transretrogurl

So, I’ve been a bit heavy lately, and for that I apologise. Blame it on the changing of the season, too much drab time, work, the world in general if you want. But I have been a bit introspective and while there’s a time for that, there has to be a time for fun as well. All work and no play makes Sarah a dull girl, as Stephen King once didn’t say.

I wracked my brain for a topic to talk about that I haven’t gone over in ridiculous depth, and I realised that, although I’ve hinted at it in the past, I’ve never really gone into depth on what my mind plays as an on-going movie when I’m not dressed.

I may have mentioned many, many, many times that I’m asexual. Let me ratify that (just once more) and explain what it means. I have no urge for intercourse with anybody. The yearning I had momentarily when going through an odd puberty faded a long time ago. I still feel love, immense love for my partner, but there’s no physical attraction as such.

Does that make me a monk? Hell no. I have an imagination and a lot of confused hormones going on in my system, so I fantasise. A lot.

Pictured – fantasising that this dress fits 🙂

And what I wanted to talk about in this blog was some of those fantasies, and also why they will remain fantasies.

See, the human brain (again, said this a lot, but stick with it) is an interesting lump of grey meat. It doles out those wonderful happy chemicals based on impulses which are grown over time based on experience and genetic coding. Hence attraction but also things like remembering a piece of music from when you were a child, when the brain responses were much more intense. For me it’s ELO ‘Mr. Blue Sky’, whenever I hear that I’m a stunned seven year old again and I love the feeling it gives me.

But what about the frocks? I hear you say. I’ve been a closet/non-closet girl for forty years now, and in that time I’ve seen that girls of our, say, persuasion, seem to have the same fantasies.

Not all of them, of course, but there are some stereotypical tropes that always seem to crop up. And oddly it feels sometimes that you haven’t enjoyed the whole ‘trans’ thing if you haven’t tried these.

Yes, I’m generalising, but this is fun so forgive me.

How does this tie into fantasies? Well, some of those tropes involve interactions with others and some of us are shy, so some of them will always remain fantasies. Some I’ve realised and, err, the reality of some of these fantasies is not quite what you’d expect. And hence this post, where I’ll describe some of my deepest, darkest, kinkiest (oo-err) fantasies and how they haven’t, or won’t, quite pan out.

But first, just one more little mention on asexuality. It doesn’t mean I don’t get aroused. Ooo, again, far from it. Lately I’ve been, well, pleasuring myself (probably the safest term at this point) a little too much. Without going into graphic details I appear to have chafed certain pieces of skin to the point of bleeding. And what do I pleasure myself too? Pictures of Sarah. Talk about self-abuse.

Pictured – the source of my self-abuse. Go figure.

And one more thing about fantasies – a wonderful friend once said to me that anything that happens between two consenting adults is fair game, and I agree. When it comes to fantasies they are yours alone – I used to judge them by how I felt after I’d, you know, played with Palmala/shaken hands with the Bishop/point-and-squirted. When I was going through my guilty period I’d feel shame, sometimes terrible shame, after various fantasies, but nowadays I’ve come to realise that fantasies are the mind’s steam valve, a way to enjoy oneself in the privacy of one’s head. There is no judgement.

Oh, and even though I call these tropes, they are mine. Yeah, some might be shared, but some may not. But for me, these are the juicy ones that give me that delicious, dark, naughty feeling. And that feeling is a lot of fun. So let’s begin……

1a: Bridezilla

A woman’s special day. The day she gives up independence and shackles herself to a gibbering, testosterone driven sex-monkey for the rest of her days, or at least until one of the pair decide to call it off. But I digress (divorce will do that to you), being a bride seems to crop up a lot in the fantasies of a number of us girls.

So what is it that makes it so appealing? The complete emasculation (and yes, I’ll be using that word a lot – just the word itself is a fantasy most of the time)? The giving of oneself completely to another? The unbalanced side of it all (losing your name, submitting to the old vows of ‘honour and obey’ and all that historical/hysterical mysogynistic mumbo-gumbo)?

Yes, pretty much. To present yourself completely costumed as a woman presenting herself for marriage *is* a rush. It’s that wonderful dark feeling of submission, of handing the keys to the masculine-wagon in and getting a purse instead, pre-filled with condoms, perfume, lipstick, all the tools of the trade.

It’s getting to experience that one day when everything focuses on you because, even though it’s one-sided etc etc, the bride is the focal point. The lights all shine on her, clothed in white, the proverbial virgin ready to be consummated.

