transretrogurl

So bear with me on this, it does make sense. I promise. But first, the usual mention of confidence and the downers.

I’ve tried something a little different the last three months – no sessions, letting the drab one have his way, and it’s given me, well, three months of the downers. Which proves something, I guess. Plus the physicality of middle-age is raising it’s ugly head, only raising it gently because of the buggered back muscles. Chuck in worrying about food combined with binge eating and yay, I’m probably the least prepared I’ve been for a session since she came back into my life.

But enough of that. Couple of weeks and I’m having an uber-session, regardless of back pain (Sarah stoned on painkillers might be….interesting). I’ve been preparing by rabidly buying outfits, including a couple of deliciously retro frocks from Vivien of Holloway, a 1960s style pink coat and some more modern dresses.

But what about serial killers, I hear you think.

I’ve mentioned it in passing before but there are two types of serial killer – the product killer and the process killer. The product killer hates and abhors the murder, and just wants the outcome. The process killer is turned on by the murder itself, and loses interest after.

Most of the cross-dressers I know (and I know there are an almost infinite number of variations of gender fluidity, this is just about those who have the delicious fetish around women’s clothing, not transgender) fall into very similar camps (stick with me, I will get to the point sometime).

There are those who delight in the process of becoming the girl, the make-up, the preparation of undergarments, the painting of nails, all of those little things that are day-to-day activities for the fairer sex but uniquely wonderful to those who want to feel feminine but weren’t born that way. And then there are the product cross-dressers, the ones who love the outcome but really don’t like the process.

And that’s me – I’m firmly a product cross-dresser. I can’t do make-up to save my life, I end up looking like a member of Kiss who got into the wrong make-up box. I don’t like seeing any trace of the drab me as the transformation takes place, I want to open my eyes and see her without the gradual disappearance of him. I’ve often joked with Cindy that she should offer the option of an anaesthetic to her makeover clients. Hell, I’d take that option.

I have a thing about eyes. I don’t like anyone being near them, ever. Optician appointments are hilarious events where I squirm around in the seat whenever the optician leans in. During makeover sessions I keep myself as still as possible but inside I’m shouting and raving every time the eyeliner gets close.

Then I’m impatient for the nail varnish to dry. I want to get to the point where I feel the dress settle around my legs, the zip close, the touch of hair from a wig tickle my cheek. I want to look in the mirror and get that rush, that heart-stopping moment when the pretty woman in the mirror smiles back at me and I know I’m home, for a brief time.

All of the hard work to get me there isn’t unappreciated, but again I’d love to have the option to be out for the count and come round enfemme.

Talk about your first world problems.

So, what’s coming up? Well, when I either fix the back or drown it in fun painkillers, I can start to look forward to the session. We’re doing three days, a short session first of all in which we’re going to make Sarah a goth with complete gothic make-up, a couple of sexy goth outfits (a Wednesday Adams cute dress and a wet-look faux-leather wiggle frock), then a full day of retro with some beautiful 1950s style housewife dresses. Then a day of modern looks including a beautician’s uniform, which will be fun.

I’m also reaching the point where I need to decide what to do about Sarah and her growing need to experience more of the world of femininity. I deliberately did nothing for three months to see if the impulse would subside. Like hell it did – at the moment she’s having a strop in the pink decorated flat behind my eyes, inserting thoughts of frocks into many of day-to-day moments when I should be thinking of something else. I gave a presentation a couple of weeks back and the office where I was presenting had female staff in silk blouses with big bows, short tight skirts and black patent heels. It’s hard to concentrate on answering questions from a bunch of highly paid executives when all you can think about is how delicious it would feel to be one of the women at the back of the room preparing coffee, bending over carefully because of the skirt, tottering gently to the table on heels before pouring coffee silently for the men. Yeah, that meeting was difficult.

Or even worse. Finding yourself on the Tube at rush hour and, because I work in the square mile, seeing some fantastically dressed and attired ladies heading to work, trying desperately to soak up their style without coming across as a staring pervert.

It’s the kind of situation a ‘normal’ male wouldn’t and couldn’t understand. That deep rooted urge to be wrapped in femininity, to look like a woman, to experience the world from a woman’s perspective, delicately walking along pavements, keeping the steps small and deliberate because of the heels. I have never nor will I ever understand where these urges come from, and I wouldn’t be without them.

Yeah, I’m looking at the world of women through rose-tinted 1950s style girlie sunglasses – I know it’s a hard and sometimes unpleasant existence, men can be such pigs etc, but it’s my world view. And I’m lucky enough to be able to inhabit both worlds at choice.

As long as I don’t have to do my own make=up, that is…..

Stay beautiful and safe, and remember, product or process, to enjoy every moment.