Corseted Husband

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My current job is working for a small company of about 10 people, nearly all of whom are half my age, which is interesting. A while back one of the guys expressed his strong objection to a story out of the US about an 8 year old boy who wanted to pursue gender reassignment. When he said it, I kind of agreed with him (I lacked the confidence to partake in this conversation) – what could you possibly know at 8 years of age about the huge complexities of gender. Latter on when replaying the lunchroom debate, in my minds ear, I put an age on my own gender conundrum. 11 years of age. Although I would not have been able to express it eloquently at the time – I don’t even think I had met the word gender – but I was 11 years old when I distinctly had the thoughts of how unfair it was that I wasn’t a girl. I remember staring wistfully at girls in the play ground, so wanting to be like them. This is at a time long before the girls were showing any sign of breast development and way before the horribleness of puberty.
It was before this time I had started cross-dressing, literally in the closet, we had large wardrobes for the day and a large messy garage, both of which I used to good advantage. Now I think back I’m amazed at the risks I took and never got caught, at least I don’t think I got caught! It’s probably why my adrenal glands are stuffed now. I didn’t make my third corset till I was 13 or 14 years old. Corset number 1 was more like a wide belt, made from cotton backed vinyl and corset number 2 was hideously wonky and didn’t survive much past its first few tightenings. Along with being an incredibly slow writer, I spend quite a bit of time remembering dates and ages in my early life referenced to my schooling years. I can for example remember Miss Riray reading to the class from a book about Victorian England “… woman did themselves great internal damage from wearing their corsets to tight….” at which she pulled a funny face (and I’m sure she blushed). That also was when I was 11. And while I am struggling with my exact age when I first tried on one of my mothers skirts, but it could have easily been when I was 8.
So I guess the crossdress does predate the corsets, but then again…this doesn’t take into account Reincarnation…
All of my teenage years were dogged with hiding my increasingly growing collection of woman’s clothing. I can honestly say that the only theft I committed was from the ‘rag bag’ – a collection of old cloths kept at the bottom of our hot water cupboard and regularly put out for collection. I figured that it was fair game. The trouble with accumulating such a collection, is how to dispose of it when it has become too big to hide. So at 22 years of age I had the (a) big purge. A common theme in the trans world, is the thought that getting rid of the cloths will get rid of the problem… duh ! I was getting ready to move to Wellington for a job and decided I was going to ‘fix my problem’.
We had a large block of land and as such nearly always had a rubbish fire under contruction. On the nominated day when there was no one home, I had my speaker boxes already to go on the bonfire. I kept my collection inside some of my speaker boxes I had built – for the most part it made them sound better. The problem I had was although the aformensioned bonfire was a good size it was full for greenery and was still wet from recent rains. So after failling to light the fire with the conventional method of newspaper, and becoming more and more desparate to get the fire going, I used the combined strength of both of my brain cells and got a tin of petrol. That was when I learnt about the ‘spontainious’ part of spontanious combustion. A few nanoseconds after waving a match into the middle of my reluctant bonfire, my world turned orange – bright orange. That was another one of my nine lives gone. I had two saving graces – one was, i was only wearing a pair of shorts (from my efforts of rearranging the bonfire on a hot day) so there wasn’t to many cloths to catch fire and the second was I had my long hair tied back with a head band. I do remember when I was running inside to the shower looking down to see wiggly heat waves coming off my shadows’ hair! Then it was off to my big sisters place, where she put me into a bath full of cold water and slathered me in colengula cream. I’m not sure if I would have survived this life without my big sisters.
Plain and simple. I was born this way. In fact I believe I must have been an avid corset wearer in a past life.
I’m told that you don’t remember much before the age of seven. I disagree strongly. One of the most enduring images in my mind from about the time I started school, was a mannequin in the window of the Corset Salon, (just down from the Mayfair theatre – with our bus stop in front of it). It was wearing a magnificent, white, all in one body suit. The cups were very well shaped but plain fabric, the derriere was cut low but unlike the usual sarong style with suspenders (which were worn by the mannequins on either side) this one had a wide crouch strap. The most striking part of the whole garment was a single centre lacing, running from just under the bust down to crouch. I think the panels containing the eyelets, were made from a patent material. It was clearly very well boned and laced completely closed – the laces forming a perfect set of V’s. I don’t remember the busk or closure. This was a serious piece of corsetry and because of that, was probably the reason it was on sale, I can still see the sign ” Sale – This model only $ 53 “. Now that I think about it, that was still an awful lot of money for the time. .
Unfortunately my mother didn’t own any Corsetry at all apart from a few pairs of basic white, unflattering brassieres. When she put on her brassiere on in the morning, she would only ever hook one of the two hooks – this drove me crazy seeing it only half done up. I shared my mothers bedroom for much of my formative years. Another source of frustration was one of my mothers favourite stories about paying 10 pounds something for a post natal Corset which she only ever whore once then put in the dust bin saying it was to constricting !
