Sherri B's shaved legs

Happy Holidays, y'all

2010-12-22T11:33:00.008-06:00

This just in: Santa is apparently taking his naughty list much more seriously this year! Makes me want to try even harder to make the cut. Ooo, thank you Santa, may I have another?

Here's hoping all your holiday wishes come true.

xoxo
Sherri Bennett

Ma'am, please step away from the crack pipe

2010-11-23T22:51:00.000-06:00

In the wonderful world of crossdressing, many a wistful sigh has been heaved during pink cotton candy pipe dreams of living more completely as a, um, woman. Sooner or later the reveries turn to the prospect, however dim, of working as a, um, woman -- or at least while dressed as one. When a gaggle of these befuddled creatures begin talking about this among themselves, sooner or later someone is gonna bring up transgender rights, or lack of same. And there's bound to be at least one in the group who really warms up to the subject, just shy of militancy. All the other hens cluck and cackle ... why oh why can't employers be more understanding and accepting?

Me, I cut right to the chase. If I had a business -- let's say it's a supply company of some sort -- and it was my bottom line at stake, would I hire a TG, knowing that x number of my customers would not cotton to interfacing with a tranny, that (s)he could actually drive away customers?

Hell no.

Or if I was an HR manager at a big company, with long lines of eager job applicants queuing up for interviews, why would I put myself in the position of having to justify a tranny at the cash register? Why would I want the added headaches?

I wouldn't. Even if I was sympathetic.

Now I know there are jobs out there that can be performed by a TG without any negative impact on the business to speak of (telemarketing or computer programming come to mind), and a TG need not be delusional to pursue such positions. More power to 'em. But many, many jobs require face-to-face interaction with customers, most of whom would be appalled to find themselves dealing with a TG.

And to any TG who can't or won't understand these facts of life, I as a prospective employer would have to think (s)he must be:

Incredibly self-absorbed to ask me to jeopardize my business for the sake of his gratification; or,
Crazy; or,
Smoking crack.

Honey, business is business.

The blue rainbow

2010-11-17T22:08:00.001-06:00

I have a date this weekend with a guy who says he is straight, but he likes t-girls as well as GGs (gender girls). This ought to be interesting. Normally I would be skeptical to the point of avoidance, but he talks a much better game than all the conflicted hand-wringers and neanderthals who confess to sexual ambiguity ...

For one thing, he is quite comfortable with public outings with a t-girl. For another, he professes to be cool with my insistence that sex is not on the table until and if a relationship of some sort emerges. And he's cute. And nice, and a good communicator.

But how on earth does a guy who enjoys having sex with an mtf tg hold onto the notion that he is straight? And why? Maybe he's color-blind, and sees his rainbow as monochromatic.

Talk amongst yourselves.

AB '63, Philly style

2010-11-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

When I was a teenager growing up in a small town, we had dances every Friday night, and it was be there or be square, to be sure. And it was none of this DJ nonsense either; music was provided by local bands playing current hits, and in retrospect, the bands were surprisingly good. Unfortunately, the era of bona fide dance steps was on the wane, relegating us to a dance vacuum that we filled with what could be called rock and roll dancing, I guess, but essentially amounted to free-from flailing. Oh, we had a few set styles like The Jerk and The Twist (which always put a stitch in my side), and of course there was slow dancing, which had devolved to a pathetic sort of rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, trying not to hyperventilate too much from being in such close proximity to female anatomy.

But the dearth of dance floor savoir faire was apparently regional, not universal, as evidenced every Saturday afternoon on American Bandstand, hosted by Dick Clark. Obviously, some cities had a thriving, and vastly superior, teen dance culture, especially during the days of doo wop. Witness this gem from 1963, wherein Philly has got it going on:

So cool. In this New Age of stripper grinding on the stage and dance floor, how can we get kids to grasp how sexy this is? But honestly, I never really got it either until I put on a skirt and started learning some honest-to-god dance steps and discovered how sexy and, well, fun real dancing is.

I've been analyzing this particular video, but I can't really say what that particular style was called. I'm sure it had a name. And I haven't quite figured out what they're doing exactly, but it is obviously a two part sequence, one of which involves a really cool back and forth bump when their bodies come together. I'm going to show this video to one of my dance friends and see if he's willing to learn it together. Slip a doo wop CD and a tip to the DJ at the club and we're in bizness.

Lo these many years later, I'm just fascinated with the details of this video, so much to vamp on:

0:05, this video predates my own coming of age a little bit, but there's a hairdo that stayed "in" all through high school and early college.
0:15, those three girls have a wonderful thing going, especially the tall one in the middle with her skirt swaying and such nice hip work. Love those sweaters and hairdos.
0:34, now the couples switch positions and you get a good look at the skinny slacks the guys are sporting -- absolutely essential for any semblance of hipness back in the day.
0:39, see? There's that bump I was talking about.
0:44, a sign of things to come, see the two guys with hair down on their foreheads? That's Beatles influence, signaling the end of the pompadour and all that goes with it. It was a major battle getting our dads to let us make The Big Hair Change.
0:53, I guess Dick Clark had the couples line up closely like that for the benefit of the cameraman. See that back-to-back position change? Love that.
1:08, there's the pompadour, the tall guy on the left in the light colored jacket.
1:15, I'm pretty sure that beehive do was later used as a template for alien characters on Star Trek. And no, that was not a wig. Trust me, a girl with that hairdo back in the day was a simmering pot of emotional bondage. It cost you something to get some of that.
1:30, you have to watch to catch this one cuz it goes quick, but see that little two-direction spin change by the girl on the right? Nice move.
1:32, notice the guy channeling Buddy Holly? The glasses, the black lapels on his jacket.
1:40, ah yes, the little Jewish couple who were a little stiff at first are getting into the swing of it now.

If any of you know what this dance style was called, please let me know so I can research it.

Stick a fork in me, I'm done

2010-11-02T20:51:00.003-05:00

Sometimes giving up something is a good thing. Loss can be gain. Letting go can be, well, liberating, clearing the cobwebs for whatever's next. As I get a little older, it eventually occurs to me that in exchange for a few regrets, there's really no good reason to put up with as much bullshit -- my own as well as others' -- as I do, as we all do. In no particular order:

I don't ever need to see another movie that involves sword fighting. I don't want to see not one more sword fight, ever. I am done with sword fighting. I mean c'mon Hollywood, if you can't move on, then just turn off the camera and head for wings at Hooters. Yo.
It hit me this past weekend, I don't ever need or want to see another drag show. Really, I've had plenty, thanks. Now this is no reflection on drag performers or those who love them -- if you like 'em, more power to you, and far be it from me to judge you. But I just don't relate; all I see is tour de farce, seamy side up. I've been asked several times why I don't perform in the local shows, and setting aside all the other reasons, not the least of which is that I haven't been invited, I can't get past the lip-synching. I would feel ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. Tacky, actually.
And while I'm at it, something I find really annoying is the way the queens rely on bitches this and m-f that in place of real wit to get a laugh. I can't believe the ploy still gets laughs. I mean, we're post-Lenny Bruce by what, 40 years now? And still, if you can't get a laugh any other way, just say motherfucker, bitch. Yuk. Give me a break.
I don't ever need to buy another bag of Girl Scout cookies. God bless the Girl Scouts, but I am retiring as a cookie buyer. I've bought plenty.
I don't ever need to watch Letterman again. Or Leno. They're not funny. They have never been funny. They will never be funny.
I don't ever need to buy another bag of exorbitantly priced theater popcorn. They've had their last shot at screwing this gurl.
If NPR thinks it can sack Juan Williams and still get my support, they're idiots. Sack Schiller or say sayonara to my simoleans, seriously. The news cycle may have expired, but I haven't forgotten.
Which reminds me, the arbiters of political correctness, now run completely amok, can kiss my ass.
I don't need to hear a black person or Hispanic person refer to me as white boy or white girl ever again, and I have no intention of glossing over it anymore. I ain't your boy and I ain't your girl, and you need to chill on the race thing. That's not PC, that's one human telling another: cut the mind fuck. Word.
I can't walk in 5" heels more than 30 minutes without crippling myself, so I'm done trying. 4" tops from now on.
I'm going to quit burning energy hating Nancy Pelosi just as soon as she is dethroned. I don't want to ever have to think of Nancy again.
Having paid attention to what's going on in DC for quite awhile now, I've lost just about any respect I might have had for Ivy League's influence therein.

Behind closed doors

2010-10-29T13:51:00.001-05:00

It occurs to me that I may have been subconsciously pining for the womb my whole life, and really, who could blame me? Those may have been my most successful nine months as a sentient being, patiently and faithfully executing my duties and trusting God and Mom, mostly Mom, that everything would turn out all right. I couldn't even spell disappointment. I was home, right where I was supposed to be, and honestly, ever since I was forcefully evicted from that sanctuary, things have felt, well, slightly askew. Sometimes way off. In the years to come, it may have seemed like I was a rather intrepid soul, going my own mulish way and striking out for parts unknown, but I may have more truly been behaving like a migrating bird separated from its flock, following imperfect instinct and looking for the next nest that never seemed to materialize.

o o o

o o o

Although I do have some claustrophobic issues regarding any sort of confinement over which I have no control, I have always loved cozying up in little nests -- pillow forts on my bed, hideaway reading nooks, camp sites, work spaces. On a recent stint away from home, I resided in an extended stay hotel, a very secure hotel with its locked double entry, and solid doors on the rooms complete with a heavy deadbolt and industrial-grade security latch. As I lay in bed at night, tired after a long day, my fan and thoughts whirring away, I noticed all the little LED and LCD lights glowing in the dark room. A red one on the TV, the time in green on the microwave, green on the coffeemaker, red on the alarm clock. The power cord for my laptop has a thin stripe of blue light around the jack. Tiny green LEDs on the surge protector, bluetooth charger, camera charger, the smoke detector. The cell phone screen glows soft white while charging. And I noticed that I was responding emotionally to all those little lights; I took comfort in them for some odd reason. I liked knowing they were glowing away while I slept, keeping some sort of vigil, maintaining some sort of order, hanging in there.

o o o

I especially liked the nightlight I found at WalMart, with its blue light billowing faintly through the bathroom doorway, the last thing I would see in the early morning darkness when I left for work. I slumbered in a solitary, self-sustaining little module, a stealth satellite traveling through time, the universe pulsing life and light and darkness. Hanging in there.

o o o

I liked the blue and green ones the best, even with my eyes closed.

o o o

David Sedaris is my litmus test

2010-10-28T20:37:00.001-05:00

A couple of weeks ago a gay friend called inviting me to a pumpkin carving party at their place in the country. Eric is one of four guys, two of which are a couple, who have embraced me as a friend above and beyond the superficiality of the bar crowd, and I've had some great times with them. It was these guys, and only them, who reached out and welcomed me home after an extended absence. Just the weekend before we had danced and cut up at the club, then spent a pleasant, lazy morning with brunch in the country. Needless to say, I am fond of these boys.

But I had also been invited over by another friend -- one of my oldest and best friends whom I'll call Nathan -- and it had occurred to me that I had put him off several times, so I felt like I needed to go hang out with him. When I called Eric back to RSVP and told him why I was declining his invitation, he suggested that I bring my friend to the party. I laughed and explained that Nathan knows nothing of Sherri or my bi-sexuality. Eric gently but directly asked several questions about my friend, one of which was whether he is gay friendly or not. I know with a certainty that Nathan is a border-line homophobe, but I simply told Eric that I hadn't talked to Nathan about any of that, which is essentially true. As we were talking I could sorta hear myself the way I imangined Eric was hearing me, and it sounded a little weak, I'll be honest. Eric no doubt thinks I'm just postponing the inevitable, but I don't really think so. But the thing that really started bothering me was fear that perhaps I had offended him with the notion that I couldn't be forthcoming about him and our circle of friends.

Plus I was a little annoyed that I couldn't spend the weekend in a skirt.

Read more ...

Here's the thing: I have these relationships, see, that have been going on most or all of my life. I've known Nathan for 30 + years, for example. These relationships pre-date my TG-ness by years and years. And none of these people are gay-friendly, or know about Sherri Bennett. There is no question in my mind that such revelations would end or seriously strain any or all of the relationships. Word.

But I'm not willing to do that. I love these people and I'm not going to throw all that away. Yes, it bothers me tremendously that I have to keep this secret. I would have loved to have spent the day with Nathan as my gurl self.

I can hear some of you thinking that I might be underestimating some of these people in my life, and certainly I've entertained that notion, but I'm pretty sure of my take on all that. If it's empirical evidence you need, I can do that too ...

Years ago I was listening to NPR on my way to work one morning and some guy named David Sedaris aired a reading entitled Me Talk Pretty One Day that had me laughing out loud in morning traffic. Who was this guy? I went on to read several of his books, and it is these books that I have discovered to be excellent tests for guaging a friend's homo-tolerance or lack thereof. When I started giving copies to my friends, my original intent was only to share a good read, and then I discovered their tells. One friend, for example, didn't hardly acknowledge the gift and it was months before he finally picked it up, I'm pretty sure because of the gay thing. Now, however, he's a fan, quotes passages. Okay, so here's a friend who isn't jiggy with the whole gay thing, but he is capable of getting past it enough to appreciate a good storyteller.

In contrast, Nathan outright rejected my offer of a Sedaris book, solely because the author is gay. Pretty solid tell there, right? And there are others to whom I wouldn't offer a Sedaris book at all, if that tells you anything. Redneck, old school, delicate innocence -- the reasons run the spectrum. With all of them, I don't see an upside to full disclosure.

Unless I could wrangle a book deal out of it.

Natalie

2010-10-18T22:59:00.009-05:00

Okay, this one's gonna be really short. Channel surfing one night, caught the middle of Splendor In The Grass ...

... and fell absolutely in love with Natalie Wood. Like, smitten to smithereens. I just drink in her every motion, her eyes, the way she talks, that mouth. god. If you want to know what my type of girl is, look no further than Natalie. Consider this my little Natalie shrine.

Now I'm on my way to YouTube to see if anyone has posted Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice.

I want to channel Natalie Wood. Wait ... wait, I ... yes, I believe I am Natalie Wood.

Oh Bud ...

She who hesitates is lost

2010-10-09T14:04:00.002-05:00

Every passing year ratchets up the awareness that if you're gonna do something, now's the time. Youth is misspent thinking there are an infinite number of rewinds; what isn't seized today can be had tomorrow. Not so, my little gummy bear. Hindrances, practicalities, shifting priorities, desires, all conspire to fill our rearview mirrors with sepia scenes of missed chances. Itza bitch.

Which is why I'm more carpe diem than ever before. I'm not exactly in a position to start checking off my own personal bucket list 1-2-3, but when a one-chance-in-a-lifetime presents itself, where I would have once succumbed to procrastination, I'm now more inclined to hit the brakes and ask myself, "Are you really gonna pass up another one?"

Like driving a couple of states out of my way to see Montana at the end of a project, when the practical thing to do would have been to head home. Dammit, I said to myself, I may never find myself in that part of the country again.

And while I'm there, flyfish in a skirt. A really short skirt. And boobs. Big boobs. And hair and jewelry, And no waders to hide in. Now where's a game warden when I really need one?

One for the rocking chair ...

My native tongue

2010-10-06T13:17:00.003-05:00

I've hit upon a succinct way to analogize my evolved bi-sexual orientation that seems to resonate with those who inquire, especially with those trying to figure out which round hole my square peg fits into. Here it is:

Women are my native tongue, but men are my second language.

Nifty, right? Here's another, even briefer encapsulation of what I perceive (based on empirical evidence) to be a prejudice within the gay community toward bi-sexuals and mtf TGs:

LG>BT

How's that for pithy sloganeering -- and low-cal blogging? :-)

The eyes are upon you

2010-10-05T19:15:00.001-05:00

For years and years I had a strict rule about no pink fog activities close to home. Little good could come of being outed here, and lots of bad. All my outings take place out of town, even if it's only an hour away. All my shopping has been done online or in other towns. And no true confessions to anyone here in moments of loneliness and weakness. That discipline has been successful in preventing any sort of whispering or scandal.

But then ...

A few months ago I began dropping my guard a little bit. I wore [men's] shorts almost exclusively during the summer, blithely and frankly displaying my shaved legs and, less noticeably, my girl's ankle chain. That may have drawn an occasional double-take, but nothing anyone could point to as definitive proof that I'm swishy. But it's a slippery slope, as you probably know, and before long I found myself detouring through the women's sections whenever I was in a department store. Nothing too obvious or prolonged, just trolling for noteworthy sale items.

