Share This Article
A crossdresser is someone who wears clothes that are normally associated to the opposite sex. A trend that has always existed, in every society, and that nevertheless tends to be repressed because it goes against the dictates of monotheisms and therefore considered indecent. This judgment becomes grotesque if you think that, in the Western world, for several decades all women, in fact, have been crossdressers: they wear jackets, trousers, jeans, tennis shoes … garments designed originally for men and rightly “stolen” because obviously more practical than sheath dresses and stiletto heels.
So, honestly, it is not very clear to me why the same range of options is not completely available to men. After all, until Roman times – and even beyond, if we think of the Renaissance – it was men who wore miniskirts, knee-length tunics, ballet flats or gold sandals.
Back to myself…I may say…it all started in the worst way. When I was a kid, I felt like I hated all the girls I liked. A very serious handicap that I could not explain for decades: something that dug a deep furrow, between me and others.
Only, later, as an adult, through psychotherapy, did I discover the reasons: it was the result of a profound split between my male and female part.
These two parts have never fully merged- as for almost all human beings – leaving one another, autonomous freedom of expression.
So here we have Stefano, the man, who likes women, who is married and is father of a girl; Stefano is a football lover and watches the game on TV, he is a great watcher of action films and avid reader of thriller novels as well. And next to him we have Stefania, the female part, a woman who lives in a very special symbiosis with Stefano, whose body she needs to exist in.
I am aware it might look like a serious psychiatric issue, but in reality this is just the way I have, to express the intergratation of the two sides we all have: so Stefania was jealous of the women I liked, hence the hatred. I was the one rebelling against totally unsuitable constraints for me, and subconsciously pawed for society to recognize my right to wear the things I really liked and that fully represented me.
Only when I turned 29, totally (and understandably) alone and jobless due to my hate, I decided to let myself go: i started to turn my male wardrobe into a more female one until after 14 years it was completed replaced.
These female clothes represent me completely : I don’t exist, I don’t live, I cannot do anything without or away from them. I don’t care about what people say. Each one of us has essential needs, mine are no more serious than others’, they are just more noticeable.
Asking me to wear men’s clothes, is like asking a gay man to date or sleep with a woman – nonsense, nonsense, maybe even a crime!