At some point in my late teens or even at university I took the next bold step and bought some shoes. To a boy who had been brought up on Robin Hood and The Famous Five this was a heart thumping adventure. I somehow felt that it would be easier to buy sale shoes. I went to the local shopping centre and recce’d all the shops and eventually targeted one particular one. It is a bit tricky walking into a shoe shop trying to look like you’re going for the men’s section but sneakily lingering or looking lost around the girl’s section. Anyway target was in sight and just a matter of psyching myself up to pick them up and take them to the counter hoping I wouldn’t be asked if I would like to try them on. Of course I’m sure that most of these shop assistants see you coming a mile off and have a little giggle afterwards – and what is wrong with that (and why should it bother me?). Anyway I parted with my cash and a pair of, I think, blue or red stilettos in their box.
To anyone who is not a TV it’s difficult to put into words how elated this makes you feel. It is like being transported to cloud nine and floating, heart racing, until you can get to somewhere where you can try them on. Whether this is a perverted fetish or something else it feels so good and doesn’t do anyone else any harm – so is it wrong?
Needless to say my regular Christmas present to myself was a little shopping trip – I commanding the choice and M doing the dirty work. I felt so excited to be able to buy shoes – just like other girls – even though it was a rare event.
Of course by now I had my little stash of goodies hidden away – and wanted to add some clothes to my collection. Next stop the charity shop. Again, somehow it felt ok to buy clothes from Oxfam or somewhere – perhaps because it wasn’t wasting so much of the family money (but why shouldn’t I buy clothes?) and perhaps because I was giving to a good cause.
Over the next 20 or so years I built quite a collection and my treasure trove was growing.
As with most TVs I had my moments when I had to get rid of my clothes. I think it was only a couple of times I did this. I think the guilt overcame me – perhaps of the secrecy or just because something continued to tell me that it was sinful. However, inside I knew that this was me – I could never die and my urge to express would be there for ever. Sure enough the collection would build up again – it not being possible, seemingly, for a TV to rid himself or herself of the urge to dress. The experience is potently magical and comes from a deeper level – somewhere in the depths of the unconscious – or just hidden beneath the surface – as I was.