Monday, 21st March, 2005

Self Delusions

I try, I really do try, honestly, to not get myself convinced about things that Are Not True. I spent, for example, quite a considerable amount of time last night trying to convince a delegate of Northern Irish men that I wasn't under any illusions about whether or not I look like a woman.

However...

One thing I can't seem to shake from my head (especially after the odd glass of wine) is the delusional belief that I am a good dancer.

It's not that I dance often — hardly ever in fact, just the odd bit of jumping up and down with my headphones on in the privacy of my studio — and I never go dancing as a boy these days.

But, surprise surprise, get a few drinks down my neck, stick me in a frock and throw me in a nightclub full of trannies, and I become clouded by the preposterous inclination that I'm 'H' from Steps in a skirt.

In some repects, this doesn't matter in the slightest. As was pointed out to me this morning, it's all about having a good time, and not worrying whether you make a tit out of yourself or not (and in all truth, were you to watch anyone dance without the atmosphere and the music, then most of us would look pretty silly). But no, no, no — I'm trying to give a public image of grace and elegance, and regardless of how much I'm enjoying myself, spending the whole night teetering on the verge of having my heels whipped from under me by a combination of gravity and my own clumsyness isn't really going to help

...

Okey dokey. From the start...

I suprised myself somewhat yesterday morning by actually being ready, packed and out of the house at roughly the same time that I had intended. By no means a mean feat for me, I'll have you know.

And actually, what with it being a lovely day, and the roads all clear, I made it down to Milton Keynes pretty sharpish

Milton Keynes strikes me as an odd place. I only really saw the shopping bit to be fair, but it doesn't seem to achieve what a 'planned' city should — it felt a little haphazard, a little random.

One of the strangest things from my point of view anyway, was that it's quite hard to get your bearings around it — what with it all being so low and difficult to pick out landmarks.

Whatever.

I had a little potter round, and then met up with Becky EnVérité (she of the unpronouncable surname).

There's a lovely moment, whenever two transvestites meet for the first time, as boys, where you're not quite sure who you should be looking for. We spend so much time looking at each other online, and relate to each other in the dressed-up versions of ourselves, that when we meet as guys, you almost invariably have a little moment of "is that? Isn't that?".

It's not that there's always such a huge transformation between the girl and the boy — and it's very usual that once you get to know the boy, you can clearly see how they become the girl (which goes back to something !Mike and I were discussing a while ago) — the thing is (at least I find) is that I try and picture what the boy underneath the make-up looks like. And I'm usually wrong.

But, as I was saying, I met up with Becky, and the pair of us went round some of the shops...

...I bought some tweezers — how brave

Over now to the hotel, and after a couple of drinks in the bar, up to the room to get ready. I tried to do something a bit different with my hair — something a bit more scrunchy that usual — but I ended up just tying it back. It's not long enough to do exciting things yet. I'd forgotten to bring tit-glue, but I had luckily brought some pads that Sarah-Louise (who I must ring soon BTW) gave me ages ago. So, bouncing my titties up and down in a "woooo! look at these!" kinda way, we went back down to the bar.

I'm trying, incidently, to write this in a different way to the usual trannie-descriptions-of-a-night-out BTW. Sometimes, I read back what some people have written, and the minute-by-minute, blow-by-blow accounts — in all their minutiae — come across as exceptionally tedious. I could, for example, rabbit on about what I was wearing (pretty little outfit from River Island: raggedy light green skirt and a brown top with a fab neck-line) — but I won't

Oh

I should point out at this point that I was starting to get rather tipsy by now. In my defence — what with the drugs I've been on, I'm not as used to drinking as I have been in the past. I'd managed to get quite a few glasses of wine down my neck by this stage, and so things all start getting a little hazy from here on in.

Now, you have to wonder what on earth makes a bunch of colleagues from Dungannon in Northern Ireland choose Milton Keynes as the perfect destination for a weekend away. You also have to ponder of what motives were behind choosing the hotel opposite the gayest pub in the WORLD as a good place to stay.