One afternoon I had just exited the junior's section, having lingered a little longer than I realized, perhaps, and was on my way to the shampoo when I passed by an aisle rack of sale items and a short denim skirt caught my eye, only $7. Hmmm. As I was pulling it out a bit to see the pockets, I heard a woman's voice behind me saying,

"That skirt would look good on you."

Startled, I turned to see a woman I knew that I know, but I couldn't remember her name or how I know her, and could only assume that if I "knew" her, she knows me. (Remember, this is a small town.) She looked me straight in the eye, but she wasn't smiling. At all.

Flustered, I smirked and stammered something idiotic like, "Yeah, right" and averted my eyes. She didn't hang around to elaborate, so that was that, pretty much. I still don't know what it was all about, but I have to guess that perhaps she spotted me browsing the madras short-shorts earlier, and when she saw me ogling the skirt, she began putting 2 and 2 together. Oh boy.

A couple of months later, I desperately needed a new top to wear on a weekend date, and on Friday found myself in another hometown clothing store, pawing through racks, looking and waiting for inspiration to strike. It was early afternoon and quiet in the store, so I wasn't overly concerned about anyone seeing a man spending waaayy too much time looking at women's clothes. About my third lap around, a slender 40-ish lady in jeans stopped at a rack near me as I was examining a cute b & w graphic tee top. I held it up by the hanger to give it a better appraisal, not noticing that the lady had moved a little closer until she said,

"You should get that. It's a good look for you."

Startled once again, I turned to get a better look at her and saw that she was smiling in a friendly, open way. Summoning a tad more grace than last time, I managed to ask, "Do you really think so?"

She simply smiled quietly again, nodded and went about her business. No fuss, no muss, no drama. I was bemused, to say the least.

I'm not real sure what the moral of this story is, unless it's that if you do drop your guard even a little bit, you're probably gonna get noticed. Maybe busted, depending on your circumstances. If you can take the heat, by all means, welcome to the kitchen, but don't kid yourself, people do notice.

Addicted to visual

2010-07-16T19:42:00.003-05:00

As you can no doubt tell, I'm a big fan of cool music videos. I really like 'em now that I have my ultra cool new laptop with killer video and sound, and I have a long playlist on YouTube. All sorts, all genres (well, almost all genres), all moods. Love love love 'em. But if I could only take one with me to a deserted Gulf coast beach, this one has to be the one I'd toss in my bag. Shania's hotter than a welding arc performing a riveting strip tease, the boys make my knees weak even if they can't play a lick and it's witty, high-amp fun, with lots of nice little performance and editing touches. And how could I not love the title's play on words.

We, and Shania, owe a lot to Robert Palmer and director Terence Donovan for standing the MTV world on its ear back in 1986 with the fetishistic Addicted To Love, which borrowed heavily from Patrick Nagel's Deco-ish line drawing style artwork that graced Duran Duran lp jackets and Playboy pages. Btw, notice how much more fluid, sensual and in sync the girls' motions are than the guys in Shania's video.

Yeah, I know this stuff's older than dirt. But I also know it blows my skirt way, way up.

A seismic moment

2010-07-12T11:44:00.005-05:00

In his song Kodachrome, Paul Simon postulates that when it comes to sex, reality is no match for imagination. I know what he means, but then again, you can't know for sure without some field testing. I have often testified that the only fantasies that can hold my interest are the ones that might feasibly come to fruition. To that end, I'd say that the fantasies I've managed to experience in the last decade outnumber and out reach all the previous decades of my life put together, and I have learned that any fantasy realized has, at best, a 50-50 chance of living up to the dream. In other words, disappointments are not uncommon.

Sometimes it's not a flaw in the nature of the fantasy that results in a letdown, it's just that it can be difficult to put together or orchestrate the proper ingredients, participants, situation or what have you. That's why so many fantasists get stuck with living in their heads -- they get too picky, or too intricate.

I recently had the opportunity to realize one of my longest held fantasies, one I've always had some trepidation about, not knowing whether the reality would prove to be more intense than I could handle. It had to do, of course, with a form of situational bondage. I won't bore you with details you might or might not be able to relate to, but if you know me or have read some of my older posts you can probably guess the context. Anyway, for the first time, and with the aid of a dominant participant, I felt a collar around my neck, and the tug of a leash clipped to that collar, and the restraint of wrist cuffs behind my back. A good measure of control was being surrendered. I also felt the sting of a whip across my bare bottom and legs, as well as the lash of bending to someone else's will and desire. It literally made my knees weak and my legs tremble.

The situation wasn't exactly optimum but it was in the ball park. My collaborator wasn't my dream dom, but there was an acceptable level of shared interest and trustworthiness. If there's one thing I've learned about activating fantasies, it's that you have to be flexible or it might not ever happen. So did the reality live up to the fantasy? Well, let me put it this way: while it was taking place, and after it was over, one thought and feeling kept reverberating in my head ...

More.

Foursome anyone?

2010-07-12T09:27:00.002-05:00

In a former life I played golf for two or three years, never very well but good enough to have fun. It's a good game played in nice surroundings, but it's a hard game. And a hot game in the summer if you're walking, and a man.

I was watching the Women's Open yesterday as Paula Creamer (no, I'm not making that up), the cute-as-a-button leader, played out the last few holes to clinch her victory. It looks so much more pleasant, and sexy, for a woman. Tan, toned legs, sexy short white skort, pink shoelaces on white shoes, fully accessorized with eye makeup, earrings, bracelets, painted nails, a pink ball cap and blonde ponytail. Even the graphite shaft of her driver was pink. That sexy legs-spread-ass-out stance as she addresses the ball. And the teaser little upskirts when she bends over to pick up her ball or squats to eye her line. I mean gee, how fun is that! And the fun lasts for hours. The Japanese girl wore gingham-checked short shorts that showed a tan line whenever she bent over, a fact that did not escape the notice of the commentators. As fans of women's beach volleyball can attest, not all spectator sports are created equal.

It sorta makes me want to take up the game again. I wonder if my breastforms will hamper my swing? And which tee box will they make me tee off from?

Give your locks some love

2010-07-09T14:59:00.002-05:00

I don't like spending a lot of money on hair, for several reasons. It's not that I don't value pretty hair, I do, and find it enormously attractive on others. And the right hairdo makes a big difference in how I look, or at least I like to think it does. But I don't like being extravagant with my gurly expenses cuz I'm not out enough to justify it, and I have to maintain two wardrobes. I don't like the fuss and bother of human hair wigs. And no matter how good or expensive a synthetic wig is, it's gonna wear out. Fact of life.

So not only do I not buy expensive wigs, I try to make the ones I do buy last as long as possible by taking care of them as best as I know how. I've learned a few tricks through trial and error, and judging from some 'dos I've seen in person, some gurls could use a couple of tips. Here are mine, worth every penny you're paying for them:

Read more ...

Be nice to your wig when not in use. Don't just wad it up and cram it in a drawer or bag. I remember a CDer from Lubbock visiting me one time who literally, I kid you not, dug her wig out from under pickup seat and crammed it on her head without so much as shaking it out. It looked like a rat's nest, nastiest looking hair I have ever seen. Oh-my-god-Becky.

I wish I had a big walk-in closet dedicated to my femme wardrobe, with my wigs arranged neatly on stands, but I don't. Short of that, the best solution I've come up with is to keep them wrapped in hair nets and/or tissue paper and stored in their original cardboard boxes or individual paper bags. I don't like plastic bags cuz of the static electricity.

Keep your wig clean, but skip the rip-offs. Many wig sellers peddle special wig cleaning products. Wig shampoo and conditioners might make sense for human hair wigs, but then why not just use regular shampoo etc at a fraction of the cost? As for synthetic wigs, the key word here is synthetic. Get that? It's synthetic gurl, so forget everything you ever heard about shampoos and conditioners. It does not apply, cuz it's synthetic. (For that matter, most shampoo claims for real hair are nonsense, too.) What's more, there's nothing magic about those outrageously priced bottles wig vendors sell either.

So be nice to your pocketbook and use what I use: Woolite. Fill your sink with tepid water and a quarter capful of Woolite, immerse your freshly combed wig in the sudsy water and give it a gentle but thorough massaging, then let it soak for at least 15 minutes. I usually do that a couple of times, then I drain the sink and hold the wig under running tap water to rinse it out thoroughly, turning it every which way but still being very gentle. After that I refill the sink with clear water and let the wig soak for another 15 minutes, followed by a final rinsing.

After the bath, I gently squeeze (not wring ) the water out of the wig, give it a good shaking, then lay it out on a thick towel to air dry. Wig makers caution not to comb a wet wig so I take them at their word and wait until it's fairly dry, which brings us to ...

Keep your wig combed. Actually, I don't think it makes much difference whether you comb out a synthetic wig after you take it off or clean it, or before you put it on again, but I hate storing a tangled wig. Drives me nuts just thinking about it. Okay, so, do not use a brush on a synthetic wig. Get a wire pick comb or a wide-toothed plastic comb. Very important. And remember, a synthetic wig is pre-styled, so all you're doing is getting out the tangles. I'll get to restoring the styling in a bit.

Be gentle. I tend to become impatient, but if you comb it too hard you'll friz the hair and/or pull out strands. Work from the ends up, not the top down. Very important. A straight style is easier than curls and waves, so the latter takes a lot of time and effort, no way around it.

Keep your wig conditioned. Yeah, I know, this seems to contradict what I said earlier, but a synthetic wig does need conditioning, although conventional hair conditioners aren't really relevant here. Over time, the synthetic strands tend to lose their sheen, become charged with static electricity and lose their style a little bit. They also tend to get frizzy and matted around your collar and face -- wherever they rub against clothing or get touched a lot. Time for a little restoration, but anyone who tells you conditioners made for human hair work well for synthetic hair is delusional.

I confess that I do buy a wig care product for this task -- specifically, Henry Margu revitalizing mist, but only because I've been too lazy to try to formulate my own. As best I can tell, the operative ingredients are glycerin and alcohol -- I have no idea what all the other chemistry-sounding ingredients are. The things I like about the Margu mist are that it works, it's not aerosol, it's easy to use, it lasts quite awhile, and it has a clean, fresh, feminine fragrance that doesn't clash with my perfume. I get mine from the Breastform Store, and they also sell a Margu mousse that I'm interested in trying.

There is a trick here that makes a difference. The bottle's directions say to spray your wig and hang it up to dry. That's nonsense. I spray the whole wig, then give problem areas an extra dose, let it air just a little bit, then give the wig a thorough combing. IMO, this is in fact the very best time to comb your wig because it helps to coat each strand and the lubrication makes combing easier. Then I hang it up to dry.

But there's another trick that makes the biggest difference. Synthetic wigs tend to become packed and matted down close to the cap over time, even if you keep it clean and combed. Nothing screams "wig" louder than this awful packed matting that also tends to detract from the wig's original styling. Here's the solution. First, give your wig a very thorough combing to get out all the tangles before you condition it. Then hold your wig upside down and give it a good shaking. Still holding it upside down, spray it thoroughly with conditioner, then go to work with your wig comb right where the strands are attached to the cap, pulling the hair away from the cap and separating the individual strands. The wig has to be hanging upside for this to really work. Comb each section from the cap all the way to the ends, stopping to fix any tangles you encounter. It might take a half hour to do a good job of this, so refresh the hair with conditioner if it starts drying out. You will be amazed at how much difference this technique can make with an older wig, restoring its body and styling and giving it a healthy sheen again. This is by far the best secret I'm sharing here.

Get out the scissors when needed. Eventually, inevitably, no matter how well you take care of your synthetic wig, it's going to get frizzy ends in some areas, no way around it. The only solution is to trim away the damaged ends. Obviously this has to be done judiciously or you'll wind up with a pretty weird looking wig. If you don't have an eye for this sort of thing it might be better to take it a professional stylist.

Know when to let go. Wigs wear out. Synthetic wigs probably wear out faster than human hair wigs. Mine tend to thin out cuz I'm not as patient with the combing as I should be, but you can have the patience of Job and sooner or later the wig is just going to start looking bad and no amount of care is going to put the bloom back on the rose. When that time comes, learn to recognize it and be willing to toss the old 'do before people start wondering if you're a meth head.

Sexual terrorism

2010-07-07T13:32:00.003-05:00

I am mindful of STDs on those rare occasions when I get to have sex, but otherwise I confess that I don't give them a whole lot of thought. Heck, I think there are some "new" ones out there that I don't even know anything about. I just assume that SSSOPs (standard safe sex operating procedures) still suffice and go about the business at hand. It's worked so far, knock on, um, wood.

But some things have made me think about HIV more. For one, I've become aware, through the early deaths of members of our local gay community, that there is more HIV floating around here than I would have guessed. I mean, HIV is something that happens in New York, or Africa, not Amarillo. Right? Well, not true.

Read more ...
Here's another thing -- and boy did this one sober me up: shrinking the circumference of my little world even further, it has recently come to my attention that several of my closest gay friends are HIV positive. At least 5 that I know of for sure. This isn't a direct threat to me personally because I'm not having sex with any of them, but it does shock me, and make my heart hurt for them, and wonder what's in store for them. And it makes me realize that an inherent characteristic of a relatively small local gay community is to be rather, well, inbred in terms of STDs. If the dating pool is small but everyone is still pretty active, an STD can spread quickly, I should think. And that's the thing, people don't quit having sex when they contract an STD, even when they know. Horniness outweighs responsibility.

But the real shock is that one of them recently confessed that he has "full-blown AIDS", as he put it, shocking because I know for a fact that he is still sexually active in a promiscuous sort of way. Or at least he makes an effort to be on a pretty regular basis (I don't know how often he actually has sex). I have seen him cruising at the ABS, and he recently hit on me in a rather graphic sort of way. Even worse, during the conversation in which he revealed his illness to me, he seemed to be rather ill-informed about the disease and how it is transmitted, although I suspect that his ignorance is a tad deliberate and self-serving.

This just floors me. And scares the fuck out of me (not literally, but you know what I mean). Naive little me, I just assumed that sex was over for anyone with AIDS and not in a monogamous relationship, not because he's impotent but because he is morally compelled to cease and desist for fear of infecting someone. And if he feels no such moral compunction, isn't he something of a de facto sexual terrorist?

Am I overlooking something here? Shouldn't people like this be classified as sex offenders -- of the worst sort, when you think about it. I'm thinking he needs to be neutered and quarantined.

low-cal blogging

2010-07-07T12:26:00.001-05:00

I think one big reason I haven't posted here more often is the nagging feeling that I should write extensively, if not comprehensively, on the subjects I raise -- and that i should discuss "subjects" more than events or whims. I open a new entry window, pause at the blank screen, sigh at the prospect of writing and editing for two hours ... and close the window.
Well, I need to fix this situation or put this poor neglected blog out of its misery. I have several notions rolling around like marbles in my head so I'll take a stab at publishing them rather more succinctly than in the past, having disabused myself of the notion that I must monopolize your time ad nauseum. (Did you just do a fist pump?!?)

So ok, we'll see how it goes.

Why hookers don't kiss

2010-02-02T16:40:00.002-06:00

I was standing on my porch early this morning, sipping the first cup of coffee and watching dawn's light playing on the snow, thinking, of all things, about kissing. More specifically, about how long it's been since I've been kissed romantically.

It's been awhile.

On one side of the coin, this is due to divorce, advancing age and a non-existent dating life. The other side has to do with being a crossdresser ... and advancing age, a non-existent dating life, yada yada.

The fact is, Sherri has never been kissed romantically, at least the way I define the adjective. Oh I've been kissed alright, many times in fact, but it's always been the friendly peck of hello or goodbye, or the meaningless smear of horniness. Maybe one or two instances of exploratory attraction. But never the tender passion of love.

This led me to thinking about my introduction to gay life. Like most practicing heterosexuals, I used to view the sight of two men kissing as bizarre, maybe even a bit revolting (and like most practicing male heterosexuals, the sight of two women kissing as really cool). When I started dressing and frequenting gay clubs, seeing guys kiss and dance was just surreal, and for the life of me I couldn't grasp the attraction, especially when the participants weren't very attractive specimens.

