I’m indebted to several readers that have helped me get over what was a bad day at the office and encouraged me to resume the autobiographical theme that I have been developing. I have put my concern about the Ratings and Hits away in a box and will no pay attention to them again. So, here we go again!

Comments, or more importantly shared or contrasting experiences, will be very welcome if you can spare the time to write. The chapters that follow will continue to be autobiographical. These are actual events that I’m re-living.

Chapter 21

Having reached my Twenties now, I am married and a family is on the way. I have a job that means I am travelling regularly. Time away from home brings temptations for many young men — and most often in the direction of easy sex, no-strings, no-consequences. Even in the early 1970s, unwanted pregnancies were very avoidable.

Other temptations, though, became occasionally very pressing in my life. Opportunities to dress were never out of my mind. As much as I had promised myself I would stop this thing, the reality was that it was virtually impossible to deliver on that promise.

I had nothing worth mentioning in a stash at home. I had forsaken the ownership of pretty things and contented myself with paying close attention to the girls who worked around me in the company’s offices where I was based. Further, I was able to get out and visit salespeople in the field and that meant a roving eye was un-noticeable. I relished the times when I could get out there and admire the fashions and the ways girls were wearing them. Some of our salespeople were young ladies whose business dress was always required to be impeccable. That had the result of my spending days sometimes with some very “tasty” ladies!

One of the aspects of this time that I’m less than proud of was a tendency to be a bit of a voyeur. I’d while away spare time just standing in the street watching the world go by… most often in the vicinity of a hair and beauty salon where I’d see the clients come and go, seeing the transformations they enjoyed. I’d just pretend to be waiting for someone.

Bit sad really.

Around this time, I did read a small advertisement in a newspaper — remember them? — in the days before the Internet. It was short but sweet. “Transvestites Exclusively!” and gave a phone number. It proved to be within reach of home but far enough away to be secure (an hour’s drive away). A session with access to a wardrobe was promised when I phoned. I booked a date and time. I drove to the location — on a house-boat on the River Thames near the stately home of Hampton Court.

This ended sadly too — I sat in the car park nearby but couldn’t raise the courage to risk being “caught” by someone I didn’t know in suspicious circumstances. What if there were more than one of them there? What if they wouldn’t give my clothes back once I was dressed? What if….??? Yeah! Sad or what?! So I sat there… and then drove home with my tail between my legs, and certainly, my dick tucked between my thighs. I was 24, going on 14.

So many “might have beens” in all our lives when you think back. What if I’d gone in and let myself be dressed and made-up by a total stranger? Maybe a lady who loved CDs?!

My crossdressing life came back to me when, two years later, I discovered the existence of a small chain of stores that catered for crossdressers’ needs. With stores in London, Manchester and Birmingham — and I think for a while, in Bristol and Newcastle, a group called “Transformation” was unique at the time.

The stores advertised clothing in the right sizes for males who wanted to be “transformed into beautiful women”. There were shoes in sizes up to UK 10 — my own needs answered! (Good shoes are SO hard to find in such a size, much to my regret!) They even had high-heeled stiletto boots which were unobtainable anywhere else! There were wigs of most colours and many styles. There was plenty of underwear, some of it very trashy, some of it a bit BDSM, some of it quite nice but no threat to the M&S range I had always chosen. The clothing side was well sorted by the person who started and owned the business. Herself a transgendered lady who clearly had business sense.

There were plenty of books and magazines, mainly sourced from the US I guess; plenty of she-males, some having sex with eachother….. hold on… this is getting a bit heavy (for someone who couldn’t even cross a car park and go into a perfectly ordinary looking property).

The store’s clothing was rather cheap and not very nice but it was designed to meet the needs of a certain clientele — one that included blokes that liked wearing frocks, like I did! (I know, at times, it’s not easy to take yourself seriously, isn’t it?)

I discovered years later that Stephanie, the owner had started a hotel for TVs to go away to for weekends in the company of other crossdressers together. I don’t know I could ever have done that — never did anyhow.

