I laughed. I laughed some more. I admired a few frocks. And I thought Rupert Everett made a fantastic woman.
You could see his beard stubble in a couple of scenes though. Not that I'm one to talk, but it's such a tranny thing to look for :-)
Needless to say, it's a film I'm glad I went to see.
Saturday, 29 December 2007
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Rachel's First Christmas
I'm 43 you know. Yes, yes, I know it's hard to believe. Thank you. Stop it; you're making me blush. Anyway, I'm 43, so I've done (if my calculations are correct) 43 Christmases. However, for 42 of them I was, knowingly or unknowingly, a closet tranny, hidden away in a secret little world of my own, afraid to come out.
Not this year. This year was the first Christmas since I came out; the first Christmas since the existence of Rachel was thrust onto an unsuspecting world.
This year was Rachel's first real Christmas.
And she had one. Just a little one; nothing spectacular, but something. Mr X got loads of lovely presents, as you'd expect from someone so handsome and popular, but tucked away in the stocking were three little packages for Rachel. A pair of ear-rings (clip-on, of course), a hair accessory and a book (Camilla Morton's 'How To Walk In High Heels: The Girl's Guide To Evrything'). Small presents, it's true. But a big step and a level of acceptance I neither deserved nor expected.
To my wife: thank you.
No, no, I'm fine; just a little something in my eye ...
Not this year. This year was the first Christmas since I came out; the first Christmas since the existence of Rachel was thrust onto an unsuspecting world.
This year was Rachel's first real Christmas.
And she had one. Just a little one; nothing spectacular, but something. Mr X got loads of lovely presents, as you'd expect from someone so handsome and popular, but tucked away in the stocking were three little packages for Rachel. A pair of ear-rings (clip-on, of course), a hair accessory and a book (Camilla Morton's 'How To Walk In High Heels: The Girl's Guide To Evrything'). Small presents, it's true. But a big step and a level of acceptance I neither deserved nor expected.
To my wife: thank you.
No, no, I'm fine; just a little something in my eye ...
Monday, 24 December 2007
Last Minute Shopping
I've mentioned this is a previous post, but if you're looking for a last-minute present to get me, well, I want one of these please.
Update 26/12/1007: Oh, no. It's not on their website any more. It doesn't even appear to be in the Sale. Help!
Update 29/12/2007: GOT ONE ON EBAY!!!!
Saturday, 22 December 2007
What Was I Thinking?
The other day I logged into Rose's forum and, as happens, was confronted by the front page with my avatar on it. And I looked at the girl in the picture and all I could see was me in make-up and a wig. And I thought 'What the hell am I doing, looking like that?' And it's not the first time it's happened.
It's a strange feeling. Most of the time I can see pictures of myself dressed, and I'm happy. And why not? I'm actually pleased with how I present as a woman. I think I look OK. Don't get me wrong; I also look at pictures of myself in bloke mode and think the same. Apart from the bit about being pleased with how I present as a woman, obviously. Both Rachel and Bloke (I really need a name for Bloke. I'm going to call myself 'Mr X' I think. OK?) are happy by what they see. But every so often I see a picture of myself as Rachel, and she's not there to be pleased by it. It's just Mr X looking at a picture and thinking 'What the hell ... etc"
I see this as a good thing. It means that Rachel's happy to drift away from time to time, leaving me to get on with things instead of wondering about such things as how I can justify buying that gorgeous sequined dress that Next are selling at the moment. Despite her being properly unleashed on an unsuspecting world over the last six months or so, it means that she's not in charge.
The time to worry is when I look at one of the many (oh, so many) pictures of Mr X that are on the 'net and Rachel thinks "What the hell am I doing, looking like that?"
It's a strange feeling. Most of the time I can see pictures of myself dressed, and I'm happy. And why not? I'm actually pleased with how I present as a woman. I think I look OK. Don't get me wrong; I also look at pictures of myself in bloke mode and think the same. Apart from the bit about being pleased with how I present as a woman, obviously. Both Rachel and Bloke (I really need a name for Bloke. I'm going to call myself 'Mr X' I think. OK?) are happy by what they see. But every so often I see a picture of myself as Rachel, and she's not there to be pleased by it. It's just Mr X looking at a picture and thinking 'What the hell ... etc"
I see this as a good thing. It means that Rachel's happy to drift away from time to time, leaving me to get on with things instead of wondering about such things as how I can justify buying that gorgeous sequined dress that Next are selling at the moment. Despite her being properly unleashed on an unsuspecting world over the last six months or so, it means that she's not in charge.