As time rolled by and I became interested in gay sex, I still had reservations about the whole kissing thing. I wasn't opposed in principle, I just had my doubts that I'd like it. Consequently, I never initiated or responded well to kissing during what I lovingly refer to as my Slut Period -- a crazy quilt exploration of TG sexuality, homosexuality and the possibility (or improbability) of romance in a skirt. Think steamy, sordid, often anonymous -- and brief. I found out as much about what I don't like as what I do like, and one thing I definitely did not like was some uncouth guy interested only in the cheapest sort of gratification ramming his tongue into my mouth during the heat of the moment. It was so far from the romance I wished for that it actually sorta made my heart hurt a little bit. And besides, I'd have to have a crush on someone to put up with the stubble.

Still, I love gay sex, somewhat to my surprise, even if it doesn't come quite as instinctively as the hetero version. I was a quick study and my interest soon surpassed the obvious to encompass the more comprehensive package, so much so that I began to harbor secret wishes for a boyfriend. I've actually caught myself daydreaming about being held and kissed in a loving way by my (imaginary) boyfriend, and of course that leads to all sorts of wishful thinking.

As far as I know, my slutty days are behind me now. It has lost its appeal. But even if the urge for a wham-bam were to overtake me -- and who knows, a couple of drinks in the right mood, I guess it could happen -- no more kisses for guys who will probably forget about me before they even have their pants zipped up. Not only is that a major turn-off, it hurts. No, from now on, kisses are just for Mr. Special.

Which means my kissing days are probably over. :-)

Merry Christmas, y'all

2009-12-07T14:23:00.003-06:00

Do I even need to tell you how much I identify with this performance?

You noticed the little leg kicks, right? Mmmmm. A stirring rendition of an old chestnut, yes indeedy. And I was worried I wouldn't be able to get into the spirit of things this year. Btw, I have a huge bundle of those old-fashioned red Christmas lights stored away if anyone wants to come hold the ladder for me. *wink*

Ojo - boys

2009-11-05T14:19:00.012-06:00

Those of you who monitor Japanese culture are probably aware of this, but I just now heard. There is a portion of Japan's young men who are opting out of conventional gender roles in significantly overt ways. They are rejecting the Japanese work ethic and are cool with the consequences of that choice. They also are growing increasingly ambivalent about heterosexual relationships (which is not to say they are necessarily gay). And they just love clothes, especially clothes that are influenced by feminine styles. Some of them go so far as to wear makeup and dresses. The more interesting ones, however, are redefining fashion rather than merely exchanging one gender wardrobe for the other. Just look at Shinya Yamaguchi's creation at right. This is way edgier than metrosexual, which in comparison is dripping with testosterone.

And that's sort of the main thrust of this shift in fashion sense, taking a stand that boys can be pretty too. These pretty boys are being referred to alternately as "ojo-men" (translate "girly men") or -- and this is interesting -- "herbivorous males" (translate "grass-eaters"), presumably in contrast to the overtly masculine, red-blooded heterosexual meat gnawers we all want our men to be [sic]. Whatever you want to call them, they've got it going on, and they're bound to have a huge impact on traditional gender roles in societies around the world.

Or do they? Will they?

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Of course all this has folks buzzing. And worrying. And scrambling. You can read all about that by Googling the salient terminology (where you'll find articles like this one), but in case the news cycle expires before this post does, I'll hit the highlights for you. Essentially, all sorts of professional observers are being exercised, as they are wont to do, by this situation and feel compelled to sound off, as they are equally wont to do, with all manner of hand-wringing and authoritative pontification. It all boils down to this:

The money changers are worried sick that these ojo-slackers turning up their cute little noses at an onerous, unrewarding work ethic are going to bring the country to its economic knees.
The social engineers and moral arbiters, including academia, foresee the utter collapse of the family unit and decimation of the population because herbivorous males aren't all that convinced that chasing skirts is all it's cracked up to be.
Japanese women are a bit miffed that ojo-boys don't really give a rat's ass how girls think men should behave, and of course a shrinking dating pool can't make the little wenches happy either.
Peddlers of consumer goods are mystified that these boys appear to be content to opt out of the big ticket purchases intended to keep wage earners in hock their entire working lives. Aside from the killer outfits, ojo-men don't seem to be all that materialistic. Speaking of which ...
Designers and and marketers and merchants who are better time managers, rather than wasting any of it fretting over what herbivorous males won't buy, are scrambling to find out what they will buy. In other words, they recognize a new niche when they see one, and the more creative (and perhaps empathetic) ones figure they can even shape the demand.
And then there are, of course, TGs around the globe craning their necks out the ark's windows, waxing ecstatic that this colloquial phenomenon is another precious dove of hope, olive sprig in beak, portending a momentous culture shift of sensibility and acceptance for gender benders of all stripes in all cultures.

The lines are drawn
What makes this story so interesting is that it isn't just about fashion or gender or sexuality, much as we love those subjects. Ojo fashion appears to be inextricably linked to a general rejection of traditional roles as they apply to one's personal behavior and destiny.

Anti-establishmentism
First off, if you are, like me, old enough to recall the 60s "cultural revolution" here in the States, you may be thinking deja vu. Remember "turn on, tune in, drop out"? The era, if you can call it that, was in fact infused with an extreme dissatisfaction with the status quo. "The man" was our enemy. The Vietnam war and the draft were a moral outrage. And there just had to be more to life than a mind-numbing, soul-stealing, meaningless job, a mortgage and rigid social mores. It was time to act. Obviously, the reality didn't measure up to the ideal: to be honest, most of us were more preoccupied with getting high and getting laid than with taking the high road, and lo these many years later, the proof is in the pudding. Profound cultural change is exceedingly diffiecult and if you're not careful, you become the thing you once despised.

The money game is rigged
In most democratic / capitalist nations, a key tenet is that the hard-working, rule-observing citizen could count on a a reasonable quality of life and an acceptable measure of financial security. Here in the U.S., we call it the American dream. But as we settle into the 21st century, that tenet appears to be turning to bitter dust for many people. It's pretty easy to make a case that there is a self-serving socio-economic gov/corp construct in place that, left to its natural inclination toward greed and manipulation, will eventually rob the worker bees of their hive and drive them to rebellion. Some people, especially young people, are going to say this game sucks, deal me out. You can take your 7:00 am corporate calisthenics and company slogan chants and shove 'em. They were so lame anyway.

Win the battle and lose the war
In this post-feminist era, women are getting on men's nerves. They bristle and snarl when men try to influence, well, anything regarding women's role(s) in the endless dance of the sexes, yet they don't hesitate to shrilly quote chapter and verse from their self-serving manifesto about how they think men should think and feel and behave. Even worse, they themselves appear to be thinking and behaving like men more all the time without realizing (or is it caring?) how unappealing that is to many men. Herbivorous males seem to be reacting by saying, "Know what? You're becoming less and less attractive all the time, and I'm not at all sure you're worth the trouble. In fact, I think I can have more fun playing with myself. But let's do lunch sometime." Game over.

What are you lookin' at?
Gender bending kids are, in a way, in an enviable position: they essentially have only themselves to worry about. They haven't started careers or families, so their choices don't affect anyone but themselves. That, and kids actually enjoy shocking people, getting attention. Even if they do encounter some prejudice, that only reinforces the validity of their, um ... what's the Japanese word for chutzpah? Besides, mirrors are so much more fun now.

But if they thought that high school peer pressure was tough, just wait until the real world starts working on them. The pressure to conform never lets up no matter how old you are, and the stakes can get much higher. That's when we'll find out which ones really mean it.

My take on all this
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
A sense of disenfranchisement is inevitable when working class people can't make ends meet, let alone have a nice life, in return for an honest day's work. Greedy corporations like it like that, of course, and naturally they're going to wag their fingers in disapproval when their minions start challenging the status quo. But fuck 'em, one way or another, we've got to get back to a livable wage for ordinary people, especially in light of the extraordinary dedication that Japanese companies demand. The stock market has no conscience, so nothing's changing 'til enough people push back -- or opt out.

But bailing out of "the system" entirely can have long-range consequences. One of these days these kids are gonna look up and they're 39, with no prospects, and realize they've had their heads clear up their asses. For the average guy, it's tough to make up that lost ground. When they attempt to rectify things, the system will have them by the balls more than ever. Maybe they should be thinking about Plan B, whatever that is, right now. I guess what I'd like them to know is that the rebellious passions of youth rarely have staying power, at least in that pure form they imagine to be inviolable. The system is going to change you, or else you'll wind up a homeless person. So better to change it what little you can now, while you have the chance, before it starts in on you. And just so you know, it's tough to exert any lasting pressure from the outside looking in.

You're not the boss of me
"Okay women of the [democratic Westernized] universe, you've carved out your stake in the man's world (although why you'd want it is beyond me), so lighten the fuck up. And get off my back. You don't have a penis between your legs and you never will, so quit trying to tell me who and what a man is supposed to be. There is a limit to what I will put up with. Got it? You're hard enough to put up with when you're trying to be nice. Sheesh. Speaking of which, if I can't get what I need from you, then I'll just do it myself."

Well, presumably that's more or less the logic underscoring the herbivorous male's disenchantment with The Dating Game. To which I can only respond with, wow, things must be getting pretty bad if that's what it's come to, given a twenty-something's raging hormones. And I gotta say I can understand -- understand their frustration, understand their fascination with being pretty themselves. And I totally get acting out that which I find lacking in my life. But ...

Ultimately, unchecked narcissism is a lose-lose propostition. Maybe putting a little distance between the sexes is what it will take to iron things out, I dunno. Whatever, one is a lonely number, sooner or later. And true narcissists eventually alienate everyone around them -- out of exhaustion, if nothing else. Cuz they go crazy, basically.

So I guess I'm saying, I just don't think alienation is a viable long-range strategy. And mind you, I'm saying that as someone who could be content replacing a her with a him, given the chance. But him or her, it needs to be someone other than me. If any society devolves into a culture of onanists, weirdness can't be far off.

You say you want a revolution
Oh my, how TGs do love waxing ecstatic over the latest portent of social acceptance, and the hubbub over ojo-men is no exception. For one thing, we just love someone else doing the heavy lifting for us, especially when it's The Next Generation, with such strong backs and so full of promise of the brave new world that we failed to achieve ourselves.

Well, it just so happens that in this instance I sort of agree with the optimists. It's not that I believe that ojo-boys constitute a tsunami of culture-changing influence, or that even if they did, their rising tide will raise all ships. But I do believe that collectively, all these bubbles and burps of awareness can eventually help general society get over its gender rigidity to the point of being much more tolerant, if not accepting. Sorta like boiling a frog. * Two caveats, however:

Herbivorous males are not drag queens/trannies. Both groups can conceivably serve each other's interests, but crossdressers and transsexuals are still gonna have to do their own legwork. Sorry.
By and large, kids could care less what our agendas are. If some of them do happen to take up the cause, you can bet your bippy they will have their own motives and their own way of doing things. Their iterations may only vaguely resemble ours, if that. And in bottom-up, youth-worshiping cultures such as ours, their social assimilation may be of only marginal benefit to their predecessors. In other words, we may be on our way to becoming old school. Sorry.

**********

In researching this story, I happened across this video about Japanese maid cafes and couldn't resist including it here. Another bubble, perhaps? Whatever it is, I'd love to play.

**********

* The folk wisdom being that if you toss a frog into a scalding pot of water, he will hop right back out, but gently place Mr. Hoppy into tepid water and slowly bring it to a boil and he will not notice the difference until it's too late.

Semper gumby *

2009-10-21T14:53:00.003-05:00

Pristine recently posted a Levi's ad on her blog featuring a TG (there's a link to her in the left column). Well that led me to browsing commercials on YouTube, which eventually led me to this one:

I still haven't figured out what they're peddling here, but as far as I'm concerned, it would work just fine making a case for bi-sexuality. Why eliminate 50% of the indigenous population? Even if you have your favorite, sometimes you just gotta work with what you got. I mean, it's more fun than doing without. Way more. ;-)

* Semper gumby = always flexible

Gettin cheeky for Halloween

2009-10-20T09:49:00.014-05:00

Halloween 2009 will be the first time since I was a little kid to wear a costume to a costume party. I'd luv to throw lots of money at the situation for an ultra glam or ultra exotic outfit, but since I can't do that, I'm opting for that good ole cheap and easy cliche, Daisy Duke. And besides, when else will I have the opportunity to show so much leg without getting ejected from the premises for public indecency? I've already fashioned some ultra short denim cutoffs from a pair of jeans a la the photo at left and run them through the wash/dry cycle a couple of times to get the fringe thing going, and you can be sure I'm gonna starch and iron those bad girls to keep everything in its proper place. For the top, I've been deliberating between homage to Al Kapp's original Daisy Mae in the Lil Abner strip as fleshed out on stage and screen, or the classic Catherine Bach of Dukes of Hazard, um, fame.

Since I lack the blonde hair or creamy white shoulders or convincing decolletage of Daisy Mae in her little gravity defying polka dot number, I think I'll opt for a cute l/sl shirt I spotted at NY&Co, tied at the midriff, which I'm working on as we speak (the midriff, I mean). :-P As for the legs and butt, it's time to cash in on all the cycling this summer.

What are you gonna wear to the party?

*****

Update -- while out walking this afternoon I stopped in a thrift shop to browse the racks and guess what I found. Yup, a cute pink and white striped l/sl Liz Claiburne shirt in just my size, tailored just the way I like them, perfect for my Daisy costume. Price = a buck fifty. That's pretty much my entire cost for the whole outfit since my shorts were made from jeans I already had. I mean, we're talking zero carbon credits expended here. In this economy and the new recycling sensibility, I think I should win the costume contest on those merits alone, if it weren't for the fact that if anyone asks I'll probably say I paid 60 for the shirt and 45 for the shorts. ;-) Just tried it all on with some wedge heels and my new shoulder-length brunette wig and gotta say, pretty cute! This is gonna be fun.

Now where can I find some fake navel piercing jewelry ...

Adios mi amiga

2009-10-18T11:26:00.013-05:00

Here in the cultural hinterlands, finding TG friends to hang out with is tough. 99.9% of the time, when I go out to the clubs or wherever, I'm the only crossdresser in the joint. That circumstance isn't the burden it once was now that I've finally managed to make a few friends (even if they're just bar friends) and establish a smidgen of credibility among the GL>BT rank and file, but still, it's just human nature to seek out our own kind, right? I've known quite a few CDs in this area and spent time with several, but there always seems to be something fleeting about those relationships. Far and away the longest and most stable was with my friend Reana. And now Reana is gone, too.

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We met online and kept a lively correspondence going in fits and starts as various topics engaged our interest. Eventually she drove to Amarillo from her home near Childress and we made the rounds of the clubs, me serving as her guide, becoming good friends even if all we really had in common was CDing. She would return every two or three months, we'd hit the bars til closing time then sit up all night talking. She loved to talk. We kept an online dialog going in between her visits.

Reana was a little older than me, never married, successful in business, very tall and slender, quirky but interesting, meticulous, arbitrary and stubborn in her thinking. It was hard to make her laugh but she smiled a lot, had beautiful teeth and was good at makeup, although she was hyper-critical of the latter. She liked making friends but kept her emotional distance. She loved cars, car shows, car collecting. And she loved crossdressing. An entire bedroom in her home served as her wardrobe room. She preferred very short belted sweater dresses, 5-inch heels, blonde page boy wigs, pantyhose and big silver purses. She liked traveling to Houston to get makeovers and attend events hosted by Vanity Wilde. The last time she did that (2007 Halloween weekend) she fulfilled one of her oldest and fondest fantasies -- to dress up as Elvira. She was too self-conscious about her height and inability to pass to go anywhere but the clubs in full drag, but when traveling she liked to wear girl's jeans, eye makeup and moccasins.

Reana had one of the oddest fetishes I've ever encountered -- she loved ballet-type slippers and beaded moccasins, found them highly erotic. (If you're interested, you can learn more at her Flickr profile.) She had slippers custom made for her in Mexico, had dozens if not hundreds of pairs, mostly gold and silver, even had them in various sizes so she could give them to friends. She gave me some and even though I never understood the fetish, I wore them occasionally just to please her. We were both bi-sexual but we were also both bottoms, so sex was never part of our relationship -- or rather, it never went farther than modeling for each other and discussing our fantasies (and some of my exploits). We rocked along like that for a couple of years.

Then about a year and a half ago, I temporarily lost my mind and decided I was through with CDing (but that's another story). I mailed Reana a few of my things I knew she would like and got rid of the rest. I made it clear to Reana that this did not mean the end of our friendship as far as I was concerned, but in light of CDing being our only commonality, interest waned and we effectively lost touch. My bad.