Sorry mum but as an incurable cross dresser your cloths were fair game even though most of my early dressing was literally in the closet. However I always kept a close eye on the ‘rag bag’ at the bottom of our hot water cupboard. One of the upsides of having two older teenage sisters, was deposits of lots of cloths to the rag bag. The jewels of this repository of girls clothing were bras. And unlike my mothers these were lovely, even the smallest cup trainers had under wires, thickly padded cups and a small amount of lace and different colours. I fashioned breast forms out of polystyrene with an old rasp from my mothers pottery kit and although crude and hard, allowed me to enjoy wearing girls cloths. Pretending was better than nothing and the fear of being caught obviously didn’t stop me, I had quite a few close calls but I never actually got caught, which is quite amazing considering how much time I spent doing it. As my sisters grew so to did the cup size of deposits in the rag bag. This had a flow on effect, ending up as lots more polystyrene bubbles on the garage floor.
Intermediate school was by far the high point of my education, in fact I would go so far as to say it was an island of learning in an education system that otherwise had mostly failed me. And while intermediate was the high point of my education, the high point of intermediate was ‘Manual’. Manual was one day of the week when, all we did all day, was Woodwork, Metalwork, Music, Cooking and Sewing. Yes boys doing sewing – Fantastic. I lived for that day of the week.
I made my first Corset at age 13. A very crude thing made from strips of zinc plated steal epoxied onto bright orange vinyl ( it was the 70’s ! ) obtained from a friends father who was a furniture upholster and generous with his off cuts. Neither of my first two corsets survived much past their first few tightening’s. Corset making for me was an unbelievably difficult pursuit, as I did not know a thing about what I was doing (I didn’t even have one to copy) – Corsets were a significant increment in complexity over the floral cravat I made in Mrs Evans sewing class! In addition to this, I had to set up the sewing machine, sew like crazy in what few windows of opportunity were afforded me and pack up before either of my sisters or mother caught me. Amazingly risky now I think back. One thing I will say for our old green Husqvarna, it had a mechanical low gear and once you had ousted all the usual sewing demons – enough to sew a seam – it would sew anything, even four layers of heavy vinyl.
Corset number 3 was a formidable contraption. It was made from heavy vinyl, black on one side white on the other, and would have been quite at home glued to a concrete floor. The bones were truly No. 8 gauge piano wire, which cost a bomb and was pretty much impossible to bend. The eyelets were from a camping shop and large enough to drive a small bus through. But it didn’t matter when the day finally came for a try on. I think I was having a sickie or maybe I was actually sick, my mother had gone to the dentist so I was confident of a good window of time for dress-ups. when I finally got the laces ready, the Corset on and hooked up to a large metal hook on the wardrobe, I had prepared earlier, I lunged forward with frightening gusto to tighten the laces. Not realising how tight it was to begin with and how much tightening my lunge had just achieved, I stood up and feel forward against the laces with ferocious vigour. This was definitely one of my nine lives gone as I discovered, my fairly slight torso yielded agonisingly under the compression of this draconian bodice. Realising this was not nearly as much fun as I had anticipated. I clawed at the closure behind me only to find that the eyelets, which, while large, were quite soft – being made of brass and had completely deformed, crimping themselves around the coarse spiral nylon rope, I was using as ‘lace’. My shock introduction to bondage in this manner wasn’t part of the plan, as there was no front busk for escape.
I definitely had a panic attack at this stage, trying to loosen the ‘laces’ on this unyielding, poorly shaped, hardened steal wired, torture device.
To top this all off when I was nearly free but not quite, my mother started banging on the kitchen door, which I had locked, having come home much earlier than I had anticipated. This created instant suspicion as we never locked that door. When I finally got to the door flustered, I blurted out some feeble excuse. My mother was clearly unconvinced but to my relief obviously chose not to interrogate me any further.
Thirty something years on, I still love Corsets more so than ever. I own more Corsets that I care to admit to. My Corseting pursuits took a significant step up with an Axfords C41 at the beginning of the 90’s. Although long gone and worn out it survived years of wear and two or three take ins, the last take in was reinforced with seat belt strapping, which held until the eyelets finally gave out. I have worn in and worn out a leather under-bust from Ruth of BR fame, A rubber Victorian from Micheal Garrod of True grace, Vollers, Katie McGettigan and many more home made and modified off the rack and custom Corsets. I have endured 1000’s and 1000’s of hours inside a Corset or Corsetry (In the last 2 decades I have slept in a corset for at least 50% of the time)
The image of an hourglass shaped woman is the most gorgeous and erotic thing in this universe, for me. An ample but tightly contained bottom, Firmly projected breasts and an extremely small Corsetted waist, is a beautiful thing.
18 months ago I broke up with my partner of 13 years.
This lead to the selling of our home of 11 years – lovely little place, a bit of space, lots of trees, private. Selling this was pretty horrible.
This led onto 6 hard months of bad decisions getting rid of, dissipating and storing stuff.
I had a nice big workshop – which was good for my well being.
Then I lost my job, which I took a little harder than I thought I would, as I new it was coming sometime.
At this point I knew my mood was at an unhealthy low. Probably not helped by me having stopped going to my yoga classes which I love and not getting a walk in on a west coast beach occasionally.