The time to worry is when I look at one of the many (oh, so many) pictures of Mr X that are on the 'net and Rachel thinks "What the hell am I doing, looking like that?"
Thursday, 20 December 2007
That Gabriel Wears A Frock, You Know
Following on from my (with hindsight) slightly sacriligeous post of the other day concerning my desire to play Mary in a Nativity play, comes another seaonal musing.
During todays's carol concert at work we sang 'Whilst Shepherds Watch'. We even sang the correct words (which we didn't do for 'O Come All Ye Faithful' as an editorial error had mixed up the words to some of the verses). The words to 'Shepherds' (the correct ones) include the line 'Fear not, said he ...', where 'he' is the Angel of the Lord. That simple little word reminds us that the Angel of the Lord is a bloke.
So how come he's always played by a girl in Nativity plays? I'd never thought about it before, but I guess I've become more susceptible to gender-related musings of late. It's up there with Mary in terms of great roles to have; you get some lines, you get to wear a frock (sorry, 'robe') and, unlike Mary, you get to wear lots of sparkly bits. It has something to be said for it. And it's a male role. Oh, the missed opportunities.
You can see that if I had my way the traditional Nativity play would turn into some kind of bizarre pantomime. Which is, of course, what my daughter almost managed to do to hers at the end. But that's a story I'll not relate here. Or, probably, anywhere else. Let's just say it involved a glove-puppet.
During todays's carol concert at work we sang 'Whilst Shepherds Watch'. We even sang the correct words (which we didn't do for 'O Come All Ye Faithful' as an editorial error had mixed up the words to some of the verses). The words to 'Shepherds' (the correct ones) include the line 'Fear not, said he ...', where 'he' is the Angel of the Lord. That simple little word reminds us that the Angel of the Lord is a bloke.
So how come he's always played by a girl in Nativity plays? I'd never thought about it before, but I guess I've become more susceptible to gender-related musings of late. It's up there with Mary in terms of great roles to have; you get some lines, you get to wear a frock (sorry, 'robe') and, unlike Mary, you get to wear lots of sparkly bits. It has something to be said for it. And it's a male role. Oh, the missed opportunities.
You can see that if I had my way the traditional Nativity play would turn into some kind of bizarre pantomime. Which is, of course, what my daughter almost managed to do to hers at the end. But that's a story I'll not relate here. Or, probably, anywhere else. Let's just say it involved a glove-puppet.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Christmas At The Criterion
As I said in my previous post I was out and about in London this weekend. The occasion was the Adam and Eve Christmas meal, at the Criterion restaurant in Piccadilly. I have a real soft-spot for Adam and Eve; the dressing service has had a major impact on my life, providing me with the impetus to come out to my wife, and helping introduce my wife to the 'other woman' when we had got through the difficult early stages. I promised myself that I'd attend one of the events they organised, and the Christmas meal seemed just right.
The plan was to get ready at A&E, taxi to the Criterion, eat, taxi back to A&E, possibly do some cocktails over the road and then head to the Way Out Club for the rest of the evening. To this end I booked up an hotel room at the Chamberlain around the corner from the Way Out; not cheap, but comfortable and very pleasant.
This arrangement presented an interesting logistical exercise. I was going to get dressed at A&E, but finish the night at the hotel, travelling back to A&E the following morning in order to pick up the things I had left there. To this end I had to go to A&E, drop of my frocks and femme stuff, then walk over to the Chamberlain, check in, and drop off a complete set of bloke clothes ready for the next morning, plus my toothbrush and all my make-up removal stuff. Then back to A&E to actually get ready.
There were seven of us, all told; myself, Jo, Christine, Helen, Jackie, Stevie and (of course) Josie. I had met Christine and Helen before, but only in bloke mode; the others (aside from Josie) were new to me apart from in photos. Getting trannies ready for a night out is like herding cats, but we just about managed to get ourselves presentable in time for the taxis, and got to to the restaurant just in time, despite the best efforts of London traffic to prevent us.
The meal and the restaurant were fantastic, and the conversation very pleasant. We got plenty of opportunity to parade ourselves in public, including getting pictures taken in Piccadilly. I have to admit it; part of the fun of being a tranny is being out and being seen. If that makes me a bit shallow, then so be it; I'm a bit shallow.
