I never had myself down as a repressed individual. Possibly because I was so repressed that I’d gone out the far side of self-denial, but I’d like to think I wasn’t that easy to distract.
Where was I?
Ah yes, chasing the dragon. I’ve learned some very interesting things about myself since I started this blog so many, many days ago. Firstly, it’s very easy to share. Secondly, it’s very, very easy to share.
Like a doper seeking his next fix I’m trying to work out what to do with all the female hormones and urges racing around inside the cynical old shell that was, until this year, happy to plod on down towards the grave without ever looking carefully into the looking glass.
Hi, my name is Sarah and I’m a transaholic. It’s been four days since my last frock and I….just….need….more.
I’ll pull myself back from the precipice into drama-queendom and explain my master plan for my next rush of excitement. But first I need to explain the situation.
For *eons* Sarah, and the other named feminine personalities I have worn over the years, were my secret. I could talk to people, share emails, go drinking with friends, hug my lover, and all the time she sat behind my eyes, a twinkle that no-one knew about.
I wasn’t, nor am I, ashamed of her, it just didn’t make any sense to be out of the closet. The closet was warm, safe, pink, satin-y. You get the picture.
But then the secret was out, at least to my soul-mate. We talked at length, I explained Sarah’s origin and history, gave my other-half her super-secret membership badge and the rulebook (Rule one, tell no-one. Rule two, no knowing looks or smirks when we watch TV and a trans character comes up. Rule three, tell no-one).
It took two days for her to break rules one and three. It took her four minutes to break rule two but when you watch ‘Orange is the new Black’ you’re never too far from Laverne Cox.
She told her best friend, who is also one of my very few friends.
I don’t blame her and I couldn’t be that angry. She needed to vent and her friend would never tell anyone, so it was out with another super-secret membership badge and a discussion of the rules. I got to share a couple of my most tasteful pictures with our mutual friend, who gleefully told me that ‘you don’t ever do things by half, do you?’.
It was the above picture which, if you knew me in real life, is about as far as you could possibly get from my drab look without starting to go around the globe and get closer.
That was February, three photo-shoots and lots of fixes ago.
So what about my master-plan?
Well, there’s a small female part of me, deep inside, who is a little bit resentful of my other half’s inability to, you know, keep my darkest and bestest secret safe. Granted, that small female part is very small and I try not to listen to her, but she talks incessantly.
So this Friday i’m meeting up with some of my oldest friends, downing a bottle of the best French Red Wine I can find and then….
I’m going to tell one of them about Sarah.
It does sound like a seriously daft idea. And it is. But I need to tell someone, to share. I could have gone my entire life not telling anyone, but I’m getting the urge to get my fix. And the only way I can see to do that, bar attempting to shave my legs which are already doing a very good impression of a juvenile pair of hedgehogs and chucking myself on a train to London again, is to bring my oldest and best friend into my circle of confidence.
I can’t be glib about it. I’m terrified, I was his best man, I’ve known him since I was 18, I see him rarely but when I do it’s like we have been apart for hours instead of months. When I’ve been down or needed something desperately, he’s always been the one to offer without being prompted. In return I’ve been there for him when he needed it. He’s the closest friend I’ve ever had or ever will have.
And I am utterly terrified. But it feels like something I need to do.
I’ve gone over it in my head and already rejected a number of scenarios. The ‘I’ve got a terrible secret, I’m having an affair’ followed by popping open Sarah’s laptop and showing him the wallpaper, which is me in my navy-blue polkadot ‘going out’ frock. And then joking ‘No, seriously, I’m not having an affair. That’s me dude. Surprise!’.
Nope, that’s not going to work.
The serious talk. Explaining the urges, what I do to address them. Calmly and rationally explaining in a level tone what I do.
Heh, after a bottle of red wine? If I get through the first sentence without cracking up I’d be amazed.
Not doing it at all. That sounds like a good option but hellfire, I *need* this. I need a friend to look at me, look at my pictures, and then look at me again without changing expression.
I need a male confidante. I need one of my friends to talk to about it. And I’ve just looked up he definition of Confidante – “a woman who is a trusted friend : a female confidant”. Ironic doesn’t begin to cover it.
But being serious, it feels like the time. I’m not going to come out to the world in general, at least not yet, but I need to share with someone I respect and someone I can trust.
So stay beautiful, sweeties, and wish me a lot of luck.