Sore feet but smiling

After delays and complications I at last got to visit Pink Punters (http://www.pinkpunters.com/) on a Friday night – on May 9th. The place caters especially for the gay, lesbian and transgendered community.

I first heard of it at TVChix (http://www.tvchix.com/) almost a year ago when people would mention they were (or weren’t) headed for the BNO ... Big Night Out. At the time I was a long way from feeling able to head out for somewhere like that.

A couple of months ago a few tgirls at the Surrey Swans mentioned they were going and asked if I was interested. It sounded like a nice idea ... pity it’s so far from home. But there is a hotel just across the road and one Friday a month it seems that it gets fully booked with tgirls out to party.
Of course, organising such things is a kinda hit and miss affair.

“Hmmm ... who is Laura ...” my wife asks one evening. Laura is a regular at the TV Dinners and Swans. My mobile phone is slowly filling with similar names and numbers.

At the get together at the end of April things began to take shape. The hotel works out a lot more affordable if you can share a room. When I said that I reckoned that I’d be able to make it, Nikki had also decided to give it a try. I offered to try to book in at the hotel. On the way out Nikki said ... “Ohhh ... and make it twin beds!” Made me smile.

As the day approached I began to have misgivings. I’m not a natural born dancer. I have always pretty much hated discos. On the other hand ... Andrea hadn’t ever been to a disco.

Because today has been warm and sunny I’m sitting in the garden typing this and have decided I dislike laptop computer keyboards even more than I thought I did. It’s really nice though to sit in the open air in a nice blouse and a skirt. The garden is hardly overlooked at all. And I guess that by now I’ve decided that eventually, if people begin to notice my dressing preferences then both I and they have gotta learn to live with it.

So ... Friday arrives and I set off from work early. Well, actually it’s at normal end of work day, which is about 2 hours earlier than it has been for a while. Unusually no one asked about “what are you all doing this weekend” at the lunch break.

I set up the sat nav ... waited for it to acquire its satellites and was off. Hoping it would take maybe 90 minutes.

Thoughts passing through my mind as I drive along are mixed.

Why am I doing this?

It would be so much easier to just drive home.

Did I select “suitable” clothing?

I wasn’t worried about shoes much ... I took them all. And, to be honest, 4 different skirts and four blouses was more than enough to choose from.

The traffic news was good, for a Friday... unless you were driving out of London ... or into London on the M40. Thankfully I wasn’t.

I listened to some Simone White. Lovely voice, tunes and lyrics. Makes me smile and cry.

I get to the hotel and find a parking spot.

Get the suitcase ... I know ... a big suitcase for just one night is a little over the top. But what’s a girl to do?

Start walking through the car park towards the hotel reception.

Then walk back again to the car thinking things through.

In the end Nikki had booked the room. I have a reference number. But ... what is Nikki's name? What do I say at reception exactly?

Too late to worry.

At reception I stand in line.

The guy in front ... do I recognise the voice?

Well ... maybe.

I sure don’t recognise the person ... but ... it’s possible.

I step back a bit. Get my phone out. Try Nikki's number. Hoping to see the guy in front reaching for his pocket.

“You have reached the voicemail service of ...”

It tells me a number. Not a name. I know the number already.

Ah well.

Now I’m at the front of the line.

“Can I help you sir?”

“Yes ... thank you. I have a reservation number here.”

I show her the text message.

“What name is that for?”

“Mmm well ... a friend booked it.”

She doesn’t ask me the friend. I think she knows that I don’t know.

She checks the reference on the computer. Asks my name.

I’m feeling a lot more at ease with this than I expected.

“Sorry sir ... perhaps you can wait for your friend.”

I step back from the desk and get my phone and phone the number again.

It rings.

It stops ringing!

“Hi ... Nikki? This is Andrea.”

This kind of scenario still makes me smile. Andrea and Nikki with such husky voices.

It turns out Nikki is in the room!

“It’s room 119” I say to the receptionist. She hands me a plastic electronic key and tries to sell me breakfast.

I knock at the door and Nikki opens it. And yes ... Nikki had been standing just in front of me at reception ... and had been listening to my voice when I was there checking if I sounded like Andrea.

I smile again.

It’s about 7:00 pm.

We chat a little. The journeys had been fine.

Unpacking and talking.

It’s a strange place to be at. Metaphysically I mean ... the geography is easy. Girls together. Neither of us having seen our complementary selves before.

Nikki heads for the car to collect a few things. I begin to shave.

Nikki showers. I brush teeth.

I shower, Nikki brushes teeth.

We talk.

It feels less oddball than I thought it might.

Now time for the makeup. For the first time this week I think cooler weather would have been nicer. I’m not so sure how well foundation will cope with this. But I’ll know soon enough. The routine of makeup is less daunting than it used to be. But still slow.

Foundation. Max Factor applied with my fingers.

Powder. Kryolan translucent. Brushing off the excess.

Eye shadow.