Months later, when I had regained my senses, I emailed Reana but received no reply, which was not like her at all as she was a very conscientious correspondent. Finally, I called her, first at home with no answer, then at her business. As soon as she answered and discovered who was calling, she started crying, which was also very much out of character for her. I wouldn't have believed anything could make Reana cry. I instantly knew something was terribly wrong.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Oh my god, you have cancer don't you?"

A long pause as she struggled to regain her composure, then a quiet, "Yes."

She had lung cancer, even though she'd never smoked in her life, and it was spreading fast. The prognosis was so dismal the doctors didn't even recommend treatment beyond pain management. She had elected to pursue chemotherapy, but it wasn't working. Reana was only 60 years old.

By the time I reestablished contact, Reana was too ill to dress or get out much. She had lost the will to dress but grieved its loss, so much so that I was reluctant to even bring up the subject unless she pressed me for details of my own activities, and whenever she did so I offered to come get her and bring her to Amarillo for an outing but, ever vain, she was too self-conscious about her failing appearance and she really didn't have the strength. I began calling her by her male name and started using mine in our conversations. We never saw each other again. I called every week or two until it became apparent that talking was exhausting for her, so I cut back to once every month or so. The last time I talked to her she was in great pain and close to being bed-ridden, not even going to her office any more.

Then she didn't answer her phone in July. Or August. I finally called her business and was told she had passed away in late June. And that was that.

Her numbers were still on my cell phone and it felt so strange not to be able to dial her up. I only just now could bring myself to delete her name from my phone. Like a fool I had returned her slippers to her when I purged, knowing it would displease her if they weren't being used, and now I wish I could wear them in her memory. I think about her every time I get dressed, usually as I'm driving to Amarillo, or sitting in the club wishing I had her to talk to. I don't think Reana would have missed me as much if it had been me who had passed, and I doubt she would have ever thought to memorialize me, but I don't care. That was just how she was, and I am who I am. I miss my friend, and it breaks my heart that she knew such terrible sadness at the end.

**********

Saturday night at the club, I learned that Frankie, a long-time member of the local gay community and intermittent employee of the 212 Club, passed away a few days ago. He had been fighting cancer a long time, had beat it back into remission only to see it return with a vengeance. In appearance, he looked to my eyes like a character Gary Trudeau (Doonesbury creator) might draw. Frankie was such a sweet guy, always so nice to me back when I first started dressing and exploring the gay world. He would walk me out to my car if I felt insecure. I'll never forget him giving me a drink on the house one night when I felt so alone, like I'd never fit in. He spoke up for me when catty gays talked behind my back, and he would warn me away if he saw a guy hitting on me who might be trouble. Nothing much got past Frankie, and he cared. I hate it that he's gone. Bye Frankie.

Oh what a feeling -- or not

2009-10-16T12:51:00.011-05:00

I was well into my twenties before I ever experienced fellatio for the first time, and I must say I was an immediate fan. I will be forever grateful to the young lady so gracious as to introduce me to that distinctive pleasure. I've always enjoyed foreplay -- to the progressive point that I now place as much value on it as I do on consummation -- so in the ensuing years I made it apparent to my partners (all of whom were female) that I preferred that we make blowjobs a routine part of our methodology. I never saw any reason to drop it from the play book. Sure, some of the original thrill may have worn off over the years, but I never tired of the experience. Which is sorta puzzling because in all those years of head, I rarely if ever was stimulated to the point of orgasm by fellatio, that is until I eventually paired up with a woman generous and uninhibited enough to help me discover the right combination of stimuli to achieve that most elusive and fleeting state of nirvana ...

...

But I digress. We must leave off here and fast-forward in this fascinating personal history to my introduction to the vagaries of gay sex -- and one of the many naive misconceptions I brought to the playing field, namely the presumption that a guy, by virtue of sharing the same anatomy as his partner and having himself been the recipient of fellatio, can perform same better than any woman could ever hope to do. It just seems logical. And intuitive. I can just see the uninitiated among you nodding your heads in agreement.

So imagine the dewy little rainbow-colored droplets of surprise splattered all over my face when that particular bubble burst.

Read more ...
Yup, you heard me right. I would not have believed it going in, and I seriously do not want it to be true, but I gotta tell ya, I am compelled by empirical evidence to conclude that women are better at giving head than are men. In other words, comparatively speaking, men suck at sucking.

Inject disclaimer here
I know, I know, I'm painting with a broad brush stroke here, and admittedly my experience lacks the depth and breadth of many (perhaps most) gays and bi guys. After all, I haven't had that many "partners" and I've never been involved in a gay LTR, so I'm definitely extrapolating from a relatively small sampling. And in all fairness, I have to admit that a guy once gave me a blowjob that was as good as any I've ever had -- a very intense experience that was both exciting and satisfying.

Resume diatribe
But these caveats do not alter the fact that 90% of the guys I've done the wild thang with left a lot to be desired in the fellatio department; in fact, they were pathetic, just pathetic. In some cases, I couldn't really tell they were doing anything. I would look down and confirm that yes, they did indeed have my cock in their mouths, and there did appear to be some physical motion involved, but any other form of sensory input was negligible. Trying to be gracious, I would think to myself, "Well, maybe he's just keeping it warm for me, isn't that thoughtful". Whenever he looked up into my eyes, I would smile sweetly and ask, "Do you mind if I smoke?" Even when the guys show some aptitude, rarely does it approach the level of pleasure served up by the more enthusiastic women I've known.

So how to explain this disparity? Well, I've been thinking about it and here's what I've come up with:

I suspect that some of the male partners I've had just aren't that experienced, for whatever reason. Maybe they're newbies, or maybe they don't get much, or maybe this is a sideline departure from their hetero life. I'd go so far as to say some guys are more than a little conflicted about being a cocksucker.

A lot of guys, being guys, are more engrossed in the fact that they are sucking cock than with what the experience is like for the recipient. Sort of like, "Oh boy, I have a cock in my mouth!" rather than, "Oh yeah, I'm driving him crazy with pleasure!"

Too few men understand that giving head isn't just about sucking. There's a lot more that can be going on with the hands and the bodies during fellatio. And there's also the matter of being sexy while you're doing it, of looking good and sounding good and exuding an air of amped up sexuality.

Too often, sex between men is just wham-bam, with no romance or relationship involved. That's certainly been true in my case, which is not to say I prefer it that way. I get all sorts of gushy feelings welling up when I have sex, but rarely do I sense that being reciprocated.

Given the anatomical and genital differences between men and women, I think many women are intrigued with our equipment to the extent that they approach the vocation with a fascination born of the difference, not in spite of it. They're more focused precisely because our cocks are so different from their own equipment and they love finding out what makes it happy. Plus women's sexuality tends to be more subtle and nuanced than men's, and they're more in tune with what's going on with their partners. And there may be a little mothering going on, I dunno.

Women are more patient than men.

The net result of this phenomenon is that I would much rather give head than receive it. More than half the guys who hit on me make it known that they're hot to go down on me, and I usually let them, but my expectations, and along with them my enthusiasm, are pretty low. Keeps me from being disappointed, I guess. If they ask me beforehand what i like to do, I talk about giving pleasure, never about receiving it.

Speaking of which, now that I too am a card-carrying member not only of the male and female genders, but also of the Cocksucker Club, how do I stack up? Am I any better at giving head than the guys I've been bitching about? The short answer is that I'd have to say yeah, I am, but the long answer is that there's definitely been a learning curve involved, and to those who have had to suffer through my apprenticeship, I apologize.

Judging from the behavior of my partners and my success ratio (success equaling orgasm, or at least a suitable level of satisfaction), I can only surmise that my first few attempts were abysmal. Not only was I not bringing them to climax, they tended to pull the plug before I was ready to quit, out of boredom or frustration, I presume. Even when I started getting better, I was only batting, oh, say, .150. For one thing, I was as guilty of the "oh boy I have a cock in my mouth" syndrome as anyone. But then I had a breakthrough, an epiphany, the catalyst being the recollection of the techniques of a couple of women in my past who were particularly adept at fellatio. Firing up the synapses, I meditated on the their techniques, mannerisms and the levels of pleasure they seemed to be giving and receiving. Once I learned to incorporate those methods and components into my own cocksucking, along with my own creative twists, my stats shot way up. In all modesty, I have to say my average has gotta be up around .700 these days. Not bad for a relative rookie, and I owe it all to women.

Addendum
I don't have to strain very hard to guess that some guys reading this might object, perhaps strenuously. You may challenge the notion of fellator inferiority as patently absurd. To which I can only say ...

... yeah well, prove it.

A toasty pan of chestnuts

2009-10-16T11:56:00.007-05:00

A friend asked me to connect to her Yahoo thingy, which sort of necessitated that I update my Yahoo thingy (I don't really like Yahoo much, but oh well). In the About Me stuff was a place to cite favorite quotes, so I got out my Moleskine ... while I'm at it, I thought I'd quote a few here just for grins:

Everybody is somebody's fool. -- Orson Welles, from the movie Lady Shanghai

There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything. -- Don DeLilo, Underworld

It is interesting to think of the great blaze of heaven that we winnow down to animal shapes and kitchen tools. -- Don DeLilo, Underworld

She's a shotgun rider, but she don't open no gates. -- Death Cab Cutie

There is no real way to deal with everything we lose. -- Joan Didion

Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. -- Paul Theroux quoting Pico Iyer quoting an anonymous source

I wanna do right, but not right now. -- Gillian Welch, Look At Miss Ohio

The beatings will continue until morale improves. -- Floyd

Happy endings are stories that haven't finished yet. -- a line from Mr. & Mrs. Smith

How many things have to happen before something occurs to you? -- Robert Frost

Every day of freedom is like an act of faith. -- line from Defiance

The heart has its reasons that reason knows not of. -- Pascal

When your heart speaks, take good notes. -- Judith Campbell

There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you? -- Rumi

It is really this that makes death so hard: curiosity unsatisfied. -- Beryl Markham, West With the Night

No human pursuit achieves dignity until it can be called work, and when you can experience a physical loneliness for the tools of your trade, you see that the other things - the experiments, the irrelevant vocations, the vanities you used to hold - were false to you. -- Beryl Markham, West With the Night

The more we know of particular things, the more we know of God. -- Spinoza

God punishes the ones He loves most. -- Ukraine saying

I was violating my standards faster than I could lower them. -- Robin Williams

You are young and smart and you have a bright future. Andy on a good day thinks maybe he's smart. -- a female detective on NYPD Blue speaking to an assistant DA who'd just had a heated exchange with Andy Sipowitz

Everything in life involves a trade-off. -- me

Makin' that belt buckle shine, shine, shine

2009-08-24T10:11:00.008-05:00

Since I was never much for the bar scene prior to the onset of my crossdressing, it was with some surprise that I discovered a fondness for getting out on the dance floor in a skirt. For one thing, it relieves the boredom of sitting around drinking and making small talk. For another, it's fun. I find I'm able to let go and allow the experience to take over in a way I've never really felt as a guy, I think because as a gurl I can dance the way my body wants to move, in ways that most people might find unbecoming in a guy.

I first tested the waters at a gay club that leans pretty heavily toward a techno / rap / r&b mix -- music that I never much cared for, but which can feel good on the dance floor. I'm usually the only CD in a gay club that just tolerates me in their midst, so it's not like my dance card stays full, but occasionally an intrepid soul would invite me to dance and I was soon hooked. I've even been known to dance alone if a partner can't be found, just letting the groove take over, a wallflower determined not to let the frustrating status quo rob her of a little bon ton roulez, trying to ignore the longing growing inside me to be held in a man's arms while tripping the light fantastic.

Somewhere along the line a friend introduced me to another club, the Kicked Back -- a laid-back, predominantly lesbian club that regularly attracts a few gays and straights too. The club had a good DJ who played a mix of musical genres, including a liberal sprinkling of country songs that are popular with the crowd. Interestingly, among the regulars at the bar are several gay and lesbian couples who are phenomenally good country-and-western dancers, which around here means two-stepping. I was immediately captivated by the way the couples glide round and round the dance floor and secretly longed to participate even though I'd never tried it and was resigned to the likelihood that I would never have the opportunity to learn. Then a couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the bar visiting with Ed the owner, when an exotic looking gay named Eric, whom I had seen in various clubs from time to time, sidled up beside me to order a drink and struck up a conversation, introducing me to his new lover, Mike, and small-talking about this and that. Eric invited me to join them at a table with friends Wendell, Logan and Jay, the same guys (except for Jay and Mike, who don't dance) who've often mesmerized me with their dancing skills. During the conversation I complimented them effusively on their dancing and remarked upon how much fun it looked (hint, hint).
Read more ...
Well, Eric was too preoccupied with his lover to take the hint, and Wendell has always been rather cool toward me, I assume because I'm a CD. But late in the evening Logan, who I would soon learn is a real sweetheart, unexpectedly took me by the hand and guided me to the dance floor as I protested that I didn't know how. Waving off my insecurity, Logan showed me the basics and soon we were moving, if not gliding, around the floor. I was embarrassed by my own clumsiness in the company of such an accomplished dancer, but I was also oh so thrilled. I loved it. By night's end we had danced several numbers, me improving ever so slightly each time, and even Wendell, without preamble, took me for a spin or two. It was so fun, and god I hoped this would be only the beginning and not the end of a new-found pleasure. And maybe it will be -- on two outings since then the guys have furthered my education on the dance floor and I'm starting to get the hang of it, if I do say so mayself. Actually, last Saturday night Logan was praising my progress, predicting to his mates that I had the makings of a first-rate dancer. High praise indeed from one so talented.

My online research has revealed there are a gazillion kinds of country dancing as practiced in the kicker bars that dot the landscape around the country, and within that genre a subset of several styles of two-stepping, the variations having mostly to do with footwork. But the basic premise is the same for most two-stepping: the dancers embrace in closely held ballroom-style with the man leading the pair around the perimeter of the dance floor in a specific pattern of steps. In the version I'm learning, the first step is back (to the man's right) followed in quick succession by two steps forward (the man's left). Simple enough, of course. The skill comes in two parts: 1) you have to be smoooooooth, baby, the goal being to appear to glide as if floating on a cushion of air: and, 2) the flourishes. The flourishes I've learned so far consist of the couple whirling as one in one direction or the other, clockwise or counter-clockwise, or backward or forward, all without missing a step; and twirling. For the latter, the steps are interrupted at the man's discretion so that he can twirl the girl in a pirouette, then she twirls him in the same fashion, repeating as many times as he wants before resuming the two-step. There are many variations on the whirling and twirling, but you get the idea. During a fast-paced song, this can get to be downright aerobic, almost like jitterbugging, a real workout and sooo much fun.

Needless to say, there is lots of body contact during all this. In fact, Logan has taught me two versions, one for fast songs and one for slow songs. In the slow version, the correct technique requires that the girl literally straddle the man's right leg -- I kid you not -- so that her leading foot stays on the inside of his (her right foot inside his left), his right arm tight around her waist to hold her closely in that position. This feels really, really good, especially with a gifted partner (I'll leave it to you to interpret that). I found myself wishing the song would last an hour. If you've ever heard the expression about making a cowboy's belt buckle shine, this is what that's all about -- the cowboy's version of dirty dancing, perfected decades before today's kids started their vulgar grinding.

Another thing I've learned is all about the girl's role in dancing, which requires her to be very versatile, adapting to different partners' individual techniques on demand. For example, Logan is very smooth and guides primarily with his left hand -- he signals tempo and rhythm and direction and flourishes that way. Wendell, on the other hand, is a more visceral dancer with a syncopated stepping style, more forceful with the flourishes; to follow him, I have to concentrate my senses on his lower torso, which tells my body what he intends to do. They're both great dancers, and both styles are fun, it's just a matter of the girl intuiting the man's preferences. Of course being gay, Logan and Wendell and Eric are equally adept at leading and following on the dance floor, and I think Logan intends to teach me how to lead, but honestly, I adore following so much I'm in no hurry.