Three months after losing my job I took on some contract work, to stem the flow of cash. Two months after this my health took quite a decline, concurrent with the worst repetitive strain injury I have ever had, in my left rist, as a result of the work I was doing.
Then one Tuesday evening after a particularly poor, carbohydrate loaded dinner , (and an insane amount of physical work the previous weekend) I went to bed early and woke in the middle of the night with a huge pain in my chest, heart racing – all the indicators of a heart attack. I got up had a glass of water and 3 Aspirins, opened the door, left the light on and changed my underwear– I know the drill – I’ve got the big Mercedes to hospital twice before, with the same thing. Not wanting to repeat the same humiliation, I sat on the sofa, staring at ‘111’ on my phone screen and waited. The pain came and went but my heart was still racing. 2 hours pasted and I went to bed still with the lights on and the front door open, grasping my phone – the only thought I concentrated on was a holiday – seven weeks in the future, where I would be able to sit on the beach and have some time with my big sister. Although I didn’t sleep at all from then till morning I was convinced I would never see the light of Wednesday morning, which obviously I did.
I spent the next two days in bed, to scared to move, not daring to eat, only drinking water and asprins.
On the Friday, having had another episode, I drove down to the local white cross, who charged me $161 to phone an ambulance which cost me $88 for a ride to the hospital. After which the local Doctor I was told to see, charged me $94 to jot ‘moodgym.org’ on the back of his business card.
The only upshot of the hospital visit was the young doctor who was looking after me.
Before he discharged me he said “Chris you have got to get your anxiety under control” This was the first time anyone had said that to me. Anxiety – not me.
Around this period of time I had been seeing an amazing physio therapist who slowly but surely brought my arm back to a degree of usability. She also had the extra added bonus of helping to fix my head – all included in the same fee. A very wise woman. During one session she needed to put an acupuncture needle somewhere around my lower left rib and while doing this, she paused to observed my breathing, then said “I have a book you need to read”. The book was ‘Hyperventilation Syndrome’ By Dinah Bradley. ‘Breathing pattern disorders and how to over come them.’
I was not convinced, but prepared to give anything a go…..2 chapters in and I’m thinking oh my God I’m reading a book about myself. So I started with the exercises and took on some of the methods, which I certainly found very difficult at first, but persevered with.
True this is a pretty unremarkable story of just another bald headed old man who can’t keep it together…. but, at this stage I have to tell the whole truth…
I’ve had a love of Corsets since a previous life – I’m sure. In the last 25 years I have worn Corsets or Corsetry most of the time depending on whether I think I can get away with it. I sleep in a corset most of the time, albeit not very tight some nights, after all, this is not the easiest discipline. Why ? I don’t know, to begin with, it is inseparable from my cross-dressing, which now sadly is pretty much a thing of the past as I have put it back in the closet for all sorts of unsatisfactory reasons. But there is a whole lot more to it than that. Lacking confidence from an early age and realising someone as kinky as me could never attract a woman whose love of Corsets was similar to mine, I guessed I’d just do it myself being a bit of a DIYer. Yes the image of an hourglass shaped woman is intensely erotic to me, but so to is the feeling of being encased in a tight corset. This is not to say that I’m perpetually turned on while Corseted.
It just makes me feel good about myself.
Even at the end of night out as Chrissy, squirming with the physical pain of having had my Corsets too tight all night, as I almost always do, I hate taking it off. Even if I loosen it I just wont to tighten it again. Crazy !
This was OK until the last year or so, when the grim realisation, that I would somehow have to ween myself off corsets, as I needed to do some building work along with the shift and a new job. I can no longer manage any length of time without some sort of abdominal support. The firm bodysuit I made for yoga class wasn’t going to cut it, so I managed with an elasticated back brace and wide leather belts, hideous and hot. Thermal overload has always been my biggest problem, well ahead of any constriction discomfort. I conceal my undergarments underneath baggy clothing – sad really.
Years of lacing myself into Corsets has obviously upset my ability to breath properly. And now knowing the connection between poor breathing and anxiety, I persevered with my exercises. Mindfulness and my supplements (I’ve now got the whole alphabet in vitamins along my kitchen window sill). I have always known the hardest part of yoga for me was the breathing. In addition to this I’m also suffering other consequences of Corseting – the veins in my legs stick out something shocking, which of coarse come right with a pair of tight surgical stockings – more thermal overload. Also bits around the nether regions stick out, I have refined a rather complicated g-string/girdle/yoke thingy, over the years, which keeps everything firmly in it’s place, but takes forever to get into and makes toilet stops a mission. This would be OK except I live in the real world and need to be out the door by 7.30 in the mornings to my current job which requires some degree of physical agility.
So I’d been continuing with my reforms until a while ago – when I was at a particularly low point, my depression was so bad it was starting to embarrass me at work. I had a ‘relapse’ and wore my favourite Corset to bed. The next morning, I bounced out of bed with frightful gusto – ‘did 45 minutes of Corseted yoga – I felt great ! And have, for the most part, continued ever since, with no more ‘episodes’.
Somehow, for better or worst, Corseting helps regulate my bre
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