Cumming by tit play only, that’d be a dream…
This week was so busy, I didn’t manage to write about the Friday before last Friday when Andrea came over.
When she arrived, I had already dressed up, but she only needed 30 minutes to dress up as well. She’s a lot faster than me :) I was very excited, but John was cute: he had brought cake with him and I made tea so that we just sat down, talked and had tea to get comfortable with each other. John seemed as curious as I was and the longer we sat there, the more questions he asked, without making her feel uncomfortable. She told us about how she found out about Andrea and her gurlish existence and needs, and I tried to explain how I feel about Ginny and how much she’s a part of myself right now. You know, although I have John and friends who accept me as I am, it was nice to talk to someone who’s gurlish, too, and to find out that some of my thoughts and feelings seem to be quite normal for folks like us.
Well, I guess I could talk about our meeting more detailed, but actually I just want to say that we enjoyed the time we spent together and that we’ve met again. To be honest, I hope I found a friend in her and in her everyday life self as well.
Next week, Leo will be here for some days. I can’t wait to see him again, because it’s been quite a while since we met the last time. John and he have met each other more often, but I didn’t have the time to come with John or I thought the both of them would need time for themselves, so I didn’t join them. But now I’m really excited to meet him again :)
During the last weeks and especially after that certain event when I got my hair cut, my therapist and I have been working with a part of me I obviously have lost when I was still very young. I have never had trust in this method, you know, and always questioned the use in dealing with younger selves. I wanted to regard them as gone forever, even dead, because I thought it would hurt too much and bring too much back if they were not. But, as you know when you’ve been following me for longer, there already are certain child-parts of me active in my life, like that little boy who still needs diapers and his pacifier. I found out that living out that aspect of myself has made it easier to cope with it. The pressure has vanished, and sometimes when I feel the urge to be little, I just give in and allow myself to be a child again.
Now, I have made contact with a part of myself who is about 6-7 years old, a shy, deranged boy who can’t speak propperly (he stutters) and is very frightened about anything. He doesn’t really speak to anyone and shys away from people, especially from men, which is a bit tricky, because I am a man, I live together with a man, my therapist is a man, and even my best friend is a man. He fears almost any movement and one of his gestures is to put his hand to his head as if he wants to prevent someone from hitting him. Am I surprised? Not at all. Besides all other tortures, my father used to hit me on the head, like very often and very brutal. I have suffered several traumas in my head region, ranging from concussions to a broken jaw and several injuries in my ear region. As a result, on the right ear I can’t hear porperly. I’m not really hearing-impaired, but I’m not able to hear very high tones. Of course hearing and the ability to speak properly are connected, so I’m not surprised that this boy is stuttering.
When he was suddenly there, he brought a lot of memories with him I wanted to forget. Or to be honest: I had forgotten. My therapist says that that’s quite normal. I have seperated this part of me from my conscious memories and locked it up somewhere deep inside myself. To be honest, I wish he had stayed there, but my therapist and even John keep telling me it’s good that he’s back with me. Since he’s with me, I suffer from nightmares, and when I wake up, I’m spacy and panicking. Ugh. My therpist has encouraged me to find out what this boy might need, and I went to buy him a helmet. I thought that was stupid, but obviously he likes it.
At the moment, I don’t know how to cope with the pictures and memories he has brought with him. I see myself at that very young age, trying to be a good boy and know what my father wants before even he knows. I remember his dirty fingers anywhere, his brutality, then again his tender movements to make me cum, still dry. I remember that feeling of getting a stiffy, of being ashamed but liking it anyway, of wanting to die or to run away. My lame attempts to hide from him, my discomposure when he made bottles and hangers break on my body, and my decision to never feel anything again and to vanish. It makes me so sad to see and even worse feel this boy again, standing alone between shards and broken bones with nowhere to go. I try to tell myself that he is me, but I have difficulties in really feeling him. I’m afraid it might be too much if I’d allow that to happen, but on the other hand I know I now have a place to bring him to: right into my arms or maybe into John’s.
In these moments I feel that hatred again. I hate myself, I hate that scum who did that to me. It will never end. I even hate that.
Sometimes I need pain, just like it is. Tonight, John punished me with a thumbstack belt. Fiveteen hits were enough, even for me. Was bleeding, felt sore. Better now? Hell, yes.
I guess I was the only in the cinema who got a stiffy when Silas exposed his punishment belt in “Da Vinci Code”.
Last week, I did some shopping to satisfy my need for women’s panties. For some months now, I only have been wearing them and have not touched any of my normal boxers at all. That’s just how much I love them :) They make me feel good, they are ways more beautiful and fancy and they always remind me of that fact that Ginny’s become a big part of my life.
When I searched through the aisles, there was another guy. We exchanged quick looks, but decided to ignore each other. You know,i t’s always a bit odd to be there, among all these bras and panties and stuff, as a guy. Usually I try to look like I’d search something for my not-existent girlfriend, because I’m a coward LOL But I guess most times I’m looked through anyway :) Guys who really want to buy something for their wifes behave in another way. They seem undecided and helpless and surely not as knowing like guys who wear those panties themselves :)
Anyway, after I was finished in the undies-department, I moved on to the dresses (it was a sale and I was out of control UGH). They had a beautiful light dress in black and white and just when I searched for my size, there was this guy again, over at the long dresses. Again we exchanged quick glances, then moved on. I made my way through the aisles and just when I was in a section with almost no one alse attending, there was this guy again. This time he smiled shyly and came over to say hello. He just said “Du bist mir vorhin schon aufgefallen” (you already attracted my attention earlier). You see, writing about it all and fucking about with strangers is one thing, as long as John is with me, but being confronted with a man who obviously thinks I’m not an ugly bitch is another thing! I’m abysmally shy, I tell you! I could feel how red I was getting and just smiled (and I thought that saying nothing is a better alternative to saying something stupid, right?). He introduced himself to me and before I even knew it, we had a little chat.
It turned out he was nice and he invited me to have a tea with him, as soon as I’d have paid. I told him that before I’d say yes, I wanted to call my partner, and he agreed. John was bemused and told me to enjoy myself, but be careful. Bless his heart, that was so cute :) So, the guy and I went to a nice café and seated ourselves a bit apart from the others. I know it doesn’t quite sound like that, but I’m really shy, even more if John’s not with me, and it was funny to witness myself talking so openly about what I had just bought. I didn’t tell him about Ginny, but obviously he could see her blink through. When he asked me whether I was transsexual, I told him that I am not, but that I like to play around with that feminine side of myself and that it has become a huge part of my life. Apparently he thawed the more the longer we talked, and after a while he told me that he likes to dress up gurlish as well, but has never told anyone about it, ever. We talked the afternoon away and when we had to say goodbye, we had exchanged numbers.
I was very excited about my new friend and when John came home that evening, I told him all about Andrea (which is his gurly name). Of course my sweet husband could hear through what was in my mind, and after a while he just said “you want to play with her”. Uhm. Yes. I wouldn’t have said that, but yes, I guess I want to. So, to put a long story short, last weekend and and this Wednesday, the three of us met, to give us the opportunity to get to know each other better. You can tell by that that it’s not just about fucking, as for me there’s so much connected to it, and I can’t even tell why. Perhaps because Andrea’s the first other gurl I meet in person? Or because it would be exciting to have someone to chat about all that gurly stuff and exchange make up tools? LOL I don’t know. But tonight I’ll find out how far I want to go. John will be there, watching us, taking pictures, but interfering only if we both want him to. I’m OK with that, I always feel better with him attending. I’m very, very excited!
The past few weeks have been very challenging for me. During talking therapy, we talked about the influence my father still bestows upon me, and it left me so sad, confused and desperate. I know that the younger you are when the abuse takes place or starts, the more disastrous is the effect it has. Sometimes I have no idea of who I actually am! I have friends to talk it over, I have the best husband I could wish for, but still I feel so trapped by my father and what he did. When I went to the mental hospital for the first time, I asked my brother why he sent me there, and he answered “to help you”. I had to laugh at that, because I was convinced nothing or nobody would ever be able to help me. But there has been help. It was good to talk it over, you know, good in a certain kind of way. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was good that they believed me and just let me talk. It was good to understand why I did so many things the way I did, like hiding bananas under the couch and whatever.
In the past few weeks, I kept asking myself where I can still see my father taking influence on me, almost 20 years after his gutless suicide. Anyhwere. He is anywhere, in me, in my world, in my dreams and thoughts. I still feel the urge to please him, be a good boy, take care for his moods and needs, keep still, spread my legs, be his fuck toy. The weird thing is that when people criticize him or call him names, I tend to defend him. Like “oh yes, sure he put a gun to my head, but, you know, all in all he was my father, right?”. That’s poor. My therapist told me that’s the survival strategy of an abused child, identifying with the abuser and take the role of his lawyer.
Things are so confusing, even more as the physical feelings connected with him are so confusing as well. Most times, my first impulse when thinking of his touches is to push him away, hit him, shout at him, but it needs just one second more to have me horny, in an angry way. Why? I guess because he didn’t let me take control of my body, but took what he wanted. I found no other way to cope with it than sexually. And the only thing that helps me to control this anger concerning my mind and body, is physical pain combined with sexual relief. I fully understand that all I like in bed is just a reenactment of what he did: being tied down, being hit and hurt, being fucked relentlessly.
My therapist often asks me: “what about you? what do you like?” and I always tall him, I don’t know. I have no idea. Isn’t it me who likes to be beaten and used? If not, than I don’t know if I even exist. Sometimes I think if I weren’t that down-to-earth-guy, I’d have already gone mad. I guess I’m lucky to have my family and my job, right? I even don’t know what would happen if I just let him go, dismiss him from my life. Would it all tumble down? I see that allowing Ginny to come out was the first thing I really did for myself, for my own identity in long years. It’s not like Yoga or running, you know, althought both help, but being Ginny just feels so right and comfy. When I’m her and in her dresses, I can feel myself better, I feel vulnerable and adorable at the same time.
The last weekend gave me so much to think about and I can’t seem to figure it out.
First of all, I really have issues with that missing reaction from people towards us (my appearance, me obviously not wanting a haircut, the lead/collar). On Youtube, I have found a lot of videos testing people’s reaction. This is called “social experiments” and I wasn’t surprised to see that most people do not react in any way if they witness harrassment, fights or violence. Most of them just walk by. When they’re questioned concerning their not-occured reaction, most of them say they don’t want to get in trouble. Uhm. That really makes me worry! I don’t know how I would instinctively react if I witnessed a fight or harrassment. To be honest, I regard myself as a coward and I have always tried to avoid confrontations. I don’t know if I’d have the nerves to interfere. I hope I would. Or at least, I hope I’d have the courage to call for help. But anyway, it feld bad to be in that situation. I don’t even know whether I had wanted someone to barge in, but I was confronted with my own helplessness and that’s an ambiguous feeling. More of that later.
Second, I have really bad problems with my new hair length. If there’s one thing I’m vain about, then it’s my hair. I’m that kind of guy who even uses conditioner on a regular basis, and having had an involuntarily haircut makes me feel hurt, even though many people reacted very kind to that. Like telling me my hair looks better/thicker now and so on. I’m bad in defining who I am, but I would always mention my hair as a big part of myself, and having John rule about it, feels weird. I don’t really get that point, you know. It had been OK in the past if he told me what to wear, where to shave and even who to have sex with, but my hair is so special to me. It took me a lot to have it cut and I’m not OK with it yet.
The third thing I fight with recently are conflicting feelings regarding my role on the weekend. On the one hand, it was hard to accept this role of a useless fuck toy. I felt more like a pet than a husband and there were moments in which I fought with tears. What John demanded from me was not little and in some ways, it reminded me of what my father did. It was somehow like triggering memories I wanted to forget. On the other hand, it make me going, you know.
When I take a look at what I have written over time, I can clearly see that these conflicting feelings are very typical for me. There are times when I try to cope with every injury, both mentally and physically, in a quite “grown up” way. Going to talking therapy, trying to calm myself, trying to do my chores, be a good and kind person, trying to oppress the urge to hurt myself in thought and deed and just being a nice, loving husband, a reliable friend and a good brother. In such phases I tend to think that I can live without the pain and that I even might learn to like normal things like truly consensual, clean sex, soap operas and puppies. Then BAM and everything changes. I seem to lose grip of myself and all my good resolutions. Then I just need dirt, pain and humiliation and really thinkI am ready to fully embrace the fact that whatever I learn about myself or whatever I talk about with my therapist I am broken and have the goddamn right to like all that stuff. Sorry for cursing. And after a while, I’m again into a good phase and think of myself as a disgusting, insane person with those perversions making me tick.
Having these conflicting feelings and needs puts unbelievable pressure upon me. In a good phase, I disgust myself for the need for pain, and in a bad phase, I despise myself for the attempts to live a clean life. For John, there is no clash between the “good” and the “bad” John. He says it’s always him and he totally accepts that he is a realible, nice guy with dominant and sadistic needs. Period. I totally adore him for this ability!
Craving what I crave, needing what I need makes me feel like a bad person, and I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have a bad conscious about my sexual fantasies and about other fantasies as well. And even if I know it’s all just because of the abuse that took place for about two decades, it makes me feel insane, bad and psycho. The worst fantasies are those of me being a kid and having to please my Dad. I know, I really, really know it’s just because of what he did, and I wish it would not turn me on like it does. It makes me feel so worthless, but I have failed in about 18 years of therapeutic sessions, stays in several mental hospitals and a whole lot of work woth myself to find better, cleaner things to turn me on.
Since last weekend, I keep asking myself whether I will always be that torn?