- Joined
- Jan 5, 2023
Fuck, that voice clip (11:12) where he describes getting fucked by the 70 year old fetishist almost made me gag. This is probably the worst tranny I've ever seen.
Off-Topic Trans Widows - Because why wouldn't this thread exist?
- Thread starter Det. Frank Washington Esq
- Start date
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- Joined
- Jul 6, 2022
Knowing my wife, she'd probably call my bluff.
Nah, it's really fake.
E2: Didn't link correctly. but it's basically on this guys FB. Interesting fella.
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- Joined
- Mar 21, 2024
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2019
Stefoknee is legitimately the one who peaked me on trans shit and turned me from a garden-variety hyper-prog handmaiden to a full-on TERF. The fact that trannies aren't willing to, or even allow others to, differentiate between sorta dainty men who might've been born with a brain that doesn't match their body (what I used to believe), and blatant, family-ruining fetishists like this, lest they be "gatekeepers," made me realize the whole thing is ideological bullshit with no actual basis in reality.
Everything since then has further confirmed this conclusion to me.
So many women buy into the "when they finally came for the Jews, there was no one left to stand up for me," logic. They think, since progressivism got them more rights and protections, that they have a duty to stand with all other power-minority groups, and that failing to do so will put their own rights at risk. But they fail to realize that trannies aren't a legitimate minority group, being made-up and actually pretty powerful, and that trannies are actively eroding the rights and protections that had been established for women. There's also the female tendency to want to fit in with the group and to want to accomodate others. The heavy infiltration of gays and troons into their interests (fashion, makeup, crafts, etc.) further leads to a lot of cope for women who want to stay in those interest groups.
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2023
I did get a little thinky about how women (people in general, really) are willing to ram through the idea that "trans women are women", with certain limitations. Oh sure, they'll tell you they're women when they want to play women's sports, but I bet they have some personal limit (maybe bathrooms, maybe romantic involvement), and all of a sudden, their personal boundaries are okay, but the ones where people say "trans women aren't women" are evil bigots.
Side note: I love how it's perfectly okay to have "preferences" when men don't want to date trans women. TRA in the streets, TERF in the sheets, am I right?
Personally, I think, as far as women go, your point is a good one, but I also think there's a certain amount of social order that goes along with identities that women like enforcing. It could be identity politics, or it could be keeping them as purse-puppies the way they used to with gays (you all know at least one woman that has at least yearned for a "gay bestie").
If there's one thing I learned from growing up female, there's nothing that girls and women relish more than being social gatekeepers. I'm surprised Mean Girls got any traction in 2024, but it's a thing for a reason. So, it could be a solidarity thing, but methinks there's just a little bit of women reinforcing the social order because they think they can control the monster they've created.
- Joined
- Mar 13, 2020
The kicker for me is when these troons (and their wives as well, but I don't blame them) announce their wives are "supportive" of their transition, all while their new widows are currently filing divorce and are likely to fully disown their troon exes from their family altogether. Very "supportive". But once again, I don't blame them. At least you can talk about your grief about an actually dead spouse without a mob of degenerates coming after you at all angles to ruin your life.
- Joined
- Sep 14, 2019
Most FtMs are teenagers or in their early 20s, and a lot tend to be lesbians anyway. Even if a married woman did end up trooning out, I imagine it isn't quite as destructive as husbands trooning out because men are usually the ones supporting the household financially, and a woman trooning out doesn't generally lead to the same kinds of depraved and destructive hypersexual lifestyles that MtFs (especially the older ones) engage in.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2020
What. The. FUCK.
I'm generally pretty desensitized to horrifying degeneracy but this made me feel a bit of nauseous vertigo. This sounds like something pulled from the thunderdome about a women being gang raped.
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2017
Bless her for having good female relationships and to have never met a BPD woman. A shame she experienced that with a man, though luckily she got out. Hope that man got himself in big legal trouble or did a flip (or even got himself shot).
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2017
Christ. I’m a man, and my vagina hurts
- Joined
- Jul 6, 2022
It was Monday night and Coronation Street was just about to start. My husband was having a bath and I wanted to ask him something. I walked in to find his leg sticking out of the bath, covered in shaving cream, and a razor in his hand, poised to shave.
“What are you shaving your legs for?”
“Because I want to be a woman”
With those words, I found that the 12 year relationship I’d been in for most of my adult life was built on lies, my world fell apart, and my ability to trust disappeared forever.
He came from a dysfunctional family unit and had severe issues with self-esteem growing up. He’d never had a girlfriend before he met me, but I knew from the start had a couple of brief gay encounters which had arisen through him being interested in a lesbian who took pity on him and introduced him to her friends. Some men hit on him instead, and he was desperate for human contact so he went along with it – he told me it did nothing for him so he didn’t continue.
