transretrogurl

Been a while? Of course it has. <insert_apology_here>. Right, with that done, let’s have some fun.

So, I was bordering on giving all this up. Yeah, yeah, I know, normal transvestite guilt attack, but I was feeling burnt out. The sessions, which were all magnificent, were hard for me to organise and fate was playing silly buggers with some of the logistics. So I left Sarah quietly in her pink room at the back of my mind and went three months without the travel/shave/mega-day/clean-off-makeup/travel cycle.

And after three months I was climbing the walls. Turns out just ignoring the urges isn’t good for you. Add an inability to exercise due to the back injury and, again not surprising, turning to food to make up for not having the endorphin fun of dressing and I was feeling rough. Very meh but, unusually, not black dog-esque. So I crumbled, but this time I thought lets do one of my personal all-time fantasies.

I arranged a three day session, the first day an evening session but at a rented apartment, and only one outfit. I’ll cover the other two sessions in a forthcoming set of blogs (and they were superb – we did ‘speed-dating’ dressing which allowed Sarah to try on and pose with *17* outfits on the last day alone. Dribble.

Anyway, I hired a proper apartment – living room, bedroom, kitchen (squee!) and a fully apportioned bathroom. I bought a whole new outfit, a beautiful floral Vivien of Holloway Kitty frock (with padded shoulders, which do it for me in ways I can’t describe), a pair of sensible housewife heels, my own wig, girdle, padded hips, breastforms, jewellery and a little bottle of Chanel No.5. You know, the whole deal. I wanted to treat Sarah to a night of being a housewife.

Pictured – a 1950s housewife. *cough*

But would it work? It would be the first time for a long while that I’d dressed anywhere but at Boys Will Be Girls. I had the usual set of panics – what would happen if we got Sarah (yeah, referring to her in the third person, not a good sign) completely made up and there was a fire alarm? What if someone came to the door of the apartment while I was completely dressed?

Sometimes I think I over think things.

Anyway, I had it all planned. I’d get into London for 3:00pm, pop out to a supermarket and get some food for the apartment, a couple of women’s magazines, some booze. Then I’d pop over to Harmony, a sex shop on Charing Cross Road, where I’d buy a sex toy. You know, a girl has needs. Then get made over, do a photoshoot, and then spend the rest of the evening as Sarah doing femm things. Sipping Prosecco, watching some chick-flicks. Maybe try some of the other frocks I’d brought up for the rest of the sessions. Maybe even take some videos because, well, a chance to film Sarah in full BWBG makeup combined with a sex toy would be, well, kinky.

But. Remember Fate? I happen to think that we make our own fate, and boy I was on fire that day.

The train was due for 13:40 from Birmingham International. A rare time when I didn’t have to get up before dawn. And that’s where fate started to break wind in my face.

Firstly it was raining. Which meant the trip that should take 60 minutes took 90 minutes. When I got to Birmingham International the car park was full, which meant I had to sit at the gate waiting for other cars to leave. When I got to the platform the previous Virgin train had been cancelled and my train was listed as delayed. Turns out there were signal problems at Crewe and they were looking at most of the trains being cancelled.

Luckily there are slower trains, run by London Northmidland, which take 120 minutes instead of 73 so, with a sigh, I picked up my very heavy bag and, instead of comfortable first class, ended up riding in a packed train with my femm stuff under the seat.

Pictured – SPOILER ALERT, it went well 😉

But at least I was on the train. Which was then stopped at Rugby for fifteen minutes. To allow my actual train, which had showed up *five* minutes late, to barrel past at 125mph. That made me a little……sad.

Fast forward and I got to London at 15:30, hopped a taxi which took me to the apartment. It was everything I thought it would be, large, airy, even with windows that looked out onto the street without net curtains (meaning I could open the curtains and stand there, as Sarah, and people outside could see me……ooo, what a thrill). I rushed to the sex shop and bought a considerably sized realistic phallus (black) because I have no sense of sensibleness. Grabbed the food, drink and a Good Housekeeping magazine, all with twenty minutes to spare.

