transretrogurl

So, I’m not a going-out kinda girl. Yeah, I have pictures of me going out but a: it’s few and far between and b: it is highly fuelled by alcoholic intake. Outside scares me.

Not ‘cos I’m a coward. Which I am, but that’s not the reason. I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s and was, well, a ‘sensitive’ child; sensitive means I spent a load of time hiding the limpness of my wrists while expecting a punch or a nasty shout every single second. I was way too bright for my own good, and as such the secondary school moved me up a year thinking that that was a good idea.

It wasn’t. Add a child who is unsure of his/her sexuality and working very hard to maintain a semblance of 70’s masculinity at the start of a messed up puberty (see previous posts on the extra bits I got from the chromosome lottery), and you have someone that everyone hates in the class ‘because clever’, is two feet shorter than everyone else and, hey, is developing actual breasts.

Then chuck that confused individual into college, where he/she studied homesickness and repressed sexuality, then, boom, off to the military and ‘other’ places where secrecy is injected into your bloodstream. Add 40+ years of using alcohol as a way of literally being able to talk to other people and you get what could be described as someone who is an absolute expert at feeling skin-level uncomfortable in the real world but perfectly able to persuade people they are gregarious.

Pictured – a lot of words today; all the piccies are from the LFF evening. Check out the sequins…..

Right, still with me?

After I finally left ‘that kind of work’ and wasn’t worried that anything I did I hadn’t told them about would get me a small cell somewhere without windows, and add a change in societal feelings (which is reversing a little at the moment, much to my chagrin) and I found myself wondering how easy it would be to chip away at the self-created masks I use(d) to hide the real me. Turns out it was pretty easy, but I went out of my way to make it hard.

I told myself that everything about dressing and behaving the way I wanted to was bad. Sure, I didn’t believe myself, because on top of all the other mess you end up with almost negative amounts of confidence in your own thoughts and abilities (yet feel oddly vindicated when you tell yourself I told you so when repressing something you love; go figure). So I got into the dressing, got into the social media, started this here blog etc etc.

And I went out. I did brick Lane with the wonderful Rachel Cole and friends. I did Wayout a couple of times. Went to Goodwood Revival in full 40’s mode. Went to a trans sex club, which was eye-opening. Did Sparkle. Went out and sat in a winebar as Sarah and no-one batted an eyelid.

Pictured – terrified, by myself, one bottle of red down, no one batting eyelids.

Yet still there’s this layer of fear; not the good kind either. I felt a lot of the good kind doing this stuff, but always when I was doing it; the build-up was always terrifying – when you work as, for all intents and purposes, a ‘worst case scenarioist’, you end up over-examining everything that could happen, to the detriment of actually doing it.

So, what’s this got to do with Leeds First Friday, I don’t hear you say.

Well, LFF has always felt off-bounds to me. Not that I felt unwelcome, I just didn’t feel honest about myself enough to be able to attend what looked like a fantastic get-together. I used to look at the piccies, see all the stars (people I knew and admired on Social Media before I even started to pull on a pair of tights again), and felt that I wasn’t part of it. And if I tried, I’d be the hulking Yeti, all 6ft4in in heels of me, standing at the back of the room while all the beautiful people had fun.

Again, see previous experiences and messed up upbringing for details. So I persuaded myself that it ‘wasn’t my scene’. And every month I’d look at the pictures, secretly really, really jealous, and scoff.

Fast-forward to 2025. I know Leeds reasonably well; I worked there in previous lives with the telcos and the NHS (UKHSA), and have spent a good deal of time around the station. And I had never gone down and ’round the back’. Didn’t even know there was stuff down there; with work I’d always arrive on the train, find the hotel, work with the clients, get drunk, have a good curry, sleep, get on train. I was unaware that Leeds even had an LGBT quarter.

Pictured – drinking in said quarter….

Yeah, I’m a soft-southerner (well, not true, I’m Bristle born and bred but you get the picture). The south isn’t as friendly as the north; I lived in Middlesbrough during the late 80’s and even though that place was economically depressed it just felt friendlier. Manchester has been an eye-opener, and based on my experiences with Sparkle I thought ‘what the hell’ and decided to do an LFF.

I asked Patti Baston very nicely if she’d come over for LFF and do my makeup, booked a nice hotel (I like the Malmaison chain – the Oxford one is in the old Gaol, and the Glasgow one is in a spooky ex-church), found that there was a Q-Park crawling distance from the hotel, and stuck it in my diary – 5th Sep 2026.