What I did find intriguing, and eventually did succumb to enjoy, was a service called “Change Aways” where people like me could go and have a make-up and change into a range of clothes that were kept for the purpose. There was a menu of “Looks” that could be chosen. Anything from “Tarty” to “School M’am”, From “Business Lady” to “Night-time Slut”, and many more. All tastes catered for!

For a first time, spending a half hour in the shop in London, then going back another couple of times — and finally conquering the fear from watching from the other side of the road — I decided I would go for it… Go for a half-day’s transformation into a beautiful woman (..ha! Ha! ..as if! But having the experience would be fun!).

On a first planned visit, when time off from work was not critical, I made the trip to the London store. For the first time I had the courage to go in, to say that I wanted an AwayDay experience and to pay up front for it. I was asked what look I would like and the not-so young lady helped me to choose…. As it was my first time, of course, I chose the tarty or slutty look. I’d expect that 90 percent of their clients do the same. Tarty. Whore-ish. Loads of make-up, short skirt, fishnet pantie-hose, big false tits on a push-up bra, see-through blouse, and a blonde wig that was so huge it was to keep me awake at nights for weeks after!!

After half an hour’s make-up, I was free to choose my clothes and once dressed and be-wigged, to go upstairs to the lounge area where there were magazines, tea or coffee and lots of mirrors! There was also another crossdresser, already dressed, sitting in the lounge.

This was the VERY FIRST TIME I had ever met another crossdresser. I had seen them, seen photographs of them. Imagined meeting them. But never had. There I am in the most tarty get-up imaginable. What a slut! Lips pouting and hair falling all over my shoulders, my skirt ending half-way up my things. And I realized my mistake.

This other “girl” had clearly done this before. She was dressed in a smart suit, the skirt of which ended just above the knees. The blouse was plain white and demure. Her fingernails were long and bright crimson. (Why hadn’t I asked for false nails and lashes?!). Her make-up was modern and quite under-stated except for her eyes which were captivating; three shades of blue eyeshadow with dark blue eyeliner and simple feminine false eyelashes. She had done this before alright! I wished immediately I had gone for the “less is more” look. I would do — next time.

Her shoes were white with low 2-inch heels. She had simple pearls as her jewellery and a pearl ring. (My jewellery was flashy and blingy…. Not right really, except for the tart I was playing). Finally, her hair was a classic brown bob-cut, chin length with bangs framing her face.

Now I knew what a ChangeAway could do for a girl.

One of us had to say something.

She began, not unkindly, saying “You’ve not been here before, have you?” …and I laughed.

I had to. There was she, looking really very good — though I knew she was a bloke like me. There was me, looking like a tart who had no chance of scoring. It had cost us the same amount of money to get to look the way we did. But her money had been well spent. But I had enjoyed every minute.

I answered, “Um, obviously not. Have you been here often? You look so good.”

“Thank you, honey, and yes, indeed I have. Every month I manage to get away for some relaxation and I don’t know a better place. You look like you need that — relaxation, I mean.” I remember her words — I’ll remember them as long as I live. We talked for an hour or more, neither of us using overtly feminine voices, but rather more hushed and gentle tones. It turned out that she was a few years older than me and had been dressing since she was a teenager. She felt able to pass as a girl in the real world but didn’t own much of her own gear. So she went to “Transformation” as a regular customer.

I left the store determined, next time, to follow her example — and get the quality right.

--oo00oo–

(I’ll come back to another “Transformation” in a later chapter — the first time I went out dressed!)

--oo00oo–

My Twenties continued with few excursions into the world of a CD. I always avidly followed articles in the newspapers if there were any on the subject. I spent a lot of time just observing the girls and women around me — where I worked, in the street, on television. Marvelling at their style and clothing, I found myself always imagining myself in their place. But my desire to dress was always beaten by my fear of ruining what was a good lifestyle. Locked inside my head, my secret desire was hidden away.

I was conscious that my love of things feminine was at odds with the increasing media fervour for the acceptance of the (suddenly respectable) “gay” world. This was 1976……

There appeared to be droves of “Luvvies” who had broken out of the Theatre and Dance worlds to become mainstream. To make gays very much mainstream. It would take years but, in the same way, crossdressers were the great “unmentioned”. We didn’t even warrant a word. It would even take five more years before lesbians got the same billing as gay men so what chance did we have?!