Our sex life was fairly disappointing and limited by his libido I thought, but he gave every indication that he was only interested in women. There was absolutely no indication given throughout the time I was with him that he was anything other than a man with heterosexual interests and gender conforming hobbies till he announced he wanted to be a woman.
That Monday night was hard. “You are not a woman!” Tears and snot running down my face as I tried to comprehend, but couldn’t. We went to bed and I needed him to hold me whilst I couldn’t believe the nightmare I was now in - and it was only to get worse after I urged him to speak to his GP. I went to work the following day and left to come home within minutes. I couldn’t speak to anyone about what had happened, much less do a job.
Tears and snot running down my face as I tried to comprehend, but couldn’t.
He went to the GP and, instead of telling me more about what he had been told about his desire to become a woman, he told me that he fantasised about BDSM sex constantly with a decidedly masochistic streak, and masturbated to his fantasies daily – this was pre-internet days and he owned a total of 2 soft porn magazines, so it was all in his head. I now understood why we had such a poor sex life.
He went to numerous doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and counsellors in the 9 months till I filed for divorce and, throughout that time, his only thoughts were for himself. He became consumed. He was not prepared to rest until he had gained the necessary agreement to have his penis removed and my feelings were never given any consideration.
During those 9 months, his narrative about his feelings started with him wanting to become a woman, to hating his genitals, morphed into him wanting to be a sexless robot, and then veered towards wanting to swing with me and other couples, or have BDSM sex. On one memorable Sunday morning, he went through all of those options in the space of an hour before returning to stating he wanted to become a woman. He rejected any suggestion that his upbringing had repressed him sexually and was, perhaps, the basis of his belief that his penis had to be removed.
He was encouraged by healthcare professionals to meet with other transsexuals at the local Transvestite/Transsexual group (remember this was all a long time ago and LGB didn’t exist – much less LGBT). His social life expanded as he started to be egged on to go out dressed as a woman. He bought many outfits which could only be classed as overly revealing and would generally not be acceptable on a woman of his age, nearing 40. He was dressing like his sexual fantasies. He was aroused by wearing women’s clothing, and masturbated in changing rooms when trying it on. He was “coached” by his new friends about what he had to say to have medical professionals believe that he wanted to become a woman and treat him. He threatened suicide on a daily basis. He made a guillotine and rigged it up to an anvil in the garage and attempted to cut his penis off. He wanted me to stop pleading with him not to self-harm “but to take me to the hospital when I do it again”. He had no concern for what this was doing to my mental health whatsoever; he just wanted to have the operation, take the hormones, and ultimately live with me as a lesbian. He couldn't understand why I couldn't accept this. That’s simple: because I AM NOT A LESBIAN!
Through his TV/TS group, he was put in touch with a psychiatrist, Dr R, whom he saw privately (after he had rejected the diagnosis of an NHS psychiatrist). He was diagnosed with gender dysphoria and permission was given for him to proceed with the removal of his penis as a private patient by his second appointment, which was within a year of his coming out as “transsexual”, and without any period of living as a woman. I sent written protestations which were rejected by Dr R., then decided that I could no longer live with the person he had become so I started divorce proceedings. I truly believe it would have been easier for me to bear if he had died because he changed completely after making his declaration.
It should be noted that Dr R was subsequently found guilty of misconduct of his handling of people with gender dysphoria.
The operation to remove his penis went ahead and a few months later, I received a letter from my ex-husband blaming me for forcing him to go ahead with it because he had now discovered that he had just wanted to have wild sex and had been repressing those urges. Looking at his behaviour through the lens of time, I believe he was an autogynephile. I don’t know whether he detransitioned fully or just had immense regret.
If I had stayed with him, there is no question that I would have had a complete nervous breakdown. As it was, it took 4 years of counselling to come to terms with what had happened, and many more years before I felt it no longer defined me. I chose to be secretive about it because I was humiliated that I found myself in that position; I did not want people to gossip about me behind my back, I didn’t want to be seen as somebody who had been so misguided to have married a man who wanted to become a woman – or worse, that I had driven him to it. Today, I still have those feelings of guilt and shame, but I’m also angry that if he had those feelings from childhood, as he claimed, then he lived with and married me purporting to be something else and his actions were fraudulent.
Whilst the people I told at the time were supportive of my position and horrified on my behalf, transwidows now face the prospect of being considered transphobic bigots for not accepting their partner’s “true identity” or wanting to remain in a sexual relationship with them when the goalposts of their relationship haven’t just been moved, they have been taken and put up on a completely different pitch.
“What are you shaving your legs for?”
“Because I want to be a woman”
With those words, I found that the 12 year relationship I’d been in for most of my adult life was built on lies, my world fell apart, and my ability to trust disappeared forever.
He came from a dysfunctional family unit and had severe issues with self-esteem growing up. He’d never had a girlfriend before he met me, but I knew from the start had a couple of brief gay encounters which had arisen through him being interested in a lesbian who took pity on him and introduced him to her friends. Some men hit on him instead, and he was desperate for human contact so he went along with it – he told me it did nothing for him so he didn’t continue.