This was back in June/July time. And then I crashed, black-dog style. I had a couple of dark months; 2026 has been a turd of a year, even though there hasn’t been a huge amount of bad stuff happening to me. The world in general just feels shitty; any veil I had on my eyes about honesty and integrity, especially in the political realm and believe me, I didn’t have a huge amount to start, had lifted suddenly like a dank wet curtain.

I started to fret about LFF. All my old worries started raising their heads. I came close to bailing a couple of times. In fact I had a session booked with Patti about a month before; I turned up in Manchester and the Black Dog in my head said ‘nope’. Ended up bailing on that session and spending the day drinking (with Patti at one point to make it up to her).

Pictured – sequins and sparkly things!

So, come the week of the LFF, I was in a weird place. The company I work for (and I love my job) had demanded I take time-off – I haven’t had an actually go-away holiday since 2001 – and they enforced a week-off, starting the Monday after LFF.

That should be a good thing but I hate PTO. For a start, if I don’t have a tonne of work to do my brain has time to think, and that’s not good. And my body goes ‘hey, time-off, here’s all the stress and stress related illnesses I’ve been fighting off cos you have been too busy. Enjoy!’.

Anyway, I took a deep breath (a hundred or so being honest), hopped in my car and started the three hour trek to Leeds. That became a four hour trek when a lorry and a car decided to make mad passionate metal love on the M1 (translation, three lanes blocked, other lane closed while the Police pulled all the pieces apart and deposited them on the hard shoulder). So I ended up trundling into Leeds at around 15:00, very nervous and, as it was my first time driving there, also anxious about parking.

If you’ve stuck with me so far, it all gets good from now on. Parking was easy; Q-Park is a bloody saviour for people like me who will not enjoy a day out because they are worried about where to park/ is my car safe/is my car there all day. The hotel was literally crawling distance (more later, cough) from the car park, the person behind the desk bubbly and friendly like nigh-on all people in the North are.

Pictured – dammit, there goes my strap *again*. Eventually an admirer did put it back in place for me. And no, I wasn’t fishing intentionally.

Got to my room, my bag was light (bringing just the one outfit when I’m used to dragging around twenty or so for a session) and the bar was open. Was going to meet up with Patti, who was on the same floor, at 17:00 so plonked myself downstairs in the bar with a very good book, two glasses of wine and pretended to read while my heart did acrobatics in my chest.

It’s hard to describe what anxiety combined with PTSD is like, but imagine you are sitting in a room and your brain is telling you you are in danger all the time, but won’t tell you why because it’s a bastard. So I calmed myself and noticed that, even at 16:00, the bar was full of, well, people that I want to be like.

Turns out that LFF starts early, so I sat and people watched. It was wonderful. Being honest, if I hadn’t seen other T-Girls then and there I would probably have bailed on the whole thing, but I didn’t. After I finished my second glass of wine I decided to have a quick walk; I’d looked at the LFF website and seen the places that people go to, so I thought I would have a quick peek before getting transformed, and a not-small part of the old brain was saying there was a high probability that, post makeover, I’d end up sat in room, all dressed up and no-one to blow. I mean, nowhere to go.

I walked up by the Marriott, another hotel that has a really great reputation as part of LFF. Outside were stood two T-Girls, but that doesn’t do them justice. They were slightly older, my age, and both were done up exquisitely like they were wedding guests/mother of the bride. After two glasses of wine I felt my inhibitions dropping a bit, and decided to ask them something about LFF.

I feel the need to explain something quickly here; most readers of this blog haven’t seen me in ‘real life’. I have cultivated a face and look that is designed to stop people talking to me; not because I’m anti-social, but because I am terrified of social interactions. Or shy, as we used to say. I forget that I walk around with not so much a ‘resting bitch’ face as a ‘resting stab’ face. When a hulking 6ft2in miserable looking bloke walks up to you it can make you a little defensive, but once I asked, politely, when LFF would start and where, and when I showed them a couple of pictures off of Instagram, they were instantly friendly. Had a lovely little chat and discovered that ‘The Bridge’ was the place for newbies, which intrigued me; when you are used to cattle markets like the Wayout, or the serious hussle/bussle of Canal St on a Friday night, hearing that there was a quiet place where newbies could start was music to my ears.

