I want to try and write this blog post without using the word ‘Period’. Damn, failed already.
Let me explain. For the majority of my time I feel no need, no urge, no compulsion to let Sarah out for her fun. It’s just not there. I don’t suddenly think of her and get a guilt attack, or think of her and yearn to wrap myself in the comfortable femm-costume and let myself go. It just isn’t there.
And then, periodically, it comes on. Often it will be while watching the TV, there’ll be something on that involves costumes from the 50s or 60s, and I feel the tweak. I find myself surreptitiously peaking into the windows of clothes stores as I stomp past to go buy a coffee, or nonchalantly taking in the beauty of a pair of shoes on the Tube.
And like an itch it will come over me. Compulsion is a beautiful word, but even that doesn’t cover it. It’s a cell-level yearning to throw off the male persona and dive into the bubble-bath full pool that is Sarah and all her quirks.
So I use the word Period. And in some ways, that may be closer to the truth than I realise.
Everyone likes to think that there’s a reason for their own little fetishes. Trans-people seem to spend a lot of time beating their selves up over it – as I mentioned in a previous post guilt can be a sh*tty companion on this pink road to joy. In some ways having a reason, physical or memetical (I love the concept of Memes, to me they explain all the behaviour aspects a person adopts due to environment as opposed to being genetically programmed), is a wonderful get-out clause for the guilt.
So here’s mine. When I was a baby my parents, who had debatable parenting skills, left me to ‘cry it out’ when I was having a crying fit. Crying it out actually led to a double hernia, which led to an operation for a one year old child to remove some of the muscles that had ruptured in my abdomen. While there they inadvertently damaged some stuff (internal). This led to a set of operations on, you know, the nether parts when I hit puberty and things didn’t develop as expected.
For a start I grew breasts, which, as a teen-age bloke in the mid 1980s was a little, shall we say, ‘difficult’. This was addressed with some hormonal treatment. Then I had some odd growing characteristics around, you know, the nether regions again which required, and if you have a tender nature and are effected by such things please scan down to the next paragraph, some quite painful work fixing the outer layers of, you know, those tender vittles.
Here’s a femm picture to take away that image 🙂
Long story short I ended up having a lot of work done down there right in the middle of the critical growth point for puberty. Didn’t seem to cause me any issues but given the content of the pictures on this blog that could be debated.
So I’m wondering whether my hormonal system is a little askew. It wouldn’t explain my love of all things pretty and retro, nor would it explain (and I don’t want it to) my ability to emote and behave as a perfect (cough) little lady when dressed, but a chemical imbalance would be a nice simple answer as to why I get an unconquerable urge to frock-up.
So why the title of this blog? Well, this is an interesting point. A lot of trans, especially TVs, enjoy the fetishistic aspects of dressing. TGs are more driven by gender disassociation and being in the wrong body. Drag Queens tend to be non-hetero (and I’m not categorising!). I don’t think my urges are fetishistic.
There is no sexual aspect to my dressing. The resultant images can be a little arousing after the fact, but, to coin a humorous phrase, I don’t have any difficulty tucking, if you know what I mean, when I’m prepping to dress.
What I’m saying, badly, is that everyone is different. I take a huge amount of pleasure out of dressing, to me it’s a safety valve that keeps the raging idiot in check. It’s hard to be cynical, miserable or angry when you’re completely femm’d up. But it’s not the same for everyone.
I intend to go out very soon to a TG nightclub fully frocked. I have no idea what Sarah is going to do, whether she will buy a bottle of red wine and quietly, nervously, sit in the background sipping constantly and avoiding eye contact. Or whether she will fire up conversations with other TGurls like a babbling hen. Or whether she will be comfortable with talking to admirers. And being honest that unknown is part of the allure of the whole thing.
So, it looks like Sarah’s periods come around once every six or so months and last for a month or so. I’m not complaining, although it’s very hot at the moment and I’m having to maintain a shaved set of legs because hedgehog-regrowth and hot nights is probably the worst torture I’ve ever endured.
Ramble over, stay beautiful sweeties.