Like Father, Like… Son?

Father's Crossdressing Shame Imposed on His Son

By Cathy Laura Peterson

Stana’s recent post, “Like Father Like Son?”, stirred up memories I hadn’t revisited in a long time—memories that go all the way back to the 1960s, when I first found myself dressed in feminine clothing alongside my three sisters.

It was my aunt who encouraged it. She treated it as harmless, even natural—just kids playing. My mother, on the other hand, seemed almost detached. Not disapproving, not approving… just indifferent. 

My father wasn’t around much. He left when I was very young—so young that I don’t remember him ever really living with us. But I do remember something else: my aunt’s old black-and-white photo albums. Tucked inside were a few striking images of my father, fully en femme, taken in the early 1940s before he went off to war. 

He was young, slim, and—there’s no other way to say it—convincing. Dresses, stockings, heels, even the suggestion of a bra and slip beneath it all. Later photos showed him again, after the war, dressed up at what looked like a costume party with my mother. 

My aunt didn’t dance around it.


“Your father liked to dress up,” she told me plainly. “He did it when we were kids, and again after you were born—but he never went out.” 

That knowledge didn’t quite fit with the man I would occasionally encounter as a child.

He would show up unannounced now and then. And twice—only twice, but vividly enough—he saw me dressed with my sisters. Dress, tights, shoes, bows, maybe a little lipstick. I remember the anger. Not just disapproval—real intensity. He got in my face, shouting, threatening to throw me outside for the neighbors to see, hurling the kind of language that was all too common in that era.

It frightened me. It frightened all of us.

And then… he was gone.

By the time I started kindergarten, he had moved out of state. We never heard from him again.

Years later, as adults, my sisters and I tried to make sense of it all. The contradiction was hard to ignore: the same man who had once dressed as a woman himself reacting with such anger and shame at seeing me do the same. 

In time, we came to a conclusion that felt right. His anger wasn’t really about me—it was about him. About whatever conflict, guilt, or fear he carried but couldn’t reconcile.

As for me, I moved in a different direction.

Those early experiences—playing dress-up with my sisters, encouraged by my aunt—were never strange or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. They felt safe, affirming… even therapeutic. I loved it. The clothes, the textures, the ritual of it all. Slips, dresses, stockings—it was a world that felt welcoming rather than forbidden. 

And yes, I eventually ventured outside.

Halloween became my sanctioned opportunity—my annual “excuse” to be seen. Under the cover of costume, I could step out fully dressed and feel, for a few hours, completely at ease in the world.

By high school, I had gotten more inventive—improvising curves, styling my longer hair, making the most of the era’s fashion trends. It was the early ’70s, after all, and shoulder-length hair on boys made certain things… easier. 

Life moved on.

As adults, my sisters and I eventually discarded those old photos of our father. But the conversations about him lingered. They still do, in a way.

I’ve lived my entire life with this part of myself—not as a phase, not as a secret to be buried, but as something that brings genuine joy. There have been close calls, awkward moments, and the occasional anxiety—but the overriding emotion has always been a kind of quiet elation. 

My own family took a different path. My sons never showed any interest in dressing, and I never encouraged it. In fact, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a flicker of anxiety at the thought that they might. It made me wonder: Was this something passed down? Or simply something uniquely mine?

Even now, there are boundaries I haven’t crossed. I’ve never appeared en femme in front of my sons, their wives, or my grandchildren. The thought still carries a weight of discomfort—maybe even a trace of that old word: embarrassment.

And yet…

I still dress. At home. Out in public. On business trips where I can spend days at a time fully as Cathy. I’ve learned how to navigate the risks, the “what ifs,” the chance encounters with someone who might recognize me. 

Because in the end, the equation is simple.

The joy outweighs the fear.

And after all these years—since the 1960s, really—that hasn’t changed.

I expect it never will.

Wearing Boston Proper

Peter Butterworth femulating in the 1966 British film Carry On Screaming.

Stuff 114: Age

By J.J. Atwell

How Old?

Pardon the delicate personal questions, but how old are you? How old is your girl self? How old Is your wardrobe? Why do I ask? Well, it’s kind of a tie-in to my previous installment of Stuff about shopping. There I mentioned that you should enjoy the shopping process and the wearing of your acquisitions. 

