Still searching for 'me'.

My new crossdressing friend had a number of traits which I did not share. He was working on being extremely 'convincing'; although married (his wife knew nothing, or so he believed) he had a desire to appear as a real woman - hence his love of breast forms, make-up, despite his lack of skill, and he even had an artificial pussy. All of these he was keen that I should try. He had considerable guilt about his tendencies and tastes and finding someone who would go along with them and share them seemed to lessen his anxiety about himself as a pervert. Byt this stage of my life I was pretty happy with being a pervert in a number of other ways - of which more soon - but dressing was something that I had repressed for so many years that I am sure I, too, had 'issues' to deal with.

One of the things he insisted on was that I must have a female name - this was important, he assured me, and would help me relax into the clothes. I still had a problem about relaxing into the clothes and was reluctant to commit to this - or indeed to wear the breast forms, wig or pussy. I wanted to be a bloke in women's clothes. I could not think of a woman's name that I could feel happy with - he it was who came up with the name Xena, after the eponymous heroine of a popular television programme. He argued that I was so macho that only a name with Amazonian associations would be appropriate. So with him I became Xena.

He also had BDSM interests... With these I was more familiar, having been involved in the leather fetish world from my early 20s. I was particularly happy with them in this context because I could allow the dressing to happen so long as I connoted it with the idea of being forced. Hence my interest in 'forced feminisation' which of course is nothing of the sort but something I now eagerly rush towards, not shy away from. Still the complexities of the human psyche are such that the IDEA of being forced to wear the clothes of a woman is still a huge turn-on.



Here are a couple of photos from those early sessions, some ten years ago. Somewhere on my computer I have a picture of me in full, ghastly make-up, bound to a St. Andrew's cross; by using Photoshop, my friend tried to make it look as if the breasts and pussy were real.

Looking back, I see now that I was something of a selfish prick - I used his clothes and gear and essentially gave him nothing in return. After a number of sessions, we drifted apart. There was no sex involved and I would have liked that, though not with him en femme; the idea of 'lesbian sex' - sex with a man who was also crossdressing - had no appeal for me.

Time passed, but an old flame in me had been rekindled and some months later I was impatient for more.