I’m actually home now, cooking a Chicken Vindaloo and wondering why I’m literally not dead of exhaustion, given the fact that as of now I’ve had a grand total of nine hours sleep in five days. Part of me is impressed by that figure, part of me is appalled. But all of me has that wonderful warm buzzing feel where I know when I stop I am going to sleep for days. So, let’s get the last LiveBlog done.
I had a *wonderful* session yesterday. The looks were just stunning and I’ll do another blog, maybe later today or when I come back to consciousness tomorrow on all the looks and the massive amount of fun I had. Kudos as always to Cindy for doing her magic and putting up with me, although I can be a bit of a laugh after alcohol and boy, did I drink yesterday.
Pictured – not always Retro…. 🙂
So, where we left off was the final decision to go to the Wayout. I’d had a long session and it was raining at one point in the evening, so I was trying to weasel my way out of it. See, the Wayout and me is like cheese and me. I love the idea of cheese. I grew up eating it, tonnes of the stuff, and as I’ve got older my tastes have got sharper – I need strong cheese now to get my fix. Problem is the world, or rather my body, has moved on, and after a certain amount of cheese I get, well, a lady doesn’t talk about that kind of stuff. Let’s just say I go through a lot of toilet paper and ‘faecal urgency’ and leave it at that.
In fact, one of the not-so-entertaining reasons why I’m knackered now is that I fell foul of my urge for cheese a couple of nights ago and instead of getting a full four hours of sleep (don’t ask), I ended up getting an hour of sleep and three hours of stomach cramps and SENTENCE REDACTED TO NOT MAKE PEOPLE UNWELL.
So how is the Wayout like cheese? Well, I love the idea of the Wayout. An evening in full girlie mode, somewhere to strut my stuff and *be* Sarah, interact possibly with admirers, maybe dance, maybe have a snog at the end of the night.
Pictured – a woman who wouldn’t go to a nightclub.
And like cheese it has a completely negative effect in reality on me.
For a start, i’m a coward. Well, not a coward – in my career I’ve had guns fired at me on numerous occasions, and I’ve been too close to a bomb when it gone off. Well, not too close as in I’m still here but close enough to give me PTSD and a morbid fear of loud noises. So I’m not a coward, I can face fears. But the Wayout, and going out in London or wherever in full feminine attire, just strikes terror into my core. But as with the cheese I don’t remember the cramps/terror when thinking of how nice a piece of mature Cheddar would be, or how much fun it would be to go to the Wayout in full retro mode.
So, on the day of the session I did my usual coping mechanism. ALCOHOL!!!! I took three cans of Punk IPA to Cindy’s, and during the day we did a Deliveroo of a Mexican place that, tah dah, also delivered Punk, so I had another two. By the time 11:00pm rolled around and I had put on my gorgeous Pink and White Polkadot Viv of Hollway frock, then chickened out and gone for the first plan, which was my also gorgeous 1940s ‘Tiki’ print tea dress, with the blonde Phoebe wig that seems to *be* Sarah now, sensible heels I could just about walk in, copious amounts of Chanel No.5 and filled my clutch-bag with ten pound notes, a phone on airplane mode and my Chanel No.5 in case the copious amounts I’d already sprayed wore off, I’d drunk one of Vicky’s fruit ciders as well.
And I was stone-cold sober. And terrified again.
Leaving the flat felt like I was bloody going to the gallows, the sound of the door closing behind me a death-knell.
One of the things I was always obsessed with when I was a closeted cross-dresser was the idea of the wind blowing up my dress. There was something, well, naughty about it. Last night I had that. We parked a couple of streets away from The Minories around midnight, and walked across. The frock is a thin material, very comfy, and as I tottered along the street, patently trying to ignore the cars and drunk people, hearing my heels on the pavement, I could feel the thin material of the dress blowing around my stocking-clad legs. It’s a wonderful feeling, exactly the way I thought it would be.
Still freaked and a little terrified I followed Vicky and Cindy into the club. It was pretty quiet, a couple of lone admirers hanging around the door like hyenas, and inside there were some well dressed T-girls and some others dancing. Went to the bar and got drinks from a sullen barman, then grabbed a table.
Pictured – Cindy and Sarah, club-girls….
Next forty-five or so minutes were odd. I was comfy to be sitting in the booth, but I knew I had to move at some point. I wasn’t feeling the Sarah-vibe, the fear overpowering the alcohol and the sensation of being a woman in a bar.
