Intrigued by the title, yeah? Good.
My last post, written such a long time ago (five mins) was a little, well, dark and self-indulgent. And while I love playing the part of the burning martyress, life needs to have a degree of fun and lightness. This isn’t it. This is a bit of fun where I will answer some questions that have landed in various inboxes, private messages, odd emails containing, for some unknown reason, pictures of admirer’s dangly bits. And no, I’m not kidding on that one. In fact, let’s start with that one….
Sarah…… what do you think of my d**k?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered, but, really? I have very little experience of the courting game (I have had four girlfriends, two of which I married), but when did a picture of your junk replace some kind words? Not entirely sure what my response should be, but normally it’s just a case of comparing size.
But seriously, the nature of the internet is that we all get a lovely digital shield which allows us to interact with other people without having to stare into their eyes while we do it. Sending a picture of Mr.Thomas to someone you find attractive seems a little, err, sexual?
Send some nice words instead.
Sarah…… why dress like a 1940s housewife? You look much better in a modern body-con dress.
I wish I knew the answer to this. There’s something about the cut of a 1940s day dress that fires something down in Sarah’s lizard brain. When I unwrap a parcel from Viv of Holloway, or a frock I’ve found on Amazon, there’s a thrill when I shake it out and hold it up that I just don’t get from modern clothes. It’s fun to wear a bodycon – I’ve been out and about in a figure hugging blue lace dress and it was fun, but I can’t channel the inner woman unless it’s much more of what I think of a feminine look and style. To me the femininity is the clothes and the implication of the clothes. Dress like a 1940s housewife and you feel like a 1940s housewife. And that’s as far from my normal self as I could possibly go, without surgery.
I feel a physical change when I dress in retro fashions. I relax, there is a warmth, and I, for want of a better phrase, feel myself pulling in in ways I love. I sit differently, I walk differently. Everything feels more gentle, more warm. I get a thrill when I wear modern clothes, but not like that.
Sarah……. I want you to deep throat my c**k. Will you suck me off?
Drab me has social anxiety. I can barely shake another man’s hand without feeling uncomfortable. I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t considered it, it’s one of Sarah’s fantasies, but reality? All I can think of is just how awkward the conversation would be post-coital. What would you talk about, the weather?
Here’s the crux for me – I’m a bloke, no surprise there. I know what happens after climax – you get fuzzy headed and tired. The French call it ‘le petit morte’, the little death. I can think of nothing I want to do more than be the one who has to maintain conversation after the event. Men suffer from an over active sex drive that dissipates very, very quickly. Add that to the fact that a lot of admirers, bless them, are fighting against an internal shame as to their needs and wants, and I start to imagine that the aftermath could be very, very awkward.
Now *that’s* deflection. Next?
Sarah….. Your make-up is gorgeous! How do you do (lips/eyelashes/contouring/etc)?
I pay an expert to do it. I have zero skills at makeup, I don’t have the patience, eyesight or creativity. I tried it a couple of times and ended up looking like a clown that had sneezed in a jar of foundation. It was *that* bad.
I’m utterly lucky in that I discovered Cindy at Boys Will Be Girls who is not only an utter genius when it comes to makeup but also shares my love of all things heavy metal. Put it this way, every picture you see of me, with some very rare exceptions, has me singing the lyrics of some power ballad through my teeth. Literally every one.
But to answer the question – I’ve said this before, I’m a product tranny not a process tranny. I, err, actually hate the process of getting made up. For a start I’m paranoid about my eyes, which means when Cindy is doing her amazing work on my lashes and eyelids I’m trying desperately to shrink backwards out of the make-up chair. I’m surprised she ever gets a straight line on my eyelid as it’s spasming all over the place.
Sarah….. I love your boobs, did you get them naturally?
Yes. They came in a natural parcel from Russia.
Seriously though, Cindy got them from a fantastic site in Russia that does the best breastplates. I loved them so much I bought some of my own, they feel great, they hug the skin and have a proper weight to them. I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend them – http://www.boobsshop.com.
Only down side is that they are latex and you can get a little, well, sweaty underneath. When I do a session with Cindy each of the outfits either has the boobs, when we need cleavage, or breastforms in a bra if we don’t need to see the ‘valley of the dolls’. Because myself and Cindy are developing a language and terminology all of our own they get called the ‘boobage’ and the ‘sweats’. But there again I call bracelets ‘wristers’ so I’m not the best example of femininity when it comes to talking about the tools 🙂
Sarah….. can we meet? I want to get to know you better.
I’m 6ft 2inches tall before heels. I wear a size 20 dress normally, can squeeze into an 18 if I’m feeling particularly hungry, size 16 if Cindy demands it and I don’t want to move in case every seam tears. Put me in heels and I scrape door frames walking under them.
I will only ever be convincing if I stay sat down. While I’d love to meet people I’m pretty sure the real-life me would be a let down.
In some ways Sarah is an art project and while I’d love her to be more in the real world, the real world is too short for her.
If wishes were horses I’d be a foot shorter. And a lot thinner. But hey, we play the cards we’re dealt. If you’d be happy with a Valkyrie on your arm with a sharp sense of humour and tendency to drink heavily to cover up anxiety then yes?
Sarah….. what’s the scariest thing you’ve done around the whole dressing thing?
Aside from waiting outside of Cindy’s door after pressing the bell, assuming everyone in the street is looking? In actuality the scariest thing I have done happened a couple of weeks back and, gasp, I was in drab.
So, as part of my education and to get in touch with the inner Sarah I decided to buy a sex toy. It seemed so deliciously wrong but I decided, while working in London, that I’d go into a sex shop and purchase one. Plausible deniability allowed me to say it was for my other half if asked, but I was juiced.
It may not sound like much but I do all my shopping for Sarah online. It’s at a distance so there’s no real risk. Other than my Facebook profile sticking adverts on for dresses and female stuff, even when I open it on my work machine (thanks, Facebook and Amazon). So to go into a shop and buy a latex phallus seemed like it would be fun.
Oh dear, it wasn’t. Imagine a wet London day, pavements seething with tourists and harried workers. I rode the Tube to Tottenham Court Road, walked out and down the road towards the upmarket sex-shop. I almost walked past it a couple of times, the way I used to do before diving into the door of Transformation in the late 80s, but instead I took a deep breath and stepped into the store.
It was full of Japanese tourists. For a moment I wondered why, but then remembered all the Hentai I’d seen. I pushed past them to the massive display of dildos and stared intently, the realisation of why I was there hitting me hard.
Sarah, in her pink walled flat inside my head, pointed and squealed at one in particular. A realistic 10inch black phallus. Yeah, that would be easy to take to the counter.
So I picked it up, maintaining a nonchalant look as I walked to the counter, a hulking drab bloke with excessive facial hair and slumped shoulders. The guy behind the counter barely raised an eyebrow as I imagined him thinking of me as the person I was, and I fought to maintain a disinterested expression. We both smiled as I asked for a bag – the dildo came in a transparent case with some very suggestive words on it.
I left the shop, clutching the black plastic bag too tightly, imagining it tearing and the sex toy, with everything it meant visible to the world, falling out onto the pavement.
It took two Tube trains and twenty minutes to get back to my hotel and I have never been so scared in my life. Rush hour on the Tube is something to behold, people stand six or seven deep with no personal space and the only thing between me and them seeing my new, intimate toy, was a thin black plastic bag.
Mad eh? And a little thrilling, to be honest.
Suffice to say I made it back to my hotel room. And a tip for all those interested – wash them first, they taste like old tyres……
Stay beautiful and do the scary things once in a while, keeps you young.