Transvestia

psychiatrist and I have no statistics to back up my contentions, but I don't need them since what I do is for my well being alone. (End of hackles-raised defensiveness.)

Another conclusion I have reached is that my ID finds greater expression and release when I dress as a woman. Years ago as a high school student I took all the art courses offered and I toyed with the idea of pursuing courses in fashion design when I graduated. While I never followed it up, I did enough research to learn that with few exceptions the male of the species in the animal kingdom is the brightly plummaged one. As we all know, of course, it is just the reverse in our era of the homo sapien's existence. Brown, blue, gray, black; these are the standard colors for a man's suit, and the suit itself is found only in one basic style. A man can vary the width or length of his shirt collar, change the color of his tie or socks (within compat- ible limits, of course) and, if he dares, wear gaudy undershorts. The woman, however, can change every- thing stylewise and colorwise, as often as her whims desire and her pocketbook allows. She can experiment and innovate, mix and match, and give rein to her total personality in the process. If a man starts out Monday morning feeling on top of the world, he wears the same suit as he does on Tuesday, when he has re- placed Atlas and the world is on top of him. If a woman is happy she has the clothes to accentuate her mood; when she is blue, she has others to brighten her up. Even if she feels compelled to stick to "basic black" she has a choice of full, straight or A-line skirt, daring or demure decolletage, nylon or net stockings, spikes or French heels. Whatever her temperament, she can pamper it.

Well, I admit it; I like to pamper my ID. I want to give it all the room it needs to spiral toward the clouds or spin dervishly across the plains. am dressed as a woman this happens.

When I.

But to return to the thread of my story (if there be

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