How you Move vastly Outweighs how you Look

It’s my birthday, and since my favorite person is 2000 miles away right now, I took myself out to dinner and to a strip club tonight (had she been here, I’d have taken her along to both).

It’s a t-girl strip club and it’s in the center of the universe of t-girl-ness, San Francisco. And on a very good night, a girl can make $40 doing a 3-minute lap dance …. fun and lucrative. So I also applied to work there part-time but they have more dancers than customers so right now they’re not hiring.  And yes, I still live in Nevada.  So I’d have had a 4-hour commute to work. No problem.

The main reason I was in San Francisco, actually, was a consultation with the second-best facial feminization surgeon I know to exist. The very best one, the man who literally invented some of the procedures and literally wrote the book on the subject (and yes, I have a copy; he’d signed it and given it to me after he did some work on me) has mainly retired and he appointed a brilliant young man to succeed him.  So it’s with this new rising-star surgeon that I had a consultation so that I could plan what next to do, so that my facial structure becomes … how do I say this … more “Christie Brinkley” than “Rocky Balboa.” Not that there’s anything wrong with looking like Rocky. Unless you’re a girl. Yeah, problem, that.

The other day, a gentleman walked past me while my long, pretty blonde hair was blowing in the wind. And yes, dammit, it’s my own hair. I grew it out, personally. And it took years. Until it grew out, I used to put on fake hair like in the attached picture. Anyway, the wig is now in my closet and likely to stay there. It’s been there for years. I like it like that. So, the man looked at me and said “nice wig.”  I said “thank you” nicely and then (it’s a blonde thing, maybe) after I spoke, I thought about it. (It’s probably better to think first and speak after but it’s hard to do that and chew gum at the same time, and a girl’s gotta have her priorities). Nice wig … wait, what?  Oh. So, he saw the prizefighter jaw and forehead, and thought I was a guy in drag and wow did the wig look real.  Okay, duly noted.

Yes, I wax my skin to be smooth.  Yes, my figure is becoming hourglassy. Yes. my own hair now looks good. My Adams’s apple is long gone. Problem is, there’s only so much you can do with a facial structure that got the way it is while my facial bones were shaped by testosterone instead of estrogen. Grrr. I shoulda gone on feminizing hormones when I was 14 or so. That would have solved A LOT of the problems I have now, including the sort of facial shape that is far too male-looking by my standards.

And when I wonder if it’s just me overreacting, then a helpful comment from someone else helps remind me too.

Really, it’s nice for me to look in the mirror and see a girl looking back at me. I’ve wanted that for SO long and there she is, yay! I look feminine enough to be happy about it. But the more feminine I look the happier I am. And there’s only so much I can do with superficial fixes. Hence my consultation with the nice man who, when I finally have the money to spend on this, and when I can justify it, will make some pretty drastic changes to how my face is shaped, structurally. I can hardly wait but given the price tag that’s just a figure of speech. Truth is, I’m gonna be waiting for a loooooooooooooong time. To save that amount will take a long time plus I have debts to settle before I go spend money on feminizing myself surgically.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be a good business move. I’ve done escorting and I’m good company. I’ve made more than $300 an hour having fun and looking sexy, and I didn’t even have sex with the gentleman. And he was so happy with the quality of the experience that he wanted to give me a bottle of wine as a present afterwards, and book another session. Obviously, I’m able to add value. Not that this client is the sort of person with whom social time is a sparkling experience and not that $300/hour clients are lined up waiting to spend time with me.  But it’s occurred to me that if I can make that much, even sometimes, looking as I do now, then maybe I could make more yet, or make that amount more often, if I were to look better.

This reminds me of a conversation I had with a professional photographer who specializes in t-girl escorts and prostitutes. I’d mentioned to him that I don’t like ad pictures being Photoshopped. I’d rather my escorting clients (at the time, I’m retired for now) see what I really look like. Why, I don’t even like wearing a lot of make-up. I don’t want a client to be disappointed when he sees me in person. But it’s hard for me to compete with ladies whose ad pictures are so Photoshopped that their skin looks perfect even though in real life it’s not. One lady’s picture was so aggressively Photoshopped than even her nipple had been smoothed totally away. Serious editing, that. Anyway, I pointed out these concerns to the photographer and he conceded some points but then reminded me that a good set of ads (fake pics and all) can make so many clients flock to a girl that she makes $30K a month, as some of his clients have done, and the guys are happy enough to pay her price even after they see her in person. So with that money, she can then to a large extent go make herself look as good as the pictures imply. So, the pictures kinda show her future self and they also enable it, he explained. Interesting logic. Wait, what? $30K a month? Wow.