Our sex life was fairly disappointing and limited by his libido I thought, but he gave every indication that he was only interested in women. There was absolutely no indication given throughout the time I was with him that he was anything other than a man with heterosexual interests and gender conforming hobbies till he announced he wanted to be a woman.
That Monday night was hard. “You are not a woman!” Tears and snot running down my face as I tried to comprehend, but couldn’t. We went to bed and I needed him to hold me whilst I couldn’t believe the nightmare I was now in - and it was only to get worse after I urged him to speak to his GP. I went to work the following day and left to come home within minutes. I couldn’t speak to anyone about what had happened, much less do a job.
Tears and snot running down my face as I tried to comprehend, but couldn’t.
He went to the GP and, instead of telling me more about what he had been told about his desire to become a woman, he told me that he fantasised about BDSM sex constantly with a decidedly masochistic streak, and masturbated to his fantasies daily – this was pre-internet days and he owned a total of 2 soft porn magazines, so it was all in his head. I now understood why we had such a poor sex life.
He went to numerous doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and counsellors in the 9 months till I filed for divorce and, throughout that time, his only thoughts were for himself. He became consumed. He was not prepared to rest until he had gained the necessary agreement to have his penis removed and my feelings were never given any consideration.
During those 9 months, his narrative about his feelings started with him wanting to become a woman, to hating his genitals, morphed into him wanting to be a sexless robot, and then veered towards wanting to swing with me and other couples, or have BDSM sex. On one memorable Sunday morning, he went through all of those options in the space of an hour before returning to stating he wanted to become a woman. He rejected any suggestion that his upbringing had repressed him sexually and was, perhaps, the basis of his belief that his penis had to be removed.
He was encouraged by healthcare professionals to meet with other transsexuals at the local Transvestite/Transsexual group (remember this was all a long time ago and LGB didn’t exist – much less LGBT). His social life expanded as he started to be egged on to go out dressed as a woman. He bought many outfits which could only be classed as overly revealing and would generally not be acceptable on a woman of his age, nearing 40. He was dressing like his sexual fantasies. He was aroused by wearing women’s clothing, and masturbated in changing rooms when trying it on. He was “coached” by his new friends about what he had to say to have medical professionals believe that he wanted to become a woman and treat him. He threatened suicide on a daily basis. He made a guillotine and rigged it up to an anvil in the garage and attempted to cut his penis off. He wanted me to stop pleading with him not to self-harm “but to take me to the hospital when I do it again”. He had no concern for what this was doing to my mental health whatsoever; he just wanted to have the operation, take the hormones, and ultimately live with me as a lesbian. He couldn't understand why I couldn't accept this. That’s simple: because I AM NOT A LESBIAN!
Through his TV/TS group, he was put in touch with a psychiatrist, Dr R, whom he saw privately (after he had rejected the diagnosis of an NHS psychiatrist). He was diagnosed with gender dysphoria and permission was given for him to proceed with the removal of his penis as a private patient by his second appointment, which was within a year of his coming out as “transsexual”, and without any period of living as a woman. I sent written protestations which were rejected by Dr R., then decided that I could no longer live with the person he had become so I started divorce proceedings. I truly believe it would have been easier for me to bear if he had died because he changed completely after making his declaration.
It should be noted that Dr R was subsequently found guilty of misconduct of his handling of people with gender dysphoria.
The operation to remove his penis went ahead and a few months later, I received a letter from my ex-husband blaming me for forcing him to go ahead with it because he had now discovered that he had just wanted to have wild sex and had been repressing those urges. Looking at his behaviour through the lens of time, I believe he was an autogynephile. I don’t know whether he detransitioned fully or just had immense regret.
If I had stayed with him, there is no question that I would have had a complete nervous breakdown. As it was, it took 4 years of counselling to come to terms with what had happened, and many more years before I felt it no longer defined me. I chose to be secretive about it because I was humiliated that I found myself in that position; I did not want people to gossip about me behind my back, I didn’t want to be seen as somebody who had been so misguided to have married a man who wanted to become a woman – or worse, that I had driven him to it. Today, I still have those feelings of guilt and shame, but I’m also angry that if he had those feelings from childhood, as he claimed, then he lived with and married me purporting to be something else and his actions were fraudulent.
Whilst the people I told at the time were supportive of my position and horrified on my behalf, transwidows now face the prospect of being considered transphobic bigots for not accepting their partner’s “true identity” or wanting to remain in a sexual relationship with them when the goalposts of their relationship haven’t just been moved, they have been taken and put up on a completely different pitch.
