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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.
Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
The Secret Wife
Married man. Secretly her wife. Trying to figure myself out before I accidentally out myself.
The great things about games is you can be whoever you want. That was what was told to me my whole like about them. I loved being able to pretend to use magic, to fly, to be older or younger. The one thing that wasn’t okay: Being a girl.

Most of my gaming experience is likely like yours, in as much as it’s mostly guys. Anytime anyone would make a female character in a game, they were ridiculed, questioned, and often thought of as gay (the ultimate insult in high school). You can be anything except a woman. You can be an evil character who mindlessly kills innocents, a drug addicted thief, a perfect yet beautifully flawed man, but never a woman. I followed suit.

Now, being older, I embrace it. I mostly play a female character. Whether Animal Crossing, RPGs, or even in Overwatch, I connect with my character when I’m a woman. I feel like I understand them better and it makes my heart glow. Of course this doesn’t mean I never play male characters, but they feel bland and lifeless often for me. It’s given me a way to express this other side of me relatively safely.
I still get the occasional question of, “You’re playing a girl character?” Or, “Why are you always a girl?” Even my wife has asked me on occasion. Of course I sweat bullets thinking, she’s found me out! But I also realize that if she does catch on, I need to be willing to have an open conversation with her about it and not hide. I think taking this time to be a woman character in gaming will even give me a good base for that conversation when it happens.

Sorry this post seems scattered and less to the point as my previous ones. I’m writing it off the cuff and doing little editing. However, I feel like I need to get this off my chest (as is mainly the point of this whole blog), and it feels healing to do so. Thank you for reading!
In Hell, I imagine this is what it’s like. Unending torment and pain layered with dysphoric disillusionment.

Sorry, I jumped ahead a little there. Let’s start back 24 hours. The light is shining bright this morning. The birds are chirping. And the legs are saying they are ready. It’s time to finally give in and shave my legs for the first time ever. I’ve been wanting to for so long, but how do I build up to it? I mean to say, how do I justify it as a clearly CIS male? I need to lay out the plans for this daring gender heist like the cast of Oceans 11. First step: comment on wife’s soft legs after shaving. Step two: Build up a long history of shaving. Back - Check. Chest - Check. Shoulders - Check. Step three: ??? Step four: Profit. You see? I’m clearly CIS. I’m just conscientious of the hair I leave on her vanity.
She’s at work, so if I’m going to do this, it has to be now. I’ve had a ton of practice shaving, so this should be easy.


1 minute post-shave: This is WONDERFUL. My legs look gorgeous. Who knew my thighs were so THICC!
15 minutes post-shave: All lotioned up and feeling great.
45 minutes post-shave: Well, I’ve just spent half an hour in my bed sheets. It feels like I’ve dipped them in a cool pond that is wrapping my entire body. Time to try on some outfits!
2 hours post-shave: I imagine my wife wouldn’t mind me wearing some of her clothes, especially considering how bomb I look in her plaid skirt.
4 hours post-shave: Hmm… might be time for some more lotion. It’s starting to get itchy. I’m sure this is normal.
6 hours post-shave: Is it supposed to be burning? I can’t tell if that’s from razor burn or scratching. Probably both?
10 hours post-shave: Okay okay. This is just day one. It’ll all be better in the morning, right?
Next morning: Who needs sleep when you have great looking legs…. Right?
Unknown time post-shave: I’ve lost track of all of my senses. I’m starting to bleed from scratching, and getting dizzy from the pain. My legs feel like that cool pond I dipped them in was actually acid.
My wife to the rescue. She’s always my knight in shining armor. She’s made an oatmeal and baking soda mixture and drew me a bath. I must never leave this sanctuary.
3 days later…

I’ve lost count of ingrown hairs, but at least most of the pain is gone. The emotional pain has grown though. If it’s this hard to look and feel how I want, can I even do it? I’m not strong enough. I’ve never been strong. Where does this leave me? 
If I wear my wife’s clothes, will she notice? I mean, I stretch out my own clothes. I’m like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy in hers. Is it weird though when a skirt makes me feel this good? Quick. Take it off. You can’t be doing this. This is wrong. She married a man and wants to stay married to a man. Even though lace feels so good to wear, I can’t let myself be wooed by this. I’m in a hot desert and a skirt with lace panties feels like a cool breeze and a cold glass of water, but I need to find another way to survive this desert. 
What would happen if she found me in her clothes? I eye her carefully next time she puts them on to see if she notices anything different. Did I leave one of my hairs on them? Does she notice they seemed worn already? Does it take someone from CSI to find out I’m not CIS? I’m so tired.
Halloween. The scariest time of year. Not because of ghosts and goblins; not because the veil between this world and the spirit world is thin; but because the veil of myself is so thin. Dress up however you like. You want to be a superhero? You want to be a TV character? You want to be a sexy slice of pizza? There’s a costume for that. 
But what if you actually just want to be a woman? A simple costume won’t suffice. Sure, people will laugh it off as a funny “costume.” You can live your dreams for one night. But the dangers are real to me. I know one night isn’t enough. I know it’s not going to be just a joke. What if I take it too seriously and people wonder why is he committing to this costume so much?

