For the normal man in the street this isolation is a pretty big pain in the arse. But I’m not the normal man in the street, cough, and for me it’s pretty damn tricky.
My partner is aware of my alter-ego and tolerates, if that’s not too strong a word, my time when I’m ‘not there’, when I trek into London and let Cindy Conti do her utter magic and turn this world-weary sixth-decade whinge-bag into the glamorous creature we all know as Sarah. However it’s a toleration of ‘not there’ which means I’m not allowed to do it at home. Not that it would be any good anyway, no-one ties a corset tighter than Cindy and my skills at makeup stretch to not being able to take it off very well. So any ‘homework’ would end up with me looking a lot more like him than her.
Pictured – yeah, one of the more amusing ‘Sarah does her makeup’ shots. ‘After the date’. To be honest I’m surprised I’m holding it by the right end.
So not only am I stuck at home I’m also missing the opportunity to be Sarah. And that stings a lot at the moment, partly because I missed my last session (because I, err, appear to have actually had Covid-19, or at least the starting symptoms when I should have been being made-up, good thing I got conjunctivitis which meant the session was impossible) but mostly because I don’t know when, definitively, the next session will be.
Yup, even worse than my normal first world problems I know. But people with this wonderful little urge (or large urge in some cases) often have corresponding other conditions on the mental side, and I have a bag of bolts up there above the lizard brain. So whilst the inability to frock -up rates very, very low on the inconveniences currently being suffered by the world as a whole, in my little pink and damaged universe it’s very hard.
But as they say, nature finds a way. And this will end. And when it does I am going to throw myself so hard into the Sarah side I may just go out the other side. For now though I’m limited to staring at the ridiculously large amount of pictures and sighing. And letting my imagination go bananas.
Pictured – of course, with some pictures it is far easier to let your imagination go bananas.
And there we get to what this fun blog post is going to be about. I’ve talked in the past, extensively, about my obsessions, my little quirks around the dressing and the role-playing behind it that drives the poses. Now I’ve just got my imagination and 17,000 pictures of a girl in various and sometimes very amusing outfits and poses.
And it’s a lot of fun; granted, not as much fun as generating new looks (I have a ridiculous amount of new dresses waiting patiently, or impatiently in some cases, for this crisis to recede), but still fun.
See, when I look at a picture of Sarah now I don’t see myself, I don’t see the man beneath the woman. I see a stranger and what’s lovely about that is I let my imagination go nuts on who she is.
Pictured – and sometimes a jolly attractive stranger, if you don’t mind me saying. But, as I’ve said before, she’s way out of my league.
I posted something to Facebook this morning about it – to cheer me up I’m posting a random picture a day, but always picking the picture that stands out to me when I peruse the huge amount of piccies I have. But what I said in the Facebook post was this – nowadays, because I have way too much time and mental energy on my hands, I’m looking at the woman in the picture and imagining her life, imagining what she would do after the camera clicks.
Now, Sarah has dressed in a huge amount of different styles, the world-weary escort about to engage a client, the porn-star (ahh, Kitty Klaws, I do have a soft spot for you), the night-club queen. But lately I seem to be focusing on one look for my pictures of the day and it’s always Sarah as a docile little housewife.
Pictured – stop posing and get back in the kitchen, dear.
Yeah, usual caveat at this point. I’m the least sexist man in the room most of the time. I treat woman as equals because they are. But when I dress and when I, as drab me, looks at the pictures of Sarah it’s a delightful little kink to be just that little bit sexist in my impression of her.
Call it self-abuse if it makes you feel better but I love it. And the housewife pictures are adorable in their domesticity.
Pictured – at Xmas the dads get terrible jumpers and the mums get Xmas themed dresses
But why? Sure, we could dive down into damage as a child, domineering mother etc etc, but I don’t think that’s the whole deal here. The housewife persona that Sarah slips into a little too easily is a lifestyle and mindset that I could never have as the person I was born to be.
I’ve led an interesting life in terms of career. I’ve done some very dangerous and fun, in an adrenaline ‘we’re all going to die’ kind of way, things. I’ve spent weeks, literally, in the same clothes. In short I’ve done things that would make Sarah the housewife, whose entire world ends at the front door and consists of the kitchen, bedroom and other rooms to keep immaculate, faint. And that dichotomy is delightful.
Sarah the housewife likes things pristine. Sarah loves the well defined role of the husband as provider and her as the care-giver. She loves dresses that emphasise that daintiness, that identify her as the kind of stay-at-home mom she craves to be.
Pictured – like this dress. It just reeks of housewife chic
I don’t feel that way as drab me. But as Sarah? Glorious fantasy. Yeah, I know I’d be bored within a week and resentful if my entire world was controlled by a husband, but just the idea that I could do it for a little bit, a bit of role-playing, makes me all darkly warm inside.
And hence a lot of the pictures I am gravitating towards at the moment are Sarah in her essence, a home-keeper, the mom, the doting wife.
Pictured – oooo, this frock has everything, the pattern, the collar, the lovely buttons, the cute little ribbon tie at the neck. Dammit, I miss my sessions 😉
I love looking at the pictures of her and, in the absence of being able to create more Mrs-personas through more sessions, I find myself imagining what her life is like away from the camera.
I imagine it plays hell on her ankles. She does seem to enjoy high heels a little too much to be a real housewife. One of the times I went out as Sarah I spent the entire evening hobbling around the pub and garden where they hold the Wayout club alternatively smiling shyly at admirers who dared to make eye contact and wondering if I’d ever feel my feet again. The minute I hit the taxi back to Cindy’s the shoes were off and I was massaging my numb toes through the high-denier stockings.
Pictured – it was this outfit. And yes, random strangers copping a feel of my bottom did take my mind off of the agony of the heels. A little bit.
Also I can imagine she gets tired easily with all the housekeeping she needs to do. Plus there’s picking up the children from school, doing the ironing for hubby’s shirts, cooking the tea for the family. The list of tasks is endless.
And the joy of the fantasy is that it is just that. It’s a delightful, delicious little kink of a thrill to imagine Sarah in the full time life of a housewife.
And right now that’ll do for me.
Stay beautiful and remember to let your imaginations soar away from the oppressive weight of the current world. It will get better, and when it does I intend to indulge Sarah’s urges a lot more than I did before. It takes the absence of something to realise its true importance on your soul.
Pictured – never thought I would find myself craving for a floral pattern pretty dress. Well, that’s not true, but you know what I mean…..