Nikki wonders what’s going on as I get this out. One of my favourites of the moment is a Startgazer thing. Sparkly white. It’s in a little plastic pot and I kind of smear it on with a little felt tip shaped spatula ... the kind that is included with a lot of eye shadows that you buy ... well ... if you buy eye shadow that is. I get some onto the felt tip and smear it on the back of my hand a little so there isn’t too much loose powder. Then I start dabbing it onto my eyelids.

The voice of Nikki. “Wow ... I thought you were gonna start snorting something for a minute.”

Creases me up.

The lighting in the room by the mirror isn’t so good ... so off comes the lamp shade.

I’m reminded of scenes from “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” ... guys applying makeup at a mirror.

Darker eye shadow.

Eye liner.

I must have blinked too soon ... big black lines across my eyelids!

Cotton wool buds to the rescue.

Mascara.

Blush.

Lip liner.

Lipstick.

Gloss.

Now what to wear? Decisions, decisions ...

Black holdup stockings, panties and bra.

Pop in the boobs.

Short black skirt. Black shirt.

New hair ... it arrived on Thursday. But it’s too warm ... the hair will have to wait.

Earrings. Watch. Bracelet.

Nail polish in a hurry is a risky thing to do. But I can think of a lot riskier things. So on it goes. Bright red. The left hand isn’t bad. The right one is a bit of a mess.

Everything seems too fluid in the heat. Eye liner and nail polish especially.

Now I have to waft my hands around and wait for it to dry a little. Wishing I had put my shoes on before I started the nails.

After a while I reach down and try to fit a shoe without taking too many risks with the nail polish.

In moments I am wishing I hadn’t put the bracelet on yet as it grazes softly along my leg ... leaving an unfriendly kind of line along my stocking.

But ... I did bring a spare pair. I take the bracelet off.

Skirt off and I manage to get the old stocking off and a new one on without doing anything terrible to my nails.

I know ... my perspective on life at this moment is rather oddball. But little things ...

Skirt on. Shoes on. Hair. As Nikki mentions ... the hair seems to have a mind of its own at times ... rather like a small furry rodent.

But it goes on.

I’m wondering if I should revert back to my other one ... but no ... I’ll get used to it.

We meet up with Laura and Dianne in the hotel bar.

Quite a sight if you were just passing through unawares. The most number of tgirls and transsexuals I’ve ever seen in one place at one time.

We sit and chat a little. A drink.

Laura decides to change while Nikki gets a bite to eat.

So many different people. Different looks. Different styles. Different hopes and fears.

It’s almost impossible to not look at some people and wonder ... is she a tgirl ... a ggirl ... a transsexual. None of this really matters – just labels. The atmosphere is one of acceptance. Can you guess?





Time to head across the road. We take the longer route to avoid the grassy ditch.

A few girls lean out of a hotel room window and wave. A guy calls out to us. Just friendly things.

I have 4.5 inch heels on ... so I’m glad there isn’t much traffic. I’d have hated to have to try to hurry across the road.

The cameras come out and we pose in front of the sign. Laura, me and Nikki.

Laura, me and Dianne.

I discover that walking down a fairly steep hill in high heels is trickier than it looks. In the end it feels like I am trying to crisscross a piste with skis on.

Then up the stairs ... pay at the desk ... and there we are.

There are three levels. Very loud music in the basement. Loud music on the first floor. Seats upstairs.

On BNO nights, so I’m told, the upper floor is mostly populated by the transgendered community. And so it was. A few drinks and a seat. We spend a while chatting and meet a few new people. It’s interesting, in an odd kind of way, working out which is the shortest dress of the night ... which is the most see-through.

The people though are just regular kind of folks ... in an irregular kind of way.

A trip to the ladies. Then down to the first floor.

There are a few people dancing. The music is loud.

After a few minutes L nudges me and nods to my side. I look round and a young lady is standing there ... mid twenties I guess. It’s not at all easy to hear anyone speak, but we manage. She’s travelled 3 hours to get here ... a friend’s birthday and they decided to drop by. Sarah. She’d decided to have a chat with a tgirl and I happened to be there. The kind of questions that I’ve been asked a few times now. And still I don’t know all that many answers. So nice to talk with though. And very sensitive ... interested but not wanting to intrude. She also says some nice things. That she thinks I look pretty ... and that the makeup is good ... not overdone. And here she is holding the camera ...

She heads back to her friends and I go to the dance floor. Not being a natural born jive bunny I stand and wiggle a little. Way too self conscious.

Back to the bar for a while. Then the dance floor. Perched on the edge of the pool table for a while.

The party of birthday girls is dancing. Handbags in a pile on the floor. A guy comes along with a mop and asks them to move the bags so he can clean up a spilled drink. They make the most of a photo opportunity and he seems to enjoy the experience.

A girl with blond hair is obviously feeling the heat and it takes her just a couple of seconds to take her shirt off. Nice black bra. None of us can remember the colour of the shirt that she was wearing. Ahhh ... now I have a photo just before the couple of seconds it took ... her shirt was black! There she is a little to the left of Laura.




