|Well, doesn't she look attractively confident?|
And people wonder why I am interested
in appearing as a woman...
Before I do I ought to point out that Tilly and I shared a bed (and, indeed, a room) for the first time since sometime in the summer last night. We even both read for a bit before going to sleep. There was still no snuggling or anything like that. I continue to be either shot down or else politely indulged on that score, so I really don't know what to make of it all. Clearly she's not interested and she's still stressed out with the Girlie being rude and objectionable at the moment - she really is quite hyped up and we're assuming it's down to it being Christmas.
In denial, no / my life's a trial. / I'm not denying that every little bit hurts.
This is not real. It has not happened and it is very unlikely to happen. It intrigued me because was clearly not a dream and nor was I in complete control of it. Call it guided day dreaming, a lucid nodding off - a place that is half reality and only partly conscious yet not entirely subconcious - but at the end of the day it was one of those things that asked to be shared. So, lacking other avenues to share this, I share it here.
|The car, in daylight. Yes, it is a red Micra. What of it?|
At first it was the fact that I was walking in three and half inch heels, boots, in full view that caused my heart to race like a jackhammer in my chest but this was rapidly overtaken by the darkness of the path into the small woodland around the quarry. Anyone, or anything, could be in there. I thanked my subconcious for it's totally unhelpful addition with as much silent sarcasm as a man in a dress can muster, and then walked. It wasn't true of course, the man in a dress part, at least it wasn't the whole truth. There was a dress, yes, short and gathered just below the bust line, barely falling half way down my thighs, and I was a man, the beard made that pretty obvious to anyone with eyes and a brain, but I was wearing more than that.
Beneath the dress there were the sheer black leggings that were surprisingly warm in the night air, and made moreso by the boots that were clearly designed with cold evenings in mind, and the rollneck black jumper. That had long sleeves that were turned up at the wrist. A lycra and wool mix ensured that this jumper clung to my curves, inasmuch as I had curves and the ability to use compound words in run on sentences. What can I say, I take refuge and a certain comfort from the fact that I can create multiu-layered clauses and obscurantist phrasing. I digress. The dress was over the jumper and leggings, being more an affectation than the main item of clothing, and the bra beneath the jumper holding two water balloons allowed me to have a vaguely realistic cleavage to hold that dress in place properly. This had an advantage over wearing a belt to hold it in place in that I did not have a belt that would have worked too well and, furthermore, the bra was less restrictive of my breathing.
You might expect that with all the planning I had put into the escapade and the empty street the restriction of breathing was not really a problem. You would be wrong. It seemed rather stupid, on a purely intellectual level, that the choice of clothing for a walk in the woods in the dead of night could be more worrying than the fact that the woods were frequented by dog walkers. Okay, I admit, that needs some explaining. In news reports about murder victims or rape victims the bodies are always discovered by dog walkers. Check it out, if the body or the victim is in an out of the way place, or even in plain view, it's always some dog and their owner that discover it and report it to the police. It stands to reason, therefore, that going for a walk without telling anyone in an area where people actually walk their dogs is just asking for trouble. That, and the fact that it was night-time and I was going for a walk in the pitch black on uneven paths in unfamiliar heels was a recipe for disaster.
Countless words have been written about the amazing feeling of wind on legs and the stretch of fabric and so that need not detain us here. What was worthy of mention was the feeling of breathless anticipation, of freedom and fear intermingled with a living in the moment. Every sensation was heightened, I didn't need particular sensitive skin to feel the electric thrill of the situation or the clothing. My calves were warning me of things that were not quite normal, though they had long ago been made used to the heels in which I now walked. I could feel my feet getting stuck in the boots, they always did, but that may not be a bad thing as I planned to walk a fair distance before trying to take them off.
Finding the bank that I had chosen over countless walks in the daylight through the woods for no particular reason, the walks, not the bank, I put down the shoulder bag. Now things were going to get complicated. The first item out of the bag was the wig: long, of course, and mainly black with red highlights and tips. This was secured firmly on my head, the style of dual pony-tails that reached below my shoulders probably didn't do my 'look' any favours but it felt nice. I had already trimmed my beard to make sure that it didn't get entangled. Then came the necklace, not for any other reason than it was feminine of course. I had applied the mascara and lipstick in the car, along with some eye shadow and blusher, already before I drove to the street. That had been a scary moment and the thought of it brought back the hot feeling of having done something wrong - like when you break something in a house that isn't yours and you don't know whether to report it or run and hope no one notices.
A final check, a shaking breath, moving some of the wig behind my ear (the last chance to do so, of course). I was ready. A metallic clink and a snap. A feeling like panic swelling for a moment and then it was done. Eyes closed, regain sense of balance, and then I started walking...