Lithuophile
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 5, 2022
>woman poons out
>gets divorced
>gets custody and grooms the kids
TroonFiringSquad
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 8, 2023
I've often thought it weird how you see way more MTF than FTM, people have tried claiming "FTM" pass better so you don't notice them but I think that's bullshit. MTF trannies are all over any kind of nerddom just like regular males are. I think it's just a lot of incels and autists.
It's a lot of losers wishing they could have a do-over in life, being a girl would make it all better... Sure.
To a degree you are what you are, if I could redo education again could I see myself trying to become a homocide detective? Sure, sounds like interesting work that I'd be into. I have missed the boat on that ever happening though and I accept it. I'll live it through Netflix docs.
These people just need to accept they're not girls and that's just the way life panned out. They're never going to have the female experience they crave.
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Man at Arms
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2024
Women are welcoming of this. Men are not, and were the evil bad people.
- Joined
- Sep 14, 2019
>woman poons out
>gets divorce
>custody courts don't know what to do in the case of two fathers
- Joined
- Jul 22, 2016
My story in a nutshell. True facts. They are disgusting sex degenerates. Nothing more nothing less.
- Joined
- Jul 6, 2022
I have always found writing therapeutic. I know I am healing when I can focus enough to have a good scribble about something. If I pile enough words in just the right places, I can hide the painful bits enough to trick my brain into scooting right on past them. I know I'm where I need to be when I can find the humour in a situation and make it into an amusing antidote. But some things just aren't amusing no matter how you try.
This is a story about a man dressed in fishnets, PVC mini skirt and stilettos, forcing his exhausted wife/hostage to participate in violent, porn-inspired sex games every night after she gets their three young children to bed. I know that's pretty heavy, I just had to blurt it out in one go. I've tried dithering about and hiding it in other stories but I'm finished covering it up.
When I met my husband, I was smitten by his charming accent, intense blue eyes and wild long hair. I didn't particularly like the heavy metal style, or the men who sported it, but he was different. That accent! Those eyes! I was 24. I had a confused but robust libido. It made me do really dumb shit. Anyway, I thought nothing more of the hair until he flounced past me in a miniskirt and pigtails shortly after we moved in together. I was shocked, but I was also in love. We opened up, that night. I told him of the sexual abuse I experienced as a child, my bisexuality, my general wariness of men and he told me about his cross-dressing habit, rooted in his own troubled childhood.
He said when he was about six years old, he ran away from home. He eventually came upon his auntie's house. He was captivated by the sight of her underthings on the washing line. He had a bit of a crush on this auntie, he told me, she was young and very pretty. He decided to put on her clothes to see what they felt like, her knickers and skirt over his short trousers, her bra and frilly top over his jumper. He never made it to the main road where he intended to hitch a lift. Instead, he fell asleep next to a haystack, where his frantic grandparents found him a few hours later, still dressed in his auntie's clothes. He said he'd never been happier than when he was in those clothes. He told me that's why he often wore women's clothes - to relax and to feel better when he struggled with depression.
He later used the things I shared with him that night to coerce and abuse me. He insisted I should have no objection to having sex with him dressed as woman because I was bisexual. This did not jibe at all with what I found attractive, but when I tried to object he said I was being a hypocrite and a snob. He accused me of trying to shame him when I gagged at the smell of his silicone toys mixed with alkyl nitrate fumes and bodily fluids and said I needed to get off my high horse, that just because I was born into a female body did not mean I was a better woman than him. Weren't we both damaged women? If I really loved him why would I cause him more pain? I forced myself to override my feelings to prioritise his. I loved him, and he was very nice and so cuddly after I did what he wanted. I confused his grooming with love.
We married after I became pregnant with my first child. He stopped pestering me as much for unwanted sexual things because he no longer found me attractive. He didn't like fat, he said. When I did refuse his advances, he would say I had no right being snotty about his appearance, the state I was in. I was resigned to all things sexual being confusing and horrid at that point, the hopes of healing the abuse from childhood and blossoming into a healthy, happy being were gone, along with most of my self-esteem. My default mode again became pretend it was happening to someone else, make the best of things and carry on. We plugged along peacefully enough this way, and I had two more children during the next six years. He did not help at all with the kids but he did not interfere with my slightly off-the-beaten path parenting. I took his passive disdain for support and thought it was balance enough. Looking back I was so very lonely and exhausted. I've often longed to retroactively shake some sense into the sad stupor of that young mother.
After my third child, he sank into a deep depression and was in bed for months. He began to dress as a woman almost every evening. Or, I should say, what he considered to be a woman. It was not my idea of womanhood. In fact, his version offended me. It was degrading and violent. He clearly thought being a woman meant wanting to be raped and tortured. I told him wearing strap-ons was very sore on my c-section scar, my "turn" being tied up frightened and hurt me, I expressed my preference for gentle, nurturing sex. He told me complaining was very manipulative and selfish and that I was trying to stifle his womanhood. He said I couldn't handle him being a woman because I was jealous, that it wasn't his fault that he wasn't fat and I was ,that I was barely a woman at all but more like a wizened balloon. I tried to avoid it all after that and focus on the children.