The party girls are busy taking photos. Sarah takes a few of Nikki and me as we perch on the pool table. Asks if I’m on facebook ... but I’m not so I guess I’ll never see the pictures other than the mini versions at the back of the camera.

As she dances past a little later she takes my hand and we dance a little. Still self conscious, but very much enjoying the moment.

A little while later, another member of the birthday group walks over and draws me onto the dance floor. And now begins something totally new for me. Well .., I know ... the evening has been full of totally new things! She tells me to relax. Not to think about what I’m doing. Not to move my feet for a while. Just to sway and move. Then to watch her feet and do the same. Hands clapping together. She says such nice things, telling me I look great, to enjoy just being myself, to smile. And, for the first time that I remember, I am on a dance floor and not at all feeling self conscious or embarrassed or worried about what anyone else is feeling. As we sway and bounce around a bit, A walks past. This is a mistake ... our hands move out into the air, and all of a sudden, Dianne has no hair ... or at least quite a bit less than she had a few moments ago. My dance partner is so apologetic, and Dianne is wonderful. Not at all flustered, and smiling even. One of the nicest moments of the evening. Here are a few stills from some video footage.


My teacher and me ...









Laura dancing with Sarah.

My legs begin to show their age as time passes. And the heels don’t help to decrease the level of pain. I take a little break and then back onto the floor again for a while.

A lovely and liberating experience. I don’t know the name of my dance teacher ... but anyway ... thank you xxx.

Back to the bar for a while. I make the mistake of leaning just a little too far forwards. My bra is front fastening. And also it is front unfastening and has a mind of its own. Now, it’s one thing for a ggirl to have her bra come undone. But, when your boobs aren’t actually attached to your chest it’s a completely different experience. My second trip to the ladies, with my arms kind of pressed in towards me in an attempt to make sure I don’t lose any parts of my tgirl anatomy. I get there and back with no major mishaps. Though, at the top of the steps a security guard kind of waves at me. He points down towards my feet. There’s a trail of paper tissue following me, attached to the sole of my foot. I try to detach it by stepping on it ... but it sticks to my other foot. A couple of girls help out ... taking a-hold of me and stepping on the paper. After a few moments of playing footsie I’m free.

And there's the moment where a young guy wanders through the bar asking for a kiss from all the tgirls. So funny, but also kind of sweet.

The walk back to the hotel was nice and short – though the ditch was a challenge in heels.

Everything is a challenge in heels.

The foundation survived better than I expected. And, as ever, it was with a hint of melancholy that the makeup was removed.

So ... Andrea does like to dance, and even though my feet are a little on the sore side, I am smiling.

Shopping but not buying

I’ve been thinking about Saturday 01 March 2008.

Mostly on lunch break walks. Nervous. Uncertain as to why I want to do it, but sure that I do.

Friday 29 February 2008. “Ten o’clock?” … my wife kind of sniggers. “Billie’s coming at ten o’clock?” It’s funny because it means I need to wake up at 8:15 to stand a chance of getting made up and dressed ready for the shopping trip. On Saturdays I usually sleep in a lot later than that.

Friday night I file my nails and apply a couple of coats of pink nail polish. I know that attempting to do this on Saturday morning just would not work.

Saturday 03 March 2008. It’s 8:15.

Shower.

Breakfast.

My wife surprises me with a card. It says “Good luck. U can do it! Good luck. Go 4 it”. Inside she has written some very encouraging and sweet words. Makes me smile. I’m a lucky guy. And a lucky girl.

Brush teeth.

Shave. Shaving takes a lot longer when I know I need to apply foundation afterwards.

What to wear? I collect things from the wardrobe and chest of drawers.

Coat and scarf. Black jeans. Stripy shirt. Black holdup stockings. Bra. Panties. White trainers ( sneakers). I bought the trainers last weekend. I would have bought pink, but they don’t do pink in my size.

Underwear and stockings on.

Silicone boobies in place.

Foundation (Max Factor applied by wiping it on with fingers… for me I think it works better than the TV sticks that I used to use).

Pad on translucent powder and brush off the excess.

Shiny silver eye shadow.

A darker layer of gold shadow.

Black liquid eye liner.

The phone rings. Actually it plays a tune.

Being in mid-makeup I kind of listen to it with an air of distraction.

My wife is in the bath and reacts a lot faster to the sound than I do. Younger daughter is 21 today and said she’d phone sometime.

I hear the phone being answered. My wife singing loudly … “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear …”

Then it goes quiet. The phone is passed to me. “It’s Billie”.

Makes me smile. How many people get naked renditions of “Happy Birthday”? And it’s not even Billie’s birthday.

Billie is running a bit late. I’m grateful. Putting on makeup and being in a hurry are incompatible.

Back at the mirror my eyelids have black lines where there should be no black lines. It’s not a good idea to blink with eye liner that is still wet. Cotton wool buds are my friend.

White eyelash thickener.

Black mascara. And a cotton wool bud.

My wife heads off for the golf match.

Blusher.

Lip liner.

Lipstick.

