Fashion no image

Published on May 30th, 2014 | by Richard Black

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Late Night Punch, Sleepwalking and Why I Might be a Crossdresser

My wife Laura recently had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of a devastating punch to the head around two in the morning a few nights ago and I had the misfortune of being the provider of blow.

Now before anyone calls social services I should mention that my action was not intentional. I would never, ever, strike my wife. I’d hire someone else to do it.

All kidding aside I’m an “active” dreamer and, lacking in whatever hormone or chemical that leaves most people paralyzed during REM sleep, I twitch and turn and fidget and occasionally throw blows. If memory serves I was fighting a giant terra cotta warrior in the middle of a grade school cafeteria. He was in the midst of delivering a crushing punch to my gut while I jab a sharpened number 2 pencil into his eye when I inadvertently clocked Laura in the head waking us both, abruptly from slumber.

It’s only happened a handful of times, me punching my wife during a restful sleep, and I feel awful every single time. I’m terrified to go to bed to be honest and when I do I end up in some contortion to keep my hands and arms well away from Laura, much like many middle aged married men albeit in different circumstances.

Aside from the initial cursing Laura has come to terms with the fact that getting socked in the head or midsection while she’s asleep is just the cost of doing business of being married to me. She bitches me out, tells me to “roll the fuck over” and then falls promptly back to sleep.

My immediate response is a profound and abject apology.

I generally know I’ve royally fucked up the second my hand is in motion. In the first waking moments we each share I attempt to explain my actions to Laura but they all sound pretty stupid and not in the least believable or even relevant in real life.  Apparently there are only so many times a woman can hear that the intended recipient of a fist  was a horde of zombies or a horde of family members or a horde of family members who have been turned into zombies before the subject becomes passe or some small measure of doubt comes into play.

The net result is that neither of us sleep particularly well after an event like this.

Laura, for her part, is wary of any jerk or twitch that may herald an oncoming blow and generally wakes me about every half hour, every night for the next few weeks at the slightest movement. While her diligence has the desired effect and  random nighttime beatings decrease drastically, the number of times we seriously contemplate duking it out during the day increase in direct proportion to the amount of sleep we’ve lost.

To make matters worse flailing randomly during a dream is not the only trait I exhibit during sleep. When Darcy was born I began sleepwalking for a few months. It only happened four or five times but Laura and I found the experience to be unnerving to say the least.

There’s nothing like waking up in your daughter’s room, rocking in the glider that overlooks her crib like some sort of whacked out psycho to make a father question his abilities as a parent or a husband. Even though I’m fairly certain that sleep deprivation and my hyper sensitivity to any and every sound Darcy may have made played a huge part in my new found perchance for sleepwalking the event was enough to give me the creeps.

My favorite occurrence was the time I came to sorting through the clothes in Laura’s closet. I heard her voice pleading with me to wake and distinctly remember waving her off, telling her that I knew exactly what I was doing and feeling a bit irritated at getting the third degree.

And then, in the split second before I fully achieved consciousness, that brief moment when I knew with all certainty that I could provide my wife with a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why I was rifling through the clothes in her closet I woke up with a rather stylish number from CK, with no idea of what I was doing.

I quickly set the dress back on the hanger and the hanger on the rod before closing the door. Laura and I fell back into a restless sleep where I dreamed that I was a hardened and hefty cross dresser in the Old West complete with, a silk hoop dress, corset and garters. I’d be lying if the memory doesn’t haunt my fragile male psyche to this day but it wouldn’t be the first time.

I’ve got nothing against cross dressing mind you. If I were Scottish I’d wear a kilt all the time. Although I’ve never looked good in plaid I imagine the airflow in those things is positively delightful and I can see the appeal. I really can. The thought of being able to double my wardrobe at the drop of a bonnet isn’t something to be held lightly for a man of my limited capabilities in this day and age.

The problem is Laura.

Don’t get me wrong she’s an open minded woman and if I told her that I wanted to wear Daisy Dukes and tight skirts she’d eventually hand me a credit card and tell me to go to town. It might take a few years of whining but I think she’d eventually give in once we could do the sorts of things a wife and her tranny husband would do; shopping at outlet malls, playing darts, even some carpentry classes.

Then again she might leave me altogether God forbid.

If that happens the welfare of our daughter will be first and foremost in our minds. Second of course will be the custody of the fethcing pair of gold sequined wedge sandals I’ve spied in her closet. We wear the same shoe size after all and I hardly think that she’d miss them.


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