The meal finished we taxied back to A&E, where most of us changed for the next part of the evening; cocktails. It was at this point that the others decided, for various reasons, that the Way Out was probably an event too far. This left me in a tricky position; I had booked my hotel on the assumption that a group of us were going to the Way Out. Now I was in the situation of being all dressed up, but with no-one to go with. Those who know me in bloke-mode will know that I'm not really a club kind of person, but I had set my heart on trying out this tranny venue, and decided that if I had to do it on my own, I would.
So I did. After a few cocktails with the other girls, I took a taxi to the Way Out; the first time I had used 'public' transport alone as Rachel. The driver knew of the club, and didn't seem fazed by having me in his vehicle (they see all sorts, I'm sure), but was surprised that I was all dressed up and not on the pull. He seemed to think that we (as in trannies) all just dressed because it made us horny (as he put it). I hope I modified his views a little in that respect; he was certainly surprised that I was there with my wife's full knowledge and approval.
The club was all I expected it to be, and I had a great time, despite being on my own. This surprised me; as I say, I'm not a 'club person', but I was intent on enjoying myself, and parading Rachel to the world, and made sure I did. After an initial drink I stepped out onto the dance-floor and, apart from short breaks for drinks and a longer break for the cabaret ('The Wizard of Oz', as a pantomime), I stayed there all night. Dance, dance, dance; that's pretty much all I did. I did manage to chat to a few people - the Way Out is a friendly place - and had two men make advances to me, which I dealt with by polite refusal. Polite, because even though I'm straight it's always flattering to be thought worth chatting up. Does that make me even more shallow? Perhaps. I don't care.
Half past three, I decided to call it a night, and headed back to the hotel. After a few photos (you have to, and I hadn't had an opportunity at the WOC) I stripped off the slap, and went to bed. Where I discovered that the Red Bull I'd had earlier wasn't going to let me sleep.
Later that morning: After a couple of hours' sleep I gave in and did breakfast, before checking out and heading to A&E to pick up my stuff. Went home. Uploaded photos. Fell asleep. Properly, this time.
And that was my weekend. Thank you to Josie for organising the meal, and to the other girls for being great company. I'd certainly love to meet up again some time.
From my point of view I learned a few things:
(i) It is possible to walk into Fairy Goth Mother, various markets and a shop chock-full of vintage clothing and accessories, with money in your pocket, and not buy anything. I know; I did it. I was amazed.
(ii) When leaving a set of bloke clothes at an hotel, don't get so wrapped up in making sure you have pants and socks that you forget that you need a belt for your trousers. Unless (as I was lucky enough to discover) the trousers will just about stay up without one.
(iii) Rachel is far bolder than the my Bloke Self (I must find a name for my Bloke self, aside from the traditional Bob. Or my real name. Although some of you know that anyway. Sorry. Digressing). My Bloke Self (whatever his name is) would have baulked at the idea of doing a late-night taxi across London, and walking into a club on his own, then spending the evening there enjoying himself. As Rachel I happily did so. She worries me, sometimes.
Piccies:
My WOC Frock:
Outside the Criterion
Inside The Criterion
The plan was to get ready at A&E, taxi to the Criterion, eat, taxi back to A&E, possibly do some cocktails over the road and then head to the Way Out Club for the rest of the evening. To this end I booked up an hotel room at the Chamberlain around the corner from the Way Out; not cheap, but comfortable and very pleasant.
This arrangement presented an interesting logistical exercise. I was going to get dressed at A&E, but finish the night at the hotel, travelling back to A&E the following morning in order to pick up the things I had left there. To this end I had to go to A&E, drop of my frocks and femme stuff, then walk over to the Chamberlain, check in, and drop off a complete set of bloke clothes ready for the next morning, plus my toothbrush and all my make-up removal stuff. Then back to A&E to actually get ready.
There were seven of us, all told; myself, Jo, Christine, Helen, Jackie, Stevie and (of course) Josie. I had met Christine and Helen before, but only in bloke mode; the others (aside from Josie) were new to me apart from in photos. Getting trannies ready for a night out is like herding cats, but we just about managed to get ourselves presentable in time for the taxis, and got to to the restaurant just in time, despite the best efforts of London traffic to prevent us.