Lip gloss.

Necklace.

Shirt.

Jeans.

Hair.

Earrings.

Watch.

Bracelet.

Ring.

Trainers.

It’s a little after ten o’clock.

The voice of Simone White keeps me company for a while.

The door chime plays a tune.

I head for the door and then think … what if it’s the postman? So I sneak a peek through the window. It’s Billie.

We talk a bit. I think I’m not as nervous as I thought I would be.

The plan is … Matalan (a clothing shop) in Slough followed by shops and lunch in Windsor.

Coat.

Scarf.

I drive … Billie thinks it will help me avoid anxiety. Tidbits of advice as we drive along.

As we head towards Slough we pass under the M4. At the next roundabout there is a line of traffic. Unusual. It looks as though there is a police presence doing some kind of a random check on vehicles. I’m glad that they don’t seem to be hunting down transvestites. I take a left at the roundabout. I had planned on going straight on, but I’m in the wrong lane and a left turn will still get us where we need to be.

We pull into the car park at Matalan. It takes me an unusually long time to park. I smile and blame it on the blond hair.

Heart beating a little faster than usual, we get out of the car and walk towards the store. I’m careful not to look at anyone. A few people … including Billie … have explained to me that this helps reduce the chance of people looking at me.

Peripheral vision is, however, fully active.

People have told me … I’ve told myself … no one really notices … no one cares. And I really do have the feeling that no one is staring at me. The reality of it is somehow liberating.

I can be me.

It’s ok to be me.

I recall that last week someone had asked me what I was planning to buy. I remember saying … “Oh …. nothing. It’s just a shopping trip.” This is definitely a statement that has its source in the feminine part of me.

We look at the shirts, blouses, skirts. Billie mentions that they have a great selection of bras. Good value and well made. I smile.

Billie goes in search of shoes and leaves me to wander around alone for a little while.

I avoid looking at people. It reminds me of a Winnie-the-Pooh story. I think it was piglet … yes … Google gives me the quote:

Winnie the Pooh: Look, look, Piglet. There's something in that tree over there.
Piglet: Is it one of the f-f-fiercer animals?
Tigger: Halloo!
Winnie the Pooh: Yes. It's a "jagular."
Piglet: W-What do "jagulars" d-do, Pooh?
Winnie the Pooh: Well, "jagulars" always call, "Halloo!" And when you look up, they drop on you.
Piglet: I'm looking *down*, P-P-Pooh.

I was definitely looking down. But also smiling.

Billie finds me again and we look around a little while longer.

Then, back into the car and we head for Windsor.

There’s a surprising amount of traffic on Victoria Street … but no queue to get into the car park.

I’m a little surprised at how normal everything feels.

We call by Shoe Fetish, a few (well, ok, all) of the charity shops, Daniels, Marks and Spencer. Billie is looking out for a hat, but none catches her eye.

Then on to Café Rouge. It’s busy, but there are a few seats. We sit down. Beer, orange juice, mussels, chicken salad. The waitress bats no eyelids. But I am still mostly looking down – just in case there are jagulars around.

People come and sit at the table next to us. The guy knocks the beer bottle over. Just as well it’s almost empty. He apologises.

The food arrives. The waiter bats no eyelids.

As we eat I’m kinda looking at people. No one is staring. People arrive at the other adjoining table. The place is pretty much full.

Billie visits the ladies.

I send a happy birthday text to my daughter.

We pay the bill.

I mention I wish I had a camera. Somehow it would be nice to capture something of the moment. Billie has one on her mobile phone. So … as we approach Shoe Fetish, I cross the road to stand outside the shop. Billie stays on the other side of the street to capture the moment.

There’s a big guy standing in front of the shop window. Smoking and talking loudly into his phone. There’s a bus separating me and Billie. I smile. The bus and the big guy move on. All of a sudden I’m being handed a thigh high white boot … “here … this ought to be in the picture.” It’s Kelvin from the shop. Obviously pretty observant. It makes me smile again. Billy captures the moment.

We pop into the shop and chat a while. Such nice people. Natalie (? ... I’m so bad at remembering names) tries my ring on. I met Kelvin at the party in January. We were both schoolgirls at the time. We talk about wigs and shoes and parties and people. With a bit of luck a get together at the pub across the road might become a regular event.

And then ... back to the car. The short drive home.

I didn’t buy a thing.

But I gained a lot!

The nicest shopping trip of my life.

Thank you Billie!

Movies, Songs and Shopping

A few days ago I watched the movie “One true thing”. One of those things that was set to auto-record several months ago and never actually got watched.

There are movies that make me cry. And this is one of them. I think it’s because it seemed to be imaginable and believable. And sad. There is a scene where people are singing “Silent Night” ... a Christmas carol of hope. And yet, there is no hope. Or is there? I found the relationships portrayed between daughter and mother and father had aspects of déjà vu about them. Not in a bad sense. It just meant that I could sense, a little, where people were coming from. Perhaps that’s something we all grow into as we grow older.