Bless them though — they were all pretty lovely. There were, of course, the usual intrigued questions (why do you do it?! I don't know! Why don't you?!) and I'm afraid I made a bit of a social faux pas by mixing up Dungannon with Newtonards ("Oh yeah! I know it! I used to go ice skating there!) — and I felt sorry most of all for the young 20 yeard old guy who looked truly scared sat surrounded by myself, Becky, Kim Angel and Carol Cross (who was looking gorgeous BTW. The bitch)

I think there was the severe danger of us spending the whole night in that bar — so we dragged (boom boom) ourselves over the road to Pink Punters.

What a strange, strange place. It came across to me as quite a maze of a place — and I got lost in there quite a few times. Upstairs, there seemed to be the "serious trannie talking" space, whereas on the two downstairs floors there was dancing. Now, I think I might have come across as a bit nonchalant initially. I wasn't — I was just a bit stunned by it all. It's been a while since I've been out in a place that's full of trannies — and I got a bit wowed by it.

As the night went on (and as I got drunker and drunker) I started loosening up a lot.

The problem though, is that I find as I loosen up, I forget that I'm trying to look like a girl — and I think that I must come across to people who meet me when I'm half cut, as a particularly rubbish transvestite. I forget, for example, to do that thing I do with my eyebrows — and I have a self-iamge of me just being a scarey pale-looking guy.

Anyway — dance dance dance (dear God! Did I really shake my toush to It's Raining Men?) gradually using the poles more and more to keep myself vertical. I seem to recall at one point trying to wrap myself around one of the poles. I don't think I was too successful.

I also seemed to use the wall a lot to hold myself up.

So listen — I don't know how many people were there that read this, but really, please ignore/excuse my drunken staggering. Sometimes I can be quite a lucid conversationalist — not just a pissed trannie who needs someone to practically carry her back to the hotel.

I see what everyone means about the 'ditch' by the way

I had a really good night In fact, I've had a really great weekend. Saturday night was fab and it was great to get to meet a lot of people who I've only ever seen (a) online, or (b) when I'm a guy. Sunday too has been really great — I popped into London on the train for a couple of hours to meet up with Ian.

I worry that I get into trouble sometimes if I visit London and don't look up everyone I know down there. I think that if I did then it would take me about a week to get through everyone — so I must apologise if anyone down there gets huffy because I didn't arrange to meet up. I must go down soon for a proper visit. I may even try the Way Out Club

As regards photos, I have a couple of Becky that I took while we were getting ready, and one or two shaky, blurry shots from the bar. But I don't have any of myself, and I soon lost the ability to take snaps. I saw a few cameras pointing at me at various moments, so if I can track down any, I'll bung them up.

In the meantime, I'm shattered — it's been a long drive — and I think I'm going to get some sleep.

...

Three things though — before I forget: Love the haiku Miss K NRT, I've been taking them early evening Susan, I have no idea. In fact, I was talking to someone about French trannies today — we were wondering just how many there were, or whether it's a very British/US cultural thing.

Josephine

Ian Betteridge

Yeah Josephine — I did, indeed, feeling bloody awful the next morning. Fortunately though, clever princess here had taken some Alka-Seltzer with her, which really did the trick. I was a bit ropey still, but actually, that walk around London was just what I needed Ian — really cleared my head.

I was tired by the time I got home, and my legs were a bit stiff — but that was probably more to do with driving than anything else

Becky EnVérité

Thanks Becky Like I said, I had a great time. And I'm sorry about whatever it was I was trying to do with the duvet at 4am. I must have been having a dream

You Gotta Start Somewhere

(Alternative titles for this have been running through my head: "Coming Full Circle"; "How To Spend £600 on Fuck All"; "Do I Look Like I Need A Corset?!" are all potential options, but I digress...)

Ah, Euston Road If there was ever a candidate for the closeted trannie Mecca then that's gotta be right up there.