So, why these questions? It’s about dressing your age. Society seems to demand that women dress differently according to how old they are. What is acceptable for a teenager is deemed inappropriate for somebody in their 50s. 

Presumably these “rules” apply equally to femulators. Today, “dressing your age” often implies restraint. A 20-year-old might be applauded for experimentation, while a 50-year-old in the same outfit could be labeled “trying too hard.” My photo (righyt) might be labeled as trying too hard, but I enjoyed an evening out like that. 

Your Preferences

With that somewhat sad thought, how many of us dress our age? I don’t. I don’t even dress my girl age, which is probably 20 years or more younger than my guy self. It seems to me that my girl side just loves the latest fashions. No, not what teens are wearing. More like what society types are wearing. I’d be interested to hear what your preferences are.

Shopping Your Age

Here, finally, is the tie-in to my previous Stuff about shopping. Many women’s clothing stores target specific audiences. Take a walk through your local mall and note what the stores are showing in their windows. You’ll see a wide range of clothing styles. 

The store might as well put up a signs that say “Teens Shop Here” or “Professional Women Shop Here.” Oddly, though, I don’t see windows that suggest “Grandmothers Shop Here.” Similarly, I don’t see windows that suggest “Femulators Shop Here.” Well, maybe Vicki's AKA Victoria’s Secret. 

As I mentioned above, it seems like my girl side is younger than my guy side. Perhaps that’s because in the first ten or so years of my life, I wasn’t aware I had a girl side. Add that societal pressure to appear young is especially strong for women. 

Of course there is also a practical dimension. Bodies change over time. Metabolism shifts, muscle tone fluctuates and skin wrinkles. For some, adapting their wardrobe is less about conforming to age norms and more about honoring physical reality. Perhaps they are the same thing. Fabrics that once felt forgiving may no longer feel supportive. Silhouettes that once flattered may need adjustment. I think that choosing garments that feel comfortable and empowering is the way to go for me personally. 

Dress for Your Life

Instead of “dressing your age” how about “dressing your life?” In real life, a woman who is balancing career, caregiving, travel, and creative pursuits will build different wardrobes that supports those roles. A retiree exploring new hobbies may embrace colors or patterns previously avoided. 

The trick is to know what your girl life is really like. That’s something that we seldom actually think about as we femulate. Especially if your dressing is limited to once a month in which case we typically have the urge to go a bit over the top. It’s the thrill of being out dressed which influences our clothing choices. So we factor that into our shopping habits. 

I’ll Be Back

There will be more Stuff. As always comments are welcome either here on the blog or by email to Jenn6nov at-sign gmail dot com. JJ is always looking for more stuff, so if there is something you would like to read about please let me know!

Wearing Ann Taylor

Bob Hope femulating in the 1951 film The Lemon Drop Kid.
Click here to view this femulation on YouTube.

Happy Easter, Girls!

 

Easter Envy

Easter has never been much of a holiday in my family; these days, it tends to pass with little more than a glance at the calendar.

It wasn’t always that way.

When I was growing up, we were Catholics, and Easter was a major production. The day began with Sunday Mass, followed by a full-family gathering at my aunt’s house for dinner. Afterward came the ritual egg hunt, which, for the younger set, was the real main event.

The preparation started well before Easter Sunday. My mother would sew new outfits for herself and my sister—carefully chosen fabrics, thoughtful details, everything just so. Meanwhile, my father and I followed a simpler tradition: we wore whichever suit had most recently joined our closets.

And that’s where the trouble started.

I remember feeling a quiet, persistent envy of my sister. She had the full Easter treatment: a new dress, new shoes, and, most enviably, a hat. My female cousins arrived just as elaborately turned out, each one a small parade of spring colors and carefully coordinated accessories.

I, on the other hand, was buttoned into a perfectly respectable and thoroughly uninspired suit.

Looking back, it’s hard not to smile at how clearly the divide presented itself, even then. The girls were allowed a kind of expressive transformation for the occasion; the boys were expected to look presentable and leave it at that.

I can’t help but wonder how many readers here experienced a similar kind of “Easter envy.”

And so it goes.

Wearing Stylewe

Lon Chaney femulating in the 1925 film The Unholy Three.
Click here to view this film on YouTube.

Like Father, Like Son?

Does a Crossdressing Father Give His Son “Permission”?