Once upon a time life seemed to be more black and white, true and false than it does to me now. In some ways it’s uncomfortable to increasingly feel that there are more and more questions and fewer and fewer answers. But I am realising that I don’t need to know what all the answers are.

A few weeks ago I discovered Simone White. She sings a song that is featured in an Audi advertisement on TV. A little hunting for lyrics courtesy of Google led me to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB36GAPcfvc She has a lovely voice. I haven’t bought an Audi, but I did buy the CD. As well as her voice, I like the music and the lyrics. Her songs make me smile and also make me stop and think. These words are from the song “Great Imperialist State”:

There's a farmer in a distant country working on the land
A hat upon his head and a shovel in his hand
Till the soil plant the seed wait a while cut the leaf
And send another cup of tea to me

I'm a spoiled child of the great imperialist state
I cannot kill my meat nor grow the food upon my plate
I never walked a mile to the well, when the tap runs dry do tell
What will become of you and me

What will become of us, who will give us trust
Will you believe me when I say I never loved profiting from your pain
That I felt shame when I looked the other way

If you’re interested there’s more at http://www.myspace.com/simonewhite.

On a less serious kind of note Saturday is earmarked as Andreas first day out shopping. So if you’re in Windsor keep an eye open for me. I asked Bille about a trip out quite a few weeks ago ... Billie has a lot more experience at shopping whilst wearing a wig and dress and makeup ... We decided March 1st 2008 was good for both of us. So there we are.

Last week I was beginning to have second thoughts. And third thoughts as well, actually. Chatting with a few girls at “Surrey Swans” last night helped reassure me a little. Thank you! Sitting here writing about it isn’t so bad. But I expect that come Saturday I’ll be feeling rather more nervous about the prospect. In fact ... thinking about thinking about it is making me nervous.

I think the nervousness isn’t unusual for girls like me. Most of it, I think, is associated with how people will react. It’s not so much about “will anyone notice I’m not an RG?” If they look or if I speak then they will notice. But, I am assured that most people don’t look. Let me know if you have any hints and tips on all of this ... I’d be very appreciative!

At times I stop and ask myself “why do I want to do this?” And really, I don’t know. No more than I really know why wearing a skirt once in a while makes such a difference to me.
In a way I think it’s that I want the part of me that is Andrea to be less closeted and confined.
Whatever the reasons are ... I think that the approach of Saturday will be full of nervousness and, I guess, fear. But I’m hopeful that the experience will be more than worth the nerves. Just so long as I don’t resort to biting my fingernails!

Teddy bears and parties

Things have happened since I last wrote anything here.


I’d meant to write a whole load of stuff about the teddy bear that almost had a name to die for. Mostly it just left me feeling, again, what a terrible place society can become when religious fundamentalists take control. I think it’s almost inevitable when people with power are convinced that they know what the “right” way to live is and then decide to start making sure that everyone else lives the “right” way, whether they like it or not.


A couple of Saturdays ago night I attended my first ever Fetish Fancy Dress party. Left me wondering why it has taken me so many years to experience such things – and also glad that, at long last, I have gotten round to it.


In a lot of ways it was just a party. But for me it was special.


I had intended just to make up and dress fairly normally ... well normally for a t-girl anyway. But the only other person that I knew that was going had mentioned she was dressing as a French Maid. So, on the Saturday afternoon I went shopping in search of something a little more fetish-y. En-route I stopped in at Evans – a shop that caters for larger sizes. They sometimes have shoes that fit me. They still had some sales items in and I found 3 pairs of shoes for a total of £20. And they fitted. I don’t think anyone even noticed me trying the right feet on – only the right feet are left out on display in most shoe shops in the UK. When the shop assistant collected the left feet from the storeroom she smiled and asked if I wanted to try them on. It was a friendly sort of smile. I explained that I was pretty sure that the left feet would be fine as well. My wife was a little gob-smacked when I showed her the shoes. Why on earth would anyone want to buy three pairs of shoes? I have no idea at all why ... just seemed to good an opportunity to miss.


After that I called in at Ann Summers shop to take a look at what was on offer. Of all the available options I most liked the school dress. But what size? When an assistant asked me if she could help I just asked about sizes. So ... she asked ... “what size is she?” I just said ... well ... I’m a 16 or 18 (UK that is) and explained about the party. She thought it was cool. I asked about trying it on but there was someone in the changing room. For a long ... long time there was someone in the changing room. She (and I think a he as well) seemed to be trying out the entire stock range of the shop. They were really helpful though and said if I came back a little later they would make sure that I could try the dress on. And so ... the result is as in the picture.


Well ... ok ... yes ... apart from the face. Oh, and the boobs. My arms are bigger also. But people do compliment me on my legs J.
The panties say “Spank me” on the back. I know the picture doesn’t show that, so you just have to take my word for it. The lapel badge says “Spank Academy for Bad girls”.
When I actually dressed for the party I played it cautious and wore other stuff over the top. I wasn’t sure how far I would have to walk from the car – and the dress was even shorter than it looks in the picture.