The meal and the restaurant were fantastic, and the conversation very pleasant. We got plenty of opportunity to parade ourselves in public, including getting pictures taken in Piccadilly. I have to admit it; part of the fun of being a tranny is being out and being seen. If that makes me a bit shallow, then so be it; I'm a bit shallow.
The meal finished we taxied back to A&E, where most of us changed for the next part of the evening; cocktails. It was at this point that the others decided, for various reasons, that the Way Out was probably an event too far. This left me in a tricky position; I had booked my hotel on the assumption that a group of us were going to the Way Out. Now I was in the situation of being all dressed up, but with no-one to go with. Those who know me in bloke-mode will know that I'm not really a club kind of person, but I had set my heart on trying out this tranny venue, and decided that if I had to do it on my own, I would.
So I did. After a few cocktails with the other girls, I took a taxi to the Way Out; the first time I had used 'public' transport alone as Rachel. The driver knew of the club, and didn't seem fazed by having me in his vehicle (they see all sorts, I'm sure), but was surprised that I was all dressed up and not on the pull. He seemed to think that we (as in trannies) all just dressed because it made us horny (as he put it). I hope I modified his views a little in that respect; he was certainly surprised that I was there with my wife's full knowledge and approval.
The club was all I expected it to be, and I had a great time, despite being on my own. This surprised me; as I say, I'm not a 'club person', but I was intent on enjoying myself, and parading Rachel to the world, and made sure I did. After an initial drink I stepped out onto the dance-floor and, apart from short breaks for drinks and a longer break for the cabaret ('The Wizard of Oz', as a pantomime), I stayed there all night. Dance, dance, dance; that's pretty much all I did. I did manage to chat to a few people - the Way Out is a friendly place - and had two men make advances to me, which I dealt with by polite refusal. Polite, because even though I'm straight it's always flattering to be thought worth chatting up. Does that make me even more shallow? Perhaps. I don't care.
Half past three, I decided to call it a night, and headed back to the hotel. After a few photos (you have to, and I hadn't had an opportunity at the WOC) I stripped off the slap, and went to bed. Where I discovered that the Red Bull I'd had earlier wasn't going to let me sleep.
Later that morning: After a couple of hours' sleep I gave in and did breakfast, before checking out and heading to A&E to pick up my stuff. Went home. Uploaded photos. Fell asleep. Properly, this time.
And that was my weekend. Thank you to Josie for organising the meal, and to the other girls for being great company. I'd certainly love to meet up again some time.
From my point of view I learned a few things:
(i) It is possible to walk into Fairy Goth Mother, various markets and a shop chock-full of vintage clothing and accessories, with money in your pocket, and not buy anything. I know; I did it. I was amazed.
(ii) When leaving a set of bloke clothes at an hotel, don't get so wrapped up in making sure you have pants and socks that you forget that you need a belt for your trousers. Unless (as I was lucky enough to discover) the trousers will just about stay up without one.
(iii) Rachel is far bolder than the my Bloke Self (I must find a name for my Bloke self, aside from the traditional Bob. Or my real name. Although some of you know that anyway. Sorry. Digressing). My Bloke Self (whatever his name is) would have baulked at the idea of doing a late-night taxi across London, and walking into a club on his own, then spending the evening there enjoying himself. As Rachel I happily did so. She worries me, sometimes.
Piccies:
My WOC Frock:
Outside the Criterion
Inside The Criterion
Monday, 17 December 2007
The Tag Effect
I was out in London this weekend indulging my outer tranny, about which I will blog when I have more time. As is inevitable, I took a few photos. These can be divided into two camps: there are the pictures of Me, Me, Me which are compulsory whenever I slip on a frock or skirt, and then there are those which can be termed 'scenery shots' or which are pictures of me in bloke mode. The former (and only the former) go into my Rachel photostream, thus giving people the idea that I'm self-obsessed and don't take pictures of anything else. The latter go into my Bloke Stream, where they show that I do sometimes take pictures of things other than myself (notwithstanding the several hundred self-portraits in that stream :-) )
Anyway, having returned from London I uploaded my pictures. There were eighteen tranny shots which went into Rachel's account and fourteen non-tranny shots for the Bloke account. I did the fourteen first, then sifted through the Rachel ones and did them an hour or two later. I am a compulsive tagger when it comes to Flickr, so uploading a batch of pictures always takes a bit of time.