I had imagined I’d have a couple of hours to get into the Sarah mindspace – I know it sounds mad but I need a little quiet time to lose the masculine shield I use to deflect any thoughts from any people that I might be, you know, a little fey. Instead I had twenty minutes to shave (I hadn’t touched the facial hair because, you know, see previous sentence about masculine shields), a quick body wash (whilst remembering not to spray deodorant as Sarah had some Chanel No.5) and sat waiting for Cindy to arrive.

Pictured – more SPOILERS. It was very, very good 🙂

She came with a couple of small bags that opened out and spread loads of makeup and utensils, and it was then, sitting in just a girdle, that the reality of the situation flooded over me like a warm, pink quilt. And I started to really, really enjoy it.

Cindy did her usual work, which is five words that don’t come close to describing just how bloody wonderful her work is. We then sorted the foundation garments, the corset tied very tight which pulled my waist into a lovely hourglass shape (around 31 inches at the waist), padded hips over the top of corset to give it a lovely smooth profile, breastforms. A pair of nude stay-up stockings completed the look and it was time for the dress.

That indescribable moment when the frock slips over your shoulders and settles around your hips and breasts. The zip pulls the dress in tight, and you button it up, the female shape replacing the chunky middle-aged body. A last touch, the retro elastic belt, to give the dress that last wasp-waist look, and I was almost there. The wig went on, Cindy brushed it, and then it was time to look in the mirror.

Pictured – a mirror. And a happy housewife. With her Chanel No.5

I literally couldn’t breath. With slightly trembling hands, adorned with beautiful red nails, I took the lid off of the little bottle of Chanel No.5 and sprayed it on both sides of her neck, her wrists and a little spritz between her legs. And we were done.

I was completely dolled up as a 1950s housewife with an apartment to play in. And it was sublime.

We took pictures in the kitchen and I made a couple of jokes (even with the full Sarah look I can’t help being me when Cindy is around) about being the new kitchen appliance. We took pictures of me (hmm, no longer third person, a *good* sign) doing the dishes, checking the oven. The apartment had a vacuum cleaner and an iron/ironing board so of course I had to have some photos taken doing the chores a housewife would do.

Pictured – the new must-have kitchen appliance, Mrs.Sarah Lewis 🙂

We took some lovely photos of Sarah relaxing reading an amazing magazine – ‘What All Women Should Know’, reprints of 1950s newspaper articles for women including ‘Are Wives Too Independent’ and ‘What you must do to please your husband’.

Pictured – ‘How to please your husband’. Hint? More sex.

I was in heaven. The floors were wooden so everywhere I went I could hear my heels clicking.

After a couple of hours of posing and pictures, including ones of me looking out of the window as if waiting for my husband to come home, Cindy departed (and I did wait by the door with it open a tiny bit when she went, peeking out into the corridor of the apartment complex and, for one mad moment, contemplating stepping out and walking to a local bar. Where I would have been beaten up according to my inner worrier.

I then faced a lovely dilemma. It was 22:00 and I had a long day planned for the next two days, but I couldn’t face taking the dress or makeup off. It felt, well, normal in a wonderfully warm and feminine way.

So I sat, prim and proper, watched some television, sipped some alcohol, hugged myself (the dress felt divine, especially where my body went in where it didn’t normally go in).

Pictured – don’t worry your pretty little head, dear, I’ll plug it in for you

Eventually, at around 2:00am, I relented and Mrs.Sarah Lewis, domesticated goddess, took off her beloved floral dress. I then spent an hour contorted myself into a number of the frocks I’d bought for the rest of the sessions and took some videos. Some, err, not shareable.

It was a lovely evening, in an indescribably beautiful way. I’ve always fantasised about being a housewife and this was the real deal. Only thing missing was a husband, but that’s another fantasy.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Roleplaying that kind of lifestyle is a rush to me, it fires up neurons in my brain that give me that warm and kinky feeling. The scariest part? Just how hard it was to take off my dress, and just how normal it felt being her.

I then had two mega sessions over the next couple of days, but those are for another blog post. I’ll just leave you with this – being a 1950s housewife is way more of a thrill than it should be….

Stay true to yourselves you beautiful people and, if you get a chance to live out your fantasies, go for it….

Pictured – Sarah stood by a window to the OUTSIDE WORLD!!!!!!!!