When we were married ten years, we moved our family to Ireland, back to his childhood village, a move I'd always dreamed of. He said it would be great for the kids and help pull him out of the years of depression. He'd been so homesick, he said. We would have the adventure I'd always wanted and finally be a happy family. I was hooked by the idea of leaving the bad memories behind and starting fresh. I put the hundred or so red flags out of my mind and walked right into it.
Not long after we arrived, my husband began to wear his woman costume every night. He told me I was the only person he trusted to see him as his true self. He told me to call him by his female name. He started talking to me in his female voice all day. I was afraid the kids would hear and be confused, especially because he often took on a pleading, begging tone, but he seemed to be totally unaware of their presence. He'd be on his laptop all day, looking for inspiration for what he'd make me do that night and I'd spend all day dreading it. He stopped buying fuel to heat the house, and I had to dress the kids in three layers and put them all to sleep in one bed, so they could keep each other warm. I read to them for hours every night, and they seemed happy and oblivious. Those times with my babies were sweet even with the sickening knowledge that he'd be out there waiting no matter how long I stayed after the kids drifted off, no matter how long I held my bursting bladder before giving up and going out to use the bathroom, he'd be out there ready to pounce.
I knew no one, I had no money of my own, I couldn't drive nor could I safely walk anywhere with the kids. He was the only adult I saw unless his burly bully of a brother stopped in or one of his childhood friends came by for a chat. The roaring misogyny of his brother frightened the hell out of me. He kept reminding me how I was now on "their territory" with a decidedly menacing relish. One day when they were having tea and the sugar bowl was empty, the brother growled at my husband "you'd better get a stick for that woman!" and my husband stared right into my eyes and slowly nodded and then joined his brother in uproarious laughter. I went into the bathroom and vomited. I was completely trapped and ashamedly responsible for landing myself in such a horrible situation. The enormity of it paralysed me.
He began calling me mistress all the time instead of my name. He liked to play a shackled, subservient woman begging not to be beaten and raped and forced me to act as the sinister dominatrix, then insist we switch roles for his final thrill. I was losing my will and completely withdrawing into myself. I felt like I was disappearing altogether. I was exhausted and sore and suicidal. I began drinking heavily in the evenings to numb myself.
I remember one night shaking and sobbing, snot and drool running down my face, telling him that he was snuffing out the tiny flame that was left of me, to please stop, he was killing me and the kids needed me. He responded in what he thought was a submissive female voice, kittenizing his baritone, "Yes, mistress. Is that an order?" and then proceeded to ignore me and the needs of our children for days until I became so desperate that I engaged again by speaking to him in the stern taskmaster voice he insisted I use. I hated myself for stepping back into it, for going around and around again.
On my fortieth birthday my sister-in-law insisted they take me out to a local pub. He tried to stop her, but she got his friends involved, and it would look too conspicuous if he didn't allow them to throw me a little party. I paid for it dearly for weeks after but it was there I met my first friend in my new country. She saw a haggard-looking woman, sitting with a group but somehow alone, and she came and sat by me and said "I see a real sadness in you, are you okay?" I said I was okay, just tired. She gave me her number and told me to ring her sometime, that we could meet for a cuppa. I was afraid to ring at first but then I did and she came to see me at the house, much to my husband's fury. After a few visits, she told me the way my husband treated me was unacceptable, and the kids and I did not have to live like that. She said I could get out and she would help me. She did not know about the sexual torture, she just saw the signs of domestic abuse. That woman saved my life.
When I told my husband I was leaving he said he was going to kill himself. He said I was punishing him for his depression that was caused by the pain of not being able to live as a woman. He said I thought I was better than him, that I was a cruel snob, that I was being coached by “lesbian feminist bitches” and destroying our family and hurting our kids. For years after I got out, he kept trying to control me through threats of suicide. He said he could not live as his true self except with me. When that didn't work, he recruited his brother who gleefully threatened and intimidated me daily for two years. I had escaped the sexual abuse but I was still desperate and bedraggled with three children now 4, 8 and 11.
I did the best I could to build a happy new life for me and the kids. I struggled with alcohol abuse, but I thought my kids were generally thriving. My younger two seemed like happy toddlers, my oldest acted out a bit but was easily enough distracted. I don't know what, if anything, he took in of my husband's sexual proclivities or his abuse. I still don't. What I do know though, is that he has his own struggles with his gender identity which have made our relationship difficult.
It's been about 9 years since I got away from my now ex-husband with the help of a few good friends and a domestic violence service. I can breathe in full, deep breaths most of the time instead of shallow, jagged ones. I have been able to mostly wrangle my alcohol use into something fun and social. I have a nice life with my two younger children. I have a partner who is respectful and kind. I can even enjoy sex. I'm thinking of writing an amusing memoir about adjusting to life in a new country. The sexual abuse part of the story won't be in it.
