2015 was a life-changing year for me, and 2016 is going to be even more life-changing, but for different reasons. 2015 showed me how truly self-destructive some of my behavior was, and 2016 shall be the year marked by my move away from that path. In order to truly do this topic justice, I have to explain a few things.
First, there is the simple fact that I love women. I love everything about women, and “feminine beauty” is a phrase that you will read here more than any other. I am totally and completely in love with feminine beauty, feminine grace, and femininity–whatever you wish to call it. This is pervasive in my life, and it’s one of the greatest ironies of my life that I have no attraction to men whatsoever. In fact, my love for femininity is part of the “problem,” as is my failure to see anything attractive about what is masculine–with the exception that I have a bit of a penis fetish, but there’s no need to get into that, because it’s not really pertinent. The core of this paragraph is just to say that I wholeheartedly love everything about women, and that I find very, very little about men that is appealing.
This included my male self for the most part, but it gets more complicated than that.
People who know me also know that I have a very specific “type” in regard to women: slender brunettes with long hair, preferably straight, without bangs. For some reason, the hair is a major aspect of my attraction, and bangs are almost a deal-breaker. I don’t know why that it is; it just is. And it’s easy to see this from my relationship history. My ex-wife (from whom I divorced for reasons entirely unrelated to this) was, of course, one such figure. Slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl I dated before I met the ex-wife: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl before the girl that I dated before I met the ex-wife: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl for whom I drove 1700 miles to be with last year by moving to Las Vegas: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs.
There’s definitely a pattern, and my haste and willingness to drop everything, gamble everything, and move across the country to be with someone I hadn’t really seen since early adolescence was entirely a result of her being a slender, long-haired brunette with no bangs. She was also intelligent and fun to talk to–don’t mistake me for being shallow, because it wasn’t that simple. If physical appearances were enough, I wouldn’t have left my ex-wife. This does not change the fact, however, that the physical appearance is why I was so willing and eager to move to Las Vegas; I wouldn’t have done that for just anyone. In fact, I’d had the opportunity a few years before to move to New Jersey to try a relationship with another woman, but I didn’t pursue it, and I tend to think that it’s because she wasn’t a slender brunette–she was slender, but also blonde. There’s nothing wrong with that, but…
Those slender brunettes are my weakness.
I’ll spare you the details of the Vegas ordeal, for the most part, except to say that she turned out to be a shallow liar; I was her Mount Everest, and she simply wanted to climb it. It was surely more complex than that, but that’s sufficient for now. And I suddenly found myself in Las Vegas and totally alone, having spent nearly all my savings moving there and then surviving there while I sought a job, and trying desperately to make the relationship work so that I hadn’t just given up my entire life for nothing. In the end, however, I had given up my entire life for nothing, and I had no choice but to return to Mississippi. My funds ran dry, and I barely had enough money to get back. All my fault for taking the leap, I don’t and haven’t ever denied that. I will never dispute that I was the one who rolled the dice. However, I did so because she was the one who controlled the outcome, and I had every reason to believe, prior to this, that the outcome would be what I expected it to be.
When I returned, I began evaluating myself, what I had done, and why I had done it, and I did so with sincerity. I was not trying to trick myself or deluding myself; I knew what I had done was stupid, and I wanted to know why I had been so willing and eager to do something so stupid. But the answer was staring me in the face, and it was one I’d told to a friend shortly after my divorce, a friend who was, until last year, the only person who knew any of this: I needed a slender brunette in my life. It wasn’t a question of wanting. It was a question of needing.
And as I evaluated my past relationships and my awful reactions to the ends of those relationships, it became more and more obvious. All I’d ever done was transfer feelings for one slender brunette to another. When J. and I broke up, I was devastated until I got with L. I immediately just transferred everything I’d felt for J to L. Then the same thing happened again, but I got with A., who I eventually married. N., the Vegas chick, was just the latest in a long series of women as I transferred my feelings from one to the next, caring for and loving the woman in question, but loving something much deeper that was entirely independent of the person involved.
It is no coincidence that I am a slender, long-haired brunette with no bangs.
Messing around on Craigslist one night when I was bored, I posted a listing. I don’t remember now the details of the listing, but it wasn’t anything particularly big, and it wasn’t anything sexual, either, because I’m not that kind of person. But it was about cross-dressing, and one of the people who replied said something like, “Good girl” in reply to something I’d said. And in that one moment, I realized that what I’d told that friend years ago was far bigger to me than I’d thought. She was the friend I’d told I was considering SRS shortly after my divorce, but I played it down with her; I played it down to myself. It was too big of a thing, and I wasn’t ready to face it or even acknowledge how much it meant to me. I just thought of it as an anomaly, some weird fetish I had, but certainly nothing that could make or break my spirit.
I was chasing after these other women trying to almost parasitically get something from them that I should have been producing myself. I shouldn’t have been trying to draw feminine beauty from them–that was too destructive, too parasitic, and the Vegas ordeal showed me keenly how incredibly destructive that could be. I knew that I couldn’t do that again; I barely survived the last one. When you’re sitting at the starting point of a 1700 mile drive with nothing to look forward to at the end and nothing to go back to, walking into the desert with your 38 special is extremely tempting.
It was never the brunettes that I loved. Well, it was, because I did love and care about all of them, but that’s not what I mean. They were just symbols of my inner self, the one I wouldn’t let myself acknowledge. So losing them when the relationship ended was like having a piece of myself die, and it was brutally devastating. It wasn’t J. or L. or N. that I had a difficult time letting go of–it was that they represented a part of me, they provided the slender feminine brunette beauty that I needed, and that was what I loved, and even was addicted to.
It’s a fact of extreme significance that since I made the decision last year to move forward with this, to stop hiding it, and to stop trying to convince myself that it isn’t as important to me as it is, that need to have a relationship with someone like J., L., or N. evaporated entirely. Now it is a matter of “want,” not a matter of “need.”
As always, Mississippi does not make this transition easy, and the physical changes hormones bring will make employment virtually impossible six months from now, once I begin growing breasts and stuff. Your assistance to help me get through this would be beyond appreciated: