetish for mind control and hypnosis finds expression in the spaced-out and entranced feeling I always get when dressed; the core arousal coming not from the fabric, but from the buzz I get from submitting to The Urge.  It’s a submissive act.  At first, it was nylons, then panties, and in a cascade of hastily-erected mental defences and subsequent crashing failures, I found lingerie, shoes, dresses, makeup and wigs.  I’m not passable.  Not a girl.  A sissy.  Feeling helpless, weak, soft, controlled, manipulated, programmed, trained and generally fucked-with TURNS ME ON.  Oh, and cock.  Where did that come from?  

Look, I didn’t ask for this.  It doesn’t make my life easier in any way.  It’s a nice day.  I could go fishing or read a book.  Instead, I’m engaged in a blathering catharsis whilst sporting a lovely garter belt with pink stockings, pink panties and a pink nightie.  It was a choice.  I apparently made it. 

With respects to my Loving Wife, there is no putting the genie back in this bottle.  In my current state of sexual effervescence, fantasy and reality blur at the margins.  While I figure out what all of this means, some Rules are needed: 

1.  My Wife must want to still live with me.  Consideration of Her is paramount.  Learn Her boundaries and respect them;

2.  When I get aroused I feel small, helpless, entranced and effeminate.  Getting me aroused requires making me feel small, helpless entranced and effeminate.  Don’t think “masculine.”  Think “sissy”;

3.  It doesn’t have to be every day, but it’s there, and not being a sissy is a bit like holding my breath;

4.  The alternative to honesty is catastrophe; and

5.  Monogamy, safety, discretion and privacy. 

Some days I might be wearing heels and a corset around the house.  I don’t know why, exactly.  Neither does my Wife.  My message: have fun with it!  I spent a week in a mild mental haze, and I found peace of mind in imagining the potential outcomes:

* If that becomes my outfit, my Wife will either leave me or not.  I hope not, and trust in Her Love, but I need to be willing to accept that outcome; and

* If She elects to stay with this more sissy me, She can play a role as my Domme/Switch or not.  I’m betting that She’s not thrilled with the role, but Loving and willing.  If She plays Domme (perhaps with some help), I’m in sissy heaven forever.  Alternatively, She and I would talk about where I could express my needs, perhaps with a local playmate.  My preference is for a sissy playmate, so it’s unlikely that Mistress will want to participate, but I’m happy to share.  In fact, considering how uncooperative sissification makes my penis, I understand if She wants to cast a wider net for big, hunky Partners with a Penis.  I’d even participate to the extent She found entertaining.  I’m the sissy, remember? 

I’m okay with those outcomes too, and I need to be okay with it, because it’s all my doing. 

In light of this weird late-breaking refraction of my sexuality, I hope this is the mature way of loving the Woman.

/Heidi