The party was cool. I only got spanked a few times – and just playfully. I met a whole load of very nice people. There were maybe 5 t-girls there. A fancy dress headmistress, two real-life dominatrices (is that the correct plural), and a whole lot of people in various mixes of leather and PVC.

A little later in the evening we spent a few hours at a pub in the centre of town. Not so very long ago the thought of this would have been ... well ... unthinkable. The locals were a little surprised ... but very friendly and even complimentary. One guy, looking at a lady dressed in red leather, said to me ... “I wouldn’t mind being spanked by her”. And she wasn’t the dominatrix! We chatted a little with a lady and her husband that were just passing through on their way back home. And to a few other people as well. It does seem that wearing makeup and a dress means you get to talk to complete strangers in a way that hardly seems to happen when dressed as a bloke. It’s strange –once upon a time I would have thought that people’s reactions would have been the exact opposite.

So ... my first very local outing. With many more to come I hope.

But is it art ...

Recently on TV (unusually in this blog, TV in this context actually means Television) there was a show named How to have sex after marriage.


I'd seen it in listings before but never watched it. In fact, last night I missed the beginning and the end of it. But the part that I did see did provoke some thinking.


Amongst a series of other issues, the married couple that it featured had never spent time discussing sex. They hadn't talked about expectations, desires, fantasies. Almost nothing at all. They had just done it and, I guess, were at a place where they weren't enjoying it any more.


During the program the guy was taken into sex toy shops and featured as a sex expert on a spoof radio phone-in show. The girl was given a whole series of demonstrations of sexual positions by a couple of scantily clad models.



In a way I felt a sense of empathy. I don't remember talking about such things with my own wife for years and years. Sex always seemed to be a thing to do ... or not do. Not a thing to talk about.

As time passed it seems to have become less and less of a thing to do. And, though we have sometimes talked about it, we don't seem to any more. There's just a passive acceptance - perhaps more a passive resignation - to the way that things are.


So why? How did things get to be this way?


It's complex, I guess. And yet maybe it's also simple.


Either way ... here are some of the contributing factors.


When we got married, TV shows didn't discuss such issues. A lot of mainstream society seemed to think it wasn't important. Or maybe that whether important or not, sex wasn't really a thing to discuss.


As a young (late teens / early twenties) born-again Christian I learned that sex was a gift of God within marriage. It was about having children. It was about people demonstrating and sharing a love for each other. Maybe as well it was about satisfying needs. I remember one of the New Testament letters where Paul the Apostle says something about it being best for people not to get married. But - if they couldn't live without sex it was better to get married and do it rather than just to do it without getting married. OK ... this is it ... taken from I Corinthians:


It is well for a man not to touch a woman. But because of the temptation to immorality, each man should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband . . . I say this by way of concession, not of command. I wish that all were as I myself am [i.e., celibate]. . . To the unmarried and the widows I say that it is well for them to remain single as I do. But if they cannot exercise self-control, they should marry. For it is better to marry than to be aflame with passion.


So there is kind of an acceptance that people seem to have a need for sex.


Actually, though, I never noticed before how strongly this piece of writing seems to suggest that people should only ever get married if they can't hold off from having sex with each other. It doesn't mention they should get married because they love each other. So, in a way, it's almost suggesting that all the Christian people that are married are the ones that couldn't live without sex. If they could have lived without sex then there was no reason to get married.


Anyways ... that's not really the point that I'm making here.


I think once in a while at meetings people would talk about the idea that sex should be fulfilling and satisfying. But no one that I knew of in Christian circles was teaching about the Kama Sutra. Also, there didn't seem to be much of a notion of fun. And no notion of fantasy. So there was no way to really talk about it as such. No experimentation.


And then there is pornography. There's a lot I could say about pornography. I can feel myself getting distracted from whatever point I was trying to make. So anyway. Here goes.


The first pornography I remember using was, I guess, stuff that my dad had cached away under the bed. At least if it wasn't his it was my brothers or my mums. Maybe a lot of people's first experience of pornography in those days was from unintentional parents. There were no videos, DVDs or Internet. No sex on TV to speak of. Just magazines.


The magazines were all "soft". But they added to the pleasure of masturbation. I've read and heard that men tend to enjoy the visual stimulation offered by porn in a way that doesn't so much appeal to many women.


A few years later as a student I remember realising one day ... hey ... I am 18 ... I can buy this stuff for myself. And so I did.


Soon after that I was Born Again. I remember praying about masturbation. Well ... what I really mean is praying and asking if masturbation was wrong. It would have been round about then that I discovered these words in Matthew 5:28,


But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.


That, as the saying goes, seemed to put the kibosh on masturbation and pornography in one fell swoop.


But it didn't really. It just marked the beginning of a struggle for me.


A feeling inside of me that it was wrong. And yet an inability to stop. Occasional masturbation. Occasional use of pornography. A sense of guilt. Of shame. Of sinfulness. A need to keep it secret. A fear of discovery.