From a T-Girl perspective, chuck in a handsome man in a suit at her side, holding her hand, a kiss when the priest declares her as a belonging of him, and it ticks a lot of boxes of delicious role-playing to some of us.

One of my personal 3:00am fantasies (you know those, when you wake up and because you forgot to have a pee just before you went to bed the full bladder and pink nightie-d lizard brain conspire to wake you up with an engorged member that is painfully in need of release in both ways) is to arrange a bridal day for t-girls and admirers, hire a hall, hire a registrar, do the ceremonies and have the girl and the guy legally married with a certificate, which is then given to the man to keep until the end of the day when it is nullified. That naughty thrill of not only being dressed as a bride but, now legally, being actually married for a short period of time. Being a Mrs.

It’s a naughty one, that’s for sure……

1b: Bridezilla – the reality

Yeah, I’ve done it. Not the getting married to an admirer, of course, because my social anxiety would have me bailing at the altar rather than risk getting actually married and then having the other party refuse to nullify (I’m a worst-case scenario-ist, even in my fantasties). But I’ve done the full bridal look, full length wedding dress, veil, tiara, shoes (I’ll mention them in a moment….). And it was lovely. With a couple of gotchas…..

Pictured – “I do……kinda”

Firstly, wedding dresses are beautiful creations that are designed to look good. They are not designed to do anything in – posing is hard, moving at any speed other than a delicate walk is nigh-on impossible. When we did a bridal look at Cindy’s she had the most gorgeous wedding shoes, white heels with lots of rhinestones and other decorations. That were just too small for me, so not only could I not really move, standing was, hmm, entertaining.

But it was still so much fun. Realising the dream of dressing as a bride is, to put it honestly, breath-taking. And yes, I did find myself with a tear in my eye (I blamed it on the lashes and the veil because, you know, big girls don’t cry).

Pictured – he put a ring on it! etc etc

2a: Being Married….. The housewife, the mother, the MILF

Another of the role-based fantasies, the idea of being ‘her indoors’, the housewife, is one of my faves. No idea why – I don’t mind house-cleaning, it appeals to my OCD, but for some reason show me a cute little house dress, an apron and a vacuum and my mind goes pink and fluffy. Throw the idea of being a mother into the mix, sensibly dressed but oozing sexuality in a ‘I want to rip off her sensible frocks and shoes and make mad passionate love to her’ way, and my knees go kinda weak at the thought.

In fact, 90% of the looks I do are based on those ideas – 1950s and 1940s housewives in particular. The idea of staying home while the man of the house earns the money, building the nest, cooking, cleaning, seems like the most wonderful life you could have…..

2b: Being Married – the reality

…. because I don’t have that life. I work, very hard, in the IT industry, I’m the earner in our relationship, and I think I fantasize about how the other half, literally, live because it’s not what I do.

Don’t get me wrong, and if you scan the post I did on ‘being the housewife’, it’s a lovely fantasy to realise, but only in little bits.

Pictured – a domestic appliance. With her vacuum cleaner.

I read a wonderful post on a group a couple of years ago by this crossdresser who had jumped into a relationship with an older guy, where she played the role of the wife at weekends for him, and although what she said was a bit of turn on (bad me) it was very amusing in a revealing way.

She complained about the following – having to be pretty all the time, having to wear high heels all the time (to church, to the mall), having to satisfy her husband orally whenever he wanted regardless of how she felt, and of being taken for granted.

Wow. Even though I found her response a fantasy in and of itself it was very funny that dropping a t-girl into the role of a housewife, even for a weekend, instantly highlighted all the things that the actual housewives have to suffer.

It’s a lovely fantasy but I get the feeling if it was reality the fun of it would fade pretty quickly. Still, it’s one of my favourites.

Pictured – I’m genuinely ashamed to admit I have never used an iron.

3a: The Sex Worker

Being middle-class and never having had any interaction with sex-workers, other than having to watch Pretty Woman with the first girlfriend at the cinema and sleeping in the entrance to the Underground in Frankfurt in 1993 next to a young prostitute who spent the night injecting her foot with heroin (a long night – note to self, stop drinking), the thrill of dressing in an extremely tarty way to attract paying customers is a fantasy that seems to have no downsides. A chance to dress super-provocatively, to advertise yourself as a woman who is available for rent, seems like a good one. A chance to wear stupidly high heels, fishnets, maybe make her a smoker, too much makeup. Everything that appeals to the 14 year old kid in us, the one who never thought he’d get a girlfriend but thought the look of the prostitutes, as shown on television of course, was just what he wanted. Before he accepted he’d rather be the prostitute, of course.

