Oh Lord, where to begin?

Firstly, the frock. That’s the easiest place to start before I start getting gushy and deep, I guess. And after the journey through the Black Cloud that was the last blog post written all of, ooo, ten minutes ago, this may get gushy. So, the frock is, to give it its complete name, ‘Happy Mama Boutique Women’s Skater Dress’. In hot pink.

Some people see this as somewhat of a taboo, and I’ll get onto that later, but I’ve *always* wanted to try it. Just the once. Just to see what Sarah would look like if she had, you know, given in to her primal urges. Done the horizontal folk-dance. Drank too much wine and forgotten the condoms. All of the previous, and lots more for those with kinky little imaginations.

The dress itself was really comfortable to wear, stretchy fabric because, well, swelling and all that. Combined it with a pair of not-so-sensible pink heels, a nice MILF’y wig and normal sized bosom.

And my stomach. Yes, hate to burst some bubbles of imagination/lust but after a day of wearing a very, very tight corset, combined with middle-age and the odd effect of very good musculature due to spending a lot of my adult life sucking in just-that-much gut whenever I wanted to appear less of a widening load, I found that I could tense my muscles out and, et voila, Sarah’s with child.

It was a fun shoot. But it was something else as well.

So, taboos. Some people don’t like the idea of a cross-dresser, and I hate using that phrase but still, pretending to be a pregnant woman. It crosses a line. Personally, I’m not sure what line it crosses as a: I’ve never been maternal, I mean, paternal and b: it’s quite hard to terminate a beer-gut.

But I jest. I loved being a pregnant Sarah. It gave me a dark thrill, that last emasculation of the idiot-manchild within, the portraying of a softer aspect of Sarah, of impending motherhood, of glowing. Hell, it felt great and looking back at the pictures it was a wonderful thing to try. Just that once.

A man can never conceive. Or go through the pain of child-birth (although, having been kicked in the nether-regions a couple of times, seriously, I can vouch that men can feel that kind of pain). Or bond with a living thing that has grown inside of you. But we can dream. And the advantage of being trans-gender is that after we’ve enjoyed the sensation of being the mother-to-be we can take it all off and go back to our sad little, non-reproducing lives.

I think I mentioned a couple of blog-posts ago that men really have to start realising that we’re pretty much nothing more that occasionally good-looking seed-packets, and if women discover the ability to replicate sperm then we are bound for the Soylent Green factories, but think of it another way. Maybe we’re approaching the time when a man could have a womb transplant. Or even have a womb grown outside of the body (I want to say stem cells but given my earlier quip on termination and beer-guts I’m pretty sure I’m walking a comedic tightrope that could fall down into a witch-hunt way too easily) then implanted. Imagine that in a few years a trans-woman could be the first to carry a child to completion (via C-section of course), and the fantasy of being a mother doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

Not for me of course, due to never having grown up internally and also being the product for the worst kind of ‘stay together for the kids but resent them’ family unit I’ve never had the urge to pass on my broken genes, but still, for fifteen minutes on a cold January afternoon i got the chance to feel like a pretty, contented, mummy-to-be, and it was pleasant.

As for it being a taboo, well, we often have the phrase ‘walk a mile in her shoes’ thrown at us, so I’d like to counter that with ‘spend fifteen minutes wondering how I’ll ever get rid of the baby/beer fat after the birth’.

TL;DR; It was a laugh and, cough, I’d do it again in an instant.

So stay beautiful people, always remember the condoms or start saving for that stem-cell-womb now….