Personal Journal

Part 3 of catching up M

So the last two entries have focused on sexuality, particularly my frustrated need to cross-dress and play bondage games, solo (since having L involved is out of the question given current state of affairs and communication). The social factors outside of my marriage, and my anger management issues also deserve heavy weight in this conversation, and we should talk of them at some future point. But my next entry, this entry (duh) is about the gift that fell into my lap.

Our home here in Denver has a large basement, unfinished. It’s not really L-shaped. It’s kind of L-shaped – more like two rectangles that overlap a little in one shared corner. One end is the stairs up. The other end is sort of dead space.

For the longest time, our basement was loosely and neatly organized for holiday stuff, and for stuff from our niece. Since last summer, we have purged. Our niece A has gotten her things and moved. And we lost one more cat, bringing our number to 3.

Since the front half of the basement is laundry room and litter boxes, the back half, with its seasonal totes and shelving, wasn’t attractive. We have an old full-size bed down there. Well in the spring this year, L and I really spring cleaned down here, and the purging was finally at a point that we reclaimed that bed area in the back of the basement. Basically half the basement is divided off (via showercurtain; hey, you do what you got) from the laundry room/litter box area. Though unfinished, our basement has always been a receptacle for rugs that we didn’t want in the living room any more, so the whole place is covered in rugs. The full size bed is in great shape, dusted and cleaned.
Then I decided to make this area my marijuana room. “Room”. It’s very high-school, but I fuckin love it. M, if you remind me, I’ll take pictures for you. I could see you me and you hanging out down here and getting baked together. But where I am, especially in this place, I’d probably jump you. That would be bad.

So after I started hanging out down here to use my marijuana vaporizer, the place got reorganized and cleaned yet again, and now the back half is actually a really decent basement apartment. And once it got clean enough, I realized it was big enough, and completely safe enough (after erecting a blanket-curtain – you’ve seen the tumblr pictures, so you’ve seen my basement dungeon of awfulness). It’s clean, it’s got great attachment points for self-bondage (including the ceiling, where there are ample beams to support my full body weight, giving me a place for a 10-foot chain that always seemed impractical when I practiced bondage upstairs. And upstairs, I had to be a lot more discreet.

I started I guess about the exact time I got back from Tennessee (last week). I’m not sure what last week had to do with this explosion of sexual energy that I’ve found myself in. But I got back from TN on Tuesday night. By Friday I was suicidal again, after the vacation, and obviously over the weekend I had a meltdown. M and I will always have Robin Williams to thank for us coming back together, if this helps us stay connected, and god knows that I want to and I need to.

I bought some marijuana when I got back (not that I ever run out), oh, this was it:
In my over-night hotel in Missouri, I shaved my body. I have been shaving my body for cycling – legs AND arms, with trimmed chest to tie it all together a bit (rather than bald chest) as masculine, for L. But in Missouri, alone and with the night to waste, I shaved lots more. Entire pubic area (I used to keep an upper region but very short and groomed), and chest. This summer I’ve really worked to stay shaved for cycling because it’s actually cooler to allow sweat to stay right on skin without hair. Anyway… I shaved down to skin everywhere. Then I got home to heat, and the basement is cool, so I tried out the basement as a place to do self-bondage for the first time, and a magic bell was rung that harmonized between my spirit and that magical place in one’s body where orgasms sleep, and I have been mad for crossdressing ever since.

L was off on Friday, and we took time off together. So I didn’t masturbate Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, and she and I did not have sex (that’s another story that I should tell, but it doesn’t need telling now, and by the way, it doesn’t involve throwing her under any buses).

When L left on Monday morning for work, I broke out the fresh marijuana, all of my crossdressing clothes and bondage gear (including a chain hanging safely from the ceiling), and I lost myself in the pleasures of my imagination.

I remember having a flashback of sorts to Ohio, to my aunt Mary’s basement on the house (not the farm). That’s a place where I experimented in crossdressing and bondage and shaving. I had hours to myself down there, and it was magical.
When I had one of my dozen or more orgasms down there, I realized that this place is magical.
And I’ve had a very boyish sexual energy (which is not to say male, I guess; new is how I mean it). And a desperate sexual energy, because what has been going on down here (me, by myself, sadly) has been both wonderful and terrible.
It is wonderful because I caught a hold of sexual youth. Somewhere in this mix of shit is my own spiritual purity, I feel myself touching the energy that saved me from further harm in my abusive home. Then, I had found sexual energy that I could build and play with and enjoy, and no one really found a way to take that away from me as a young teen. I have felt that again this week.

The orgasms that I’ve had have been amazing. It started Monday, and then L got home Monday, and it was awful, because I had all the sexual energy in the world, and I knew it had nowhere to go once she was home. I had lived with that over the weekend, wondering if she would follow-through on her stated desire to have sex (she did not; as I said, that’s another story). On Monday I had two orgasms before she got home.
Then, after she went to bed, I came down here, two floors down to my little basement grotto, and I put on a sort of minimal crossdressing outfit. Pantyhose, a belt, and a comfy waste cincher that fakes as a corset in a pinch. I had no idea what I was doing. I just needed to crossdress SO badly, and I realized I had this space downstairs in the basement that L probably wouldn’t come down to even if she woke up.
The plan was just to wear that stuff, keep my sexual energy up (and frustrated, which is part of the essential joy of transvestitism/submissiveness) and go to bed later. At one point I was so freakin horny just sitting down here that I decided the smart thing to do was masturbate. After that, I went upstairs to bed.

Tuesday morning rolled around and I got up early and I repeated the same process. Marijuana. Crossdressing. Bondage. Masturbation. Last night, though, I went further in the crossdressing, putting on a full corset. And I started to hope and pray that L would come down here and find me – I probably shouldn’t hope for that, because I honestly think it could traumatize her to find me in what you saw photographed on Tumblr.
When you talk about sex being something that doesn’t hurt someone else, we may be facing a situation where my honest expression of my sexual self is something that causes harm to her. I think that’s what the evidence suggests: L is highly conservative sexually and repulsed easily (I think this is true of her in other fashions besides sex, so it fits a husband’s observation in general).

But I come to realize that I’m desperate to crossdress and practice bondage, even if it’s just by myself. I think this desperate risk-taking at night is actually my subconscious trying to save my life. If relieving this depression means wearing pantyhose and corsets and having orgasms, then it’s driving me to do that regardless of the other risks of being caught by my pre-Kinsey-an wife (whom I love – I truly do). And good on it, and good on you for coming in here and reading. You’re the only one who knows this side of me remotely closely. (Love you M)

I’m so incredibly horny. I just want my wife to handcuff my hands behind my back and push my head between her legs. And that’s never happened in our 7 years together, and I have no reason to believe it ever will. If that’s not happening, what hope do I have of her tying my hands to the ceiling…

Sigh.. Thanks for listening


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