About half an hour after uploading the last pictures I had a browse to see if anyone had been looking at them. The Bloke pics had been available for a couple of hours, and had, between them, attracted about seven views. The Rachel pics had been around for a quarter of that time, and had already totted up over a hundred views. Even now, a day later, the best one of the Bloke pics has managed is seventeen views. One of the Rachel pics is well past one hunderd and fifty.
Stick on tranny tags, and the world flocks to your door.
Anyway, having returned from London I uploaded my pictures. There were eighteen tranny shots which went into Rachel's account and fourteen non-tranny shots for the Bloke account. I did the fourteen first, then sifted through the Rachel ones and did them an hour or two later. I am a compulsive tagger when it comes to Flickr, so uploading a batch of pictures always takes a bit of time.
About half an hour after uploading the last pictures I had a browse to see if anyone had been looking at them. The Bloke pics had been available for a couple of hours, and had, between them, attracted about seven views. The Rachel pics had been around for a quarter of that time, and had already totted up over a hundred views. Even now, a day later, the best one of the Bloke pics has managed is seventeen views. One of the Rachel pics is well past one hunderd and fifty.
Stick on tranny tags, and the world flocks to your door.
Friday, 14 December 2007
A Seasonal Thought
I went to my daughter's school Nativity play this evening. She was Mary.
Mary gets to wear the best frock and be the centre of attention.
I want to be Mary :-)
Mary gets to wear the best frock and be the centre of attention.
I want to be Mary :-)
What To Wear?
According to my wife I now have more female clothes than male clothes. This is, of course, not true, but I have to admit that, looking at my wardrobe sometimes, you can see why someone might think it.
So how is it that, given the array of feminine goodies I have available, I'm still not sure what to wear for any given outing. I mean it's not like I get out that much; I've settled on about twice a month as a frequency with which everyone seems to be comfortable. And yet before each trip I agonise over what outfit to wear, and never feel that what I have selected is quite right.
Or does everyone feel like that?
(The solution, of course, is to buy more stuff. This may not, on balance, be an idea worth pursuing, however.)
So how is it that, given the array of feminine goodies I have available, I'm still not sure what to wear for any given outing. I mean it's not like I get out that much; I've settled on about twice a month as a frequency with which everyone seems to be comfortable. And yet before each trip I agonise over what outfit to wear, and never feel that what I have selected is quite right.
Or does everyone feel like that?
(The solution, of course, is to buy more stuff. This may not, on balance, be an idea worth pursuing, however.)
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
My Tranny Footprint
I'm a sucker for this kind of thing:
My Tranny Footprint
912673 COt
(COt = Cubic Ounces of trannieness)
Calculate your tranny footprint at BeckysWeb!
Does The World Need Another Tranny Blog?
Probably not. But it's getting one anyway.
I'm Rachel, forty-something, married, two children. I live in Staines. What more do you need to know?
In the broad spectrum that is Transgender I identify myself as a crossdresser, in that I wear women's clothing for the pleasure of it. No, not that kind of 'pleasure', smutty person. I wear them because it makes me feel right; in touch with a side of myself I have difficulty expressing otherwise. In a way it's fun. Almost a hobby. Almost.
No, I'm not gay.
No, I don't want to take hormones and transition.
Yes, most of the time I'm happy being a bloke.
I just like frocks as well.
Anyway, I decided that I needed a blog so that I can ramble incoherently about tranny things without 'outing' myself on my real blog. A number of people (my family, mainly) know about Rachel, but for reasons too involved for a first post I have to be discrete about her on public forums like this. So this is me being discrete.
Anyway, that's enough for now. The first post is always the hardest :-)
I'm Rachel, forty-something, married, two children. I live in Staines. What more do you need to know?
In the broad spectrum that is Transgender I identify myself as a crossdresser, in that I wear women's clothing for the pleasure of it. No, not that kind of 'pleasure', smutty person. I wear them because it makes me feel right; in touch with a side of myself I have difficulty expressing otherwise. In a way it's fun. Almost a hobby. Almost.
No, I'm not gay.
No, I don't want to take hormones and transition.
Yes, most of the time I'm happy being a bloke.
I just like frocks as well.
Anyway, I decided that I needed a blog so that I can ramble incoherently about tranny things without 'outing' myself on my real blog. A number of people (my family, mainly) know about Rachel, but for reasons too involved for a first post I have to be discrete about her on public forums like this. So this is me being discrete.
Anyway, that's enough for now. The first post is always the hardest :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)