If I looked way prettier, facially, maybe I could make vast amounts of money as a stripper or escort and pay off my debts faster, net-net, that way. Pretty wishful thinking, I know.

Anyway, since I don’t have the money anyway it’s sort of a moot point.

Duly preoccupied with my looks as a t-girl, I went to the t-girl strip club. T-girls at a club like that are a varied bunch. A very few are like … how do I say this nicely … your least-handsome uncle … in drag. A few are hot in an androgynous sort of way. And a few are among the most feminine creatures I’ve ever met. They’re overcompensating, making up for lost time, overshooting … and wow, do they ever succeed. The door girl, for example, is utterly gorgeous. She’s a t-girl and wow, she exudes femininity. She radiates it in how she looks, sounds, moves, dresses, everything. And she’s not just feminine, she’s also sexy. As in, raging-forest-fire hot.

As you might imagine, the club owner chooses his on-stage stripper dancers from the latter group, the hot girls. And wow. They DO look good. The first two dancers I saw on-stage moved quite well.

The problem was that I couldn’t really focus on the strippers on-stage very well because a little brunette t-girl appeared from a doorway to my right and walked right past me. She was short and muscular but the way she moved was jaw-droppingly hot. Wow. I’d say that maybe one in five thousand girls can move like that. Wow, wow, wow. I was mesmerized and didn’t hide it well. She smiled me a “you seem to appreciate that I’m hot, thank you” smile at me as she sashayed past.

As she sat down at the bar and did her social butterflying it was hard to not follow her every little graceful movement, but since I was sitting by the stage, it seemed rude to ignore the nice redhead who was just about naked and hanging upside down from a stripper pole. So, to be polite, I tried to focus on the performer on-stage. It wasn’t easy.

With the show over, the next major entertainment highlight for me was this same girl walking back in the direction she came, right past me, with another smile at me. Wow, was she feminine. And sexy. And graceful. And wow. Just … wow.

Anyway, the universe must have known it’s my birthday because the next dancer was … this lady. Yay! She was AMAZING! She didn’t do any stripper pole tricks. She didn’t strip almost naked. She didn’t do anything quirky. She just moved with such grace and sensuality and confidence and style that … nothing else mattered. I was enraptured. It showed. Now and then she looked in my direction and smiled appreciatively.

It’s a topless club so, yes, at some point, her bra came off. It hardly mattered. This girl could wear a polar parka and be more sexy than an average-pretty girl would be in a string bikini. Still, being able to see more skin also meant I could appreciate her moves more yet.  Gawd, did this girl have “the moves.” I loved every minute.

After many happy minutes of enjoying her dancing, the stardust settled at least long enough for me to actually take a critical look at the girl. It wasn’t easy to be critical but I tried, as an exercise. Interestingly, in many ways, the girl was my visual clone as to the items that I really dislike about my face and body aesthetics. Yes, I do get many compliments about my boobies and yes, they’re magnificent, but they are outplants and they come from Without them I’m as flat as Kansas. And so was this dancer.  

My forehead and brow are way too masculine … and so were those of this dancer. Oh, wow. And her nose wasn’t exactly tiny. As such, her looks also matched mine. And so on.  

She had the same visual drawbacks I had, as to aesthetics, yet she moved so sexily that it took some earnest effort on my part to even realize that she’s more sexy than picture-pretty. And yet even after my analysis, I still consider her the most desirable dancer in the club. I’d invite her to a cup of coffee in a heartbeat, and if one thing led to another, I’d be happy with that too.

So, yet again, I learned something. I walked into that t-girl club totally focused on feminine looks and my own shortcomings, and I walked out with a renewed realization that looks matter so much less than a person’s style and grace, and with a first-hand example of how a girl, with the same visual shortcomings as I have, still managed to look SO sexy just due to how she moved. And that wasn’t just my opinion. She got probably four times as many audience dance floor tips as the dancer before her.

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