Tuesday, 8 January 2008


Had a weird experience on Saturday ...

For the last few months I have been chatting online to Sarah, a local t-girl. Sarah and I seemed to have much in common with regard to personal situation and attitude to dressing, and we had considered the possibility of meeting up for wine, nibbles and a proper chat. A possibility that became reality on Saturday, when, having her place to herself, she invited me over for the evening.

Now, I have certain self-imposed restrictions on being dressed locally; I try not to do it. If I do dress and go out from home, it involves a quick scuttle to the car, and I leave the area as quickly as possible. I don't go out and about around here. Sarah, of course, lives locally. So, how to become Rachel without compromising my restriction?

Sarah had offered that I could change at hers, but I thought that turning up there as Mr X, the disappearing off for an hour to get ready was a little unsociable (albeit practical). What I decided to do was to dress as much as I could at home, and trust to my coat and the darkness to hide me from casual inspection. Then I could quickly finish off at Sarah's.

What I went for was this: I could wear my undies and shapewear, obviously. My coat was baggy enough to hide my boobs. I wore flat shoes which wouldn't be too noticeably feminine (to casual inspection). The only makeup I put on was cover, foundation and powder. I chose a nice pink sweater I hadn't worn out before, but that would be under my coat, and put the skirt I had chosen in a bag with my makeup and wig. I wore my male jeans. Upon arriving at Sarah's house all I had to do was put on my wig and skirt and do a quick eyes and lips job, and I was done. Easy.

So, I got ready. And looked in the mirror. Which is when I had my weird experience.

The makeup softened my face, and made I look, well, not like me. It was neither Rachel (whose facial shape is as much defined by my choice of wig than anything else) or Mr X staring back at me, but a strange combination of the two. The sweater is fairly close-fitting, so my body was as I'd expect it to be when I am dressed - boobs and a slim waist - but the jeans made my legs look male. Except near the top, where they were filled with the unfamiliar bulge of (artificial) hips and bum.

I looked odd. Not unpleasant, but somehow not me.

Even driving to Sarah's was strange. I could feel that I was dressed, and yet wearing familiar Mr X trousers and without my wig I felt 'wrong'. Again, it wasn't unpleasant; it was just strange.

Those shoes, though. They may have been flats, they made far more of a click-clack noise as I walked. I bit too obviously girly for my subterfuge to be anything but cursory. Oh well. It's a good job I didn't meet anyone between my car and Sarah's house.

Epilogue: After a very pleasant evening (thanks Sarah for your hospitality) I travelled home dressed; it being after midnight I had decided that the chances of being spotted by anyone I knew were minimal. I did have to pass through a small group of chavs on my way back to the car, but survived intact (and seemingly unremarked upon). I then had to scrape ice off the car, so I'm glad I packed - and wore home - my warm winter coat (Dorothy Perkins, via eBay). Got home all safe. Time to plan the next trip out. And what I have learned? Against all expectation, I reckon Rachel might look OK in trousers. There. I've said it. But not just yet.

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