Wednesday, 16th March, 2005

Memories

A short collections of things I think I can remember relating to my transvestism when I was younger.

One of these days, the phrase "when I was younger" is going to be a lot more poingant and filled with woe...

Getting Caught

When I lived in Belfast, and naturally enough with my parents and rest of my family, dressing was always done in stolen moments — furtive chances to put on a frock and stare in a mirror. Quite a few times I got the chance to swish round the house when no-one else was in, but most of the time I live in grateful servitude to the lock on the bathroom door.

One night though, I forgot to lock the door.

I can't remember what I was wearing — although for some reason the phrase "gypsy" is lodged in my mind — but I have a specifically distinct image of myself desperately trying to prop the bathroom door closed with my back while the words "What are you doing in there?" came from my mother on the other side of the door.

Getting Caught (nearly)

Actually, this was quite a disturbing one ... It was one of those occasions when I was the only one in the house. I obviously didn't have my rich supply of huge meringues in those days, and had to make do by cobbling together things from my mother's and sister's wardrobe. (Sarah, I hope you don't read this...)

Anyway, picture (or perhaps not) the truly awful combination of a tie-neck blouse from my mother's wardrobe, and a full white skirt from my sister's (I may be 8 years older, but my waist is the same )

You get the idea...

Two minutes into this God-awful parade of hideous fashion sense, there's a knock at the door. I was downstairs, and froze at the sound. Naturally, dressed as I was, I didn't answer, hoping that they'd go away...

A few minutes later (yes, I was stood frozen for that long), I relaxed and went upstairs, to suddenly freeze again to the sound of scraping downstairs.

I stuck my head out of the bathroom window, and saw someone trying to break in through the ground floor toilet window.

Bastard!

I couldn't think what to do, considering that it would take me a good wee while to get out of the monstrosity that I was wearing, so I turned my stereo on as loud as I could and hid in my room.

What?

Oh, fair dues. I've always been a coward.

Cinderella

dressingup story memory tranny

I've told this story before, but seeing as some might have missed it, it feels right to repeat it.

18 years old, and living in a new place, far away from the confines of parents. Siobhan has built up for herself enough of a presence that she doesn't feel that there are the usual contrictions to her expressing herself (remind me to explain that one day)

And lo and behold, there's a fancy dress party being held in the college

(For the curious, I went to Charlotte Mason College in Ambleside — a teacher training college slap-bang in the middle of the Lake District. There are plenty of stories to be told about that, but not today)

I remember quite clearly going down to Morecambe in the car with my friend Lisa (actually, Lisa was my ex — and my GF at the time was none-too-pleased about me being in the same college with her, let alone the car. But then again, as I might just expand on, my GF at the time was an EVIL BITCH so na na ne na nah). In fact, every time I get to that set of traffic lights on the A6 that turns off towards Bare and Morecambe it reminds me of that day.

I got (natch) a Cinderella outfit — great big ballgown and a poofed wig (is "poofed" a word?).

We'd decorated the Barn (the 'club') out as a fairytale forest for the night (I say "we", I mean "I") and for some reason I seemed to be working behind the bar that night.

Anyway, before I lose the thread, at round about midnight I got scared. You'd think, perhaps, that fancy dress parties are a complete Godsend for transvestites, but actually, we stress that much about them (how much effort to put in — should we ugly ourselves down a bit so it doesn't look like we do this all the time for example) and they're really important to us — in Not A Good Way.

So yeah, at round about midnight, I got scared and changed back into a boy.

Which, I think you'll agree, is fucking apt

Incidently, if yous ever get the delightful chance to visit Ambleside (and I do recommend it, really), try and pay a visit to The Golden Rule — a wonderful pub, and also, if you get the chance to wander through Charlotte Mason College gounds, and you happen upon the student bar, please notice the sign on the wall. "The Overdraught" — an early example of my illustrative style (ie. I did it)

Never Say "No" To an Ape

story tranny memory drunk

OF course, the first time I ever wore a skirt in front of anyone happened to be the first time I was pissed...

My friend (my only friend as it happens) at school was a farmer's son. And one night his parents went away. Naturally, what with us all at school being 17 (despite being Irish, I was a late starter...) the opportunity of a farm free from adults was just too good to miss, and, true to a man, we all turned up with vodka, orange juice and a desire to find out what this "drunk" thing we'd heard so much about was.

I honestly don't remember that much from the night, so here are some snippets...

"Hey, Johnny's fallen asleep! We should dress him up as a girl!"

"Graham! Go get my sister's school uniform"

pause

"Graham, why are you wearing my sister's school uniform?!"

It's never been mentioned again, but I reckon they must have known. I don't know what made me do it, but I remember standing in the doorway and going "tah dah!" and then suddenly thinking "Hmm, that might not have been a good idea"

The other thing I remember is staring at a TV screen through a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff, watching Planet of The Apes and not really understanding the plot. Just something about what you should and shouldn't say to an ape...

