Saturday, September 30, 2017

Drunks, Fools, and Blondes

Today

When an aircraft finds it difficult to stay aloft, because for some reason it can no longer generate the lift required to maintain its weight in flight, the crew, if they can, are known to start throwing everything not needed and not nailed down out the hatch, to lose that extra weight, in the hopes that the lift the aircraft is generating will be able to keep a now lighter aircraft in the air.

Likewise, a submarine on what its Captain fears to be its last dive, will jettison ballast, weapons, fresh water, and everything it can, so that it weighs less, and the air left on board will now be enough to allow it rise again.

I've become an aircraft losing altitude and approaching stall speed; or a submarine, tenuously trying to claw its way back up from the depths. I can no longer soar. I'm afraid I will never breathe fresh air again. I wonder what I can ditch in my life to lighten the load.

Still no job.  All my old male friends are gone now. I spend a lot of time alone. Staring at walls. Wondering. Examining my life, everything I've done these last year and 11-months, tomorrow. Asking myself a lot of questions.

Should I have waited longer? Fuck. I waited thirty-five years. If I had waited any longer I never would have transitioned, ever.

Could I have made it easier on my friends? How much easier could I have made it? It's not like this should have come as a surprise to anyone who has been paying attention these past ten years. It was a clearly stated intention for a long time before I did it. Nobody asked any questions, nobody brought-up any objections. Shows how much they really gave a fuck about me, if you ask me.

And everyone is always so fucking nice to me! It's like I'm a princess or something. All ma'ams and miss's. Or if they know I'm trans, it's I'm so brave, or you go girl! It's patronizing. Wether Im a woman to them, or a trans-woman, I'm patronized.

My friend Dave once told me that men view blondes as the baby seals of the female persuasion. We're too cute to club. But, we're also too cute to take seriously. Everybody loves a baby seal, but nobody's afraid of a baby seal. You protect a baby seal if you can, but you don't give a baby seal a job, unless you're interested in skinning that baby seal at some point.

I'm too pretty to really need a job, because, you know, girls that look like that never starve. Really? I'm just supposed to go suck some guy's dick and let him take care of me? That's really what people are saying? In this day and age?

But everyone knows angels watch over drunks, fools, and blondes.

This some man will take care of me thing would have been just peachy for me 20-years ago, when I was actually a ripe tomato. But there ain't no men interested in what I can do for them as a woman, now, who can't select a younger, newer model. Though I have had several offers from men who have told me what I can do for them in exchange for my keep, as a chick with a dick.

No. Just no. There was a time in my life I would have thought that was hot. Now I just think it's gross.

Funny how I had to lower others opinion of me, to raise my opinion of myself.

I don't recommend transitioning for those primarily interested in wealth, popularity, or material possessions. But for teaching you things you might not have otherwise learned about life, people, and yourself, it's an E ticket.




Friday, September 29, 2017

One Hell Of A Woman

Summer, 2016

If while while wearing a a pair of Daisy Dukes, wedge sandals, and a pink spaghetti strap top, you are still able to emasculate your male friends and cause them to doubt their own masculinity, the problem is not your own femininity, but your male friend's masculinity.

To put it simply, Bunny, darling, you've been hanging-around with wimps.

Which is how I really lost all my male friends, save one. None of them were confident enough in their own masculinity, to be able to deal with my femininity.

When I was a man, I was a very masculine one. My male friends knew I often spent Saturday night in a mini skirt and heels, and they also knew I was no stranger to sucking the occasional cock. They also knew I could easily kick any of their asses, and for all outward appearances was more "manly" then any of them.

I have come to realize that in their minds, the second set of facts outweighed the first set of facts. They accepted me as a "cross-dresser," the same way many self-described cross-dressers accept themselves as such, without having to look any deeper into the issue, or doubt their own masculinity.

In other words, in my male friend's mind, even though they knew I not only dressed frequently as a woman, that did not challenge their notions of my masculinity. They still respected me as a man, and considered me a male. In such a framework it was easy to accept me besting them at pretty much anything. It merely meant that I was more "manly" than them, not that their manliness was in anyway lacking. Wigs and dresses aside I was still a dude, just a more physically capable one than them.

So when I was that to them, the fact that I was the only person amongst them that could lift that washing machine up into that pick-up wouldn't have bothered them. They probably would have expected it. Maybe even counted on me being able to do it if they couldn't.

But now, as a woman, wearing Daisy Dukes, wedge sandals, and a pink spaghetti strap top, doing that seriously embarrasses them. I'm not another guy anymore who wears dresses on the weekend, and just happens to be physically stronger than them.

I'm a woman that happens to be physically stronger than them. A woman with a penis none the less.