Which brings me to maybe one more point to make before closing. The evolution continues. Eight years of crossdressing have literally transformed me in ways I never anticipated. I was thinking about it the other day while out cycling -- I'm not the same person I was, regardless of what I happen to be wearing, where I am, who I am interacting with. People who know me well but don't know about Sherri have commented on the changes, and they don't know the half of it. I know I'm belaboring the obvious, but I think back to my first forays into gay culture, a practicing heterosexual going to gay bars because I was afraid to go to straight venues, and how surreal it seemed to me to see boys dancing with boys ... and now here I am shining buckles. What I love most about it is surrendering to the guy's control, stepping lightly to his beck and call. It feels like a truth that's always been, no less true all along just because I hadn't yet discovered it. I know it is just the tip of the iceberg, even if I never get the chance to plumb the depths of it all.

Boo boop e doo

2009-03-27T16:35:00.007-05:00

I recently came into possession, quite by serendipity, of a wonderful Betty Boop snow globe that now resides atop my bedroom TV, a nostalgic reminder of my earliest memories of prurient stimulation.

When I was a little kid, we were glued to the tube on Saturday mornings watching cartoons, back in the heyday of cartoons -- I'm talking Warner Brothers here, not this nonsense they try to pass off on TV these days. Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner ... the good stuff. On a good day we'd also get some 30s/40s era Little Rascals in the mix and we're locked in, settling down in our jammies with another bowl of cereal for an extended session before the siren call of the outdoors eventually won out.

Some of that old 30s/40s cartoon stuff looked pretty weird to our "modern" sensibilities, and seems still so today, remembering back. Not all of it could hold our attention, at least not without considerable grousing, but on the rare occasions when Betty Boop hit the screen, I was riveted, not because of the story lines (which were usually ridiculous) or the caliber of the artwork (which couldn't hold a candle to Warner Brothers' or Disney's), but because Betty Boop was such a bimbo, and proud of it. Styled after the Roaring 20s flapper fashion, those micro dresses, those stiletto heels, that mesmerizing garter, that strut -- I couldn't take my pre-pubescent eyes off her and more often than not, my rapt attention was rewarded with a good look at her panties topping off those long, bare legs, victimized as she was by a rogue breeze or a mischievous pet or an oily bad guy. Oh, how I loved to see Betty voyeuristically compromised.

I've never undergone therapy, but I'm pretty sure that the roots of my post-pubescent, life-long fascination with legs, short skirts and exhibition can be traced back to Betty Boop on black-and-white Saturday morning television. Maybe it's because I've always been a bit over-sexed, with hyper-attenuated receptors perhaps, but I'm inclined to think it is difficult to overestimate the power of suggestion an animated bimbo can make on a impressionable young libido.

Wanker Hill

2009-01-26T16:03:00.007-06:00

As serendipity would have it, I have seen several British isles movies lately -- The Girl In The Cafe, Trainspotting, and In Bruges. Besides being entertaining, they have been educational on several levels due to my overall ignorance about our contemporary British/Scottish/Irish cousins. In particular, the love of conversation and the wittiness therein is refreshing to these American ears accustomed to the general dumbing down of language that's been going on in the US for several decades. And too there is the overall dryness and snarkiness of the wit, even biting at times. So make no mistake about it, I intend to appropriate some of what I've learned for my own personal use, and the first word I intend to employ at every opportunity is "wanker". I love that word and the disdain it conveys.

Literally, "wanker" is English slang for masturbator (to wank), and while it nearly always retains that inchoate connotation, its pervasive reference has been shifted to reference what Americans might refer to as a jerk (or jerk-off). With a little contextual massaging, it may also refer to egotists, snobs, narcissists, ignoramuses, idiots and pretentious assholes. It's the word I've been searching for as I contemplate my growing list of human foibles. I don't just love this word, I need it.

For my first utilization of record, in any conversation you might have with me regarding or making mention of the US Congress, "Capitol Hill" will henceforth be known as "Wanker Hill".

The nature-loving sissy

2009-01-14T11:02:00.012-06:00

Talk about your niche marketing. On one of the online crossdresser forums, a well-intentioned poster is promoting a new forum catering to TGs interested in camping, the idea ultimately being to attract enthusiasts and organize group camping trips for guys in feminine attire. My initial reaction is to wonder if the forum will ever draw more than a handful of active members. I mean, when you consider that a crossdressing forum of any sort will interest only a fraction of the general population, and narrow that down to CDs who are actually brave enough to venture out in public, then further pare the crowd down to those interested in camping, and finally weed out the ones who will never do more than talk about it -- well, I'm thinking crowd control is not going to be an issue. Coupled with zero marketing budget and a smattering of qualifying enthusiasts scattered all over hell and gone, you've got yourself an exercise in frustration, gurlfriend. Which isn't to say I think the concept is without merit; I actually think it's a great idea, at least in theory. It's so meritorious that I've actually done it, and am here to report that it's a hoot.

A couple of years ago, late in the trout season (mid-October), I answered the siren's call and packed my gear, headed for the mountains. My eyes were tired of flat plains and longed for some topographic elevation; I needed to once again smell pine needles; and besides, I was overdue a road trip. Only this time, my impromptu plans entailed two variations: 1) being solo and on a strict budget, I really couldn't justify renting a cabin like I usually do, so I would be camping out; and 2) along with all my camping and flyfishing gear, my car trunk held my Sherri bags. I wasn't exactly sure how the gurl-wear would factor into the scenario, but I figured I could wing it. Which is to say, as soon as I was well out of town, I pulled over to change into my denim miniskirt and the full compliment of accessories, and for the duration of the trip I spent as much time en femme as possible.

Those of you who travel in TG mode know that it makes things infinitely more entertaining. But that's another subject. As I was soon to discover -- well, six hours later -- camping en femme is also a delight. Being so late in the season, most of the campgrounds high up in the beautiful New Mexico river canyon were empty, and I had no trouble finding a cozy camp site off the beaten path, complete with a three-sided shelter and fireplace, all to myself, with very little traffic on the nearby road. I busied myself with setting up the tent and outdoor kitchen, making a comfy bed, stowing my things in their proper places, hanging up the sunshower and starting a campfire. (Can you tell I'm a nester?) Soon all was squared away, so I changed from tennies to wedge heels, banked the coals and set a steak to sizzling while I sipped a little whiskey, establishing a routine that served me well during my stay. Speaking as a former backpacker, and a rather purist backpacker at that, I can say unequivocally that in comparison, car-side camping is downright decadent. Omg, what a difference a big ice chest and cookstove make! And of course wardrobe options are greatly expanded. Most of that week I didn't do the whole hair/makeup/etc thing, being content with casual feminine attire and just a touch of eyeshadow and lipstick, something in between girl and boy but decidedly sissy. It felt very, well, natural.

The next morning, I arose in the chilly air and made breakfast, then sipped coffee while I readied my flyfishing gear. I performed the ablutions, changed into layered tops, short-short denim cut-offs and tennis shoes, touched up my lipstick, then drove to a likely looking fishing spot where I donned hip waders and fishing vest. I can't tell you how much I loved wading out into the stream in my short-shorts and waders, with a couple of inches of bare thigh showing above the waders, and I won't pretend it wasn't arousing, so much so that I could scarcely focus on my casting. As the day warmed up I shed the hoodie, fully aware that my breast(forms) were much more noticeable that way. I was equally aware of what impression I would make on anyone passing by, but I considered that unlikely, and besides, I just didn't care. In fact, I sort of hoped it would happen -- and eventually it did. On the second day, I had hiked far up a tributary stream and was busy working a beautiful little hole when another fisherman ambled by on the creek bank. Without missing a beat in my casting, I smiled and said hi; he did a double-take, returned my greeting and kept moving. I never saw him again, but my fantasies ran wild for an hour after he passed by. I'm such a dirty white gurl!

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The week held a plethora of pleasures. The catch-and-release fishing was challenging in the low waters but rewarding, my technique improving each day. Occasionally I'd find a secluded spot to strip and sunbathe in the warm sun, napping lightly as I dreamt of making love. I went for long drives, listening to music, snapping photos of the incredible fall foliage and collecting leaves to paste in my Moleskine. I ate like a queen, challenging myself to make inventive packed lunches, grilling each night. Each day I made my way back to camp in plenty of time to clean up before the sun set. I reveled in the warm, sensual sunshowers, utterly naked and freshly clean under the sky. I always took time to shave my face and legs, staying smooth and sexy, and smearing eucalyptus-and-spearmint scented lotion as a wave of warmth swept over my body, blood rushing to the surface after toweling off in the cool, goose-bumpy air. With my cleaning ritual done, I felt a little shiver of pleasure as I slipped on panties and heels, pausing to take in the view before dressing.

Wednesday evening, I was in just that state and coming round from behind the shelter where my shower was set up when I saw with a jolt that a pickup truck had pulled off the road into the small parking lot. I was so busted standing there in heels and panties, with nothing but a long-sleeved pink top and a thin white pleated miniskirt set out on the table in front of my tent, which was zipped up tight. I just sort of froze as the driver got out of his truck and turned to give me a long up-and-down look. Then he smiled and I snapped out of my seizure, grabbing the top to pull it on as he took a few steps toward my camp.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" he asked with an impish grin. He was late 30s, early 40s, dark-hair, taller than me, dressed in denim shirt and jeans, kind of cute with a dimpled chin and disarming smile, one crooked tooth.

"Well, you caught me, that's for sure," was all I could think to say. I still hadn't managed to get the skirt on -- which was more damning, the panties or the skirt?

"Yeah, I thought you might freak out when I pulled in. I saw you showering earlier so I drove on by and then came back. It's okay though, no problem." There were three shelters in this campground and he nodded toward the furthest one, "Thought I'd set up camp down there if it's okay with you. Do you mind?"

"Um, no, it's okay with me, if it's okay with you." Clever me, I was really pouring on the charm. We chatted another minute, then he moved his truck to his site and began setting up camp. What to do, what to do ... Well, he seemed cool with what he'd seen, was nice enough, hopefully he wasn't a mass murderer, what the hell, I decided to play the situation. Ducking into my tent, I got out my makeup bag and put on my face, then the jewelry and hair and nails, put on my skirt. The works. When I came out of my tent, his was up and he called out, asking if I wanted a beer. I had beer in my cooler, but I answered sure and a few minutes later he ambled over carrying two bottles of Coors (I hate Coors).

Steve seemed to be genuinely surprised by my new and "improved" appearance, tactfully complimenting me and noting what a surprise I was out there in the woods. I was kind of surprising myself in this particular situation. I asked if I bothered him, heck no, live and let live. His reaction was one I had seen many times, usually from straight guys who had never given serious thought to anything but hetero sex, certainly not to TGs, and yet was open minded enough to acknowledge, at least inwardly, that a spark of something akin to interest, latent interest perhaps, nudged him to investigate the odd creature before him. We chattered, I mentioned that I was about to prepare dinner (gouda cheeseburgers), invited him, he built the fire for me, more beer. After dinner I put on my hoodie, we sat by the fire talking, answering his questions about why I dress like this, am I gay, yada yada, as well as flyfishing etc. I relaxed and he seemed relaxed, repeating his compliments several times, aw shucks baby you're sweet. When the night air got too cold to stay out any longer we said our goodnights and retired to our respective tents (thank god for my tent heater). If I don't see you in the morning good luck tomorrow. Night night.

His truck was indeed gone when I emerged from my cocoon the next morning, but his camp stood intact. I went about my morning routine as usual, then prepared for a few hours fishing, leaving a big chocolate muffin wrapped in foil on Steve's ice chest on my way out, just in case he came by camp during the day. This time I wore a little more makeup and a pair of really tight, really short knit shorts, hoping I might run into him at some point while fishing, but I never caught sight of him. I was back in camp, cleaned up and made up and fully dressed by the time he returned, with an hour or less of daylight left. I had caught five small trout that day, releasing all of them; Steve caught twice that many and brought three back to camp, even though he wasn't supposed to. He offered to cook dinner, but I playfully ordered him to build a fire for me, clean the fish and get out of my kitchen, which he dutifully obeyed, going to his tent to clean up.

I decided to bake the trout, wrapping them in foil pouches and seasoning them with butter, onion, thyme, pine nuts and cracked pepper, then burying them in the coals once the fire died down. I sauteed a veggie medley on the Coleman stove then put the pan near the fire grate to stay warm, sliced Italian bread and poured wine into stainless steel cups. I have a darling little backpacker's oil lantern that I set on a stump between our camp chairs for atmosphere. Steve and I sipped a bit of whiskey as we waited the last few minutes for the trout to bake, him telling me about his life in Albuquerque. All evening I flirted as much as I could without being too terribly obvious, finding excuses to touch him occasionally, being swishier than the night before. Ever the gentleman, he endured it all gracefully.

The next day, Friday, Steve planned to fish in the morning, then break camp and head for home at mid-day, whereas I was staying until Sunday. I put on my knit shorts again and wandered around a bit in the morning, but made sure I was back at camp at lunch time to see Steve off, having just enough time to spruce up a bit before he showed up. He backed his truck up to my camp site and began unloading a bunch of firewood, explaining that he noticed I was running low. He even split some of the larger chunks for me with his axe, and piled it all neatly by my fireplace. So sweet!

Once his camp was taken down and loaded into his truck, he stopped by one last time to thank me for the dinners, then moved as if to leave.

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?" I teased, laughingly self-consciously.

Turning back and grinning, he said, "Hell yeah, I'll kiss you goodbye." And he did just that, right on the lips, with one arm around my waist. It didn't last long, but without letting go, he leaned back to look back at me, grinned again and said, "Damn, that's nicer than I thought."

Not waiting for more encouragement, I put my hands on his shoulders, pulled him back to me and kissed him again, this time turning up the heat. There wasn't much doubt that I wasn't the only one enjoying it, and he patted my ass as if to acknowledge what was unspoken between us. Coming up for air, I murmured that I wanted to thank him for the firewood. Taking his hand, I led him back behind the shelter, gently pushed him back against the wall, then knelt down in front of him. Feeling him through his jeans, I looked up at him and asked if he wanted me to stop. Looking in my eyes, he shook his head slowly from side to side. I undid his belt and zipper, reached inside with my hand to take him out, and soon was lovingly doing what I had been wanting to do since the moment he first caught me in my panties and heels.

One for the road, from a sissy with love. Just remember me as your mountain gurl.

Ciao baby.

Redeeming virtue

2009-01-04T09:49:00.013-06:00

One consequence of aging, at least my own, is that the list of things that truly impress me becomes shorter all the time. (Which isn't to say that I think of myself as some sort of Grand Poobah ensconced on her cushions eating grapes and yawning at the court jesters. Besides, I'm not all that impressive myself.) The flip side of this condition is that when something does impress me, I am often stirred to my very core. And thank God, because I can think of few things more dismal than the prospect of being jaded beyond redemption.

When I first discovered the Internet (circa Windows 3.1), the World Wide Web was in its infancy, tentatively taking its first tottering steps beyond the text-based constraints of a DOS window, all atwitter with animated gifs (which I despised from the get-go, by the way). In fact, when I designed my first web site for a client, there weren't more than a few thousand sites on the entire 'net (fwiw, I was also among the elite vanguard of intrepid beta souls implementing Flash). To say that I was captivated by the www barely conveys my interest on a personal level, and commercially, I banged the Web drum to anyone who would listen, assuring one and all that a genuine business revolution was underway, and get your own site today! lest you be left in the dust, choking on the diminishing dregs of your own procrastination ...

Anyway, lo, these many years later, I wince to think how many hours I've whiled away on the net, only a fraction of which have been spent constructively. I've blown through all the stages of a net addict -- except, I suppose, the final one: going on the wagon -- and not only have I jettisoned much that once preoccupied me, I no longer find it necessary to buy into every new bell and whistle that comes down the pike. I might not entirely agree with the sentiment expressed on the Internet is shit "site", but on the other hand, I wouldn't argue too strenuously with anyone who decided to cancel her net connection and toss her computer into the landfill, for too much of the net is simply a waste of time, plain and simple, and potentially harmful to her well-being, like too much TV, only more insidiously, for the 'net has a way of fooling its habitués into thinking their online lives are real lives.

Twitter comes to mind when I think of Internet time-wasters, as does most chat activity, gaming, online dating, porn, most discussion forums, business "brochure" sites, and yes, even blogs. There's a guitar forum, for instance, populated for the most part by guys who, truth be known, would rather talk about playing guitar than actually play guitar. Even information, the holy grail of the Internet, is proving to be a fairly worthless commodity if it's only being gathered for gathering's sake; it's certainly no legitimate basis for an economy or an "age" or a person's life. I confess that I'm as susceptible as anyone to the temptation of a site like StumbleUpon -- I can get sucked down its rabbit hole for hours, thoroughly enjoying myself, but honestly, what do I come away with? Not much, really, just another irretrievable fragment of my life forfeited.