So, I decided it was time to, err, brave-ish. Plus I was dying for a pee as by now I was five Punk IPAs, one cider and a BrewDog Elvis Juice, a grapefruit infused IPA that comes in at a pretty high 6.5%. Telling a little secret I got a thrill the first two times I went to Wayout by going into the Ladies toilet, even though the conversations being had by the T-Prostitutes in the toilet was all around techniques of pleasuring a man with their mouths. So, I walked as femininely as I could to the toilets, having to walk around a couple more lone-wolf admirers making sure not to make eye contact.
I ended up queuing in the toilet, which is both entertaining from a ‘look, I’m a woman now’ perspective but not in a ‘nope, got a male 49 year old bladder that, once I start peeing after beers just seems to generate four times as much liquid as the beer provided’. Came my turn and walked into the cubicle, removed my three layers of shaping and underwear, and sat on the toilet like a real woman.
It was a nice 20 seconds. Bit of a rush. Until the T-Girl in the cubicle next to me decided to vomit very, very loudly. That kind of spoilt the moment.
Pictured – forget about the vomit, here’s secretary Sarah
Wandered back to the table and Vicky and Cindy fancied standing for a bit by the dancefloor, so we wandered over and stood amongst a number of admirers and single T’s. Problem at this point was that I was into heavy-metal as a kid. Therefore I’m missing a number of registers in my ears due to standing way too close to speakers at way too loud concerts. A couple of beautiful T-girls that V&C knew came and talked and I nodded sagely whenever anyone looked at me.
After fifteen minutes of this we decided to try the outside garden – it’s been renovated and is actually very nice, some booths with heating and TVs for the Winter, and astro-turf. It was nice outside, quiet, bit smokey, but private.
Well, not for long. And that’s when it took a turn that was kinda inevitable. See, the booth is for six people and there were three of us, all girls. There were sharks hanging about, drunken admirers who had reached the desperate time of the evening, and two of them decided to invite themselves to our table.
One was a seriously drunk, tattooed cretin who was beyond the pale in terms of behaviour. In the space of ten minutes he’d asked everyone at the table ‘whether they had a cock’. Tasteful, dickhead. He also became aggressive towards the end, but luckily I was sat between him and Cindy, who he had an unhealthy obsession with.
The other one was a guy from Bangladesh who was by far the more ‘speed’-ed person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a number of drug users. He just talked in one long spiel, talking about how his relationship had failed and how he was interested, intellectually, in people who had alternative lifestyles. Yeah, nice one mate, way to distance yourself from it when you obviously are into it.
He was less of a pain in the arse as ‘drunk-numb-fuck’, who had progressed to making coarse statements about oral sex. At one point he asked if he could ‘pee in my mouth’, at which point I actually became relaxed.
See, that’s the sad thing about all of this. I’m used to being in dangerous situations, and even though I was dressed head to toe as Sarah I was still me. The circumstances of the situation just utterly prohibited me from letting Sarah out.
So I told drunk-numb-fuck to fuck himself, grabbed Cindy’s hand and told her and Vicky it was time to go. We pushed past the tattooed skinhead, pleasantly said goodnight to Speed Racer, and exited stage left as quickly as heels would allow.
Now, that was the worst side of Wayout. Drunken sexual aggressiveness. I also saw a number of lovely T-Girls like me, dressed like they loved to dress, and oddly, and sweetly, these were the only people I made eye-contact with. A knowing look, a brief smile between us, and we went off in our own directions again. I also met Vickie Lee for the third time and she’s just so sweet and friendly. If everyone in the club was a Vickie, it would be heaven. But most of them, after 2:00am, are confused admirers, drunken, looking for a quick screw with a T-Girl so they can feel a bit of pleasure before the shame makes them angry again.
We walked back to the taxi, headed back to the flat where I peeled off the nails and re-tuned Cindy’s guitar. We then sat there until 4:30am taking it in turns to bash out tracks.
The moral of this story? A number of them – firstly alcohol isn’t the end all and be all of overcoming your fears. Secondly my obsession with going out and about as Sarah is as dangerous to me as my love of cheese. Thirdly there are lovely people out there, but they have to swim in a sea of sharks. Welcome to real life.
I’ll probably end up going again though. Because at some point it has to be the way I think it will be, somewhere I can let my hair down literally and let Sarah play. But so far, it’s been drab me in feminine clothing waiting to see which idiot I need to kill first. 🙂
Anyway, next blog post will be about the session itself, which was gorgeous and wonderful.
Stay true to yourselves, you beautiful people, and don’t let yourself be bullied.
As an aside, when I was heading back home on the train this morning I was so tired and still feeling the ‘whatever’ effect from the night before, so this is what my laptop looked like. See how few f*cks I had at this point? 🙂