It's a Woman's World

by Lorraine Roberts

 

Never having been a petticoats and crinolines type of girl – I couldn't believe I was thinking of myself in those terms – I did have in my wardrobe several things that were suitable for work. I congratulated myself on how well I hid my female clothes – a casual search by a curious landlord or girlfriend would never have revealed them – not that it mattered now. On one side of my closet was a small trapdoor that allowed access to the pipes for my shower should any of them ever spring a leak. The doorway was small enough the someone would have to crawl through the opening to get inside, but once there, there was plenty of space between my shower and the wall for a plumber to work and it was high enough for someone to stand up in. I had installed a rod to the left of the opening, not visible from the outside that had more than enough room for my collection. A shelf above held my shoes. The only problem was that it was rather dusty so I had been keeping my shoes in their boxes, and my clothes in plastic dry cleaning bags. I had moved all of them into my closet now, no sense in hiding them anymore. In fact, I had plans to move most of my male things into the hiding place.

As I stood before my closet, running the tips of my fingers along the edge of the neatly hanging row of skirts and blouses, trying to decide what to wear, I reflected upon the fact that there seemed to be two distinct categories of cross-dressers. One group tended toward wild fashions and club-wear, and were for the most part gay. I referred to them as "The Divas" because I always thought of the word "queens" as derogatory. I always thought that it was a huge paradox because here was a group of homosexual guys that seemed to worship the idealized exotic female form at its most extreme … like Cher, and yet always made wanted it made clear that they were – and always would be – men. But then again, if you are a gay male who wants to make himself attractive to other gay males, appearing as the perfect female would be self-defeating. I suppose it did make sense after all.

On the other side were those who dressed in more conservative attire and shunned the wild makeup and hairstyles. These, as I saw it, fell into two sub-categories. There were the straight guys who shared all of the emotional and psychological traits of other straight men, and dressed in women's clothes only for the sheer sexual thrill of the act. They watched football and drank beer with their buddies on Saturday and no one would suspect that they had a deep, dark secret that they kept hidden from the light of day. On the other hand, there were those men who genuinely wanted to be women – at least some of the time. Some of them wanted to, and fully intended to, make it permanent; and there were those like myself who often thought about what it would be like to be a woman, but were unwilling or unable to make it a full-time commitment. The sexual orientation of those in that group was harder to pin down because definitions become fuzzy when your own sexual identity is in question. Did it even matter? I had always been opposed to the "gay pride" movement because I felt that those who were involved were allowing their sexuality to define who they were. After all, sex was only a small part of one's life, something you did, not something you were. A gay pride parade would have been as silly as a straight pride parade. But as my own life took a turn, I began to realize something that had not occurred to me before. As I became more and more of a woman, I experienced several fundamental changes in my emotional and psychological make up. I was no longer fully male; I had become something different. It was not what I did, it was who I was. Was it the same for gay males? Was their whole personality so completely different that it really was who they were? For so long straight men had assumed that it was all about sex, because that's what straight men think about. But for gay males, maybe it was about far more than sex – and nobody but them ever saw it that way.

Wow, that was profound, or so I thought with a giggle. I didn't know where I fit into that whole equation. I loved football and beer as much as the next guy, but I also loved kitten heels and flirty dresses. God, I was the manly man's wet dream, except for the little problem I still had between my legs. Oh, and I liked women, too. So, if I did eventually get around to having reassignment surgery, I would be a football watching, beer drinking, sexy clothes wearing, lipstick lesbian chick with a nice, tight … oh my God, I'd have to fight the guys off with a stick. The thought did amuse me.

But back to the problem at hand, what to wear. I loved my moss green pantsuit and it would have been perfect for work, but after much agonizing decided against it. I didn't have a problem with women wearing pants in principle, but at this point in my transition and for my first day at a new job, I didn't want any suggestion of androgyny. I chose instead a simple straw colored linen pencil skirt hemmed just above the knee, a lightweight ivory silk blouse and matching ivory pumps. I frowned as I rooted around in my drawer for a pair of sheer ivory hose to go with the outfit. I would have loved to go with bare legs and a pair of strappy sandals, but I was not that brave – at least not yet.

I lay my choices out on the bed checking to make sure there were no spots or stains. Looking up, I took a moment to scan my surroundings. Everything in my bedroom was already so girly I really wouldn't need to change anything there. In retrospect it was funny how none of the girls I had ever had in my apartment ever said anything about that. The delicate antique dressing table, the four poster rice bed, the yellow and white striped Laura Ashley comforter with matching pillow shams and drapes, the bedside table covered with a long frilly tablecloth and lace doily. Hell, they'd probably taken notes so they could do the same thing to their own bedroom. I had always liked that kind of thing, but my original plan had been to make this into a true bachelor's pad with strong neutral tones and maybe beer signs on the wall. But when I actually went shopping for furnishings, I began to think that that was silly. Why deny what I really liked? After all, it was MY place, I should be able to decorate it the way I liked, not how someone else thought it should be decorated. Besides, I was confident enough in my masculinity to not let someone else's perception of my sexuality get in the way. Yeah, well, maybe the masculinity had been stretching it a bit in light of the fact that I was now wearing panties and had a skirt and a pair of heels laid out on the bed, but strangely enough I still felt self-confident. I was who I was, damn it, and I didn't necessarily have to conform to some other person's view of what was normal.

With a renewed sense of self worth, I headed back out to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. Returning to the bedroom, I stood before my mirrored dressing table and stared at the image looking back at me. I wished that she – funny how I thought of myself as a she now – was more striking, maybe a dark-haired Persian beauty. I had browsed several TV/TG websites and noticed that the Asian, Middle Eastern and Hispanic "girls" always managed to pull off the look better than those of us of European descent. The few African-American's I had seen were a mixed bag, some quite lovely, and others … well. Oh, but Persian girls were always the most beautiful.

As sissified as this apartment was, there was still something missing. I walked from room to room trying to figure out what it was. Of course! There were no magazines. Every girl's house I had been in had copies of Cosmo or Vogue – or at least People – lying about. Hmm, I'd have to give some serious thought to subscribing when I started getting paid again. Maybe they'd give me some insight into fashion as well. I mean I thought I was doing well, but it never hurt to get more information. And while I was at it, maybe I could learn the latest sexual secrets that are guaranteed to turn my man on. I considered that one with a hearty laugh.

  

  

  

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