Every so often I'd perform a purge. I borrowed this term from a t-girl that I chatted with once in Portsmouth. She asked if I'd been through a purge - feeling so bad about things that all things girlie go into the bin.


Well, at regular intervals all things pornographic were purged.


But only for a while.


I remember a time as a student. I was staying at a place where three of us shared a room. All strangers to each other.


I got back one night and discovered one of my magazines on the bed rather than under it.


I'd never really had a "holier than thou" kind of an attitude about Christianity. But people knew about my beliefs. That I went to church. If you've ever had the feeling of your stomach dropping through the floor, you know how I felt as I walked into that room.


My first response was to head for the landlady and ask her if she knew who's magazine it was. Inside I felt like I just wanted to disappear.


A few days later one of the guys asked me if I'd managed to find out who's magazine it was. I'd decided by then to just come clean. I told him it was mine. I don't remember what else I said.


I read stuff as that explained why from a Christian perspective all things pornographic are sinful and evil. It was about devaluing women. Lust. Abuse. The use of pornography was a sickness ... maybe even a manifestation of demons ... a thing to be healed from ... a thing to be cast out.


And yet ... I cared about people. I wanted to help other people. I loved other people. I just used porn and kept it a secret.


A part of me thought that marriage would be a cure me. But it didn't.


I'm not sure exactly when my wife found out.


In an ironic kind of way I think it was maybe when we first moved into a house together. The previous occupant had left some furniture and, stuck beneath one of the drawers was a magazine.


I think my wife was sure that it was mine. But we didn't talk about it. Just got rid of it.


In fact it wasn't mine - I was more careful about hiding places.


But a person can't hide something like that all of the time.


Sometimes she would find things and ask me about them. But I wouldn't talk about it.


I've spoken to t-girls that have been discovered dressing by unknowing partners. These girls have vowed to never do it again. And yet ... having purged for a while ... it comes back. I know people that have partners that have learned to accept this. And others that have separated.


I think it comes back because for many people being a t-girl isn't an illness. It's not something to cure. It's about how a person is. It's about who a person is. To purge it completely would be to lose a part of yourself.


So ... is pornography like that? I suspect not. But it fills a need somewhere. In my own case I think it's maybe associated with never really sharing fantasies. Not feeling comfortable about talking sex.


Other things that come to mind are conflicting levels of sexual need. My appetite for orgasm is daily. My wife's has never really been more than weekly. And she is comfortable with the concept of celibacy.


As a child my wife was the subject of sexual abuse. That has sometimes made the experience of sex uncomfortable. My use of pornography hasn't helped her. And we didn't talk about these things until many years into our marriage.


At times I justify myself to myself. The masturbation and the pornography fulfil a need that is a part of me. They provide a way of satisfying needs without making impositions. They provide a release of some kind.


God, though, there are times when I see a scene in a film that fill me with a sense of emptiness because I don't remember it happening for almost longer than I can remember. The scenes were a wife grabs a hold of her husband urgently and ... well ... I don't need to get too graphic really. I guess that it isn't just a fiction that happens in films. I know it has happened to me ... but it's one of those far off memories. Like something you remember from your childhood and you wonder ... do I really remember that or did someone tell me about it? To not have to make the first move. To feel as though it was something that she wanted. In a way I feel like I want to give such a lot more than I receive and yet mostly have only ever had the chance to take.


I remember one time a minister at church invited me to a service at a church a few miles away.


Afterwards he asked if I hadn't felt like going forward when there was an offer to pray for healing for people.


Of course, he hadn't had a divine word of knowledge. Just a chat with his wife, who had chatted with my wife.


After that there were prayers. A purge. I read a book that explained why pornography was so wrong. How it led to child abuse. Destroyed people. Ruined lives.


It remained purged for a while.

I talked things over with my wife.


In a sense though perhaps this marked the beginning of the end of my close association with the church. I couldn't go on forever keeping it secret. And really, deep down, I didn't really believe it to be a sickness that required healing. Not in the sense that Christians seemed to believe. And it wasn't an acceptable form of behaviour within a church. Just like Andrea ... a kind of an abomination.

Since that time my wife and I have talked more. We've faced up to some of it. Other things happened that caused a lot of pain. There were real struggles.

In a lot of ways my wife and I have a better understanding of and acceptance of each other than we have ever had before.

Sexually we are not so close as we were. But in almost every other respect we are closer. It's a better place to be. But ... I do miss the sex. A lot. More than a lot.

So ... where am I now? How do I see pornography? Transvestism? Christianity?


The Born Again evangelicalism is mostly a memory. I don't think I could ever go back there. Not just because of the fact that I use porn or that I am a t-girl. I also find it hard to believe.


I've embraced the fact that I am a transvestite. I'm not ashamed of it. It doesn't frighten me. At times it's a bit of a nuisance ... but so is the more masculine part of me.


The pornography isn't quite so easy.


The anti-pornography stuff that I've read seems to be composed of half truths, perhapses and sometimeses.


Pornography can, but doesn't inevitably, lead to abuse.


