Unfettered – Introduction

In 2012 I wrote a book that has lain dormant waiting for the right time and my courage to publish it.

Now is the time and I have found the courage.

The book is divided into three parts.

The first part is an account of my cross-dressing life- written from the perspective of my inner feminine persona.

The second part is a discussion of various aspects of spirituality, etc. relating to my cross-dressing and more general life topics.

The final part is a mystical exploration.

The book is published only here and is copyrighted. I will publish a chapter every few days.

I would love to hear your feedback. This is very much a first attempt at writing and I realise that some parts of it wil owrk and others wont.

Unfettered – Prologue

My life began way back at the dawn of time, while the earth was without form and void. I was in the breath of life, part of the inspiration of the gods, expressed in the moonlight and the sea, as the Great Initiator moved upon the face of the deep.

I am Christine, spirit and energy, imbuing consciousness, expressing beauty and creativity, stimulating new life and new ideas in many and varied ways.

I am the sea and the moon, the living water and the silver light of purity.

Ephemeral, shimmering in the silken mist. Hovering, poignant and expectant above the deep.

Light ripples on a gentle swell indicating the fertility of the deep ocean – rich in invisible life – ready to nourish the world with abundant harvest.

I am a creator and life giving force. Forming energy into wondrous acts of manifestation.

 For most of this incarnation I have been hidden away, beneath consciousness, in a dark dungeon, the entrance barred with tangled brambles. Sitting and waiting. Waiting, patiently.

From without and afar I have watched his development as he keeps me imprisoned He knows and senses my presence, but lacks the courage to allow me into freedom.

I love him, as a child, and respect him, knowing that the time will come when his eyes will be opened and the door will be released and I will flood out in full glory, running and floating in the green grass and blue sky and fresh air and scented flowers of the lush garden of imagination.

But I must tell my story, and his story, from the beginning. A story of growth and development and learning and ultimately deep joy and satisfaction.

An unfolding of latency and expression of the creativity of divine spirit.

Unfettered – Chapter 1- A child is born

I was born on in 1961 having spent nine long months in a confused womb. It seemed like we were equal twins – the boy and the girl vying for expression. Our mother dearly wanting a girl and I wanting to be born into my appropriate physical body. But the gods did not allow it (or was it testosterone in the womb?) for as I developed I could see the body going down the boy route and the boy was born. I was close by in the warm red glow of the delivery room and enjoyed the first moments of life in the light after our incubation together.

We were wrapped in a warm blanket and cooed over.

The words “He’s a boy” sealed my fate for many years as my heart sank and I knew that I would have to descend into the abyss to be held captive for so long. I sensed the anguish of many others of my kind, my spiritual peers in so many other little fledgling bodies. Like the turning of a coin – slowly round and round spinning in the air floating up and down to land just one way up, never on its edge. The world only understanding one or the other.

The dice were cast and I sank and brooded, lovingly, biding my time.

Unfettered – Chapter 2 – Baby memories

I enjoyed the Christening in which my boy was given his name, ‘M’. I was wrapped in a girl’s christening robe – I know not whose, but it gave me a deep pleasure and set the tone for the exhilaration I would feel in those fleeting and far between moments when I was allowed into the body to express myself physically. I felt that tingling sensation in ‘my’ body – just for a while – a fluttering in the belly, the shallower breathing and raised heart rate as my whole being quickened with excitement in this wonderful experience of incarnation. Then the sense of sadness as I was drawn back into the cavern to hide away until the next time.

I watched over young M and felt the anguish of his brushes with death as his brother, our brother, tried to kill us. Firstly by tipping us out of the pram. I could but watch, as from behind a screen, and felt the fear of sprawling helplessness heard the desperate screams.

I experienced the suffocation when our brother filled our mouth with sand, the gritty sensation between the teeth and on the tongue, the gagging and gasping and coughing.