Is there anything scarier to a male insecure about his own masculinity than a woman with a penis who can kick his ass? Off-hand I can't think of anything.

It doesn't help that I can top all their stories, have done ten times more dangerous, more difficult, and more interesting things in my life than any of them have. As a man, they looked up to and admired me to a certain extent. I didn't see that when I was a man, I was too busy trying to make sure nobody could see through the charade.

But now, I'm a woman. I'm not supposed to have done things they'd be afraid of, or incapable of doing. Especially if those things are considered the province of men.

If I'm going to be a woman with them without making them nervous, without making them doubt themselves, then I will have to be the same woman with them that I was with all those straight men I used to get picked-up by in straight bars. The one who doesn't have any stories of her own, so she just smiles and listens in rapt wonder at theirs. The one who laughs at their stupid jokes, instead of telling them her much better ones. The one who won't correct them when they get a point of history or technical detail totally wrong, but will just nod her head and look amazed at their superior knowledge of things.

Because that's the kind of women my friends are used to dealing with. That's the kind they work with. That's the kind they date or are married to, and who generally hang-around with them. Women who are more than willing to delegate to them prominence in masculine-dominated areas of knowledge. In many cases I know for fact those women are just keeping their mouths shut and pretending. They know more than they let on. They do that to make men happy.

Do I want to have to do that around men for the rest of my life? Always pretending I don't know what I know, and haven't done the things I have, so I don't challenge their masculinity?

Should I have to lessen myself to enjoy the company of men? Or do I just need to seek-out men who have more claim to those things than I have. I guess, by virtue only of my former male life, I am not just a woman, but one hell of a woman. My choice seems to be hiding that light under a bushel to fit in with the other girls, or being perceived as a know-it-all bitch who makes men nervous.

When I do presume to do nothing more than smile and look pretty, and adore men for their strength, wit, and knowledge, I do just fine with them. If I add some vulnerability to it, they can't get enough of me.

But the moment I open my mouth and show some brains, or demonstrate a skill or ability that is not typically female, I can literally feel them start to back-away in fear of me.

Oh how thoroughly we can dig our own graves. I always wanted to be the blonde bombshell. Wish granted. Problem is, I never thought that was all they would let me be.