But ...

There are two things that can and should be said in response to anyone lambasting the 'net as a life thief. One, the "real life" we "should" be living instead can be pretty mundane stuff, too. Sure, I can have a face-to-face conversation with my grocer instead of surfing the web, but I may or may not come away with much that enhances the quality of my life, or his. I mean, I've had plenty of conversations that made me think, like Jerry Seinfeld talking to Kramer, "I wish I had that ten minutes of my life back." Ditto hanging out at a bar or attending a campaign rally or watching a ballgame or shopping or tanning. Even the really worthwhile stuff, like riding my bicycle or attending a concert or volunteering at an aid agency or perfecting my pasta sauce, have their limits. As long as I maintain a healthy mix, there's nothing inherently wrong with logging a little time online; in fact, it can be a good thing, even enhancing my other pursuits.

And two, where I live, it's pretty tough to turn up some of the stuff that's been important to me my whole life, the stuff that inspires me and gives me juice. For instance, you can't find a decent live music act around here to save your ass. So I turn to concert DVDs and YouTube. An art exhibit worth seeing only comes around once every blue moon. So I subscribe to the Santa Fean and visit sites like the Met. Finding a kindred TG spirit locally is an exercise in frustration. So I correspond with friends like Pristine.

Plus, in my life, I need the surprising jolt, the flash of that which is unexpected but recognized, the creative spark and artistic endeavor that makes me believe in living when sometimes I don't. So I turn to sources like TED, where I find people like Theo Jansen creating fantastic kinetic wind creatures ...

... that absolutely thrill me. I watch these videos and I am totally enthralled, not because Jansen and I have like minds and I want to rush out and build my own creatures, but because I can feel his sense of intimate wonder at the grace of his creations, and I too am in awe of their eerie, live beauty. And then I believe once again in the divine spark within us mortals, that life need not and should not be passive, and I am filled once more with the fresh air of life. That blows my skirt clear up over my head.

And I ask you, how would I have ever known about these creatures, here in the cultural hinterlands, were it not for the 'net? The technological/sociological apparatus that can drop that sort of life-affirming beauty into my lap isn't evil, it's a godsend. It's only the claptrap of fools corrupting it with the crass and banal that is undesirable. The situation just calls for judicious filtering. The image I conjure is squatting at a desert stream in my short shorts and pink sandals, patiently swirling the sand in my pan, searching for flecks of gold, adding to my stash.

Maybe I'll paint my toenails with gold leaf. And later, I'll lay out and get a tan, just so the day won't be a total waste.

Na Na Na

2008-12-11T19:42:00.002-06:00

In the Stuff That Keeps Me Going column
Think of a one-man-band, toss out the bass drum and trombone, throw in an unencumbered imagination, a couple of digital looping stations and a soaring voice and you've got Theresa Andersson. Performing barefoot in her kitchen, this Sweden-to-New Orleans transplant is hot stuff, turning the conventional notion of ensemble recording on its ear, to delightful effect. I was smitten on first viewing, and I think you will be too:

Theresa does take her show on the road, and the remarkable thing is that she starts from scratch in each performance, constructing each song on the fly, just as you see in the video. Intrepid soul, she is. Check her MySpace page for more music and tour info. So cool.

Repression is wicked strange

2008-12-08T19:54:00.019-06:00

I often say that I didn't come to crossdressing, and a subsequent discovery of bi-sexuality, until relatively late in life, after my divorce, but that isn't entirely true. I wasn't being dishonest, merely unmindful of my own history. There were a few, um, impromptu experimentations in my earlier years that I really didn't recognize for what they were at the time, and which I managed, through no conscious effort, to suppress. In other words, I wasn't troubled or guilt-ridden by the events, but neither did I give them much thought at the time, and as I continued on in my "straight" heterosexual pursuits, the events just got buried somehow so that eventually I never thought of them and scarcely remembered them at all. Until lately ...

Sowing the seeds of forgetfulness
At one point in my early twenties, I shared a storage building with some close friends, a married couple, where we stored all the stuff that wouldn't fit in our respective domiciles. One Saturday, I went there to retrieve my drum kit and while wrestling the bass drum case out of the jumbled mess, I managed to knock over a tall stack of cardboard boxes belonging to my friends. As I was re-stacking the boxes, the bottom of one fell open and out tumbled an assortment of old pajamas, socks, underwear and junk belonging to the wife. Picking them up, I found a pair of stockings and a garter belt as well as several pairs of panties. This was back before pantyhose, and after my generation had moved on to earthier (i.e., hippy) fashions; in fact, I hadn't seen a pair of stockings since high school. I have no idea why I did what I did next, but right there in the storage building, I shed my jeans and donned the panties, stockings and garter belt. The effect was electric, so much so that I took the items home with me. But the story doesn't end there.

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Just a couple of blocks from my apartment was a pharmacy occupying one end of a commercial building; in the other end was a bar (purportedly a gay bar) that I had never had any inclination to frequent. That is until one weekend evening when I put on the panties, stockings and garter belt, and over them my tightest pair of cream-colored bell bottom pants, cotton peasant shirt, and my Dingo boots. To my eye, the outline of the stocking tops and the clasps of the garter belt were clearly visible through the fabric of my pants, but nevertheless, as un-premeditatedly and inexplicably as my impulse in the storage building, I ventured over to the bar, which indeed proved to be a gay bar, albeit a rather laid back, neighborhood sort of place.

Let me interject something here: I can just hear a reader saying, "Ah, there's a wee bit of latent homosexuality going on here", and in retrospect I'm not denying the possibility, but I swear that at no time in my life up until then had I entertained any homosexual fantasies or interest or intrigue whatsoever. To the contrary, I had always been girl crazy to the point of obsession, and it wouldn't have occurred to me that it was possible to be attracted to both sexes. I had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, but I didn't worry about it either. Okay, so back to the story ...

I took a seat on a stool at the bar and sat there for an hour or so, sipping a beer and taking in the subdued but foreign goings-on around me. Then someone amped up the music, more people drifted in and the dance floor started seeing some action. It was the first time I'd ever seen a guy dancing with a guy. Somewhere along in there a young black guy approached me at the bar and asked me to dance. I was stunned, speechless, but finally stammered my acceptance and followed him to the dance floor. All I could think about as we danced was worrying whether or not anyone else had clued in that I was wearing stockings. When the song ended I smiled weakly and turned to leave the dance floor, but my dance partner grabbed my hand and asked for another dance, to which I agreed, not knowing what else to do. We danced for several songs, it was getting late, and I began wondering how I was going to extricate myself from this situation, for I felt absolutely no physical attraction to my new friend or anyone else around us. Just about then someone called out his name across the floor and he excused himself for a moment,urging me repeatedly not to go anywhere. I smiled and nodded, but the moment his back was turned I hightailed it out of there, too scared to breathe until I was safely back home. In my mind, I had enjoyed the underdressing (although I had no idea it was called that), but the experience resolved any question I might have had about being gay. That, I thought, was that.

Only it wasn't. Months later, I attended a laid back, artsy-fartsy party (i.e., artists and writers who smoked dope) with a friend-slash-lover who knew all the artists and intellectuals in town worth knowing. We'd been there a long time and were thinking of leaving when we bumped into Michael, a gay painter my friend had recently been telling me about who painted huge monochromatic canvases all in gold. My friend introduced us and the three of us talked for awhile, then, apropos of nothing and without prelude, Michael reached up and ran his fingers through my long hair while telling us he was about to leave with some friends to go listen to someone's new stereo system. He asked me -- pointedly not us -- if I'd like to come along. The gesture and the question caught me completely off guard, but I declined as politely as I could. My friend was quiet on the way home and later, as we smoked a joint in her bedroom, she asked if I was gay. Mildly surprised, I said of course not; after all, we'd been sleeping together off and on for over a year. Just because some swarthy, hairy gay artist with a fetish for gold leaf had hit on me didn't mean I was gay. And that was that.

Only it wasn't.

That night, as we laughed about the incident and talked about Michael, she told me that he had once described the gay parties he hosted at his studio loft/apartment, saying that all those naked guys walking around with erections inspired him artistically. In the days that followed, I found myself recalling that anecdote, wondering what such a world must be like. The notion of aroused naked guys didn't do anything for me, but the idea of being an aroused naked guy in the presence of onlookers did stir something in me. Not enough to go knocking on Michael's door, but enough to wonder how I might go about experiencing such a thing. The next time I visited a book store, I picked up the local underground newspaper and thumbed through the back pages, looking for anything resembling gay nightlife among the classifieds and more salacious ads. Sure enough, I found two ads for clubs suggesting they might cater to gays. That weekend, I put on the same underthings and outfit I'd worn previously and headed for the midtown club.

As soon as I walked in I knew I had found the gay mecca in town, unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. Gays everywhere, throbbing music, shimmering lights and bare torsos on the dance floor, numerous fetishes in evidence here and there. I was spellbound -- and at a loss as to how to conduct my country boy self. After making my way slowly around the place, taking in the sights, I managed to get a beer at the crowded bar and found a little elbow room near the dance floor, leaning against the wall to watch the dancers. Within a few moments a rather straight looking guy sidled up and struck up a conversation, looking to be slightly older than I and not terribly good-looking, but nice. Numerous beers later he was standing behind me with his arms around me, holding me close. I knew his exploring hands had already discovered my garter belt through the thin, tight fabric of my pants, not long before he thrust a hand in my pocket and with his fingers began teasing my cock. Right along in there somewhere he suggested that we go for a ride to this place he knew where gays like to go parking. I put him off, but the third time he asked I said okay, and we left.

He drove with one hand on my crotch and after we got out of the midtown area, I started stripping until I was completely naked except for the stockings and garter belt, my heart pounding with excitement, his hand keeping me aroused. He was staring at my body so much I had to remind him to watch the road. I did not feel the least bit of attraction to him, but I absolutely loved being naked and turning him on like that. I'll spare you any further details, only to say that when we got to the parking place (there were several cars there) I had my first brief taste of oral sex (giving and receiving), which didn't do much for me. Eventually he brought himself to climax while I watched, then drove me back to my car, asked for my phone number, which I refused, and that was that.

Only it wasn't.

I enjoyed the exhibitionist excitement of that night and the novelty of the experience, but my time inside the club and the sexual encounter in the car left me feeling like an outsider. It was obvious that I didn't feel what all those other guys were feeling. I was actually kind of disappointed in my reaction, but it was no big deal. Curiosity satisfied, I thought.

Except that, weeks later, alone and bored on a weekend night, craving excitement, I put on my outfit again and drove to a seedy, predominantly black part of town, to a street where I'd seen some bars some time or another. I don't know why I went there, other than I knew I didn't want to go back to the gay club. So I was just cruising around, I remember that, but I can't recall exactly what transpired next, but at some point I had acquired a passenger, a young black girl. I thought she was probably a working girl and waited for the proposition, but none came. She was really sweet, not pushy at all. I got us some beer, we drove around some more, then she asked me if I wanted to go to a party. Soon I found myself at someone's house where a half dozen black gender queers -- at the time, I didn't know what the hell they were, or what to call them -- were just hanging out, drinking a little, listening to music, partying. But it was a surreal situation to me. Some had their shirts off, some had their faces painted white, a couple of them were wearing sarongs. I may have been just a dumb white boy out of his element, but I knew these guys were gay. Which would make my "date" ... what? Why would she bring me here? Unless she was ... what? Sherlock that I am, I began to be suspicious, but not exactly unhappy about what was going on. More than anything, I was intensely curious.

One of the guys asked me to dance and I did that for awhile, then sat back down beside my date. In a couple of minutes one of the white-faced sarong boys came over, sat beside me on the arm of the couch, started toying with my hair and politely asked me if I would like to be sucked. I'm pretty sure that was the first time anyone had so frankly uttered those words to me. "Uh, uh, uh ... I dunno, I guess not, thanks", was all I could think to say. But the proposition annoyed my date and she wanted to leave, so we did. She guided me to a secluded place to park on a side street, where we lit a joint, then started making out. She was still being really sweet, but something wasn't right. She just didn't feel right. As we kissed, I reached to fondle her breast inside her blouse, and that's when I discovered there were no breasts. This was a guy, for sure.

I could tell she was watching me closely to gauge my reaction, which was ... I didn't know what my reaction was. I just knew I had no idea how to proceed, or if I even wanted to proceed. I sat back and suggested we finish smoking the joint. We talked some about her, what it was like to be her; I learned terms like "plucking" and "tucking" and "tranny". I liked her, but in the end I didn't know what to do with her, so eventually I copped out, drove her to where she wanted to go and kissed her goodnight. And that was that.

And this time, that really was a wrap. After that, the curiosity just left me, as inexplicably and quickly as it had come. The stockings went in a drawer or the trash, thoughts of gay culture vanished, and exhibitionist urges evaporated. I don't remember the timeline exactly, but I'm sure there was another girl in the picture before too long and it was back to business as usual, no looking back.

**********

The mind is its own defense mechanism
In hindsight, I think what was going on was that I considered the experimentations as nothing more than a sexual lark, an improvisational variation of my libido, which has always been hyperactive. I don't think I ever seriously considered that there was any real possibility I might be gay. As for the stockings, they just felt like a passing kink to me. I'd never heard the term crossdresser and I was entirely ignorant of the concept of transsexual, so I would have lacked any frame of reference enabling me to think of myself in that way. (I don't know why it didn't occur to me that I could be like the gurl I'd picked up, except maybe the experience wasn't sufficiently stimulating.) I knew my enjoyment of the stockings was something most guys would recoil from in disgust, but it was just kink to me and didn't have any real bearing on my heterosexuality. Sure, I might be a tiny bit different, but it really didn't mean anything.

I'm analyzing all this in hindsight, of course; I'm not precisely sure what I was thinking, or not thinking, at the time. Now I can only shake my head at my own lack of introspection. Why was I not more interested, especially in the crossdressing? Why did I not more seriously consider that it might be part of who I really am? Why did I not seize the opportunity to plumb the depths of it all, when I was young, lithe and fair, free and unecumbered, anonymous in the big city? Why did I have my head stuck so far up my own ass? I. Don't. Know.

I'm not sure what good it does to write about all this now, or what interest it might have for readers. Probably not much at this late date. I think the only real value is in thinking about repression. If I had to guess, I would say that my thoughtless rejection of gay/TG interests was based on an instinctive suspicion that sexual and gender orientations were a zero sum issue, either gay or not gay, tranny or not a tranny, and that to seriously entertain a switch would be losing the life I had (such as it was) -- friends, family, whatever, which was beyond the pale of anything I would have been able to consider. So, so stupid.

But what is even more interesting is the repression mechanism that kicked in. I can't stress enough how utterly I failed to deliberately evaluate all this stuff at the time. Without even being aware of what I was doing, I just stuffed it all into the dustbin of my consciousness and walked away. And boy did it get buried. Two decades would pass before I ever gave any of it another thought, two decades that involved a string of women, marriage, kids, the works, without any thought of those few days long ago. And when the urge did come back every bit as suddenly and unexpectedly as before, it was as if it were happening for the first time. It has taken a long, long time for those memories to resurface and take shape again in my mind.

So all I can say is, don't ever let anyone tell you that repression is an artificial construct. It's real, and it's badass.

Las muxes de Juchitán

2008-12-07T00:34:00.027-06:00

Close your eyes for a moment and think about all the crap you contend with simply because you are transgender. The stigma, the prejudice, the limitations, the fearfulness, the loneliness, the frustration. Now imagine a place where it's just the opposite, where you can function as if being a TG were the most normal thing in the world, where you can move about in society without fear or untoward notice, where you are actually admired because you are TG, where families consider themselves lucky to have a TG in their midst, where men gay and straight unabashedly seek your favor. Go ahead -- close your eyes and dream about it. I'll wait for you ...

Can you picture it? Does a smile steal onto your pretty lips? Does your heart stir with a bittersweet longing? Ah, little sister, let me tell you, your reverie is not a fairytale. Such a place actually exists. No, not in heaven, but right here on earth. Yes, yes it does.

Deep in the interior of the land of machismo, in the state of Oaxaca, Mexico, on the isthmus of Tehuantepec, lies a quiet town of 85,000 souls, a town named Juchitán de Zaragoza. In that town reside several thousand muxes (pronouned moo-shays), which is Zapotec for gay TGs, and make no mistake about it, to be a muxe in Juchitán is a good thing.