My ex now lives in the Philippines where he "rescued" an impoverished woman less than half his age to be his grateful maid and sex slave. He and his brother coerced me into signing for a no-fault divorce and kept everything. He does not support his children, financially or otherwise. I do not know if he lives as a woman, a man or as his true self, an abusive, deeply misogynist, homophobic autogynephile. What I endured at the hands of my husband almost killed me. I know there are many women out there experiencing the same kind of abuse, maybe not to the level I did, but on a level that is harming them and, often, their children. Their stories need to be heard.
A supposedly well-intentioned society insists that men are now women, simply because they say they are. Men like my husband. These men are lauded as stunning and brave. Women injured by these same celebrated men are shamed, silenced and further abused. I and my children are not fodder for men's fetishy whims or the virtue signalling of their enablers. I will continue to tell my story in all its ugly truth. I hope others will tell theirs.
This is a story about a man dressed in fishnets, PVC mini skirt and stilettos, forcing his exhausted wife/hostage to participate in violent, porn-inspired sex games every night after she gets their three young children to bed. I know that's pretty heavy, I just had to blurt it out in one go. I've tried dithering about and hiding it in other stories but I'm finished covering it up.
When I met my husband, I was smitten by his charming accent, intense blue eyes and wild long hair. I didn't particularly like the heavy metal style, or the men who sported it, but he was different. That accent! Those eyes! I was 24. I had a confused but robust libido. It made me do really dumb shit. Anyway, I thought nothing more of the hair until he flounced past me in a miniskirt and pigtails shortly after we moved in together. I was shocked, but I was also in love. We opened up, that night. I told him of the sexual abuse I experienced as a child, my bisexuality, my general wariness of men and he told me about his cross-dressing habit, rooted in his own troubled childhood.
He said when he was about six years old, he ran away from home. He eventually came upon his auntie's house. He was captivated by the sight of her underthings on the washing line. He had a bit of a crush on this auntie, he told me, she was young and very pretty. He decided to put on her clothes to see what they felt like, her knickers and skirt over his short trousers, her bra and frilly top over his jumper. He never made it to the main road where he intended to hitch a lift. Instead, he fell asleep next to a haystack, where his frantic grandparents found him a few hours later, still dressed in his auntie's clothes. He said he'd never been happier than when he was in those clothes. He told me that's why he often wore women's clothes - to relax and to feel better when he struggled with depression.
He later used the things I shared with him that night to coerce and abuse me. He insisted I should have no objection to having sex with him dressed as woman because I was bisexual. This did not jibe at all with what I found attractive, but when I tried to object he said I was being a hypocrite and a snob. He accused me of trying to shame him when I gagged at the smell of his silicone toys mixed with alkyl nitrate fumes and bodily fluids and said I needed to get off my high horse, that just because I was born into a female body did not mean I was a better woman than him. Weren't we both damaged women? If I really loved him why would I cause him more pain? I forced myself to override my feelings to prioritise his. I loved him, and he was very nice and so cuddly after I did what he wanted. I confused his grooming with love.
We married after I became pregnant with my first child. He stopped pestering me as much for unwanted sexual things because he no longer found me attractive. He didn't like fat, he said. When I did refuse his advances, he would say I had no right being snotty about his appearance, the state I was in. I was resigned to all things sexual being confusing and horrid at that point, the hopes of healing the abuse from childhood and blossoming into a healthy, happy being were gone, along with most of my self-esteem. My default mode again became pretend it was happening to someone else, make the best of things and carry on. We plugged along peacefully enough this way, and I had two more children during the next six years. He did not help at all with the kids but he did not interfere with my slightly off-the-beaten path parenting. I took his passive disdain for support and thought it was balance enough. Looking back I was so very lonely and exhausted. I've often longed to retroactively shake some sense into the sad stupor of that young mother.
After my third child, he sank into a deep depression and was in bed for months. He began to dress as a woman almost every evening. Or, I should say, what he considered to be a woman. It was not my idea of womanhood. In fact, his version offended me. It was degrading and violent. He clearly thought being a woman meant wanting to be raped and tortured. I told him wearing strap-ons was very sore on my c-section scar, my "turn" being tied up frightened and hurt me, I expressed my preference for gentle, nurturing sex. He told me complaining was very manipulative and selfish and that I was trying to stifle his womanhood. He said I couldn't handle him being a woman because I was jealous, that it wasn't his fault that he wasn't fat and I was ,that I was barely a woman at all but more like a wizened balloon. I tried to avoid it all after that and focus on the children.
When we were married ten years, we moved our family to Ireland, back to his childhood village, a move I'd always dreamed of. He said it would be great for the kids and help pull him out of the years of depression. He'd been so homesick, he said. We would have the adventure I'd always wanted and finally be a happy family. I was hooked by the idea of leaving the bad memories behind and starting fresh. I put the hundred or so red flags out of my mind and walked right into it.