Pictured – it’s my money so I guess that doesn’t make it solicitation…

And it’s a fun fantasy. I’ve done a couple of shoots as an escort/street walker, with some props of a number of twenty pound notes, condoms, the usual. All clean fun.

3b: The Sex Worker – reality

Hate to be Captain Buzzkill but the life of a sex-worker is pretty terrible. Sure, high class eacorts can make a lot of money, but it’s not a career choice to inspire self worth. If you’ve ever seen ‘Paris is Burning’ (and if you haven’t, you should), there’s a desperately sad trans-prostitute in it who dreams of being taken care of. Before the end of the film her body was found stuffed in a box under a bed, murdered by one of her customers.

It’s also pretty demeaning. And while I’m not suggesting that taking it from fantasy to reality would be anything I’d ever consider (growing up in the era of AIDS has made me very, very cautious about anything to do with sex. Including sitting on public toilets in the second half of the 80s due to the rampant madness of news reporting that was going on) this is one that will remain a fun fantasy.

It doesn’t stop a lot of t-girls asking questions on forums that often get flamed very quickly, such as ‘should I be an escort?’. It’s a prevalent fantasy.

That got dark. I’ll lighten it up *after* the next one.

4a: Being Forced

Now we are straying into the realm of BDSM. The idea of being forced to crossdress, or forced to perform as a woman, is another fantasy that crops up a lot. And I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t factor into my little internal theatre – it does. The idea of being forced to be a woman is a strongly erotic one for some of us, that removal of control, that last vestige of masculinity torn away. It’s a good fantasy.

You see a lot of vids online if you look (yeah, I’m not going to pretend that I’m not taking advantage of net neutrality before it disappears to visit porn sites. It’s an Internet thing), most of them involving dominant women doing degrading things to men, but that’s more of a BDSM ‘safe word’ fantasy.

I read a lot of stories on Fictionmania when I’m at a loose end, there are some very good ones there and a tonne of terrible ones, but the ones I tend to go back to are the ones where the person forcing the crossdresser is a man. That dynamic seems to work more for me – oddly enough I have a lot of respect for the fairer sex and it feels more natural, for me, to have the male protagonist forcing another male to be the female.

But I promised this wouldn’t be a heavy, philosophy laden post so we’ll leave it at that – I get that funny feeling when I read a story about a man forcing a crossdresser to be the woman.

4b: Being Forced – the reality

Anything that happens between two consenting adults is absolutely fine. I’ve mentioned those words of wisdom from a friend before, and they are a mantra that everyone should stick to. Being forced to do anything against your will is just wrong. Another one that will remain a fantasy.

There was an incident a couple of years ago at a Manchester nightclub where a transvestite was assaulted in the toilets. They identified and prosecuted the offender based on DNA evidence from her wig. That sentence there sums up, brutally, the difference between fantasy and reality.

That’s not to say that if you have those fantasies they are wrong. It’s a natural thing. Want to make it reality and that is sociopathy….

Right, let’s lighten it up a bit.

5a: The Maid

Secretly, I love this one. Yeah, there’s something tacky about a cheap French Maid outfit, but the idea of squeezing oneself into a maid’s uniform is delightfully naughty. It’s pure sexual objectification, but if you’re doing it to yourself what’s the harm?

For a long time I was pretty obsessed about the whole ‘maid’ thing. There was something delightful about being the ‘help’, tottering around on heels, pretty black uniform and white apron, that just pressed all my buttons.

If you’ve ever seen the film ‘Clue’ there’s a character in that I used to just want to be. Yvette the Maid. The costume was ridiculously sexy, too short, petticoated, too revealing, tight choker, the whole works. That was my fantasy for a long time, that perfect representation of a French maid.

It’s one of those things you can’t put your finger on. To me that was the perfect representation of raw sexuality. And I wanted to both be her and be with her, which is an odd but wonderful feeling.

5b: The Maid – reality

Hah, not a bad one! I never had the figure to pull of a proper French maid but I managed to realise my fantasy a number of times with proper uniforms. One of the first uniforms I managed to get was a housekeeping dress, 1940s styled, black, with a white apron, and that was just bliss.

Pictured – genuine ecstasy

I think one of the key attractions of the French maid fantasy is that it is a little demeaning for the maid. And again, that’s alright if it is you. Always nice to mix in a little heterosexual lust into the fantasies.

Pictured – Downton Abbey here I come

Just a quick peek into Sarah’s pink room, think I’ll stop now before this becomes 50 Shades of Disturbing… and about as long.

Stay beautiful and remember to enjoy your fantasies….