My love of the feminine things in life grew stronger — if that was possible. My feelings about homosexuality and the position of gay men in particular grew more convinced. I didn’t ever want to go in that direction. The idea of sex with a man was just not for me (sorry, guys!). I was quite attached to my dick and so gender reassignment was not of any interest to me at all. I was, and still am, a guy who is a girl from time-to-time. Then, I was 27 years old.

I adored, and still do, the changes in fashion, style and the “just being” of a woman’s life. So, in 1976, I revelled in the way fashions were going after the liberation of the Sixties. Inexpensive dresses, skirts, shirts and blouses were all within reach. (But I had none of my own now, there being nowhere to keep them hidden).

It was important that I did pay special attention to my wife’s interests that were similar — talking at length for as long as she wanted, about the clothes she wanted to buy for herself, going shopping with her, enthusing about how well some clothes suited her, counselling her if I felt others “didn’t suit”. As a young Mother, it was important for her to re-gain her femininity and not be just “Mum”. Her clothes budget was twice or more than mine, but I had the enjoyment of choosing girly things. Was that a bad thing? I don’t think so. I tried to do the same with her hair and make-up, carefully trying not to get “too involved”. (I did keep some lipstick for myself for occasional indulgence).

My choice of magazine had always been female-oriented, so it was easy to get our reading material to coincide. (I kept my interest in football as the ‘boy’ end of my reading). I didn’t go as far as reading ‘Pride and Prejudice’ or other romantic novels that she loved, but I would sit through the movies, paying attention to the female characters and their ways of dressing. No prizes for guessing why.

I could hardly be lonely. Everything, in a conventional sense, was horribly normal. And I was enjoying it all. Being a father was great. Being a Husband was great. I thank the Lord that I wasn’t caught in the “wrong body” dilemma that many people confess to feeling (and eventually to giving in to). I was lonely, in truth. Because I had nobody to share my pressures with. Work was pressurized, but in a different way. Life at home had its pressures — like getting back to regular conventional love-making. I couldn’t always “perform” (that horrible word again).

But in my quiet “alone” moments, I had company…. My dreams. My thoughts of being comfortable and dressing as I wished were enough. Literally nothing of any consequence in my world of dressing happened for the next two years. I kept the lid firmly on my “can of worms”.

My world was nearly ruined one winter’s day when I was in London with time on my hands. My movements gravitated to Oxford Street, the City’s main shopping avenue. I hung around, as I often did, just watching the world — and the women — go by. It wasn’t long before I found myself being stopped by a policeman for standing too long on a shop corner for no good reason while having a wank through my trousers. He evidently thought I was “hanging loose” because he told me to open my coat. Nothing to be seen. No offence caused. No offense committed. I was moved on with a caution. He knew what I was doing, but couldn’t prove anything wrong.

Again, sad really, and witness to my being isolated — in my crowded world. Aged 29 now.

Indulging in more active “body care” — in ways which wouldn’t be greatly noticed — especially by my wife, I started carefully, by removing my body hair with Nair. It was easy to find in Boots the Chemists self-service counters. This was better than my first attempt — which involved shaving my nipples and underarms. My wife didn’t notice. Perhaps just as well she didn’t. But then again, it showed she didn’t pay me much attention.

I took to using moisturizer much more than before, with an easy explanation if questioned — which I was not. I would have pointed to the hard lines and acne marks that now graced my complexion.

Buying my own “barely enough” lipstick to wear all day. Not inside or when leaving, home. But in the everyday world. Nobody seemed to notice. If they had done, it was “sunscreen”.

But all of this was a long way away from my teenage years when I had grown my hair and had it set, worn panties and bras almost all the time……. I was in denial! Like it hadn’t happened. Like it was someone else, not me, in those past years.

Enough now. Chapter 22 will follow when time allows. Having reached 30 years of age, and having come back to the writing desk, I’m comfortable and hope, dear reader, that you are too. So, from my own “reality show”, I’ll be back soon. Happy Christmas! xx