As we approached our 3rd anniversary in early March 2018, I had spent over two years of our marriage trying to uncover Bill’s secret and compulsive sexual endeavors. Nothing was illegal about it, and there wasn’t anything necessarily wrong with his obsessions except the fact that he was married, cheating, and engaged in dangerous conduct that put him and me at significant risk. Every discovery and confrontation included a question about his sexuality, but Bill continued to reject any suggestion that he might be gay.
At times, I resorted to extreme and expensive means to uncover and follow his activities. Besides hacking into his computer and phone, I sought the help of a sex therapist to help me understand the psychology behind this behavior. She also helped me to offload some of the emotional burdens that this situation caused and to understand sex addiction. It is much like all other addictions. The person afflicted with it is willing to risk anything and everything to experience the rush of the next “hit.” The reward and thrill of it all are worth the gamble, and so are the consequences – no matter who or what is sacrificed.
The services of a private detective tracked Bill’s whereabouts when I was forced to travel for work. Bill made some unusual stops on his way home from work. The detective also turned me on to software used to track web activity and record all keystrokes while using the internet. The use of this expensive software exposed the grotesque genre of porn Bill was obsessed with involving a form of hypnosis and the use of poppers to desensitize the viewer to women’s sexual anatomy and reject the desire to have sex with a woman. It was a kind of feminization using”cock worship” scenarios where beautiful trannies instruct the viewer into controlled responses upon command. Bill spent every moment he could watching these videos to complete his “feminization.”
It became more difficult to track Bill’s endeavors when technology advanced as privacy advocates shaped the future of web activity with mobile apps. For a fee, you can download an app to your phone where you are issued a legitimate private number. Text messages and phone calls do not appear on your mobile provider’s account because the phone activity is not routed through their servers. Apps such as MySudo even offer a private email domain.
Bill moved from using his computer to CoverMe, a mobile app offered through Apple. This service not only issues a private phone number but features a hidden vault where photos taken with your camera are stored in the “vault” so they cannot be viewed in the camera’s photo app. The perfect way to engage in sexting and clandestine communication without being discovered. CoverMe can be camouflaged behind an icon that appears as a news app on the screen. Messages are encrypted and the app is easily closed by gently shaking the phone. These unique features are beyond clever and by design.
I learned that Bill had downloaded both MySudo and CoverMe to his phone when the Apple receipt for the purchases appeared in his email account. I confronted Bill about purchasing these apps a few days before we were scheduled to go to Palm Springs to celebrate our anniversary. As always, these confrontations resulted in more denials and a huge argument that went nowhere.
I was going to Palm Springs with or without him. I remember liking the area’s terrain, and I was looking forward to a change of scenery. Most of my impressions of Palm Springs had been formed from the 1950’s stories of old Hollywood glamour featuring Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. I would soon find out that Palm Springs had become the largest gay community in the country.
Bill decided to go on the trip only the night before our departure when he saw me packing. This time, I refused to pack his femme clothing as I usually did when we traveled. (Somehow, Bill thought our travels had become some kind of stage for the BDSM games as if that were the sole reason for the trip.) The drive took over four hours, and we hardly spoke a word the entire way. The only break in the silence occurred when we took the aerial tramway to Mt. San Jacinto State Park and took in the breathtaking views of the Coachella Valley. A drink at the Lookout Lounge also helped thaw things out before we headed to the resort.
Tired from the drive, we dined at the hotel restaurant and headed down to the hot tub after dinner. It was a large spa that easily seated 10 people without feeling crowded. Bill was wearing traditional men’s swim shorts, but the 3-inch sparkly jewelry dangling from his belly button was hard to miss. There were two other occupants – both men in their late 30’s. I didn’t think much of it until two more men showed up and then another two. Before long, I was the only woman in a spa of seven men, and it became quite clear that they were all gay. Suddenly, I felt extremely out of place. I wondered what Bill was thinking – he had to know but showed no awareness or concern for my growing awkwardness.
Later that evening, while Bill slept, I flipped through the area magazines and tourist books where I learned just how gay-friendly Palm Springs was, including gay-only resorts that catered to people looking for acceptance and privacy. Somehow, I had missed identifying resorts that catered to the gay community when I searched for places to stay. As it turns out, our hotel was located in the heart of where most of the gay bars and nightclubs were located off E. Arenas Road. I looked over at Bill. The covers were off, and he was wearing a pink mini G-string. I remember thinking, “My God, what have I done?” I’ve taken an alcoholic to the liquor store.”
The next morning, I noticed Bill had put a pink rhinestone stud in his ear before we headed out for brunch. Within a block of our hotel, it was apparent we were in the heart of the LGBTQ community, with bars, clubs, shops, and restaurants adorned with rainbow flags. Transgenders easily outnumbered the straight, but I noticed several elderly tourists walking down the sidewalk who seemed utterly perplexed and pointing at young men dressed in over-the-top makeup, wild outfits, and high heels.
I popped in and out of boutiques and galleries, but Bill mostly waited on the sidewalk where he never stopped looking at and typing into his phone. We were still avoiding conversation, and I was beyond irritated at my suspicion of him communicating with his special friends through his hidden apps. It never stopped.
After two Bloody Marys at lunch surrounded by gap couples, I began to openly taunt Bill about his earring, the hot tub company, and how he brought the perfect wardrobe for the local flavor of the community. “Why not wear some of it next time we were out and about?”, I asked. “You would fit right in.” He was not amused – and neither was I. The game of hide and seek was over.
The argument that ensued once back at the hotel was more than just laying out a laundry list of the details of his secret activities involving like-minded men. Suddenly, I reached a peak of emotional distress that resulted in uncontrollable bouts of hysterical sobbing and a state of delirium. Two years of the mental anguish of trying to cope with Bill’s compulsive behavior, the lies, the secrets, the denials, and the powerful blow to my sense of self-worth and womanhood had become too overwhelming to deal with in a setting where CDs and transgenders surrounded me.
My emotional breakdown lasted for hours late into the night. Bill was so furious with my uncontrolled weeping and having to witness the consequences of his disloyal conduct that he resorted to looking for another hotel. Sarcastically, I suggested one of the many gay resorts, which only enraged Bill even more. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt and humiliate him as he did to me.
It was well after 2 a.m. when the crying finally stopped. Bill had stood in the same spot for hours, leaning up against the wall and staring at the floor. During the entire episode, he said very little. Bill offered no apology and didn’t even try his usual denials or his accusations that I was delusional and looking for a way out of our relationship. I never learned why he didn’t leave for another hotel. I didn’t care. I sat on the end of the bed, staring out the glass door in a kind of catatonic state, totally exhausted. The last thing I remember was lying back on the bed, mesmerized by the beautiful light from the pool below dancing across the ceiling.
When I woke the next morning, my eyes were swollen shut from hours of sobbing. I soaked a washcloth in the cold water from the ice bucket and placed it over my puffy face. I felt better after a hot shower, and a double dose of pain reliever for my splitting headache brought on by crying and too much wine.
Bill was in the bathroom getting ready for the long trip home. I stood in the doorway and stared at him in his tight pink lace panties. He was going about his usual routine as if nothing had happened. Deliberately, I asked him, “Do you want an open marriage? One where we can each seek out our needs without repercussions? An agreement that may level the playing field so we can each get what we need?” Bill whipped around and shouted, “Of course not! I don’t want any part of that.” Well, of course, he didn’t.
There was no more discussion about an open marriage that I mostly brought up just to rile him. However, it was just the beginning of significant changes in our relationship and for me personally. Palm Springs was no oasis – not for my kind.
Go directly to the next chapter with this link:
My Life Living With A Crossdresser 