It’s a question that tends to arrive with a raised eyebrow, even when it’s asked sincerely:

If a father crossdresses, does that give his son permission to do the same?

The short answer is yes... and no. But the longer answer is where things get interesting.

We like to pretend that identity springs fully formed from somewhere deep and mysterious, untouched by the world around us. It doesn’t. Environment matters. What we see, what we’re allowed to talk about, what gets treated as normal or unspeakable—those things shape how we understand ourselves.

So what happens when a boy grows up in a home where his father crossdresses?

First, something subtle but powerful occurs: the taboo weakens.

In most households, crossdressing, if it’s acknowledged at all, exists somewhere between punchline and secret. But in this home, it’s simply… present. Maybe not always discussed, maybe not always understood, but visible. Real. Human.

That matters more than people like to admit.

A son in that environment doesn’t have to leap the same psychological hurdles. He doesn’t have to wonder, Is this something only I’ve ever thought about? He doesn’t have to construct an entire inner life in isolation. The idea already exists in the open. It has a face. It has a name. In this case, it has Dad.

And so, yes, there is a kind of permission embedded in that. Not a formal declaration. Not a sit-down talk at the kitchen table. But an unspoken signal: This is something a man can do and still be a man. That alone can dissolve a remarkable amount of fear. But let’s not oversimplify it.

A father’s crossdressing does not create the desire in the son. It doesn’t plant it, trigger it, or pass it down like eye color or a fondness for bad puns. Plenty of crossdressing men grew up in homes where the idea never appeared. And plenty of sons of crossdressing fathers have no interest in it whatsoever.

The inclination, whatever its origin, tends to show up on its own schedule. What the father provides is not the spark, but the conditions. He lowers the cost of acknowledgment. He removes some of the friction between curiosity and expression. He makes it possible for a son, if he is so inclined, to think: Maybe this isn’t something I have to hide.

Of course, that assumes the situation is handled with a certain degree of openness or at least a lack of shame because there’s another version of this story.

If the father’s crossdressing is cloaked in secrecy, tension, or embarrassment, the lesson absorbed may be quite different. Not permission, but caution. Not acceptance, but compartmentalization. Children are excellent observers of emotional tone, even when no words are spoken. They can tell the difference between something that is quietly accepted and something that is quietly feared.

And then there’s the possibility, rarely discussed, but very real, that a son may define himself in contrast. That’s his thing, not mine. Identity is sometimes built as much on rejection as on imitation. So where does that leave us?

A crossdressing father doesn’t write his son’s script. But he may edit the margins. He can make certain paths easier to see. He can remove some of the penalties attached to exploring them. He can, simply by existing as he is, expand the range of what feels possible.

And in a world where so much of this still lives in the shadows, that quiet expansion might be the most meaningful permission of all.

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I’m personally aware of two instances of father–son crossdressing. Not studies, not statistics—just real-life glimpses that have stayed with me.

In the first case, a friend came across photographs of his father in his early twenties, dressed as a woman. It wasn’t something his father talked about; it was simply there, captured in images from another time. A year or two after that discovery, my friend began crossdressing himself and it became a regular and ongoing part of his life.

Make of that what you will. Coincidence? Curiosity sparked by exposure? Something that was already there, simply finding a way to the surface? It’s hard to say. But the timing is hard to ignore.

The second example is a little more layered. Another friend’s father had crossdressed as a high school student, again, something preserved in yearbook photos. As an adult, he revisited that role in a different context, dressing as a showgirl in a local civic organization’s production. It was public, performative, even celebrated in its own way.

Years later, I witnessed his son without any apparent self-consciousness playing dress-up with his older sisters, happily taking on a feminine role. No announcement, no explanation. Just a child doing what children do when the boundaries aren’t tightly drawn.

What do these stories mean? Probably less than people want them to and more than we might initially assume.

There’s no clear line from father to son here. No simple cause-and-effect. But there is something worth noticing: exposure matters. Normalization matters. When something exists within a family, even quietly, it can shift what feels possible, acceptable, or even interesting to the next generation.

That doesn’t mean it creates the inclination. But it may give it permission. And that distinction, between creating something and allowing it, is where things tend to get interesting.

And so it goes.

Wearing Bebe

Paul Dano femulating in the 2010 film The Extra Man.