transretrogurl

Broken record time, ‘sorry for not writing more often’ etc etc. To make up for it, I’ll try and bash two out today, this one, which is going to be something that resonates with a lot of you girls, hopefully, and a more fun one.

I had another superb makeover session a couple of weeks back, utterly delightful. Two days of dressing, the first where I gave *complete* control over to the artiste-extraordinaire, Cindy at BWBG, and the second where I let my inner-housewife go nuts, But we did something different this time – normally I stay at an expensive hotel the night before, do my shaving prep, walk the mile or so to the studio hefting a huge backpack of goodies, then at the end of the first day stomp back to the hotel, often after midnight through drunken crowds, where I would crash and then get up early the next day, shave the werewolf hairs (for someone who is so femm on the inside I sure have a lot of testosterone driving hairs out at a stupid speed) and stomp across again.

Normally works a treat, but after a day of multiple frocks, beautiful posing, it’s a come down to wipe the makeup off, put the stern him-mask on and brave the wilds of deepest London after closing time. Makes you defensive, instantly burying any after-glow of being Sarah for the day.

So where am I going with this? Well, Cindy offers accommodation if you require it. I’ve never taken it because, well, I like my own space (translation – I like my own toilet and the ability to break wind whenever I like without worrying about offending someone’s sensibilities or nostrils). But this time I thought, sod it, when I’m in Sarah mode it’s a nice place to be, as far as I get into it, so why not take away the stress and hassle of fully de-Sarahing, and the social anxiety of trying to get back to the hotel without being mugged or inadvertently smacking someone who you think is going to mug you.

So I stayed over. This meant there was no rush to undress, smear off the wonderful makeup. And I ended up doing something quite wonderful, something I’d never done.

We finished the first days shoot and instead of instantly transitioning back across the T-line to him, even though I had my favourite Star Wars pyjamas ready (yeah, ‘him’ is an interesting term at times for a 48 year old child), we decided to order pizza, and Cindy suggested I should stay as Sarah for the meal.

We lost the corset, mostly because my kidneys were starting to slide up into my lungs and my spine was beginning to separate (may be exaggeration but hellfire, a corset is tough on a pear-shaped male body), but I then picked a lovely blue and white polkadot tea-frock, put on what we call the ‘Jane Fonda’ hair (short and tidy), and I ate a meal completely enfemme.

Doesn’t sound like much, and I know if I was a casual dresser who spent a lot of time at home as Sarah it would be something I would do a lot, but for some reason I found myself near tears. I was so comfortable, sat on a sofa, dress spread around my legs, delicately cutting pizza with a knife and fork using my be-nailed hands, small pieces so as to not disturb my lipstick too much. It felt perfect. It felt normal.

After the meal was finished I couldn’t stand it anymore – it wasn’t uncomfortable to be a middle-aged woman in a dress enjoying a meal. It was too comfortable.

I’d crossed a line I didn’t think I had. I talk a lot in this blog and her and him, but rarely talk purely about ‘me’. I’ve always seen the two sides as, well, two sides, and that works well for him. I’ve been described as an alpha male by some very close friends, my job is high profile and very stressful with tonnes of travel and I *thrive* on tiredness, on challenge. I’m not a man’s man, long way from it (look at the pictures….) but I’m very much, as him, not feminine. As her it’s the complete opposite. She loves retro fashions, very girlie things (I’ve caught myself almost buying a phone for her, standalone contract, pink iPhone). And there’s always been a subconscious divide, the T-line if you will.

This moment of relaxation, of doing something normal as her, just woke up a part of me that won’t go back to sleep.

Would I be happier as a woman full time?

It’s a question I’ve never asked myself, partly because the ‘him’ personality is dominant and decisive, and drives 97% of ‘their’ life. But he’s not happy. He’s not unhappy, but everything is levelled out. The fun times, the stuff he looks forward to almost unbearably? Her time.

Without diving down into months of therapy, it’s becoming apparent that I need to find a better balance. To that extent I’ve started doing something new.

Before ‘her’ was confined to dressing sessions. I have a stock of frocks in my male closet that I dip into and top up during the time I’m waiting for another session, but other than a superb breastplate I don’t have any of the female additions that would allow me to be her in my spare time. And that was by design – having a huge amount of makeup, jewellery, shoes, wigs, nails etc etc is just a challenge not to purge, a challenge I’ve failed five times before (I shudder at the sheer value of stuff I’ve thrown out or given away, each time on a bitter and sad wave of toxic-masculinity).

But it feels different now. That brief moment of literally being a woman having a meal has affected me in ways I didn’t suspect, soooo

I bought some shoes. And a handbag. And a lovely coat. And a wig all of my own. And some breastforms, a bra, some lovely jewellery, some fashionable nails and some glue.

And they are all sitting in the closet, ten feet from where I am sitting typing this, just waiting for that moment when I crack. And rather than the old school feeling of naughtiness, of fear of discovery, it feels lovely. She’s there waiting for me whenever I want to invite her in. Invite me in.

And that has quelled that dark, delicious question inside. For a little bit, at least. For how long, I don’t know. And it’s a question I think I need to ask, and answer, before I run out of time.

And I can’t stop think of how close to tears I was when I sat, neatly, in my blue and white polkadot dress, my pearl bracelets clicking together as I delicately moved the cutlery, my inner and, at that point, my outer girl, just delighting in being. And they were tears of joy.

Anyway, enough hormonal depth for one day, you lovely people. Stay beautiful and true to your inner you.

Sarah xxxx

And I took a sneaky selfie before I ate, so here she is, without the lighting of the studio. Happy Sarah….