I also remember waking up before everyone else and getting changed bloody quickly.

So what were they?!

I also remember being completely confused by stockings and suspenders.

Have I ever mentioned that my mother and father are prudes? My mother is a preacher, so that should give you some idea... (there's also the story about how they found condoms in my bedroom once — but I'll save that...)

Anyway, the thing is that I suppose a lot of trannies find out about suspender belts by finding their mother's.

I knew that suspender belts existed — I just didn't have a clue how they worked. I'd seen the things on television — I remember frame-advancing through "Money for Nothing" on VHS by Dire Straits (just don't OK? ) because there was a sequence with them in it in the video, trying to work them out.

The thing was though, that in my mother's lingerie drawer (a very empty drawer it must be said) was a pair of black stockings (with seams and everything!) and a strange belt-like thing with what looked like hooks dangling from it.

Nowadays, I've got, shall we say, a fair selection of suspender belts, so I do know what they are — and what my mum had just wasn't. But I used it as one for ages.

I still have no idea what it was

Graduation Ball

Not, I must point out, my graduation — I never graduated from Lancaster Uni, they kicked me out remember?

I'd got it into my head that Siobhan had become a bit of a personality at Lancaster, and I decided to gatecrash the Graduation Ball in a ballgown one year. In all honesty, the ballgown I had (donated by Davina) was hideous — nasty nasty 80s puffball affair in a hideous colour, but whatever.

What I should mention though, was that at the time I was a sabbatical-elect — I was just about to take over the running of the Students' Union newspaper (there's no use Googling — I've been left out of every single record) from the outgoing Editor. And she decided that she'd one-up me by wearing a tux.

Unfortunately for her, though, she couldn't carry off a tux the same way that I could carry off a ballgown (even a hideous one) and I remember seeing her BF giving her grief, in a kind of "did you really think that would be a good idea?! You've ruined my Grad Ball just to get one up on him" way

Ha ha!

(My Scan was better than her's )

Pubs

I've worked in a fair few pubs in my time — about 15 in total. The first was in Ambleside, the rest in Lancaster. But I've only worked in two dressed as a woman.

The first was the King Eddie, on Penny Street. Not exactly the most unhomophobic pub in the area, and in all honesty it was New Years Eve and it was (another) fancy dress night. The landlady spent all day sewing frills on a French Maid outfit for me, and I must admit, I looked fucking great

Two things I remember from that night: (1) One of the old men (who incidently, tried to grope me once when I went round to his house when he promised to sell me his stereo — which is still in my loft incidently) trying to convince me that I must dress like a woman in order to attract men, and (2) getting my heel caught in the grating round the back of the Town hall as I walked back to the house I was staying at, through Lancaster, at 3am, dressed as a French Maid.

I suffer for my art, I tell ya...

The second was the Yorkshire House. At the time, I was living in a shitty flat at the back of Stonewell Post Office and working in Furness Bar on campus — and, out of the blue, the guy who was running the Yorkshire House in the absence of the regular landlady (who I saw recently, in a tearful exchange in County Bar on campus) asked me to work there a few nights, providing I worked as Siobhan.

Yeah, I know. He had alterior motives.

Incidently, that time was the one and only time I've ever had the pleasure of eating at a soup kitchen, and witnessing just what glue-sniffing is at close quarters.

Russia

This isn't a dressing story, but it had the potential to be one...

When I was thirteen, our school went to Russia on a field trip (yeah, I know). Looking back, I totally wasted the opportunity to discover what it was like for a completely different culture, I mean, just think of it — when I was thirteen, Russia was still a Communist state, just think what I could have learnt from the experience. I remember (with utter shame) that all I could ask a (very pretty) Russian girl during a visit to her school was "What's the Russian for 'fuck'?"

I wasn't a very mature kid.

Most of the trip was spent throwing ourselves into what little Russian culture we could. Which meant "vodka"

(I'm not contradicting an earlier story here BTW — I didn't drink any, I was as prudish as a child as my parents are as adults)

Anyway, one night, I was pretending to be asleep.

...

Look, OK, can I just interrupt my own flow here to introduce the concepts that (a) I wasn't very popular when I was a kid, and (b) I was also bullied. I'll come back to that at some point (trust me, I will) but it's relevant to this story: I was pretending to be asleep so that no-one would beat me up.

...

And while I was pretending to be asleep, I was listening to the other lads that I was sharing a room with planning to nick one of the girls' clothes and dress me up in them.

They never did, but it gave me enough fantasy material to keep me in good wanks for months.

Dublin

OK, last one, I promise.

I used to spend a lot of time in the South of Ireland, in particular, Dublin. I got to know quite a few people down there (including, several friends of U2 — but I'll save that for another day cos it doesn't involve me)

There was one time, in particular, that I spent a week in Mount Temple, followed by a (tortuous) bike ride across Dublin, to a place whose name eludes me.

