Do your best for a moment to describe the taste of your favorite food, and then imagine the gap between your words and the very real sensations, the aromas, textures, colors and flavors enjoyed in the eating. That gap is what I imagined to be the difference between me talking about cross dressing with my wife, and actually standing before her in full femme glory.
My goodness, it has been a week of weight and consequence. There is absolutely nothing that Mrs. Bellejambes could have done to make it any easier for me, god love her. Her acceptance has been out the outer limits of my hopes, but in hindsight, absolutely true to the person I have known her to be all along.
But still. I had not dressed for us. Mrs. B had not met The Other Woman.
This moment was organized for and executed on Saturday night. And we are both still breathing. I had received an invitation to a holiday party with a handful of birds of a similar feathers, and accepted. I have been a quiet and lurking member of a local online group for some time without joining in any of the message threads, going to a social, or striking up any friendships with these girls. Now, with me out to my wife it seemed like a good time to go public.
I don’t have any makeup at home, and Mrs. B’s complexion is so flawless that our cabinets are absent of all the mortar and trowel kit that I require to not frighten innocent children. Out of vanity, I did not want to do a half job, and just appear for her bewigged, breasted and hipped out, clad and shod in my finest. Thusly, a visit to my cosmetician was required. I dressed at home, with Mrs. B elsewhere, and slipped out to Ramona’s for expert application of war paint. Ramona really outdid herself, and flattered the hand I have been dealt by nature. Sorry, no pics, and it’s a shame, I really felt terrific.
Home at about 8ish with a promise to gather at the Stage Door at 9:30. Mrs. B was lounging upstairs, tending to her vast Facebook Farmville holdings and, I suspect, breathing a little more regularly than I was click-clacking up the stairs, wondering … exactly what is the correct pose to strike here, now, for this?
Back straight, eyes wide, and lips curled up … Hi honey. I’m home.
My ensemble, an aubergine camisoled Chiffon blouse up top, the black shirred silk skirt a good few inches above the knees, both from Ann Taylor, a very fashion forward pair of Oroblu tights, all perched on a closed foot pair of 3" heeled, black pump booties. Smart professional girls night out look for the holiday season really. Very pretty in my view, attractive yes, and happy miles away from the come-hither borderline slutty territory that the cross dresser sometimes travels through.
I really wanted to represent all of “us” well to my important audience of one, and think that I did. Again, with the “Oh. My. God…”, fulsome complements and a couple of questions about where the pieces came from. I then sat next to her on the bed, and ….
… easy there friends. Her PC was locking up. I explained how to diagnose things through use of the Task Manager. CPU utilization was at 100%, and a quick look at the process tabs showed multiple runaway SVChost.exe instances. In my sexiest normal part-time tech support guy voice I explained that she was more or less up the creek and in need of a reboot paddle.
Oddly enough, over the background hum of a thrashing CPU, my part-time tech support guy voice is still very much my part-time Petra voice. It is a nice baritone, and I don’t make an effort to cloak it. So this unfamiliar and convincingly female form with the familiar but unexpected voice is the other woman. I am sure it is an unsettling thing – perhaps if one of our dogs starting speaking in Esperanto rather than Standard Global Canine Bark/Yelp, it would have the same effect ( for my ruminations on guy voice in femme mode, please click over here …).
So, how exactly does Mrs. B address the other woman? Very small sample at this point, but I do not think that Mrs. B will take to calling me Petra. The everyday endearments will be employed I suspect: honey, sweetheart and hey you. I do not suspect that when we speak about “Petra”, that we will name Petra. I do not think that Petra will be real and distinct enough to warrant 3rd person, gender specific pronouns such as "she" and "her". This seems proper to me. “Petra” is integral, and not a broken fragment, distinct from the “rest of me”.
So, with a quick kiss, and a double check on the contents of my purse, off into the night I go. More details soon.