It’s okay because my wife wants to go as a themed couple. Read: Man and woman. Guess I’m the man again. My secret is safe for another year. My mental health on the other hand…
Some have asked, “Why do you focus so much on clothing?” I thought about it for a moment and realized I don’t have one simple answer for that. Outside is often a reflection of the inside is the clearest way to show this, but I feel like this isn’t as personal as I can get.
My father was a ‘Man’s man.’ He worked on old cars, and oil and dirt all over him, and thought if you didn’t have calluses on your hands, you couldn’t call yourself a man. He would only wear specific brands or looks. Anything else was too feminine for him and showed weakness. Never shorts or cargo pants. They make you look like a yuppy. Never bright colors. Those were for women only. Jeans. Boots. Flannel or white T-shirt. Sometimes a graphic tee if it showed Nascar, Conservative ideals, or something about guns on it.
I on the other hand always wanted to spend time with my mom. I wanted to bake cookies. I wanted to work with the flowers. I did not want to work on any car or get any kind of grease on my hands. Also, there were spiders out in the barn I did NOT want to be around. When I was 11 or 12 while I was home alone spent time trying on my mother’s clothing, including her underwear. Don’t worry. Nothing like an Oedipus complex going on here. I just was curious as to how it felt. I often questioned if I was supposed to be born a woman, and something happened in utero that changed that. Was I a mistake? I did not feel like what I saw a man to be. I didn’t even really know what a man really was. But I knew how women’s clothing made me feel. Alive. Independent. Powerful. Also a perverted pre-teen who should be openly shamed for even thinking such thoughts, much more wearing these clothes. 
Clothes were always me dipping my feet in the water of the unknown. However, my religious backing kept me from what I thought would be drowning in that water (more on that later in another post).

What I never had was someone to tell me, “This is normal. Every boy goes through this.” Or even, “This may be something that you need to explore and figure out with professional counseling before you really understand yourself.” I was left alone with this. Left in stasis. For years.
“That’s cute,” I mused knowing it isn’t her style, “but I’d love to see it in a pink.” I paused, concerned how my words were coming off. My next sentence would have to be surgically executed to stop the potential bleeding from the slip of my tongue. “I always thought you looked great in pink,” knowing full well that she wears pink less than I do. She flips the page going on to the next set of in season rompers as I try not to audibly sigh relief. My duplicity remains hidden. Or am I just lying to myself?

Who am I? This is something we all struggle with I’m sure. It’s our unfortunate ‘human condition’. Why don’t I feel human then? I know in my mind that acceptance is becoming normal, but why does my heart fight with me so much then? “Do not judge others,” the Bible says. Okay, that I can do, but myself? I’m disgusted.

“I’ve seen this top online, and I am always tempted to buy it,” she hesitates in flipping the page, as if her indecisive fingers are asking permission to buy. Floral patterns make me cringe, I think to myself.
“It might look nice,” I say in the most irresolute way; masking my intense disdain for floral patterns. Don’t get me wrong. I love the way she confidently wears everything she puts on. She exudes the confidence and prestige of Cleopatra when wearing clothes that make her feel good. I love it. I just wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Why do I keep picturing myself in these clothes?

Wrangler, Cabelas, Carhartt. Camo, denim, flanel. Steel toed, combat, tactical boots. These are the clothing deemed okay for me. 9 out of 10 strong, leading role, type men recommend. Then why does my heart hope one day I’ll get out of bed, slip on a shoulderless crop top, a flare skirt with colors that pop in the spring, and cute shoes to match?

She closes the magazine and tosses it on her nightstand. “Can you turn off the light for me, please?” She asks as she snuggles into bed wearing the cutest nighty that looks like it hugs you to sleep. I take one last look at the forbidden fruit on her nightstand wanting to get one last look at the rompers on page 32 before turning over and flipping off the light.

I’m not sure if it’s fear, anger, depression, or frustration that I’m feeling realizing that I’ll never be able to be who I want to be. It’s okay, right? I can always hope tomorrow I’ll wake up with the manly grit I’ve been lacking. Who’s to say that if it hasn’t happened in 35 years it won’t happen overnight tonight?
Life is full of greys where fact and fiction blend together. This blog is no different. I’m giving an accurate account of how I feel, but things may not 100% reflect the reality of how it happened. One: I’m human and my memory is fallible. Two: I’m assuming a lot about the way others around me feel and interpret what and who I am. Three: That grey space I mentioned can be a spice of life, and it’s where I currently life. Inbetween worlds. So I hope you enjoy it. This is a welcome place, so feel free to ask any questions you may have. Take what you like, and leave what you don’t.

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