|Like this but less salacious.|
The model was lying down, the shot from
the side, she was wearing shorts beneath it.
The following year, I was 12, I wrote about Quantum Leap in my diary and refused to write that I wanted to see the episodes where Sam leaped into a woman. So I wrote the plot of the episode down instead. I cursed myself, vowed to try again, and so my diary is littered with episode summaries nearly every week as I found ways not to write what I was fascinated by (and set up a situation that if I ever did see such an episode it wouldn't look out of place for me to write about it - because people were obviously reading my diary [spoiler: no, they weren't, it was very boring]).
And I dreamed about being a girl, a tom-boy, and living as a girl; dressing as a girl, well, a tom-boy. I mean, dresses were cool and all, but I liked jeans and jumpers, cardigans and caps, trainers and socks. I imagined what it would feel like to dress like that, to have my hair cut like the girls around me, and just be treated as a girl. But I did nothing, because I sort of knew it was subversive and abnormal and I was already bullied with a small social circle so I filed it away and hid it.
|I had this issue.|
Maybe it was this one?
|Oh, hey, it's this poster.|
I mean, this design. Mine wasn't signed,
graded or protected. It was just on my wall.
|They weren't Gucci, of course, but they were similar|
in design and the lack of 'figure-hugging'.
Of course, back then, even the crotch area was
baggy. That's what the big belts were for, right?
In my third year, the beginning, the whole social group of us were together in a bar to see each other again. I'd been single for over a year. I'd confessed, under cover of drunkenness the previous year, to my by then ex (Terry) that I was a cross-dresser - keep in mind apart from the thong I hadn't actually cross-dressed in anything yet. Then, of course, used that plausible deniability to, well, deny it later. We were all putting songs on the juke box, social anxiety made me go last, all my usual choices were already queued, so I put on Blur's Girls and Boys. Kirsten, a Blur fan and now a housemate, asked if I were a cross-dresser when my choice came on: it was okay, everyone would support me if I were, she said, so, if I were, why not? She could help me if I wanted. Sweating, barely able to speak, trembling as my dreams came true, I lied and said no, I wasn't. Three times. Then the cock crowed and I- no, there was no cock crowing, but you get the idea.
|This is the 'look' referenced to the|
The lady in question had a baggier t-shirt,
bigger satchel, baggier jeans and an open
jacket, but you get the gist. Oh, and no
cap or glasses.
So, when I went to get my MA I stuffed everything down as far as it would go. With Tim and his social group I met a girl from where I grew up on a Fresher's barcrawl and I was confused. I didn't want to go out with her but I wanted to follow her around like a puppy. She had two pony-tails at the back of her head, wore a baggy low-cut top, flared baggy jeans, trainers, a satchel that went across her body and a coat. You know, like that 'look' I had at the last in-person support group meeting. I was obsessed with her eye make-up - even though I only saw her for a couple of hours that one night, for the rest of the year I would draw close-ups of eyes with variations of her eye make-up on them, spent hours on the shading. I read fictionmania. I dreamed about being a woman, dressing as a woman, but I did nothing. No reaching out. I took solace in Real Life comics making jokes about masculinity being a curse - there was a bloke whom I could look up to, a man like me! I didn't masturbate for eight months, just to prove I wasn't addicted and I could. I told no one, it was a personal thing.
|Yeah, close enough.|
|Somewhere round here, actually.|
No, I can't remember the exact location, but these
houses look similar enough.
November - Toby and I were at a party. I was bemoaning my single fate, it had been five years since I split with Terry: "no one loves me" I said. "I love you," Toby countered. She asked me back to hers (she shared with Tim) to try on a dress. I agreed. It happened. Five minutes. I was unable to speak. I was going to ask for some way of creating false breasts to improve the way the dress fit. Toby misunderstood and I was taken out. We spoke, flirted, she shared the reason I'd missed her that summer, she was off getting married. Well, pagan joining, and she had a sort of husband. Oh. I closed everything down, denied it had happened when asked by Tim, who believed me over Toby. I lied. I hid the knickers, stopped reading fictionmania.
|It's almost strange how often this image|
turns up now.
But maybe not.
In the new year, I was 25 now, I started looking for a house. I would dress in a nightie for bed, I would wear a bra, but it was all part of restraint fantasies. Dressing was for getting my rocks off. But, online, I had a discussion where I realised, again, that my dressing wasn't just about fetish. I mean, it was a fetish too, but there was more to it than that. I wanted to be seen as a woman. I wanted society to treat me the way it treated women - good and bad. And I knew enough to know that it was no fantasy or cake-walk. But I had a job, I was buying a house, I still didn't like being single and, well, I still didn't really understand transgender stuff, like, at all. I knew it could be done, but those two years loomed large - it was fantasy fodder, not real life, right? Right?
|If you haven't yet, go read. It is relevant to our interests.|
And so, in April 2021, Mae Dean destroyed the last part of my masculine lie, the disguise I thought I was wearing, when I read the arc where she came out in Real Life comics. Not long after that I would watch Abigail Thorn's coming out story. And so I shouldn't be surprised by my first two days at work, by my coming out to so many people so quickly. Because this might actually be it: I may actually, finally, honestly, really, truly, maybe, be embarking on a chance to live as... me.
It's only been thirty years (almost to the day) in the making - in the sense that before then I can't reliably tell you much about my life beyond what's already been shared in this blog in the past. Goodness, thirty years. Maybe it is 'my time' now.
If you have been, thank you for reading, that must have been a bit punishing!