A week has passed since my euphoric Veronica Weekend and the subtle remnants of pain from wearing stilettos all weekend act as a reminder of the experience. It reminded me of a blog post from years ago I titled "The Good Hurt."
A friend helped me rewrite it in a beautiful and poetic perspective. I hope you like the rewrite:
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There are occasions when I cloak myself in femininity within the confines of solitude, while other, more extraordinary times call for a grand spectacle—a complete transformation, complete with intricate makeup and the company of cherished friends. Weeks, even months, may pass without so much as a whisper of satin and lace, yet the desire to don such garments remains an ever-present undercurrent, an insatiable craving that defies quantification. To assign a numerical value would be futile, for this longing ebbs and flows with the rhythm of each passing day, a tempestuous dance of desire and restraint familiar to any Crossdresser.
Immersed in the anticipation of an impending soirée, one can scarcely contain the burgeoning excitement that consumes the hours preceding such an event. Sleep, elusive and capricious, is stolen away by thoughts of makeup, attire, footwear, and accessories—all meticulously curated for the forthcoming revelry. For we, as women, do not merely adorn ourselves for personal satisfaction; rather, we adorn ourselves to command attention, to be measured and admired by our peers in the transgender community.
Each Crossdresser, a maestro of their own aesthetic symphony, orchestrates a unique tableau of feminine expression. In my case, a profound adoration for stiletto heels reigns supreme, for they embody the quintessence of femininity—a delicate balance of form and function. These slender pillars of allure, with their sinuous lines tracing the contours of calves and thighs, bestow upon the wearer a graceful poise, an effortless sway of the hips reminiscent of a siren's call. To the countless tutorials on heel-walking, I owe a debt of gratitude, for they have been my guiding stars on this transformative journey.
At last, the appointed hour arrives, heralding a crescendo of preparation and anticipation. Makeup meticulously applied, we gaze upon our reflections with an acute awareness of the subtle deceptions of mirrors, echoing Cher's timeless wisdom from "Clueless." With each step, the rhythmic cadence of our heels upon the pavement becomes a symphony of empowerment, a testament to our newfound liberation. And in those fleeting moments of camaraderie, amidst the laughter and camaraderie of kindred spirits, the specter of apprehension fades into obscurity, replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging.
In the tapestry of my own evolution, I find solace in the nurturing embrace of cherished confidantes— (you know who you are) —whose unwavering support has served as a beacon of light in the darkness of self-doubt. No longer bound by the shackles of discomfort, I have shed the cumbersome trappings of insecurity, emerging as a butterfly from its chrysalis, both psychologically and physically transformed.
Alas, the night must inevitably yield to the dawning light of day, ushering in the return to the mundane responsibilities of husband, father, and provider. Yet, the ephemeral ecstasy of the evening lingers, sustained by two enduring pillars: the trove of captured memories awaiting digital commemoration, and the bittersweet ache that accompanies the aftermath—the "good hurt" of cramped limbs and blistered soles, a poignant reminder that beauty, in its purest form, demands sacrifice. For in the immortal words of countless muses past, "beauty is pain," and indeed, the allure of feminine footwear stands as a testament to this eternal truth. Do you not concur?
You look gorgeous.
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