Not long after we arrived, my husband began to wear his woman costume every night. He told me I was the only person he trusted to see him as his true self. He told me to call him by his female name. He started talking to me in his female voice all day. I was afraid the kids would hear and be confused, especially because he often took on a pleading, begging tone, but he seemed to be totally unaware of their presence. He'd be on his laptop all day, looking for inspiration for what he'd make me do that night and I'd spend all day dreading it. He stopped buying fuel to heat the house, and I had to dress the kids in three layers and put them all to sleep in one bed, so they could keep each other warm. I read to them for hours every night, and they seemed happy and oblivious. Those times with my babies were sweet even with the sickening knowledge that he'd be out there waiting no matter how long I stayed after the kids drifted off, no matter how long I held my bursting bladder before giving up and going out to use the bathroom, he'd be out there ready to pounce.
I knew no one, I had no money of my own, I couldn't drive nor could I safely walk anywhere with the kids. He was the only adult I saw unless his burly bully of a brother stopped in or one of his childhood friends came by for a chat. The roaring misogyny of his brother frightened the hell out of me. He kept reminding me how I was now on "their territory" with a decidedly menacing relish. One day when they were having tea and the sugar bowl was empty, the brother growled at my husband "you'd better get a stick for that woman!" and my husband stared right into my eyes and slowly nodded and then joined his brother in uproarious laughter. I went into the bathroom and vomited. I was completely trapped and ashamedly responsible for landing myself in such a horrible situation. The enormity of it paralysed me.
He began calling me mistress all the time instead of my name. He liked to play a shackled, subservient woman begging not to be beaten and raped and forced me to act as the sinister dominatrix, then insist we switch roles for his final thrill. I was losing my will and completely withdrawing into myself. I felt like I was disappearing altogether. I was exhausted and sore and suicidal. I began drinking heavily in the evenings to numb myself.
I remember one night shaking and sobbing, snot and drool running down my face, telling him that he was snuffing out the tiny flame that was left of me, to please stop, he was killing me and the kids needed me. He responded in what he thought was a submissive female voice, kittenizing his baritone, "Yes, mistress. Is that an order?" and then proceeded to ignore me and the needs of our children for days until I became so desperate that I engaged again by speaking to him in the stern taskmaster voice he insisted I use. I hated myself for stepping back into it, for going around and around again.
On my fortieth birthday my sister-in-law insisted they take me out to a local pub. He tried to stop her, but she got his friends involved, and it would look too conspicuous if he didn't allow them to throw me a little party. I paid for it dearly for weeks after but it was there I met my first friend in my new country. She saw a haggard-looking woman, sitting with a group but somehow alone, and she came and sat by me and said "I see a real sadness in you, are you okay?" I said I was okay, just tired. She gave me her number and told me to ring her sometime, that we could meet for a cuppa. I was afraid to ring at first but then I did and she came to see me at the house, much to my husband's fury. After a few visits, she told me the way my husband treated me was unacceptable, and the kids and I did not have to live like that. She said I could get out and she would help me. She did not know about the sexual torture, she just saw the signs of domestic abuse. That woman saved my life.
When I told my husband I was leaving he said he was going to kill himself. He said I was punishing him for his depression that was caused by the pain of not being able to live as a woman. He said I thought I was better than him, that I was a cruel snob, that I was being coached by “lesbian feminist bitches” and destroying our family and hurting our kids. For years after I got out, he kept trying to control me through threats of suicide. He said he could not live as his true self except with me. When that didn't work, he recruited his brother who gleefully threatened and intimidated me daily for two years. I had escaped the sexual abuse but I was still desperate and bedraggled with three children now 4, 8 and 11.
I did the best I could to build a happy new life for me and the kids. I struggled with alcohol abuse, but I thought my kids were generally thriving. My younger two seemed like happy toddlers, my oldest acted out a bit but was easily enough distracted. I don't know what, if anything, he took in of my husband's sexual proclivities or his abuse. I still don't. What I do know though, is that he has his own struggles with his gender identity which have made our relationship difficult.
It's been about 9 years since I got away from my now ex-husband with the help of a few good friends and a domestic violence service. I can breathe in full, deep breaths most of the time instead of shallow, jagged ones. I have been able to mostly wrangle my alcohol use into something fun and social. I have a nice life with my two younger children. I have a partner who is respectful and kind. I can even enjoy sex. I'm thinking of writing an amusing memoir about adjusting to life in a new country. The sexual abuse part of the story won't be in it.
My ex now lives in the Philippines where he "rescued" an impoverished woman less than half his age to be his grateful maid and sex slave. He and his brother coerced me into signing for a no-fault divorce and kept everything. He does not support his children, financially or otherwise. I do not know if he lives as a woman, a man or as his true self, an abusive, deeply misogynist, homophobic autogynephile. What I endured at the hands of my husband almost killed me. I know there are many women out there experiencing the same kind of abuse, maybe not to the level I did, but on a level that is harming them and, often, their children. Their stories need to be heard.
A supposedly well-intentioned society insists that men are now women, simply because they say they are. Men like my husband. These men are lauded as stunning and brave. Women injured by these same celebrated men are shamed, silenced and further abused. I and my children are not fodder for men's fetishy whims or the virtue signalling of their enablers. I will continue to tell my story in all its ugly truth. I hope others will tell theirs.
- Joined
- May 9, 2023
Holy scheisse that's a tough read. Her exhusband is an autogynephile, abusive, porno-addicted, degenerate, gorilla troon. I hope some based phillipino shivs him and steals his wallet. I hope every person in a relationship with a troon reads this thread, someday.
You think you hate troons, but you dont hate them enough. TTD
You think you hate troons, but you dont hate them enough. TTD
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2018
My impression of handmaidendry is that it is almost always a woman vs woman powerplay, a way to ostracize outliers and keep other women in the herd cowed in silence.
Maybe one of the saddest trans widow stories belongs to Wendy Lachs Ennis, who was married to Don/Dawn Ennis.
Wendy met Don in college and after several years of dating, they broke up. Don admits he was at fault for the breakup which makes me think he either cheated on her or hinted at his AGP crossdressing fetish.
A few years later Wendy and Don reunited and were married. They had three children together and lived in Connecticut. In 2013 Don, who had made his name as an NYC-area ABC sportscaster, came out as trans and Wendy filed for divorce. Don recanted his transition but accused Wendy of drugging and sissifying him, no doubt a fantasy concocted around Don’s obvious femdom humiliation fetish. Don then recanted his recantation and was now fully out as Dawn.
Don’s back and forth was popular fodder for the NYC tabloids, and in 2014 ABC finally canned his ass. Unfortunately Don’s firing coincided with Wendy’s diagnosis of colon cancer. Don’s various shenanigans had depleted the family savings, yet instead of stepping up in his family’s time of need, Don decides to relocate to Los Angeles and I quote, “With the hope of buildng something up from zero, for me to move on with my life”. He does not have a secured job upon his relocation and Wendy is essentially a single mother raising three school aged children alone in between rounds of chemo and iron transfusions.
Wendy sadly passed away in 2016, just two years after her diagnosis at age 48. The children were 17, 13, and 9 at the time of their mother’s death.
Since then Don has become an editor at OutSports, an NBC subsidiary that reports on sports from an LGBT perspective. It is run by a gay guy and two MTF troons, including Don. When not being your typical ranting tranny on twitter, Don has also gone on to claim that he breastfed their youngest child, which means that Don was either secretly molesting a baby or that he was forcing a 6 year old to suckle his moob, since that was the child’s age when Don publicly came out.
I hope those kids find some peace, far far away from their piece of shit father.
Maybe one of the saddest trans widow stories belongs to Wendy Lachs Ennis, who was married to Don/Dawn Ennis.
Wendy met Don in college and after several years of dating, they broke up. Don admits he was at fault for the breakup which makes me think he either cheated on her or hinted at his AGP crossdressing fetish.
A few years later Wendy and Don reunited and were married. They had three children together and lived in Connecticut. In 2013 Don, who had made his name as an NYC-area ABC sportscaster, came out as trans and Wendy filed for divorce. Don recanted his transition but accused Wendy of drugging and sissifying him, no doubt a fantasy concocted around Don’s obvious femdom humiliation fetish. Don then recanted his recantation and was now fully out as Dawn.
Don’s back and forth was popular fodder for the NYC tabloids, and in 2014 ABC finally canned his ass. Unfortunately Don’s firing coincided with Wendy’s diagnosis of colon cancer. Don’s various shenanigans had depleted the family savings, yet instead of stepping up in his family’s time of need, Don decides to relocate to Los Angeles and I quote, “With the hope of buildng something up from zero, for me to move on with my life”. He does not have a secured job upon his relocation and Wendy is essentially a single mother raising three school aged children alone in between rounds of chemo and iron transfusions.
Wendy sadly passed away in 2016, just two years after her diagnosis at age 48. The children were 17, 13, and 9 at the time of their mother’s death.
Since then Don has become an editor at OutSports, an NBC subsidiary that reports on sports from an LGBT perspective. It is run by a gay guy and two MTF troons, including Don. When not being your typical ranting tranny on twitter, Don has also gone on to claim that he breastfed their youngest child, which means that Don was either secretly molesting a baby or that he was forcing a 6 year old to suckle his moob, since that was the child’s age when Don publicly came out.
I hope those kids find some peace, far far away from their piece of shit father.
- Joined
- May 9, 2023
This is a video of Ennis getting chewed out by based britbong TERF Posie Parker: