Most of us can remember, if not specifically their first time, certainly the era of their life in which their interest in the feminine first appeared. For me, I have almost no memories of my pee-school years (other than vague flashes from isolated moments, almost like remembering scenes from a dream you had last night) but probably my earliest memory was a flash from a costume party one Halloween in the 60’s in which I remember being jealous of some the the girl’s costumes.
More clearly, I remember my first couple of years in school. Sporting my father-enforced crew cut, I immediately fell in lust for the cute little blonde who rode my bus. Not lust in a sexual sense, but lust to BE her. She was my ideal, at that age, of the perfect girl I felt I had every right to be. Along about that time I began to find my way into private opportunities to get into the clothes of female cousins or friends around my age whenever the opportunities arose. Nevermind propriety (who among us was mindful of that before their tenth birthday?) – any chance to slip away and raid the laundry hamper or even sneak into their room for a few happy moments of girliness was a precious treasure.
One of my clearest memories was of an afternoon when I was impressed with how cute the one-shoulder top look was, and not finding any in the wardrobe of the girls close to me, I would find a top with a big enough neck line to get my left arm through along with my head and would fashion a makeshift imitation. In those days, though, every opportunity was entirely too brief. Still, the joy from those moments provided the slender reeds which supported my mood in those days when I thought I was the only such “freakish” boy in the world. It’s kind of remarkable that during most of my adult life, I wasn’t a “dresser” (mostly for the sake of trying to “pray it away”) and never really thought of myself in those terms, but in my innocent pre-teen youth that was the hedgerow that kept me from falling into the pit of despair.
Later, in the years of oncoming puberty I was large enough to fit into my mother’s clothes for a while, and as testosterone worked it’s poisonous way on my body, I did find myself staring into that blackness, as I dejectedly watched all the things I did not want present themselves relentlessly in my mirror day by day. Eventually taking me beyond the place where I had easy access to any female clothing. For a time, in my teens, I actually would spend summer afternoons slipping into unlocked vacation homes near my grandparent’s house and searching them for clothing that would fit. But these moments were too rare to hold off depression, and the body was becoming too “manish” for me to ever be able to squint hard enough to see a girl in the mirror anymore. The next decade or so would be incredibly dark days. But that’s a story for another post.
Still, it makes me wonder – is there a correlation between being transsexual (as opposed to a crossdresser) and the earliness of the onset of cross-gender feelings, or does the happily-male crossdresser also, often, find that hes able to trace his desires into the pre-teen years of his youth? I don’t think I’ve ever see that discussed in any detail.
Photo by: mikebaird