The first time I really wanted to dress up as a girl came when I was six years old. It was the day after my older sister decided to dress me up in her petticoats. Everyone laughed when she did. They made such a fuss. For a couple of hours, I was really cute.
But then I went back to being a boring old boy.
Drat! I missed the attention I got as a missy.
Of course, the second time a lad dresses up as a girl, things change. Your sis isn't sure she wants you in her things. Your mom thinks you've gone from being adorable to being weird.
When my sister got married and left home (taking her wardrobe with her), there were years where I didn't have much to play with. I do remember being fascinated with those plastic bags that come from the cleaners, and with rubber bathing caps, vinyl shower caps, and with those ruffled vinyl baby pants they put on my newborn sister.
Was it the smell? The texture?
I don't know.
When I was about 12, I remember seeing the photo of a woman in a rubber maid's outfit on the cover of a men's magazine. I became aroused, but also felt conflicted.  I wanted to marry this woman and tie her up in that outfit. Then I wanted her to tie me up wearing the same outfit. Then I wanted to tie her up again. I felt as if I were riding a sexual teeter-totter. I didn't want to jump off.
Moreover, my urges grew from there.
Today, I still love a maid's uniform, in any cut or mainstream fetish material (burlap not included). I love most frillies, especially anything with lots of ruffles or pleats, and anything made of leather or latex or vinyl. I love high collars and Peter Pan collars. I worship gloves, boots, heels, hats, and scarves. I've got at least 10 corsets and waist cinchers each, and at least as many garter belts, slips and bouffant petticoats.
Yet I also like to play the dominator, dressed in my wickedest male leathers or PVC. Or just my black BVDs.  I'm keen on rope, tape, and leather bondage. I have an irresistible drive to bind. I cherish the planning and execution of a long, loving scene that brings an exhausted smile to my wife.
All this didn't just happen overnight.
I confessed my shameful vices to my first wife after a few weeks of marriage. For more than 25 years, she'd indulge my fantasies about once a month, on the average, usually with an exasperated tone ("hurry up and let's get this over with") and the body language of someone horribly repulsed by the whole mess. She reminded me daily what a freak I was.  She promised me once that if I took a new job, she would hire a professional dominatrix to come in to train me once a week for six weeks. I took the job. She refused to discuss her part of the deal ever again.
As time wore on, I kept more and more from my wife. If I had dreams, or urges, I kept them to myself. I didn't want to touch her, snuggle with her, or make love to her. The less affection I gave, the meaner she got. She'd start to drop hints to friends about my closeted kinks. She started doing the same with the kids.
Yet she wouldn't go to see a marriage counselor or seek any level of compromise.
"This is all you," she said.
And perhaps she was right.
Finally, we divorced. I felt as if I'd been freed from prison, even if my ex-wife annoyed every good friend by telling exaggerated accounts of our private moments. Her embellishments were even greater with the kids. She made me into a wicked combo of DeSade and RuPaul, saying I was always commanding her to join in increasingly offbeat and unnatural acts involving wombats, a slingshot and cherry red Jell-o.
That was the problem: she'd only hurt me when I didn't want her to. Enough was enough. After more than 25 years and three kids, we parted ways.
Meanwhile, I had started putting my ideas into story form and posting them online. That's how I met my second wife. She had read several chapters of a story I posted about a young sub who surrenders to the bondage and discipline whims of her mentor-lover. It was the Story of O with more latex and bondage - and with a host of unique modern contraptions for her restraint and pleasure.
My bride-to-be loved the story.  She didn't know I was the writer. She just thought I might have more chapters. And she said again: "I just love this story!"
So I revealed myself. I told her I was the author. And, after much hesitation, I told her that in my mind, I saw myself as him, and I saw myself as her.
That revelation was followed by one huge emotional gulp.
I wasn't sure how she'd respond.
But she wrote back. She was intrigued. So I wrote back. And then she wrote again. Soon, we had discussed our whole lives. Yet we never met.
When we finally did meet, it was as if we were old friends. There were no secrets.
Today, I am blessed to have a wife/playmate who loves bondage, spanking, role playing and virtually every other kink I enjoy, including cocooning, deprivation, gags, blindfolds, being read stories, and watching videotapes and live online broadcasts of bondage and discipline. We play with each often, and only with each other.
Through it all, I've never really come up with a female name, other than "slave" (with a small "s"). It's master and slave. Or mistress and slave. Maybe I've never come up with a female name because I don't want to become a woman, or to dress as a woman fulltime. I'm the man of the house. I like being a guy. I enjoy sex as a man. I enjoy the male orgasm. I don't want to change anything.
I get as big a rush planning a session for my wife as I do for myself. Maybe more. I can start to get stiff down there just thinking about things I can and should do to her when it's her turn to surrender. Indeed, for us, the question is rarely when or if, but what to do, how to do it, and to whom. I feel so lucky to be in this relationship. My mate is my muse and my best friend. For the first time in my adult life, I have nothing to hide from my closest pal. She knows every dark secret.
I am one lucky, lucky bastard.