Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 23:54:20 +0000 (UTC)
From: Beaumonte Bill <oral_guy_2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael's Story Part 2

Michael's Story (part 2)

Cheryl Marie was a lovely girl I met in Cincinnati a number of years ago.
Sadly, her life was cut short when she was hospitalized and died from
pneumonia acquired there.  This story is exactly as she wrote it, except
for a few spelling and grammatical corrections.  I publish this in fond
memory of her – I only wish she had lived to see it published.

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While I rushed about in a tizzy, I couldn't help but reflect on how I got
to this position. It was a torturous (and often tortured) path, as it so
often is. I had spent a life-time as an outwardly conventional – and
rather macho even – husband, father and trial attorney (or litigation
attorney ... as we "professionals" like to say it).

I had practiced with an excellent law firm in St. Louis for over two
decades. I was accomplished and recognized for my legal talent. However,
never being one of the huge rain-makers in terms of clients, my
compensation, although more than adequate, did not catapult me into the
ranks of the wealthy. At least as I saw it.

The firm had its mixture of people and attitudes but was well stocked with
liberals in the political and social senses.  And like me, Jewish ones!
Fairly committed liberals they were, or seemed to be.

I was a fairly typical cross-dresser (if there is such a thing), enjoying
dressing in feminine things.  From early childhood, I had a fascination
with girl's clothes and things and a deep curiosity of what it would be
like to be one. The feelings grew and intensified over time, so that by the
time I was in my early-40's my desire to be completely feminine as much as
possible was very powerful.

I was blessed with an amazing friend, Karoline, who had the patience of a
saint and the know-how to lead me through all the right steps. Gently but
persistently, she encouraged and pushed, knowing what I really wanted and
seeing how others have achieved a sense of happiness in breaking through
the barrier.  She knew how much I truly wanted this, as though she knew me
better than I knew myself.

From the first trip to a mixed club, I found the experience to be deeply
satisfying, as though at long last I had found my true sense of self and
expression. And like so many, I castigated myself for waiting so damned
long to let myself free.

It was no longer a quick sexual buzz like when I was young, and followed
the typical path of raiding my mother's things (no sisters for me!). Now it
was something deep and profound within me ... a yearning to feel complete
and whole and that happened only when I was and felt fully feminine. I
could cope with less, but knew that I was unhappy and unfulfilled.

It was not so much of feeling horrible in my male identity, as much as
feeling ever more strongly the lure – better yet the euphoria – of
experiencing and expressing the feminine within me. Actually being a woman
as best I could be!

There was a sense of disconnect of not being able to be completely open
about myself to people where I worked, or to good and special friends –
or my amazingly accepting rabbi.  I truly loved this part of me and wanted
to share it with the world, but after the initial dreams of full
disclosure, my hard-headed skepticism took over.  Damn that skepticism!

I just couldn't know for sure which, if any, of my life-long colleagues,
after knowing me as the former football-playing Carl, could ever understand
or accept that my deeper yearnings were to be as feminine as I could be as
often as I could.  Or at least I did not want to take the chance,
especially in the work context.

Other than this necessary concealment, I was fairly happy at my firm. But
that was a rather huge "other than".

Yes I did play and enjoy football.  Even the rough and tumble aspect.  Much
like many of my new sisters, who had manly and macho pasts.  We like to
joke that while other players lusted after the cheerleaders, we secretly
longed to BE one of the cheerleaders!

Yeah, I know it doesn't make much sense, but welcome to my world!  Does
everything have to make perfect sense when it comes to matters of deeply
felt emotion?

Oooops!  Back to the reflective narrative ... are footnotes allowed in a
memoir?

But at least my wife, Gloria, was understanding enough to "let" me dress at
home and go out to various social events and gatherings for other
transgendered girls.  Lots of discussion groups and GNO's or parties at
mostly gay clubs or class accepting lounges. Fun stuff!  But the more of
these experiences I enjoyed, the more I desired. And the more feminine I
felt and expressed outwardly, the more the sense of romance between Gloria
and I diminished. From Gloria's perspective, at least. I would have
thrilled to her completely and unreservedly loving me as Cheryl.  After
all, it is the most natural thing to want to be loved for how we truly see
ourselves.

The sense of loss of that that sort of love was painful – and the loss
of the opportunity to deepen our relationship.  But how could I be angry
and resentful?  After all, Gloria was like many many other wives, even the
exceptional ones who could accept their husbands as cross-dressers or
transsexuals looking to transition.  And the sad history is that as the
husband's cross-dressing deepens emotionally, the marriage is unlikely to
survive or becomes an upstream and exhausting struggle for survival.

I yearned to be loved as Cheryl and dreamed of all the ways it could
happen, whether that other person be male, female, a transwoman, or a
loving person of whatever label. I didn't care much for labels, and even
especially in the world of the realm of the "gender variant" (fancy term,
that!), they seemed especially slippery.

But I sometimes thought about being loved by a male. At least in the
abstract, it would that be the most complete expression of my true sense of
femininity.  But I also knew from many sources, that so-called male
admirers were notoriously untrustworthy and after a short term or one night
thrill.  But there were some out there, that seemed truly exciting. I had
chatted with enough of them on line. But that was it.

Labels did seem to mean more to Gloria. She could not abide the thought of
seeing herself – or having others see her – as a "lesbian".  I had to
accept her feelings in that regard, whatever I thought of them.

Other feelings percolated. The more time I spent with the transitioning or
transitioned girls, the more I felt a yearning to be one of them, but one
that could not overcome all the practical costs and difficulties of the
process and possible loss of employment.  This yearning had a strong pull
to me.  But I was not so desperately unhappy living the male side of my
life, that I felt the necessary powerful push to cross-over. Yet the dream
still had its allure!  A feeling that I could not suppress but not yet give
into then, if ever.


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To be continued ...

Feel free to contact me with your comments or requests.  –Bill
(oral_guy_2000@yahoo.com)

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