For the record, I'm not ‘female’, a t-girl, gender dysphoric, transgendered,
transsexual, a woman trapped in a man's body, a CD, a TG, a TS, SS, FBI,
CIA, BBC, BB King or Doris Day. I'm a classic transvestite, a straight guy who
likes to dress up occasionally and feel fab, glam and a wee bit younger than
my half century normally allows in this big square world. I’d been messing
around with dressing since I was 13 or 14, but never thought of myself as a
transvestite. It was just something that I’d discovered about myself and
something that I kept very secret. I thought I was the only one like me.
I told my wife about my dressing shortly after we first met, as she had
previously expressed a fascination with the whole idea. Dressing became
woven into our relationship for many years. But like most things, the novelty
eventually wore off and though my desire never went away, personal
circumstances led to a long hiatus. I grew a beard, struggled with life’s little
ups and downs and drifted into a hazy drabness. After a run of dreadful bad
luck I became seriously ill with a lung infection that the medical professionals
seemed incapable of diagnosing or curing. I spent a year like this, gradually
losing weight and feeling depressed and hopeless. By then we had a young
daughter, financial problems and I was trapped in an unsatisfying and poorly
paid job.
I hit the low point at Christmas 2008. We had eleven family members round
for Christmas dinner. I was still struggling with my health and for the first
Christmas in my life I passed on the turkey dinner and booze. Someone,
taking photos that day had captured me sitting on the hearth, looking
bedraggled, emaciated, bearded, straggly-haired and over two stone below
my normal weight. I was horrified when I saw it. Days later, I had a long talk
with my wife. I told her I didn’t want to be me anymore. I looked and felt awful;
I hated my job and felt I was losing my identity. I asked her if she would make
me up again sometime (she had always done my make-up, when I dressed).
She was surprised, thinking that I had given all that up, but she agreed to do
it.
With the complexities of family life it took nigh on nine months before we got
round to it. In the interim I bought clothes and shoes and planned my
comeback. In October 2009 Vicki was born. I’d never adopted a femme name
before (remember, I wasn’t a transvestite). Looking in the mirror at myself in
the slap and the first wig I had ever owned (I always had my own long hair) it
really bent my head. I’d opened a box whose lid was never going to close.
We moved house, I recovered from my illness and for a short three months
my life dramatically turned around. Our relationship suddenly picked up. I
hadn’t felt this good in six or seven years. Vicki’s emergence, though, wasn’t
without its difficulties, as any tranny with a partner will tell you. Then the
Cosmic Joker stepped in. My wife had a routine operation in January 2010
that went spectacularly wrong, resulting in 18 months of hospital visits,
recurring medical problems and a gross lack of adequate medical care. It
halted Vicki’s progress, ruined our rediscovered sense of purpose and robbed
me of my wife. In the middle of all this madness I had what can only be
described as a nervous breakdown. I got thrown out of the house by my wife
due to my unreasonable behaviour, I started counselling for depression and
eventually succumbed to anti-depressant medication.
Could things get any worse? You’d better believe it. After a break from Vicki,
for the sake of my wife and my sanity, the urges came back and despite her
continuing health problems my wife supported me as best she could. I packed
in my crappy job and started up in business on my own. Vicki started to
venture out again into the world and while things picked up dramatically for
me, my wife’s situation only got worse. By September 2011, she was in
intensive care after an emergency operation. Thirty-six hours later I lost her
for good. Some weeks previously I had said to my counsellor, when talking
about my wife. ‘If I lose her, I just thank God I’ve got Vicki.’
A year later, that has proven to be prophetic. I’m still here. Vicki is alive and
kicking, my business is doing well, my daughter is doing okay and I have an
active social life, loads of new friends and a bright, if unknown future. I can’t
think what might have happened if I’d been on my own.
This girl has been my salvation.
Vicki Evans
September 2012