I’m climbing the walls. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. And within my head Sarah is having a tantrum, throwing her shoes against the wall of the girlie flat inside my psyche where she lives when I’m ‘doing the drab’.
I’ve got three weeks before I feel the blessed relief of a corset, if you can believe that. Three weeks (and a bit) before I pull my new Kitty Tea Dress from Viv of Holloway over my head and embrace her again.
It feels like a lifetime.
So why am I not throwing caution to the wind and getting the nearest appointment I can? For all the reasons I’ve listed before. I need her to be a luxury, something I crave and when I become her it satisfies. I don’t want her to become the daily thing. I want her to remain exquisite and a floral and perfumed refuge from the daily grind of masculine society.
I have lots of plans for her. Firstly she’s going to be a housewife again.
I may have mentioned it (cough, often) but I get a huge thrill out of throwing myself into the role of the housewife. For a start, the frocks I love are those that accentuate the feminine look in a retro glam housewife way. Secondly I love the idea of subsuming completely the macho side of the monster in my head.
Maybe it’s a pronoun thing. I love to think of her as her. I get a thrill about thinking of her belonging to him. Of prepending her name with ‘Mrs.’.
Why is this such a delicious fantasy? It’s not a sexual thing, I think.
Or it might be. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about Sarah being sexually intimate with a man. It’s part of the role-playing – if she is going to dress like an attractive wife then there must be some kind of endgame payoff. ‘All dressed up and no-one to blow’ as they say.
But how would that happen?
There’s always the option of admirers. The downside of that is that a lot of admirers who have contacted me have been, well, a bit ‘rapey’ in their communications. Sometimes a girl just wants some complements, a bit of flirting. Not jumping straight to the questions about swallowing, if you know what I mean.
There seems to be this undercurrent of sex – this assumption that if you are willing to dress and play the role of a girl you automatically want to have sex as soon and as fast as you can. It’s something I experienced when I hit the nightclub last month, dressed to the nines. There was this vibe of predation which, when you are tottering around on heels and exuding a lovely cloud of perfume, really makes you feel like a piece of meat.
It messed with my head, which was trying to drown sense in alcohol at the time.
What I wanted was a quiet place, somewhere I could sip a glass of champagne and actually talk to someone. You know, have a sensible conversation, maybe some complements, a dance. Rather than waiting for a pinch on the bum and a whispered suggestion that I’d never dream to say to a girl. For the record the chatline used by the admirer who pinched my bum was along the lines of ‘I want to take you home and f*ck you senseless’.
Now, I was dressed provocatively, but I’d spent a lot of the evening desperately clinging to my friends hand like a lifeline, trying very hard to beam out the message of being taken, not literally of course.
It was a sobering moment. I could have said yes, but that’s not the girl that Sarah is.
Which takes me back to the question at hand. The other option is to control the situation, and here’s how the analytic part of me thinks that could work.
I would rent an apartment. Get made-over as a housewife. Spend some quality time in the apartment just playing the role, tying an apron on, cooking some food, watching some day-time woman’s television. Then, if the courage or need came upon me, I would solicit the time of an escort. Not to do the dirty, but just to interact. I’d ask him and pay him to play the role of Sarah’s husband, let her take care of him, give him a massage, cuddle. And if the urge to do something greater was there, she would act upon it.
In my defence I haven’t had sex for seven years. That’s a long time, and sometimes I wonder if Sarah is my safety-valve for not just going insane. Maybe it’s inevitable that the more I experiment with Sarah, the more her underlying needs will emerge. Or maybe they won’t – it’s called a fantasy for a reason.
Either way, it’s a fantasy that doesn’t fill me with guilt or disgust. And that has to be a good thing.
Mrs.Sarah Lewis. Ahhhhh.
Stay beautiful you wonderful creatures.