transretrogurl

So, on the downward slope after a wonderful couple of sessions and an, err, interesting trip out that was both an eye-opener and dreadfully similar. And now, as I relax for the first time since March (I forget to take holidays) without the stress/excitement of looking forward to some Sarah time, I can take a step back and look at my whole situation with an untainted eye.

Pictured – well, not completely untainted. Maybe a touch of eyeliner, false lashes and mascara….

So bear with me, this post will be introspective but will ring true for a number of us in the same boat. But I promise I’ll write a blog post straight after which *gushes* about all the frankly wonderful fun I had as Sarah for a couple of days (with a bit of stress in between – go read the LiveBlogs for that little adventure).

I love my Sarah time but most importantly, for me, it’s the pictures after. See, as much as I fantasize about spending time as Sarah I find myself unable to totally put him to bed. Sarah is escapism for me, a way not to be the mortgaged, ageing, stressed, damaged, alpha-male that genetics made me.

Pictured – I mean, just look at all that stress….

Yet when I am dolled up as Sarah *without* a camera being pointed at me I’m just the same mischievous idiot that I am in real-life, just wearing gorgeous frocks.

Just ask Cindy. When we do a session we spend most of the time laughing, there’s very little serious time there. Partly because it’s a defence mechanism – I class Cindy as a very, very good friend and some part of him wants to always be at the forefront. But it’s also the fact that put me in a dress, put stockings on my shaved legs, paint my face and put a wig on me, and I’m Sarah but I’m also still him.

And it’s quite sad that I can’t fully separate the halves of the person I am. Point a camera at her and she pops out fully, he completely disappears. Put the camera away and I’m telling stories about army life, bodily oddities and other inane insanities.

Pictured – just imagine her describing her ruptured appendix and the night she almost died from peritonitis…

Yeah, it’s the ultimate first world problem *if* it was a problem, but I’ve come to realise, nicely, that it isn’t. I’m not trying to be a woman. Sarah for me is an art project, a look into a world where I could be her. It’s why I do so many different styles, I *love* seeing what Sarah would look like as a middle aged conservative Banker’s wife, as a high-class escort, as a secretary. And a serious housewife fetish. All things he can never be.

For a long while it gave me more stress, to the point I almost gave myself an eating disorder. I felt that to not *fully* be Sarah at all times when dressed was some kind of failure, and I chastised myself for it. Eating too much, drinking to much, were all crimes against the ‘Sarah’ ideal. Conversely I found myself using the thought of Sarah time as a crutch to get through everything else to the point that I was drifting through my actual life, going to my ‘I’ll be Sarah soon’ place whenever something that would have stressed me entirely came up.

And that level of escapism is a good tool. Psychologists call it ‘distraction’, a way to stop obsessing about the things you can’t deal with. Gives the mind a chance to breathe, you give it something that completely distracts it. And Sarah, bless her pink little cotton socks, is my distraction.

I don’t want to be a woman full time. Ye Gods, no. Every picture you see of Sarah is me being squeezed, bent, moulded, painted. Can you imagine doing that on a daily basis? Plus, as I’ve said on many occasions, I actually like being a male. We kinda get the best deal, sorry ladies, when it comes to anything else. And the plus side of being a 6ft2in Viking descendent is that people tend to get out of my way when I’m stomping down the street with my patented ‘don’t bother me’ face on. After seeing the way (again) that women and T-women get treated after midnight in clubs I’m happy I don’t want to be a woman. For a start I’d end up in prison, because after ten minutes of the disrespect we got on Saturday I was in a good mind to dispose of the idiot and drop his torso in the Thames.

Pictured – just to prove it wasn’t all drunks and idiots, Sarah out-in-the-real-world….

But again, point a camera at Sarah and everything feminine comes to the surface. It’s like a rush of water, a lovely feeling. I can pose for hours on end – if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m afraid of burning Cindy out I’d be going for 24 hours or longer in a photoshoot.

And I wonder why that is? Take this for an example – one of the looks we did on Saturday was the ultimate 1960s housewife – flared house dress with a white collar, beehive, apron, sensible shoes. Not a single trace of masculinity. Yet we took a break during the shoot, ordered some Mexican food in (primarily because we both like Mexican but also because they deliver BrewDog Punk IPA). So, I’m stood in Cindy’s place, burrito in one hand, can of Punk IPA in the other, stuffing my face and talking about his things. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I did it – a 1960s housewife chucking back Punk IPA and snarfing a burrito.

Pictured – after Cindy had wiped the Burrito sauce off of my lips and retouched up the bits I’d smudged….

And that’s the dichotomy. I can never pass for a girl if I go out. It’s not down to the look, the clothes, the height, but down to the mannerisms that come out when I get defensive. He is never far beneath the surface and you know what? He is very protective of Sarah.

So I’ll never really be comfortable being out in the real world as Sarah. I have too many masculine hangups about the safety of the world nowadays – I may have mentioned it but I was a worst-case scenario-ist for a long while, and my brain will analyse a situation and tell me all the horrible things that will happen.

For instance, we walked into the Wayout and I was instantly scanning the people there to see which ones were planning to throw acid in a tranny’s face. *That* is where my mind is, all the time.

In some ways that is a good way to be – you’re always aware of what could happen around you. But when you’re dressed head to toe in 1940s retro frockage it is not that helpful. It keeps Sarah from being Sarah.

The only circumstance I can think of where Sarah could be Sarah without any restrictions is having some one-on-one time, privately, with an admirer who sees her as just her. Someone who has never met him, and wants to genuinely know her. Now that situation would be a blast – I’d have no excuse for switching into him mode, especially if it was somewhere safe – a rented apartment with a lockable door, for instance. And there’s a part of me that is genuinely interested as to what kind of Sarah would blossom in that kind of fertile earth.

Pictured – Mature submissive T-Housewife seeks older gentleman admirer to ignore the fact she is 6ft2in and treat her as his devoted wife….

But for the moment, Sarah exists only in the photos, which is why she gushes so much when a camera is pointed at her. And I’m OK with that. I don’t see it as a failing, because everyone is different and has different goals. And it is distraction, and it works – I’m no longer as stressed as I was about life in general, getting old, paying the mortgage, keeping a job. Because whenever that kind of negative thought enters my head Sarah is there to soothe me.

I’ll never be a passable girl, but to me when I look at her photos, she’s the most beautiful woman I could be. And that’s a lovely warm thought to keep close to his/her heart.

Stay beautiful and true to yourselves, and remember to be you.

Pictured – her. him. me.