Usually, when I tell people that my first ever 'proper' dressing experiece happened at the Euston Road branch of Transformation, I get a reaction of "Dear God! No!"...

Let me reset the clock a bit on this: I should go waaaaay back to my early days of furtiveness.

As I presume it goes for a lot of us, my first experiences of crossdressing were secretive things. Stolen moments when the house was empty, panics (as I explained a few days ago) when the bathroom door wasn't locked. Strange pant-stirrings looking at pictures of underwear, and confused browsings through the dictionary and the back of pr0n mags.

The first time it really ever occured to me that there was the possibility of being made up to look like a woman was when I saw an advert in the back of the Sun: "From HE to SHE!" — with a drawing on the left of a bloke in a suit and a bowler hat, and on the right a glamorous blonde woman.

"Can they really do that?!" I used to think to myself, and I would dream of being able to go to this mythical place and try it out.

Now, being 13 or 14 at the time, the opportunity of going to Euston Road on my own, being able to afford a "Changeaway", or anything like that was a distant fantasy — but it didn't stop me dreaming.

As the years went by, my dressing became more open — I came out to people, I went out dressed. But always, in the back of my mind was the idea that I should, one day, go to Transformation. The thing is, you see, despite every attempt of mine to do my make-up, and even the times when female friends did it for me, I never looked like a girl. I always looked like a scarey bloke. There are one or two photographs knocking around this world of me from that time, and I really don't want anyone to find them.

I looked awful

What I figured, was that there was obviously some kind of knack to doing make-up on guys to make them look like women. For years I had been studying men and women's faces, trying to work out what the difference between them was, so that I could somehow use that information to compensate for whatever features made me stand out as a bloke. I figured that maybe the people at Transformation would know about these things — and would be able to work miracles.

So, in January of 2002, finding myself accidently at Euston station, and with a couple of grand burning a hole in my pocket, I figured "what the hell" and tentatively journeyed up the Euston Road and went in.

There's something of a Sex Shop atmosphere about Transformation — right down to the darkened windows on the outside. I remember there was a feeling of nervousness and embarassment amoung the customers — a desire not to make eye-contact. These days, when I'm out and about, I tend to be all excitable and talkative — but not then.

I was nervous.

I had a peek at a few of the things on display — the fake tits, the 'saucy' outfits, the horror realistic feminine masks (shudder) — and it took quite a while for one of the women who worked there to come over and ask me what I wanted.

I told her I wanted a wig — I'd only ever bought one wig before (from a market in London as it happens), and I really wawnted someone to give me advice on what would suit me.

She took the one I was looking at down, and led me to the back where there were some changing rooms. This is where the fussing over me started — and possibly it was that that made me lose my desires to keep money in my pocket...

After being told that the wig "really suited" me (which I couldn't quite see myself — I had quite a full beard at the time), they then started getting out all sorts of things that apparently I "needed": Fake tits, fake hips and bum, a corset...

Admittedly, it was great to be fussed over like this — and it was equally great to have finally been put at ease and be told that I'd "make a fabulous woman".

It was round about that time that I got up the courage to ask if I could have a makeover.

Despite being Little Miss Burn Money, I think I must have baulked at the cost of what I really wanted to do — wear a wedding dress — so I plumped for the cheapest option I could. Which was still a shit-load of cash.

They took me downstairs, gave me a razor (and no shaving cream BTW), plonked me in a changing room, and started to help me dress.

Now, we all know that I'm not exactly a chunky girl — having a 28" waist is one of my better features, and I think at the time I was even skinnier. So can someone please explain to me why the hell they thought I needed a corset?! And why the hell they thought it would be good to take me down to a 24 inch waist?!

I had to tell the girl that I couldn't breathe before she slakened it off for me.

OK — so there I was, stockings, suspenders, bra, corset, black skirt, black top — face like a boy (and slightly bleeding having scraped a dry razor over my face). That's when the 'make-over' started.