Users of pornography might, but do not inevitably, view women as objects. They do not inevitably view women as lesser beings. They do not inevitably just use women. Actually I suspect that an honest historical analysis might reveal that excessive religion was more likely to do this.


The pornography industry isn't exclusively about the degradation of women, nor is it totally made up of women that feel used and abused and preyed upon. Granted, that there are times and places where this is the case. But it is not inevitably so. No more than it is inevitable that every kitchen knife be used as a murder weapon.

I don't believe that people that use porn are just a small minority. The average newsagent seems to have a much better variety of porn magazines than magazines about TV, golf, computers, football, religion ... than almost anything. And there are an enormous number of web pages devoted to it.

I'd rather experience real sex than masturbate and use porn. But, having said that, both of these things help satisfy a need in me that I believe to be natural.

So, in the end I guess I have to say that I'm at a position with this where I don't feel guilt or shame about it. Like the the fact that I'm a t-girl, it's not something I'm planning on shouting out from the mountaintops. But neither will I hang my head in shame any more.

And ... is it art? Well ... maybe sometimes. Really ... it's what a person makes of it. But personally speaking I don't frame it and hang it on the wall.

Almost revealed

A few weeks ago we spent a few days visiting daughters in Manchester followed by a few days in the Derbyshire Dales. A really nice time.

The weekend began with a meal on the curry mile - excellent food at excellent prices. Later that evening we drove to my brothers to spend some time there.

One of the things that I'd been pondering was whether to tell him about Andrea.

We arrived quite late. Brother was asleep in bed - early start for work the next day - but his wife (M) and a friend were chatting when we got there. We shared a few drinks and talked and talked and talked.

M's friend began to talk about the journey she'd made with M to take her daughter to University. They spent a night at a bed and breakfast hotel in Brighton. The (abbreviated version of the) story went something like this:

The hotel was OK ... but M really needs to be more discreet sometimes. When we arrived they mentioned there was a bar in the cellar ...

we went out to eat ... when we got back we thought we'd give the bar a try ... but ... omg .. we opened the door and the place seemed to be full of gay couples ... and ... on the stage was a six foot tall transvestite doing karaoke. M stood there ... mouth open ,... mouthing something ... totally and obviously astonished ... the tv came over and asked if we wanted to sing ...

It was sooooo funny. My wife said she didn't dare look at me ... to busy trying not to laugh too loud. So was I.

Well ... I decided that the revelation of Andrea's existence could wait for another day.

Coming out

Time passes surprisingly quickly at times ... it seems like no time since I last posted an entry here ... and yet ... it is ages ago.

The weddings in July were nice things to be involved in ... although we actually missed one of them - the M25 was almost stationery for a long time!

The BBQ with the Surrey Swans was great. It was the first time I've walked out of my own front door in broad daylight whilst wearing a skirt. Of course, no one noticed. Or at least if they did no one is saying anything. It was really great to meet a few new people. One of the t-girls was there with his (her) wife. It was good to get a chance to compare life stories. The food was great as well.

A little after that my wife and I were invited round to B & K's. B is a t-girl and K is his (her ... these "he" and "she" kind of labels are a little complex in a transvestite kind of world) wife. They'd invited us round so that my wife would have a chance to meet a couple of people in similar circumstances to ourselves in a place that wasn't totally overrun with guys dressed as girls.

When we first arranged it my wife had been happy with the idea of B and myself being "dressed". However, over breakfast that morning my wife was beginning to have misgivings and asked if we could just dress as guys ... or at least wear trousers. So that's how it happened ... B wore makeup and girlie jeans and sweater ... I was just the masculine looking me.

During the day leading up to the evening I felt a huge sense of disappointment mixed with, I guess, a kind of anger or frustration ... or something. I think it was because I'd been looking forwards so much to the first shared t-girl thing with my wife. And all of a sudden it wasn't going to happen.

The evening was good though. My wife ... and myself as well ... had a chance to find out how other people handle things.

One thing that kind of surprised me ... but that I think may be a common occurrence - is both K and my wife said that one of the strong emotions that they felt on discovering / being told about their partners transvestism was a sense of anger. I'd be interested in hearing from any of you guys and girls out in the big wide world if you've experienced the same feelings or known others that have.

I think that the feelings of anger had roots in not being told earlier, not being trusted earlier and of being lied to or deceived or mislead.

In a way I know that there isn't any water-tight kind of excuse for keeping something like that a secret. And yet ... I've heard that not so long ago in England a guy seen wearing a skirt in public was likely to be arrested (though I think that a tartan skirt would have been maybe OK in England as well as in Scotland). And also, it's not an easy thing for a guy to go public with. And also it's not easy at all for a born again Christian guy to go public with. At the same time it's not that easy for a born again Christian guy to live in denial of.

All I can say with any certainty is that I'm glad that it's not a secret any more and that I don't have to live in fear of discovery. Being Andrea is an OK thing to be. It's made an enormous difference to me and to the relationship that I have with my wife. She has really handled the whole thing remarkably!

I'm glad that in the end I have been able to come out.