Halloween Tranny

Your’s truly, November 2, 1991. Halloween fell on a Thursday that year, so the Halloween parties were two days later, on Saturday. If I had a dime for every transsexual who’s journey began with a Halloween costume, I would be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.
In my case, this was not my first time in public, en-femme. I had been dressing and going out in public as a woman secretly, since I was 17-years old. But this was to be the first time I was to present myself as a woman to my friends and co-workers.
I was 28-years old, single, but in a serious relationship with a woman, and thoroughly convinced that I was a heterosexual male, who merely had an unusual “hobby.” There was of course much more to it than that. But at the time, which was immediately after a 6 or 7 year period of not “dressing,” in an attempt to “man-up” and “cure” myself, it seemed like a reasonable explanation.
My attempts to be masculine had resulted in me unwarily boxing myself into a very, very masculine life. The more masculine it got, the more I started needing the escape valve of dressing and making myself up as a convincing, attractive woman.
It began, this time, not with sneaking out of my parents house in my sister’s clothes, as I did when I was seventeen, but slipping-away on my day’s off, renting a hotel room, and spending the next 12-18 hours being the person I really felt like inside.
On this night, I desperately wanted to know how others would react to me as a woman, instead of the indisputably manly and masculine male I played in my daily life. A Halloween costume contest at a bar my co-workers and I often hung-out in, and that my best friend, and supervisor at my job at the time was working his night job as the bouncer at that night, seemed like the perfect opportunity. No matter what the reaction, I could always shrug it off the next day as “Halloween.” 
Though the big hair, the silk gown, and the high-heeled pumps would be considered a costume today, in 1991, that was how women often still dressed for a Saturday night out. And yes, I consider myself fortunate to have been able to Tranny in a time when women still bothered to dress like women, instead of the slovenly teenage boys so many of them dress like today.
I was going for authenticity. I succeeded beyond all my expectations. My boss didn’t recognize me, even though he had watched me sashaying across the parking lot all the way to the door.
Whereupon he started flirting with me! The same way he flirted with all the pretty girls, before letting them through the door. I looked him straight in the eyes, and asked him, “You really don’t recognize me?” It took him about 5-seconds, but toward the end I saw the light beginning to dawn in his eyes When it did, his face instantly became a study in shock, and horror.
He had just gotten a hard-on over his best friend wearing a dress. 
He had nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of other men did too that night. I didn’t buy a single drink. I was flirted with, come-on to, asked to dance, had my ass grabbed twice. Then a group of girls invited me to join them at their table, because I was so obviously alone, and so obviously swamped trying to fend-off the so obviously unwanted male attention I was getting.
When I told two of them I was actually a guy, and this was my Halloween costume, they didn’t believe me. Finally one girl, a pretty blonde sitting next to me, looked me seriously in the eyes, put her hand on my sexy, stocking clad thigh, and asked me with curiosity tinged with excitement, “Can I check?”
I know exactly what she meant, and I simply nodded and shyly replied, “Sure.”
Looking me in the eyes the entire time, her hand moved between my legs, up to my crotch, and though it took a little searching with her fingers over my pantyhose and panties, she quickly found it.
I was watching her face too, and noticed her reaction, which started with surprise that it was actually there, then additional surprise at how substantial it was flaccid, which then softly coalesced into a knowing smile. All she said was, “Holy cow.”
I had proven to her that I had a penis, but I hadn’t convinced her I was a man. Of course, one of the other girls, not wanting to take her word for it, also wanted to “check.” Her reaction was a giggle-fit at the enormity of the discrepancy between what was in my panties, and the gorgeous and glamorous blonde woman she saw with her eyes.
Then the blonde wanted to dance with me. But she wanted to wear my 4″ pumps, because she had never worn heels that high and wanted to try them out. We slow danced. Even with me barefoot, and her 4-inches taller wearing my heels, I was still taller than her. So naturally, I put my arms around her waist.
As you can imagine, the sight of two gorgeous blondes slow-dancing with each other had the attention of every male in the bar. My boss seemed both fascinated with how I had scored a slow dance with the most gorgeous woman in the bar, while appearing to be the second most gorgeous woman in the bar, and worried that he was going to have to break-up an attempted gang rape, if the guys in the place got any hotter and steamier over us. It didn’t help that she was sexily rubbing and sliding her body up and down mine, and teasing me with sexy looks and smiles. She was trying to see if she could make me hard.
She failed. Or I should say, I failed. Miserably. Every man in that bar had a raging hard-on, except me. And I was the one holding this angelically feminine creature  in my arms, while they merely watched. But when in my female form, I had already learned, women held absolutely Zero sexual interest for me. I could appreciate their beauty, I could even feel jealousy towards them. But erotic lust, no. Which didn’t bother me as much as it should have, because I had a girl friend, and was able to perform the required male function with her, when I was a man.
But the blonde had tested her hypothesis, and confirmed her original suspicion: I may have had a penis, but I was no more of a “man” than she was. At that discovery, she had actually managed to learn more about me, than I knew about myself at the time.
From that discovery on, those girls were my guardian angels for the rest of the night. They kept me at their table, and invited me to dance with them in their girls-only group dances, protected me from the males in the place whom they could tell wanted to do to me, what they never had to worry about me trying to do to them. Two of them even insisted on escorting me to the Ladies Room, when I mentioned I was going to use the Men’s. I became one of the girls. They even named me, deciding that “Jill,” was the perfect name for me, because they said I looked like Jill Monroe, Farrah Fawcett’s character on Charlie’s Angels. In between that they pawed all over me, checking my clothes, discovering that my breasts were actually water balloons (Internet shopping for breast forms did not exist in 1991), marveled at how well I had done my make-up, and talked about how cute I would look in such an outfit or another.
It was a magical night for a tranny. I was a huge success as a girl. I even won the costume contest. Fifteen hundred bucks, or an all-expense paid 3-day cruise in the Caribbean. I took the money. A girl can always use more shoes.
After getting on the stage when it was my turn, I twirled-around a couple times like a fashion model, to a combination of wolf-whistles, hoots, and some confusion as to what my costume was, since I just looked like any other dressed-up woman in the bar. I then removed my wig and held it up in one hand, then pulled one of the water balloons out of my bra and held it aloft in the other.
There was dead silence for a moment. Then the women in the bar started cheering and hollering, and applauding. The DJ, announcing the proceedings from his booth uttered “Holy fucking shit, and the faces of the men I could see had that same look of shock and horror my boss’s originally did.
I of course put the wig back on - ain’t no tranny born who woulda gone around without it the rest of the night - and my water balloon boob back in my bra. Though I had ended the illusion, I still got funny, confused looks from the men for the rest of the night. Though a couple of co-workers did come-up and pat me on the back and tell me what an amazing costume it was. A few men even bought me drinks, and told me what a “great joke” that was to play. But not the ones that had bought me drinks before. Those guys wanted to kill me, and I could clearly see it in their eyes. I had made them doubt their heterosexuality. That is the last thing you ever do to a man.
I don’t know what happened to the girls, or the blonde. I have no recollection of our parting, or any memory of the night after that, except my boss, the bouncer, ended-up having to walk me to my car, because he saw the way a few of the guys were looking at me too.
The epilogue to that story is the next 23-years.