I'm sure I'd read that they use professional make-up girls. Either that or they told me that the girl who was doing me was a pro. But to be honest — I don't think she gave a shit about what she was doing.

What I really really wanted, was for someone with a bit of knowledge to show me how to make myself look feminine — and I know I should have maybe said things, but I think she thought I wanted to be 'sexy'.

"Let's give you sexy red lipstick" she said.

"No!" I thought to myself "Give me natural bloody lipstick like what real girls wear!"

Yeah, I should have said that out loud...

So I'm sat there, watching her slapping make-up on me, thinking to myself "I just look the same as I always do" ... And then the wig went on.

I've tried, over the years, to explain what I felt at that moment, always unsuccessfully. You just can't imagine what it feels like to have spent years trying to make yourself look like a girl, always without joy, to suddenly look in a mirror and see a woman staring back at you.

It was truly a Damascian moment for me.

Looking back, and looking at the picture that they took of me while I was there, I didn't really look all that good — but it was so much better than I'd ever been able to do myself. I was in heaven.

The took me into another room and gave me some magazines to read (great eh? ) — but I just spent all the time staring at myself in the mirror.

I must just mention something here — and I do hope it doesn't get me into trouble... as I was walking into the 'relaxing room', another trannie was coming out. She looked dreadful. Curly blonde wig, leather jacket and tiny skirt — absolutely fucking afwul. I remember she smiled at me and said something like "Oooh — a pretty one", and I think I smiled back, but really, had I looked like her, I would never have left the house ever again.

The thing is — and perhaps the whole point of this — is that yeah, Transformation is a rip-off. I spent £600 in that shop that day, on crap tits, a ludicrous bum, and a wig, and although I still get some use out of the hip pads and that wig lasted me a good wee while I could have got it all a lot cheaper elsewhere.

The 'Changeaway' itself wasn't a masterpiece — I'd certainly never use them to do my make-up and then go out. Having now discovered the wonders of Pauline at the Birdcage, I'd send everyone there rather than any of the Transformation chains.

But that's not the point.

At the time, I was a deeply alone little transvestite who'd never met anyone else and didn't know a thing about the scene. I hadn't really even begun to explore the online transvestite world that I'm so involved with these days. If I'd known about the UK Angels, or Roses, or Sarah's Chatroom at the time then I might have gone somewhere else.

Transformation was all I knew — and what it did for me was to open me up to a world that has continued to give me joy and pleasure ever since.

I looked crap when they did me — but they gave me the courage to start experimenting. They showed me that there was a glimmer of possibility that with a bit of effort I could look, not like a girl, but not bad.

Transformation gave me something worth a lot more than a make-over — they gave me the confidence to go out in the world and meet other people. They gave me the start of this whole Crossdressing Adventure. I wouldn't suggest for one second that they perform miracles — of the make-up kind at least. But I think that they do provide a door to a wonderful world.

True, maybe as a lot of people say, their prices are too much, and perhaps £600 is a lot to spend on a pile of stuff that I could have got a lot cheaper elsewhere.

But I didn't spend £600 on stuff — I spent £600 on finding me.

Would I go back? Not at all. But I'm glad I went there the first time.

Here then, in a moment of weakness and a break of my insistance that I'll never put a bad photo of me on the web, is the picture they took of me that day. It's not, I think you'll agree, the most passable photograph ever taken in the history of transvestism, and the fact that it was a polaroid doesn't help either. But again, that's not what's important.

What's important is the smile on my face.

...

Crap fake tits: £150 Being forced into a corset and made up like a girl: £200 Finding a part of yourself that opens the door to a world of wonder: Priceless.

