My Husband, My Sissy

My Husband blends in well
In seas of black hats, white shirts and kapatos.
He is related to half of Lubavitch; a burdensome honor.
All those exciting years of childhood came to a halt when he was molested in the camp bunks
and in the stalls of his school bathrooms.

Yet, he is my husband. My soulmate. My broken man…
In his safe space, he transforms.
With every swipe of lipstick, with every frilly panty, silky stocking and pair of high heels
He finds comfort. Comfort in the colors, textures, and sensations.
Comfort as Tammy. Tammy, my husband. My soulmate.

Tammy is beautiful
She is sensitive. She is kind.
I feel jealous though, of her freedom, of her uninhibited beauty.

But as I piece together Tammy’s broken pieces, accept and love her for who she is
My broken pieces stay scattered, shattered.
Forever seeking and
Begging for help, desperate for attention.
But Tammy, my husband, my soulmate, finds solace.
Solace in being a sissy. My sissy.


Photo credit Linzi on Flickr.

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1 Comment

  1. Anonymous April 1, 2019 at 5:14 pm

    Hopefully you can hold each others broken pieces together long enough to start really healing. Im cheering for you.


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