Pictured – by this point I had my coat so far down my arms, in what I thought was a slinky, sexy way, that I almost felt handcuffed

17:00 came around and I wandered back to my room. I’d already shaved, and Patti’s room was just along the corridor, so it was time for another first. I put on all my undercarriage (I jest, I put on a lovely white corset, white undies, my strapless bra which tellingly doesn’t need any padding any more because the breasts are starting to be a noticeable problem, a fake tattoo of a rose on my upper arm) and then put my male clothing over it.

I’m going to admit it, it was a delicious thrill; walking along the corridor of the hotel feeling tights under my jeans. Bad Sarah.

Got to Patti’s room and she did her magic. I bought along a clubby outfit I bought from M&S at Xmas; strappy 20’s style flapper dress but all sequins, and a seriously fluffy faux-fur half coat. Patti leant me one of her blond ditzy wigs, which she styled with curls, and we went for a different look; I always have red lipstick but not this time. After it was all done, and my heart was beating again, it was time to take the step.

It’s hard to describe how much sheer energy it takes to fight the urge to stay in a hotel room, even in drab mode, for me. So to find myself standing in front of the mirror of my room, looking hot, silver sparkly purse in one hand, phone in the other, trying to calm the heart so I could step outside and hear the door click behind me. It’s a moment everyone should try once.

Click.

I walked gingerly along the hotel corridor; I had sensible heels on, and I could walk in them, but I felt delightfully top heavy with the fur coat. Pressed the elevator button, it came, opened, no-one inside, breathe out, step in. Pressed the ground floor.

Door opens, I stroll out and across the lobby, looking into the bar where there are more of the trans community. I get to the door, it’s still light outside, my brain starts to wonder whether it would be better to go back to the room and before I can decide, I’m standing out on the street.

So this is where it differs from the other experiences I have had. I felt safe. I don’t know why; maybe it was seeing other T-Girls in the street, in the hotel lobby, but I felt safe and I felt empowered. I strutted along the street, remembering to slow my gait down and swing my hips. The Bridge pub is literally 50 or so metres along the road, but you have to cross the bridge to get to it, so I stood at the lights and pressed the button.

Looking across the road I could see into the pub, and someone I didn’t know was waving. In my usual awkward fashion I waved back, the lights changed, and I walked across and then into the pub, breathing a sigh of relief.

And here is where it hooked me. The person waving me, who was dressed adorably, didn’t know me. They just saw me standing there, realised I was a newbie, and waved to make sure I knew this was the place to go. I talked to the person, who was lovely; she recognised me from Instagram (and I’m going to be honest, this was something I was genuinely worried about; when you spend your entire life hiding and then give yourself a public persona, who will get recognised, and I am inherently bloody shy). But we ended up having a lovely conversation where she explained to me just how open and friendly LFF is.

The organisation is amazing. They know there will be people who are scared, who are ‘deer in the headlights’. Unlike anywhere else I had been, these people knew my concerns and there are things to address them. Safe places. Phone numbers. Guides.

I found myself relaxing, and to be honest the rest of the evening was a pink and wonderful blur. I did end up doing what I normally do; when you expect to have to drink to be comfortable it’s too easy to over-drink. Almost ashamed to admit I did end up talking to the porcelain goddess, and I managed to fall over on the cobbles hard enough to rip all the skin off of my left knee. But it was worth it.

I met a lot of people I knew only through Digital, or had bumped into in passing elsewhere. Rachel BoomBoom (always loved her stuff), although I am starting to think she may be a vampire as she appears to be aging backwards. Jenny Lunden again, after our brief meet at Wayout earlier in the year. My good friend Janine. A lovely girl who was ‘the only chemist in her company’. It was joyous.

Pictured – happiness

And over too soon. Yeah, I was rough the next day. And the day after that. And as I sit here, six days later, the scab on my knee looks like a scale model of the Isle of Wight, but literally the first thing I did when I got home was start to plan the next LFF.

So, if you’ve stuck with me through that long diatribe; LFF was wonderful. Way friendlier than I expected, not that I expected hostility and knives, but the feeling of belonging was something I did not see coming, and it was lovely. The pubs were great, the admirers were polite, and I didn’t at any point want to back hiding in my room. Well, maybe once when my legs wouldn’t work and I was clutching the cistern but, if you’re going to dress like a tart on a bender, it’s fun to behave like one…..

Stay beautiful and being serious; if you’ve ever considered LFF and dissuaded yourself, just go for it. Safe, friendly, joyous; rare things nowadays.

Pictured – and back to near normalcy, inside and flouncy frocks.