There are some things that money can't buy. For everything else, there's Photoshop

Becky EnVérité

True, apologies I'm still going to lay claim to the "Does my cock look big in this?" idea though

(c) Siobhan Curran, 2004

Some Photographs From Saturday Night (Courtesy of Becky)

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

Just about to leave the hotel room. You'll notice that I managed to shave my armpits this time

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

Obligatory trannie-on-bed photograph

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

Ah — happy girl with wine

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

This is EXACTLY how I felt

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

I cropped the poor guy out of this to spare his embarassment Poor sod — coming over to the UK to have a weekend break and he gets confronted by us lot. That's Kim Angel in the background BTW

Lauren

Hi Lauren Lomography eh? One of my students was experimenting a while ago with all that. It's not something I've ever really looked into personally — but I might do one day.

I'm not a fan of photos taken with a flash, which is why most of mine come out blurry (and not because I'm always drunk when I take them ), and maybe playing with a Lomo would be an interesting way to go

Alli' Cat'

Alli' Cat'

'S OK I caught it

I heard the idea of using hair conditioner a few days ago on the Roses site — someone was mentioning using it instead of shaving foam when doing your face. I might just give that a try.

I do have some Dove deodorant — but I've been using Impulse. I don't actually care whether I smell like a girl or a boy

The reason why my pits hurt so much the other day, was because I decided it would be a good idea to use my beard trimmer to take off the worst of it, seeing as how I haven't shaved them for about two years.

Every time the little trimming bit hit my skin though, it did a lot more damage than I thought it would — what with the skin under my arms being very sensitive — and left me with little nicks.

I'll know not to do that again

aw You shouldn't have

(via flickr.com/people/si08han)

These turned up at my door this morning. For a brief moment, I got all excited — until I realised that they were for the woman two doors up from me who wasn't home right now. I don't, as a rule, like flowers that much — but the thought of getting them is nice Incidently, if it crosses anyone's mind ... I do like lillies

Trollfeed

A moment of reflection while I try and figure out some kind of policy on trolls. It's been noted to me in the past that one shouldn't "feed the trolls", and in most cases, I tend to just ignore them. I should point out, though, that I'm always rather surprised by the lack of nasty comments on the diary and the photographs. You would have thought that there would be a lot more abusive crap posted than there actually is.

Taking into account just how often trannies get sniggered at in Real Life, you'd have thought that the pseudo-anonymity that the Internet offers would baloon such feedback.

But apparently not

I think, perhaps, one of the reasons why this is the case is because (I hope) it's obvious that I'm doing this with a sense of pride — and that taking the piss is pretty pointless.

Does that make sense?

Anyway — when it does happen (as it did earlier), I think I need a clear policy in my head to know what to do about it.

Earlier on, I was sat here minding my own business when I noticed a bunch of comments had been left on some of the photographs at siobhansplace.co.uk. Constructive criticism I can take, but "u r ugly" just doesn't quite come up to scratch. The worst thing about these comments was that they weren't even on photos of me — they were slagging off some pictures of my friends.

So, I deleted them — and in a moment of sheer genius whacked the IP address of the commenter in my blacklist, because I felt they were just about to launch into a major leave nasty comments everywhere kinda attack.

(A little moment of chuckling to myself ensued, as I saw the same person keep trying to look at pictures and get a 403 every time — it took them about 3 minutes to realise that they weren't going to see any more )

But was that the right thing to do? Should I chuck evil comments, or should I rely on my ability to come back at them with something sharp, as I hope I've done a few times. Feeding trolls is bad — but I don't just want to censor out things. I want to have a stab at standing up to them.

Hmm What do other people do?

k14

Actually, I think I was being really mean to the poor guy and putting my hand on his shoulder in a patronising way I was taking the piss out of him — but I can't remember exactly what I said to him

Alli' Cat'

Heh I like the first one. I lifted that "Anonymous Coward" thing straight off Slashdot — it's funny how many comments come straight after complaining about it.

Mhairi

Ian Betteridge

Heh Actually, that was before we'd even got to the bar

Lauren

Gossamer

Lisa

NRT

looby

Alli' Cat'

Karol Cross

shemales

Dear Shemale Cock Person

No. OK? Just no. And possibly "fuck off" too.