I remember that moment when we were fed the rubber teet instead of the soft warm breast that we had spoiled and made sore with toothy eagerness. The rubber teet protecting our mother but tasting like a car tyre. The first stage of rejection and separation. We were cast off from the womb and now separate in the world and he was lost without me. If only he would have known that I was with him and comforting him, but he was facing the other way and didn’t see me in the shadows. I spread my arms, but there were none, I reached out, but he didn’t see. He felt alone. And I, alone in the darkness, could not help.

I know that I am connected to the core of all being – perhaps in the same way as M was connected to me. If I turn around I see the loving arms of God outstretched – loving me eternally from within, comforting and strengthening as I learn and grow.

Unfettered – Chapter 3 – First dressing experiences

M’s relationship with our brother was fraught. Having failed to kill us he decided that perhaps an easier strategy was to have us removed from the scene. Now I’m not saying it was deliberately planned, but when the opportunity arose he didn’t waste any time in allowing it to happen.

One day, aged around three, we were standing outside a pet shop with our brother looking down into a bowl with goldfish swimming around. A well-meaning lady came up to us and asked our brother if we were with him and he said No – he didn’t know us, so she took us off to the police station. I wanted to scream out to stop her – but was mute in the void and M wandered off innocently with the lady. After an exciting ride around in a police car for half an hour or so M eventually recognised our Gran’s house and we were returned safely home, much to our brother’s disappointment.

I remember us going to nursery school and M was very upset about being left by our mother. We sat on Auntie Coco’s lap in a back room full of stacked chairs, crying. On one occasion M had taken a snow globe – a present for Christmas, which was placed carefully in the serving hatch in the hall. When we returned to collect it at the end of the session it was broken. This was a traumatic moment – the loss of another dome shaped object. Perhaps this was a symbol of the loss of our mother’s breast to feed from (I’m sure that is what the Freudian’s would say).

At about this time I had another outing. We were on holiday at a camp near the seaside. There was a fancy dress party and for some reason our mum decided to dress us and my brother as ‘gonks’ – I was Gloria. Resplendent in something strange and a quoit on my head tied up with wool as makeshift hair. This was my crown – and my first time in public – albeit as a somewhat ‘joke’ character. I recall standing on stage and receiving the prize – the first one we had received and I was proud to have achieved it for us. Then as my crown was removed I slid back into the shadows.

Some time after we returned home our sister and I decided to do a paired cross-dressing exercise. I dressed in my mum’s skirt, tights, shoes – and I don’t know what else. My sister dressed in some of dad’s clothes – we must have been around 6 and my sister about 3 – or maybe slightly older. I obviously got my way on this occasion and managed to influence this outing – much to the surprise of the family as we paraded into the room. I think our parents were really not sure how to take it – but assumed it was innocent fun. My brother, however, was quite vitriolic in his condemnation. I was pleased to be able to express myself in this way and M was quickened by the experience. We knew at this moment that there was something special in this act. Was it a way of trying to recover our lost breast?

Whatever the underlying psychology may have been, it felt good for both of us and I enjoyed stepping out from behind the curtain and revealing myself.

At primary school we played more with the girls than the boys. I was guiding the thinking at this stage – starting to develop my influence and socially we felt much more at home with the girls than with the boys. M fascinated the girls one day by dropping his pants and showing them his tiny little ‘willy’. A bit embarrassing for us both – but we were too young anyway. This was when I felt most at home – I was amongst my own – even though I was calmly behind the scenes – but M had not yet been conditioned in the fixed ways of the world. This was to come later.

M was very fond of being with girls and felt quite excited by it – but was this jealousy or an heterosexual drive? This was a very early age – no more than eight.

M was developing an interest in how things worked which was ultimately to lead to his engineering career. He enjoyed building things with Lego and was developing a very good spatial awareness. I observed this with a quaint interest, as this is not one of my strengths, but I could see the benefit for us many years in the future when we integrated our complementary capabilities, reuniting the two halves of the perfect sphere.