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Here's how good it is: by and large, the citizenry of Juchitán believe their fair city is blessed -- blessed, mind you -- to be the home of so many muxes. Why? Well, local lore posits, in that rich, mythical, super-saturated way that Mexicans of Aztec and Mayan descent have of explaining history, that long, long ago, the patron St. Vicente Ferrer, charged by God with the assignment and placement of genders in communities throughout Mexico, like some sort of gender Juan Appleseed, spilled his entire sack of muxes in Juchitán, resulting in a dense concentration of the third gender among the indigenous population. This serendipitous, saintly slip-up has ever since been interpreted as divine providence, a sure sign that Juchitán is meant to be a haven for muxes, and that these sweet creatures must surely hold a special place in God's heart for Him to take such pains in their behalf. What's more, this is a theological construct actively supported by the local church to this day. Padre Francisco confirms: "Juchitán has had this culture for 2,000 years. Respect for these people is a sacred duty."

Juchitán's culture is, at the street level, functionally matriarchal -- by default, more or less, given the boozy lassitude of the male population. Muxes are integrated into virtually every aspect of Juchitán society, including business, where they function as valued employees and respected business persons. Muxes dominate the Oaxacan cottage industries of clothing design, embroidery and beauty salons, often earning three times more than the typical wage earner in Juchitán. A muxe recently lost a bid for a Congressional seat by the narrowest of margins. Romantically, however, muxes occupy a very interesting niche. In conventional marriages, chastity and virginity are essential for prospective brides -- remember, this is the land of macho. This self-imposed restriction leaves single men, who are under no such compunction, in a bit of a quandary until the wedding day. What to do, what to do? Yep, you guessed it -- they turn to the muxes to satisfy their urges until such time as they are properly wedded and bedded. Since muxes also "circulate" within the gay culture as well, theirs can be quite the active love life. (One local nickname for muxe is iguana, used because of the lizard's habit of moving from stick to stick in their natural habitats.)

But that's not all. Each November, the city hosts the week-long La Vela de las Auténticas Intrépidas Buscadoras del Peligro, which means -- get this -- Festival of the Authentic, Intrepid Danger-Seekers. Out-of-town muxes inundate Juchitán for the festival, drawing men, women and children from all over the region as onlookers and admirers. The festival kicks off with a parade right after Mass on Sunday and culminates with a grand ball on Saturday night, where Juchitán's mayor crowns a new muxe queen. Observed a bandleader at the festival, "We don't want New York or Paris. Our heaven is here."

One muxe put it this way: "We are princesses in the land of macho."

Works for me. How about you? Wake me up when we get there.

Is paradise perfect?
Well, no, no earthly paradise is ever truly perfect, is it? For one thing, acceptance in Juchitán is prevalent but not universal, and muxes in other parts of Mexico experience the same sort of gender prejudice the rest of us do elsewhere in the world, which means Juchitán's muxes are sort of captives in paradise. For another, HIV is on the rise in Juchitán; after all, God may love muxes, but He doesn't approve of promiscuity, does He. Or maybe He just doesn't approve of unsafe sex; free will does grant us the right to suffer the consequences of being stupid. And too, in the stories I read, no mention is made of heterosexual muxes. It seems a shame to exclude half the population from the dating pool, and I can't help but wonder if there might be a little friction between the señoritas and the muxes.

Equally absent is any mention of committed relationships between the hombres and the muxes, or even between gay hombres and muxes. The muxes interviewed in various articles appear to be romantically unattached and fending for themselves, but admittedly, they seem to be content with their lot in life. Most, referred to as sons but treated as daughters, live with their doting mothers and are devoted to them, claiming they have no interest in living with men. Still, casual sex is all well and good as far as it goes, but even when all parties have male libidos, most of us need more than sex from a relationship. I know I do, and I can't imagine how a muxe, simply by virtue of being a muxe, would be free of this universal desire for love, even if she has come to terms with its absence. Whether by choice or default, it does appear that true love may be as elusive for a muxe in Juchitán as it is for a crossdresser in Amarillo.

For that, we might just have to wait for heaven. Wake me up when we get there.

Vaya con Dios, mis amigas.

From now on, I'm hanging out at the coffee shop

2008-12-03T15:20:00.015-06:00

Cormac McCarthy is one of my very favorite writers, and the Coen brothers are probably my favorite film directors, so when I heard they had decided to make a movie based on one of McCarthy's more recent books, No Country For Old Men, and starring one of my favorite Western actors, Tommy Lee Jones (*), I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I mean, I took this as a personal blessing and eagerly anticipated the release date. The movie was everything I had hoped for and more, notably faithful to the novel and yet full of surprises largely having to do with actors of whom I had not previously taken much notice. Besides Tommy Lee, Josh Brolin was wonderful, Javier Bardem was astonishing, Woody Harrelson was good -- well, words fail me in extolling these performances. And even the actors playing the smaller parts -- the gas station proprietor, the trailer park manager, the motel clerk, the mother-in-law, the El Paso sheriff, the uncle -- were first-rate. But for all that stellar acting, it was Kelly Macdonald in the role of Carla Jean Moss who wrapped me around her little finger.
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Mind you, I knew nothing about Macdonald prior to this movie. I just knew that she nailed the part of the small-town southern girlfriend / wife better than anyone I'd ever seen on screen. So imagine my astonishment when I learned that in real life she is Scottish, complete with a Scottish burr to beat the band. The reason that's so astonishing is because of how utterly natural and convincing her dialog is in NCFOM; where most "foreign" (i.e. born and raised somewhere other than Texas or the South) actors sound ridiculous when they attempt a southern accent, I would have assumed Kelly was a native. She sounded just like any number of girlfriends I've had. Here, listen for yourself --

Ooo-wee, looky-here! To my eye and ear, that's just extry good. But this particular performance in this particular film isn't really what prompted this post; it just explains why I fell in love with Kelly Macdonald and her acting, like a moth to flame. The actual impetus for this post is another movie I watched last night, The Girl In The Cafe. (It's a 2005 HBO movie, but I don't have HBO so it's new to me.) Anyway, I loved it, and her, and Bill Nighy, and I was very moved by the film. So moved that I watched the DVD's special features and followed the trail to the ONE Campaign web site, which I've added to my online library and the Links list here.

It is beginning to appear that in my advancing years, I am becoming something of an activist (in my own way). In our conversations, a good friend and I often speculate about what it would take to actually solve some of the problems that have persisted during our lifetime, since our youth, really. I think this movie points to at least one component necessary to solve persistent problems, which is for us to be equally persistent in pressing for solutions. It made me mindful of just how long and often I've been placated by the babble of the power brokers, trusting the "grownups" to know what the hell they're doing. Well, now I'm old enough and experienced enough to recognize bullshit when I hear it, and stupidity when I see it, and conflict of interest when I smell it, and I know that they don't necessarily know any more than I do about some things. I now know more than I used to about human nature, and paths of least resistance, and effluents flowing downhill. And I've about had it.

Most of the world's worst problems aren't very complicated. They can be quantified and qualified and stated very simply. Their remedies often have price tags, but they are seldom complicated either. Complication creeps in only when people in a position to change things prefer to keep things just the way they are, so they start tossing up excuses and subterfuges. At the top of any activist's agenda should be seizing opportunities to put the power brokers and the policy makers and the bureaucrats in situations where evasiveness and double-speak will not work. We must be ready to press our points, to reiterate our values and expectations relentlessly, without normal regard for politeness or protocol. We need to put the answer guys on the hook and not let them off the hook until we get the answers we're looking for. Perhaps it would look something like this:

In the film, Gina is not a player at the G8 conference; she's just a tentatively romantic interest who, on a lark, accepted an invitation to tag along and observe the proceedings from the sidelines. But she's been paying attention. Watching the film, you'll realize it took a lot of courage for her to speak up like that (and she's just getting warmed up). She's fully aware that people stare at you when you ruffle feathers and step on toes. They become embarrassed for you, and angry at you. They judge you and make fun of you. It can cost you. Real solutions usually do cost someone something sooner or later, and sometimes those costs can be very personal in nature, in inverse proportion to anything resembling fairness. Perhaps that's all the more reason to engage.

So what's all this got to do with drinking coffee? Well, the two main characters in "The Girl In The Cafe" strike up an acquaintance when forced to share a table in a crowded cafe. The spark comes when the two of them, both awkwardly shy, have the sense and sensibility to recognize kindred spirit and understated wit in one another. Plus, Gina is hot, in a girl-next-door way, with those big eyes and full lips and gently frank observations. As Lawrence will soon learn, however, Gina's sort of allure doesn't come without a price, which is a quiet but iron-strong insistence on standing on principle, at the risk of everything else. She looks up at him with those big eyes that say, without her saying it, that she's gonna take a stand even if she has to do it alone, and she's willing to muster enough courage for both them, but she really doesn't want to have to do it alone. Either way, she understands the potential cost but believes the principle is worth it.

I can absolutely relate.

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* To understand why I like Jones so much in Western films, there's his lead role in "Lonesome Dove", of course, but you need to see "The Three Burials Of Melquiades Estrada". If you're not Texan but have ever been curious about the cowboy soul of Texas, this movie is just the ticket. And even if you don't care about all that, it's still a must see.

Bankin' on goofy

2008-12-03T13:31:00.008-06:00

When I emailed a friend of mine a link to a wonderful video I'd just discovered, he shot back that he's known about Matt for years. *sigh* Lord knows I try to pay attention, but some things just seem to get by me. I was kind of pissed that my friend hadn't blipped my radar about Matt.

I suspect that Matt and I have something in common -- no one wants to pay us to do what we're actually good at doing, but we do it anyway. Lots of people would consider what Matt's doing more of an avocation than a vocation, but I think it's his true calling, for the time being anyway. I love it that he considered gainful employment to be merely a means to finance his dance around the world, something to quit at the earliest opportunity. Not exactly the career path your guidance counselor mapped out for you, right? But lo and behold, it's worked for Matt: he now has a corporate sponsor to foot his travel expenses, people pay him for public appearances and he has a book deal. This guy is my hero. So the next time you feel like doing something goofy, just do it. And make sure you have a camera.

Someone asked Matt how he persuades the kids to join in. Answer: he just starts dancing. That's what I love about kids -- they're a good time waitin' to happen, 24/7. They can't not join in. As for the adults, there are two kinds of people in the world -- those who would join Matt in dancing, and those who would not. I absolutely would, but Mr. Alter Ego would not. Go figure.

While you're visiting Matt's site, check out the story about the soundtrack on the FAQ page. It might help explain why the music makes you feel so good.

Game plans

2008-11-25T19:38:00.023-06:00

I have often commented that the only fantasies that interest me are the ones I might actually have the opportunity to experience. Fantasy for fantasy's sake doesn't interest me. Married couples might verbalize all sorts of sexual fantasies in the heat of the moment, never intending to fulfill them, for they are fraught with complications. Men thumb their smarmy magazines, women daydream of Javier Barden. Lonely singles itemize impossible criteria on dating sites, virtually guaranteeing they'll stay lonely. A depressed cubicle dweller wastes the afternoon scouring job listings for a new life as a flyfishing guide, knowing there isn't a chance in hell that he will ever take the plunge. And everyone pines after the one that got away.

Me, I don't much care for living in my head, which is how I categorize most unrealistic fantasies. Onanism has its place (if my own behavior is any indication), but it's a poor substitute for real life escapades. (And btw, there are lots of masturbatory fantasies that have nothing to do with sex.) Never is this more true than applied to TG life, where all too often fantasy is the only sad reality. For the frustrated TG, to fantasize is to yearn, to pine, to ache, to whimper without any expectation of relief. Pisses me off just to think about it. No, if there is no reasonable expectation of experience, a fantasy gets tossed out of my heart and mind and into the rubbish bin, never to be missed. Fuck it. I'd rather read a book or play my guitar. But so far, there hasn't been any shortage of desires to replace the cast-offs. Nevertheless, they all undergo review and evaluation on a regular basis, subject to culling based on viability or the lack thereof.
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A little semantics might be in order just here. My friend Pristine, ever the intellectual, recently made an astute distinction about fantasies, pointing out that only non-doable actions are fantasies. A fantasy might be non-doable for any of a variety of reasons, say, for example, that it is irreversible -- SRS being beyond the pale of what I am (or she is) willing to seriously entertain, and from which there is no turning back. "If you are able to do [a particular thing]," she goes on to explain, "then I think by definition you don't have a fantasy, you have a game plan." As usual, she's dead right, although I might add that a desire might have to remain a fantasy, no matter how able and willing I am, if there exists no plausible way to realize the dream. Sometimes it's not up to me.

Still, Pristine's observation shames my lassitude. For all my blab, I realize I have spent too much time wanting and too little figuring out a game plan, despite all my professed assuredness that I know what I want. Maybe my desires are too complicated or elaborate or conditional. I don't put much effort into conjuring them; they just seem to well up of their own accord, but like most people, I do tend to massage them a bit too much after conception. Sometimes I simply lack the resources.

Perhaps my inertia is attributable to being at a loss as to how to execute some of fantasies -- I mean, my game plans -- which I suspect is closer to the truth for the simple reason that most of my plans hinge upon the participation of other people, people who stubbornly persist in their refusals to hear my beckoning or bend to my will. It might help, I suppose, if they knew I existed or I knew who they were.

to be continued ...

Jeans on girls and gurls

2008-11-25T12:33:00.007-06:00

I have never cared much for girls wearing jeans, unless she's built like Shania Twain with that long-legged, tight butt look, wearing a killer pair of butt jeans. And how many girls do you know who look like that? Exactly. But nowadays that's all you see at the clubs (the jeans, not Shania) and we're all the poorer for it, I think. Then again, I admit that when a girl in the crowd is wearing a skirt, she really stands out.

My bias against jeans goes double for T-girls. I almost never see one in girl's jeans who looks good; in fact, they're usually a dead giveaway. For one thing, males tend to be wider at the waist than at the hip and that is just not a good profile for a femme person. You gotta have some curves to wear girl jeans well, with a small waist and that delicious heart-shaped rear view. How many guys do you know that have that? Exactly. Most guys have no waist or butt at all, and nothing makes that more obvious than a pair of tight jeans. Not cool. They might be fine for chillin' at home, but not for the mall or the nightclub, not in gurl mode. After all, our clothes, besides being fashion statements, should emphasize our assets and conceal our weaknesses, not the other way 'round.
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Having said that, last Saturday my friend Sandra seems to have found an ideal solution to the t-girl in jeans dilemma. At least that's how it struck me -- I don't know what her motive was. Anyway, she wore a filmy floral top that came down to the bottom of her, well, her bottom, and combined that with a snug-fitting pair of girl's jeans and a pair of ankle boots. Problem solved. The pesky guy's waist/butt ratio was a non-issue, covered as it was by the top. With cold weather setting in, I may just have to have an outfit like that myself. Might be great for Saturday shopping. But knowing me, I suspect that when it's time to head for the club, the jeans are coming off and the skirt's going on.

Come to think of it, maybe concealment is why so many GGs wear jeans these days. More than once a GG has complimented my legs, only to bemoan her own chubbiness or cellulite. I always want to suggest a bit of aerobics and weight training but bite my lip instead. I also think girls tend to be a little too self-critical -- I think many of the bigger girls would still look great in a short skirt. All I know is that I'm really tired of girls adopting the slovenly habits of guys. If I never saw another one in ill-fitting jeans, flip-flops and an oversized t-shirt that would be okay with me. If one gender is going to influence the other's sartorial styles, it should be feminine fashion that prevails, not vice versa. Ditto for behavior.

Then again, there is always the exception. The low waist jean fashion sort of snuck up on me. You just never know in what direction the next generation is going to take things, whether it be music or politics or fashion or whatever. I supposed the younger crowd is quite accustomed to girls in jeans -- the girls wearing them and the guys looking at them. But you just can't escape the natural urge to flaunt, appreciate and celebrate the female form.

Amen.

Must we belabor the obvious?

2008-11-18T08:54:00.013-06:00

The following is a public service announcement:

I wouldn't have thought, in this day and age, that this needed to be said, but apparently it does. I am shocked, shocked whenever the prospect of sex arises and, assuming I were interested, I ask the party of the second part if he has a condom, he is in fact in possession of no such protection. Geez, that sheepish look they get when they have to 'fess up is so annoying! Do they really think I won't ask?