I doesn't matter really — I went there because I was convinced I was in love with a girl. Turns out I wasn't — I was inlove with about 5 of them.

And all five, one night, thought it would be fun to dress me up as a girl.

Why does this keep happening to me as a kid? It's not like I'm complaining or anything, I just find it rather coincidental — everyone I've ever met, at one point or another, has decided that it would be fun to dress me up and do my make up.

It's still going on today BTW — I owe someone who bought me a ton of make up last brithday a session of doing it for me still.

So anyway — they did me up. And then made me answer the door when a friend of ours turned up looking for me.

Like I said — being made up as a girl, then being made to do things, hardly something for a transvestite to complain about eh?

Incidently, 2 things

(1) For the one-hand typists, today's diary was brought to you via the medium of a figure-hugging black blouse and a tiny black skirt.

(2) !Mike, Toddy and Genia, I'm serious, come round to mine for tequila some time and we can throw rocks at Francis

(Yes, I'm going to do this for the next few weeks until I show up in their .Blogrolls)

Dear Kathie

I seem to be in a Bowie-inspired mood tonight, which probably explains this.

I absolutely love you.

Oooh, a veritable frenzy of activity whilst I'm out having my hair done (which, if you're all very lucky and behave, I will share the results of later )

And you, you can be mean

Me? Mean?

I spent a new year in the Golden Rule once

I think I spent the whole of a year in there...

do you really not know what your mother's belt thing was

Really, I don't. It was like a suspender belt, but had hooks, only two of them, and there was no fastening round the back. I'll try and draw it from memory later.

SOME of us put you on their blogroll LAST WEEK

pah! Last week?! Is that compensation enough for hard coding you into my blog? Eh? Eh?

NOOOooooooo!!

ew ew ew ew ew ew

OMG that's gross — not the thing itself, but that I used it wrong I feel absolutely stupid now, and a bit grossed out. I can't believe that for years I was using one of my mother's sanitary belts as a suspender belt.

In my defence, I'm a boy, and therefore not told about these kinds of things.

I found some info on them BTW: http://www.mum.org/belts2.htm — C'lam, you're absolutely right — those are what I meant

Again: ew

Yeah — all it needs is the words "Invented by a man" stamped on it and it would be complete

More than happy to oblige Susan And if anyone in the Lancaster and Morecambe area would like to innocently volunteer to dress me up as a lass, then get in touch

On The Verge of Living Dangerously

D'ya know, it's about time I used this diary for what I originally intended it: Writing about things that have happened relating to dressing as a woman. (I know that the majority of today's rambling have been about just that, but they're all distant memories — not up-to-the-minute in-your-face here's-what-I-did-tonight kind of things)

It must be hard for Kathie, going out with a trannie like me — not only does she have to put up with the self-centred nonsense that comes from convincing yourself that You Are A Princess, but in addition, she has to deal with the "Siobhan is rubbish at shopping" syndrome.

I hate shopping

Oh look, I'm not going to go into why right now — that's a whole day's worth of ranting. Please, just accept, I do not like shopping — it makes me feel like I'm about to have a panic attack.

So, the MAC counter in Selfridges at the Trafford Centre How nice are the women there?

Much as I would love to go into a whole routine about how it felt sitting in a busy (sort of) department store having foundation slapped over your face, conscious that at least one woman was staring at you wondering why the hell a guy was having his make up done ... much as I'd like to, to be honest, I'm tired now — and still a little jittery.

So, sorry.

Upshot is that I now have a proper foundation that properly matches my skin (the official name for the shade, BTW, is "pastey"), and we only had to walk past the counter four times before I dug deep enough for the courage

(Although, the 'calming tones' of the woman who did me, and her attempts to put me at ease — "You're the fourth man we've had in today" — only served to shatter my delusions of specialness )

...

The other main reason for going to the Trafford Centre, was to find something to wear for Saturday night.

Bizarrely, the whole Gypsy look seems to be back in, and I ended up with a rather fetching little combo from River Island. The thing is though, and I only realised this an hour or so ago, while I was round at Kath's trying it on, the neckline (which is very cute BTW) is a bit halterneck, and I have no halterneck bras

Which means that my bra straps show

So, I'm thinking that I'm going to do two things, both a bit rash and potential laden with trannie-disaster:

(1) Tuck my bra straps into my top (2) Give the glue that Sarah West gave me (the stuff that because I didn't take it off properly, I ended up adhered to my nightie for a few hours) another go.

I must just remember to take the remover pads with me...

Steph, but of course Trannie with a camera — one of nature's most deadly predators.

Ian How about we go one better — don't do anything when drunk. In fact, don't drink. At all.

Nah — it'll never catch on

Buy a new bra C'lam? But that means I'll have to go shopping again

Or perhaps, deeply, deeply hungover. Which sucks, what with today now being St Patricks day...