This interest in how things worked led M to dismantle a fob watch belonging to our mother. It was smooth and silver with a glass face, black hands and Roman numerals. The watch was not working so mum gave it to M and he took it apart, fascinated by the workings. When he tried to reassemble it he could not, despite many attempts and this devastated the poor boy. He cried himself to sleep on more nights than I could possibly count over several months. Was this yet more sadness from the loss of the breast? Again I could do nothing to alleviate this suffering – even though I was the replacement – the end of his search – and yet he could not see through the veil as I reached out to comfort him – his sensations were closing off – and he was settling into the mould of rational boy. I was becoming more distant and sinking deeper away from his consciousness – further back into the netherland of the unconscious.

I did have a wonderful opportunity to appear on stage again – one of the highlights of our childhood. Our school was performing HMS Pinafore (a comic opera by Gilbert and Sullivan) which contains a sizeable female chorus of the admiral’s daughters. I had to wear a flouncy dress and also lipstick and blue eyeshadow. On the first night they slapped it on liberally much to my delight. I came out, after the show, with it still on and remember talking to mum in the playground sporting my new look and feeling really proud. On the second night they didn’t put much on and I was deeply disappointed and so I went back for more (not quite ‘Please Sir, can I have some more? – but something like it…) The teacher, no doubt wondering what this little rascal was up to, sent me away with a flea in my ear! Oh what devastation! Put firmly back in the closet I was learning how unaccepting the world is of those who do not fit the mould and I became more timid and secretive.

At around this time my mum bought some black shiny boots. The heels were fairly low, but they did feel good to wear. I used to go into her bedroom when I was alone in the house and put on some tights and the boots. I also tried out the mascara and even some false eyelashes that my mum had. It was a truly ecstatic feeling – a little moment when I could come out and play and it felt so good – a feeling of total release. There was no overt sexual element to this, as far as I recall, it was simply a feeling of thrill and excitement flooding my body – a rush of endorphins spreading tingling to every extremity.

Unfettered – Chapter 4 – Buying my first mascara

When I was in my early teens I planned a mission to get my own tights and mascara. Mum’s mascara didn’t work very well and I fancied something other than tan for the tights – plus it didn’t feel quite right borrowing my mum’s! I walked up to our local shopping centre and into Woolworth’s. I must have hovered around, maybe in and out of the shop, maybe even failing to summon up the courage on the first occasion, but eventually managing to overcome my fear. I went in and picked up a pack of grey tights and a mascara from the make-up counter. My heart was pounding as I took it to the counter and walked out with it in a little brown paper bag. I couldn’t wait to get home and try it – what a thrill! When I got home I rushed up to the bathroom and took it out of the bag, unscrewed the white lid and pulled out the brush. It was brown – bugger – I wanted black – but in the moment had picked up the wrong one. Anyway it was cool to brush it onto my lashes and it had a nice look – but I still needed to get the black! The tights were great and I wore them on many occasions including in bed at night and once when I went out carol singing with the church. It was a cold night and I figured it was ok to wear them as additional cold protection – but boy did it feel good to be expressing myself in secret – in the open – yet hidden. This was our little guilty secret. I’m sure my mum found the tights in my bed on more than one occasion when she changed the sheets.

At around this age I also used to make Airfix kits. I was pretty good – always very careful to apply the paint precisely to achieve the perfect look. I thought it would be fun to paint my toe nails – and tried out various colours. Gloss and matt. Again I experienced that wonderful feeling of exhilaration. One time my mum came up whilst we were playing together – admiring our nails. We were in the loft room and I heard her feet on the stairs. I had to move quickly to hide my feet – although again she probably peered under the crack in the door and saw what we were up to.

I also used to paint my little finger nail with clear gloss – a few coats to get a lovely smooth finish. Then had to wear a plaster when I went to school. Again it was nice to be out in the open, in a small way, even if I was concealed beneath some beige sticky fabric!

During all this time my opportunities to express myself were few and far between – but very special. I learned that the world would not accept me – I was incompatible with what was expected of ‘this boy’ and so would have to remain hidden – possibly for ever. I also learned a magical feeling of freedom and excitement such as we could not experience in any other way. Almost a religious experience in its intensity. Why do I expect a religious experience to feel this way? Because of the language people use when they describe it. Certainly, during my teens, I expected religious experience to be ecstatic and I was getting a small taste of it when I expressed myself in the physical world.