My response is always, "Sorry, no", but what I'm really thinking is:

Are you out of your rabbit-ass mind ?!?
No way am I having sex without protection.
Do you make a habit of having unsafe sex? Apparently so. Consequently, I wouldn't let you touch me with a ten foot pole (no pun intended).

Just one more reason why my sex life is practically non-existent. *sigh*

Look, everyone knows that in a perfect world, sex without a condom is preferable to sex with a condom. It's what we all want. But this ain't a perfect world, Skippy. The only time that should ever happen is in a steady relationship where both parties have confirmed that they have no STDs.

'Nuff said.

Locomotion

2008-11-16T20:25:00.013-06:00

Music has always been very important to me, a real life force. My taste in music is quite diverse, and I've always been "serious" about it, or rather I only listened to "serious" artists. None of that top 40 garbage for me. To my mind, I love a few too many mainstream artists to qualify as being truly eclectic, but I have been accused of that very thing more than once. Suffice it to say that in my youth, and well into mature adulthood, my friends and I regarded "bubble gum music" and the standard radio fare with the greatest disdain.

So imagine my surprise when, after having dressed for a year or two and becoming a bit more comfortable at the clubs, I discovered not only that Sherri likes to kick off her heels and take to the dance floor, she also loves to dance to music her alter ego would scorn vehemently. Techno music, chic music, even Madonna. Good grief. This disturbing trait has even rubbed off on Mr. Alter Ego, so that even he now enjoys some of the old stuff he dissed in his youth -- doo wop, girl groups, surf music.

One night I was out on the dance floor and the DJ played Kylie Minogue's amped up version of "Locomotion", the Carole King 60s hit (also covered by Little Eva). I was enthralled, and danced like a 16-year-old popping cherry flavored gum. I mean, I was hooked daddy. For the next two months I drove the DJ nuts requesting that song. What on earth was happening to me ?!?

I dunno, but one thing being Sherri has taught me is ... don't fight it. Go with it, hon. Alrighty then, I wonder if you can imagine my joy -- I'm being totally serious -- when I found this video --

Omg I love that. It makes me want to crawl into a time machine to go back and beg Silvie Vartan to be my girl. Hold on, I'm going to watch it again ...

So cool. Well, that started me down the YouTube rabbit hole only to be confronted by disturbing, irrefutable proof of just how utterly vacuous I have become, cuz baby, honest to god I love Chisato Moritaka's version too ...

Chugga chugga baby, make way -- Sherri's dancin'.

Well, I can see her now, drinkin' with the boys,
Breakin' their hearts like they were toys.
She used to do the pony, used to do the stroll,
I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll!
I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll!

Well, I can see her now with her walkman on,
Jumpin' up and down to her favorite song.
I still remember when she used to want to make a lot of noise,
Hoppin' and a-boppin' with the street corner boys.
She used to wanna party, she used to wanna go-wo!
I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll!
I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll!

-- from "I Knew The Bride When She Used To Rock and Roll" by Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe

The exhibitionist impulse

2008-11-15T21:04:00.019-06:00

You can't immerse yourself in an alternative lifestyle without encountering fetishes, some of them rather inexplicable. For instance, I have a CD friend, Reana, who has had an intense moccasin and ballet slipper fetish her whole life. She has dozens, if not hundreds, of pairs. Although she's not pushy about it, I have worn slippers to please her, but for the life of me I don't comprehend the thrill. Whenever she talks about it, I can't help wondering, where did this come from, what is the turn-on? But one thing I don't do is cast stones, because I too have a fetish that seems to puzzle the few people I've talked to about it.
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I'm an exhibitionist, or I should say that Sherri is an exhibitionist, because her male alter ego has no such impulse. And make no mistake about it, the exhibition is definitely sexual in nature. I should hasten to add that there is more to dressing than sex for me, lots more, but there is and will always be a sexual aspect to it, and part of that feminine sexuality has to do with exhibition. I'm not just talking about being seen as the effeminate swish that I am, although that is one aspect of the allure. No, I'm talking about the sort of exhibition that would strike most people as over the top, that might even get me in trouble if I were ever caught. That's not to say I'm one of those trench coat flashers who gets off scaring old ladies, or a streaker wanting to race across a football field, nor am I interested in inflicting my fetish on unappreciative audiences.

My fetish is more along the lines of wanting to be sexy the way a stripper is sexy, teasing and arousing. That's one part of it anyway. Another part is all entwined with daring, vulnerability and the flaunting of myself as a ... how should I put this? ... well, as a crossdresser. I'll give you an example:

One night I'd been out clubbing and at evening's end I wasn't ready for the fun to be over. In other words, I was turned on; I had an itch that needed scratching. On the way home I passed by a truck stop and on a whim I pulled into the back parking lot, which was huge, with dozens of trucks parked there. After circling around and assessing the situation, I pulled over at one side of the lot, got out and hid my spare car key behind a fence post. I then drove to the opposite side of the lot, parked, took off my skirt and intentionally locked myself out of the car. I then had no choice but to walk all the way across the lot, retrieve my spare key and walk back to the car. All I had on was my knit top, g-string panties and 4" heels (and hair, makeup, etc). As I slowly made my way among the idling trucks, my heart was pounding so hard I could hear it. I crossed the lot without incident and retrieved my key, but on my way back a truck flashed its lights at me and yes, I walked over, climbed up the steps and talked to the trucker through his open window, fully aware of what I must look like from behind to any other truckers who might be watching. And yes, the trucker did proposition me, but I figured I had pushed my luck as far as I should, so I politely declined, returned to my car and got the heck out of there before I got caught. I could have played like that for hours, but instead I calmed down and forced myself to go home.

I know, I know, not only is that sort of behavior risky, it's probably immature and puerile. I know. What I don't know is why I have such an impulse. I know it's been there since pre-pubescence, even though it seemed to go dormant for the bulk of my life, reawakened only when I started crossdressing. It's a puzzle, but there it is. I have not met one other TG in person who will admit to having such an impulse, at least not to the degree I do, and only one or two admirers who seemed to appreciate, or at least understand, my fetish. I really don't understand this because I know I'm not all that unique -- crossdressers talk online about exhibition fantasies all the time.

So don't kid yourself, lots of people do share this fetish. Of course, many of them are women, and as such can be reasonably sure of finding an enthusiastic audience. (I don't kid myself that I have such universal appeal.) More than one of my girlfriends/wives has exhibited similar, if tamer, impulses if I caught them in the right mood and situation. And too, there is abundant evidence that this is a popular kink. I don't indulge in porn all that much, but I have seen "amateurs" into exhibition enough to know I certainly didn't invent it. ;-) My favorite is a tantalizing dish named Lexo, who apparently has four abiding passions in life -- shoes, scandalous skirts, adult toys and public exhibition. What I love most about her, aside from her captivating body, is how utterly fearless she is, constantly looking for new opportunities to ply her specialty and push the envelope. It's downright inspiring. I think all of us, as we grow older, come to appreciate foreplay far more than we did when young, and to me, this sort of thing is about as exciting as foreplay gets.

An interesting thing about Lexo's images is that there is a second, unseen person in the story -- the photographer, which I believe is usually her boyfriend. Ah, now the game is infinitely more scintillating. True, for the genuine exhibitionist the act itself is stimulating, but knowing you are turning someone on with your antics makes a huge difference; if that someone is a player in the game, not just an observer, the pleasure is exquisite. Now another type of fetish -- that of the voyeur -- is injected into the mix. Now the exhibitionist knows that not only is her desire being catered to, she is also pleasing her playmate.

Such a companion is a rarity, at least in the case of a crossdresser. Finding someone who "gets" this fetish is tough, but it's what I long for. I want someone who is into it enough to play an active role, someone with imagination and daring who will take charge sometimes, who will actually orchestrate our adventures, not just sit back and leave it all up to me. That person, whoever he or she is, would absolutely have me wrapped around her finger, eager to give him whatever he wants. It doesn't have to define our entire relationship -- I wouldn't want that -- or even be a routine part of our love life, but when it comes to adding a little spice, it would be wonderful. The possibilities, as they say, are endless ...

A singular voice at a formative time

2008-11-14T09:20:00.004-06:00

The question is often tossed up on crossdressers' forums of what effect, if any, the Internet has had on our gender identity and interest in crossdressing. I'd say it's been significant for nearly all of us. Personally, I would characterize it as simultaneously revelatory, empowering and insufficient. If I had to point to one online resource that has had the most singular impact, it would be in the form of a person named Pristine.

Suffice it to say that my initial forays into feminization were laughably clumsy and incomplete. By that time I was a veteran Internet user, which sooner or later led inevitably, given my own proclivities, to the bumbling discovery of the wonderful world of crossdressing, serendipitously coinciding with my own experimentations. For one thing, I had no idea there were so many of us! And there was so much virtual coming out going on, with tons of tips and advice and commiseration and merchandising. Predictably, this led to a ramping up of my interest as well as the extent to which I wished to take this whole thing. Fuel to the fire.

But still early in the game -- my game, at least -- I stumbled upon a revelation in the form of a person, no less. I don't remember now how I came across it, but there on my screen was a Web site called "The Transvestite Freedom Fighter", authored by a TG named Pristine (Pristine Ann Gee, as she would later reveal, an Oriental play on Pristine Angie). What really nailed my attention was an article written by her entitled "The importance of not passing". Now that was terribly interesting because everyone else seemed to be consumed with total female impersonation, worrying their worry beads over whether they were successfully passing (fooling everyone that they were female) when the obvious truth was that almost none of us were fooling anyone.
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That article, which was so intelligently and guilelessly written, really got my attention and set me to thinking about what I was up to, what my own goals and aspirations were regarding this whole gurl thing. Just what was it that I wanted to accomplish, to experience? And how should I expect to be able to cope with some rather obvious limitations and frustrations? Who was I really, this person in a skirt? I tell ya, that article not only got me thinking, it set me free. Why had I been thinking I had to trade in one stereotype for another? Why was I not plagued with genitalia anxiety like some gurls, did not feel like a woman trapped in a man's body? Why did gender have to be black and white, one or the other when what I was actually feeling was something in-between, something decidedly not masculine in any traditional sense, but not entirely female either? Why couldn't I aim for a form of expression more nearly what I intuitively knew to be the real me -- a guy with strong feminine traits and interests?

And that's where I've been heading ever since. Yes, I enjoy many of the trappings of conventional female appearance, feel quite comfortable and natural with them, but I'm really not trying to be a female impersonator and wouldn't undergo SRS if someone offered to bankroll the whole process. I used to wear silicone breastforms, but I don't even do that anymore. I know that I'm physically incapable of being "pretty", but I can strive to be attractive in a feminine way and delight in the wonderful fashions and foofing that have been denied men in our society (although that might me changing a bit). I don't know what other people would call this place I've arrived, but I like it. It suits me.

As for Pristine, there is much more to her than the one thesis I've touched on here. She's intelligent and talented and diversely curious and very interesting. I wouldn't call her beautiful exactly, but I think she's very attractive and sexy as all get-out. If you have an interest in such things, check out her web site. The obvious difference in our ages aside, she's definitely someone I'd love to hang out with, if she weren't in New York and I in Texas. But for all of her intellect, talents, experience and verve, you know what? She's still just as preoccupied with gurl-loves-boy as the rest of us. Like me. If I were an open minded young gay guy in NYC, I'd definitely be interested in Pristine. I can't imagine why they wouldn't be lined up at her door.

Or mine. ;-)

What my daydreams have become

2008-11-13T23:42:00.003-06:00

I fantasize about moving off somewhere far removed from my present life's annoying limitations -- San Francisco maybe, or Taos or Boulder, and living as Sherri 24/7. Managing a small bookstore perhaps, with a coffee shop and a park nearby, bicycling to work in a skirt when the weather is nice.

In the movie Sideways, Virginia Madsen's character, Maya, lives in what looks like a cute little garage apartment with a long flower-lined wooden staircase, a comfy kitchen, a tasteful little living room and a cozy bedroom with pretty curtains and a view. Yeah, I like that, with my books lining one wall and a cherry coffee table and a walnut media cabinet I built myself on weekends, a pastel-and-white quilt on the bed and big pillows. Friends and boyfriend over for dinner Saturday evening in the summer, pasta and chianti maybe, with the windows open to catch the breeze and sandalwood incense burning.

A call from home on Sunday ... "I'm so glad your job is going well, I'm so proud of you ... I'm fine, I love it here ... let's go fishing before summer's over ... I love you too, with all my heart."

The significance of legs

2008-11-13T19:21:00.004-06:00

I'm a crossdresser. More specifically, I'm a part-time male-to-female crossdresser. I love being a crossdresser.

I am other things of course, and some of those other things -- business person, son, brother, father -- are why I'm part-time. Because otherwise, believe me, I'd be full-time in no time.

When I'm in gurl mode, which is only about 5% of the time, it always irks me to have to switch back to boy mode, which is most of the time. I hate trading in certain girlish things for drab boy things. Relinquishing is what I'm actually having to do. Now mind you, when I'm in gurl mode, I'm not really trying to fool anyone that I'm a gender girl (GG), and I don't try to be anatomically correct in every way. Being "passable" is a non-issue to me. But I do like for some things to be just ... so. And I chafe that I can't have a few other things just ... so.
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Because some things are dead giveaways in boy mode. Things like acrylic nails and feminine eyebrows. Pierced ears and painted toenails. Things for which there is no plausible explanation other than I'm obviously swishy, maybe a pervert (in the eyes of the uninitiated); at the very least, I would be thought of as a metrosexual, which in my geo-social region is just as bad. Nevertheless, they are highly desirable because they contribute to a more persuasively attractive appearance and persona, and because they make me feel good. But another reason they're so desirable is they constitute a commitment, a divulgence there's no hiding or turning back from, at least in the short term. I like that sort of commitment; I like putting myself in there's-no-turning-back-now situations. Which is exactly what puts these particular manifestations out of reach ... they would just tip my hand a bit too much and cause problems. Serious problems, problems that would compromise people I care about, not just me.

But I can shave my legs (and just about everything else below my eyebrows), so I do. All the time. Some poor schmucks don't even get to do that ... disapproving wives or whatever. The main reason I shave them, of course, is because I consider smooth legs to be de rigeur for a feminine look (guys who occasionally like to don women's clothing, usually as a sexual fetish, without bothering to shave, -- well, that's just gross). And unlike nails or eyebrows, I can choose when to reveal my legs or not.

At first, I only showed them when dressing, but this summer when I undertook an intense program of weight loss and conditioning that included a great deal of cycling and jogging in hot weather, I elected, for the first time, to cast a measure of caution to the wind and put my shaved, tanned legs on display and eventually wound up wearing shorts for most of the season. But I can always cover them up if I need to. I have noticed, however, that my legs do get noticed (I watch people out of the corner of my eye) because not only are they shaved and tan, they're, well, girly legs. Actually, they're very girly legs, slender, tanned, toned, sexy in a decidedly feminine sort of way, way too pretty for a guy. So baring them is kind of flaunting the fact that I'm "different" in some indefinable way, maybe not a man's man. Which I'm not. They might cause some speculation, but to my mind they're not damning enough evidence to convict. I mean after all, some macho guys dripping testosterone do shave their legs, usually for athletic reasons. Still, I think mine are a no-turning-back statement when I elect to display them. There's no denying them should the subject come up, and were romance to rear its head, with a woman for instance, there is the shaved body, plus the subtle undertones of my demeanor, that suggest there's something, well, a bit girly about me. And I like it that this factors into the equation without really telling the whole story. And again, I can control whether to reveal this part of me.

It must be acknowledged that another important reason I keep my legs shaved, even during protracted periods when I don't get to dress, is because they keep me in touch with that part of me. Sort of like wearing a promise ring, from me to me. And when I do pull a skirt on over those smooth legs -- well, that's the foundation, the core, the cake. The rest -- the heels, the outfits, the makeup and hair and nails, the jewelry -- is icing, accessorizing, almost superfluous. The skirted legs are the heart, the meat, the soul of being Sherri, the girl in me, the sweet part, the soft part, the sexy part. I knew that, instinctively, long before I ever tried to analyze any of this stuff. It's what started all this. The legs.

When I'm picking up a sandwich at the drive-through window, or talking to the sales girl at the clothing store, or chatting with a guy on a barstool, or out on the dance floor, whatever we're doing or talking about, I'm thinking, "If you touch my legs, we may both go up in flames."