Personal Journal

Bringing M Up to Date

I think I made a leap forward tonight in what may be near the source of why I’m having such an impetus to kill myself.
Sex.

I can’t have this discussion without throwing my wife, L, whom I love as much as life itself, ‘under the bus’ in the arena of love-making skills. It has to be done, and as I’ve had this conversation in my head before, let me do it succinctly and with as few adjectives as possible.
Over the course of the now 7 years that I have been with L exclusively, she has demonstrated no instance of confidence, no example of curiosity, no interest of her own in either her sexual activity or my own. That’s 7 years in a sentence.

Regarding my interests in straight bondage (me as submissive) or straight transvestitism (without bondage) she has demonstrated what any observer would call something on the spectrum between disinterest and disgust.

I wrote down for L my interests, my desires for her participation in my fantasies, and I told her I would respect her boundaries if she would respect my needs (meaning at least leave me alone to crossdress). Her response to the letter, which I feel strongly that I need to share with you (M, so please remind me), was non-verbal. Again demonstrating a deep discomfort and expressing a clear desire not to discuss the subject with me. I also told her that I would not ask her to do things she did not want to do.

That was two years ago.
In the last year, we’ve had vaginal intercourse fewer than 5 times (and actually, that’s mostly by my ability to avoid it). I still do cunnilingus, once in a while, but I have to shave her first, each time, so I’ve resorted to doing that fewer and fewer occasions. And I used to love doing that, but it’s easier to just give her the sole thing she wants: a heavy vibrator massage. She orgasms every time, at least twice, and sometimes many times. It works, it makes her happy.

Afterward, I would ‘just’ ask for a hand job. I don’t want any of it, really. Sadly. I can masturbate myself better than she can, and I can wear what I like doing it (if she’s gone).
I don’t relish the telling of this situation. I don’t want L to read what I’m writing.

I’ve had other sexual relationships – a lot of them, relative to the women I’ve dated. I’ve had women who were freaked out by crossdressing and bondage (the second Julie, when I was 21, and it lead to our breakup). I’ve had women who were unaccustomed to it but went with it (my first wife, R, and Jean, my girlfriend who died of cancer). I’ve had women I didn’t bother to talk to about my need for crossdressing because I didn’t need to (Rachelles, with whom the sex was outrageously good without crossdressing or bondage) or didn’t plan to stay long (my Mexican girlfriend). But in all of those cases, the partner had a relatively good idea of how to occupy herself with my body. L has no desire to touch me (nor any dis-interest). She’s just blank. And unable to realize or learn that this is her status.


I wonder if L has been abused or molested, knowingly or not. I don’t know how to try any more than I already have to make my best friend my best lover. The truth is I’ve given up.

And the giving up, I think, plays a big part in my impetus for suicide. But I’m just now starting to figure that out. I love L ladies and gentleman who may be reading this (M, I don’t think anyone is right now, but maybe someday down the road someone will).
I need to continue this, but it’s for another entry.


It is never too late to be what you might have been. -- George Eliot
Courage to start and willingness to keep everlasting at it are the requisites for success. -- Alonzo Newton Benn