Revised, with minor corrections and additions.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this," said June, the vivacious, large-bosomed, tattooed, gum-chewing, 30-year-old bartender, looking me over again, "but I think you might actually look," pause for emphasis and hand gesture, "better like this."

"This" meaning dressed as a woman, as opposed to my usual male attire and presentation. I was rather proud of my outfit. It consisted of a black, long-sleeve, scoop-neck, lycra-blend top which nearly hung off my wide shoulders, snug in the arms and draping nicely to the waist, where it was tucked into a knee-length black polyester dress skirt with an assymetrical slit and a high waist, snug where I needed it, and loose where it helped. The edge of one of my wide beige shoulder-straps on my 40-C bra just peeked out, but not in a trampy way, and my size 6 breast prostheses complemented my frame nicely, although no competition for her large natural ones.

Sheer "French Coffee" pantyhose and simple black dress flats finished the outfit, except for the accessories -- my mother's old real gold bracelet and her costume gold necklace with onyx and rhinestone pendant, my own wedding band, a gold-colored metal bracelet ladies watch which I made by buying two identical cheap watches and swapping links from one to the other, and some rhinestone solitaire earrings which I found yesterday in a 99-cent store, held on my unpierced ears by tiny powerful magnets placed behind the lobes, which I had just finished showing her.

I consider the wedding band essential for these outings. I think it helps to establish my status and prevent any misunderstandings, particularly in lesbian bars. This wasn't a lesbian bar, although I had been at one earlier, playing pool with two delightful French tourists. Here, at midnight, all (three!) of the other patrons were just local men, gathered to shmooze with the bartender. I wouldn't be here like this at all if I hadn't made arrangements to drop in and show June what I meant by being a crossdresser.

Revlon Raven Red nailpolish, a tiny bit of Estee Lauder Youth Dew perfume, half a can of hairspray, and sophisticated full dress makeup that took me over an hour to apply, wrapped up the whole look.

"You really do," she said, wrapping up her critical appraisal. "You look more complete. You're relaxed and, I don't know, just seem... happier to me like this."

I just smiled, taking in the compliment and noticing that she still seemed to have more to add. She had waited until the three patrons had stepped outside for a smoke before coming over to deliver her private appraisal, so as to not embarrass me or the guys, I guess.

"I'm glad you came in tonight, rather than on a busy night like the weekend. I don't think you can actually, you know, 'pass,' and I'm sure some of the assholes who come in here would give you a hard time. These guys are okay, though," she said gesturing towards the sidewalk out front, "just my regulars." Another pause. "You do look good, though. I'm sure part of it is just that you take more effort to do this," she continued. "But, I wonder if you put as much effort into it when you're dressed as a man..." she trailed off.

That set me back a little. I wonder what I could actually do? I wear nice enough clothes, wash & shave, brush my hair back and tie it into a neat ponytail at the bottom of my hairline. The fact of the matter is that women just have a lot more "stuff" they can do to enhance their appearance, and more importantly, they're allowed to.

The next time the three guys went out for a smoke, June came out from behind the bar and went with them. I reached out as she went past to give her hand a friendly squeeze, and she paused to give me a little hug and a kiss on the cheek, followed quickly by brushing off my cheek with her hand so my wife wouldn't see her lipstick when I went home.

Which, I did, a short while later, still trying to process the compliment, and contemplating the state of the world.