Too Late

I mentor girls like me. My hope and intent is to identify t-girls who have bought into the premises of those who treat them unfairly. So, they join in and hold themselves back (or worse) unfairly too. For such girls, I try to be a good example. I also remind them that they are basically worthy as human beings. Some of them then realize that they can stand up for themselves. They can live as who they are openly. They can stop living in the shadows while relegating their hopes and dreams into a fantasy future. Reality is harsh — the golden future tends to not come about until and unless the t-girl enacts the required cause so as to get the desired effect.

I used to rescue people, which meant that I did too much of the work. So nowadays, I go to a reasonable amount of trouble but I try to not cross the line as to what’s proper.

I generally advise t-girls that delaying living your life as who you are is simply another day wasted; a day lived in a state of mind that I know only too well, and am happy to never have to experience again. Now that I’m living openly as a t-girl, I get funny looks from the more-conservative folks sometimes but I don’t care. Whether or not they approve of me, I finally approve of myself. For me, that’s a fundamentally better way of living. Now that I live with integrity, I’m a happier person than I thought could be possible. If I can inspire others to experience this, good.

However, many t-girls hesitate, then stagnate … they show up on my radar screen, seem eager to move forward but then don’t. Often they vanish and reappear again later, much sadder, and still unwilling to take that one vital step for themselves.

Time isn’t kind. Many not-out t-girls don’t get stronger by waiting one more day. If anything they get weaker. Some drink. Some get depressed. Some neglect their health to the point where it’s failing terminally or they will at best have a very uphill battle just to live a minimally normal life, whether as a t-girl or otherwise.

This weekend is a case in point. I traveled to a distant city to meet and mentor a t-girl whose mind has the sort of brilliant precision that makes her a delight to interact with via email. She writes long and well; her thoughts are wonderful and complex and her life story would never sell as a book because what she’s survived strains credibility as far as the average reader is concerned. It’s hard for me to imagine someone enduring so much abuse, of every basic kind that I know to exist, and still be even minimally functional, much less a delightful, good and sweet person.

That she’s a not-out t-girl and has kept these suspicions repressed and hidden for a long, long time has only added to her stress level.

In online interaction with me she came to realize that indeed, she’s a t-girl. Yet she didn’t think she could live as a t-girl openly, not least because she lives with a parent who, she tells me,  would throw her out of the house if she came out as a t-girl. 

Her health, meanwhile, is failing quickly and she has very little extra strength to do much else than trying to make it to her medical appointments. She’s basically lost the will to live, and she’s just going through the motions. The only way she would be motivated to keep going is to live as a t-girl, and she can’t imagine successfully doing this.

My online presence helped her but, she explained, with me being some online persona somewhere ethereal, it doesn’t seem real enough to her and she needs all the help she can get to convince her that the life she craves is viable so that she can be motivated to step through the doorway into her new life.

There’s also the problem that for her, coming out also means: finding a new place to stay. In rare circumstances I am willing to open my house to allow a t-girl to stay with me while she’s finding her way, sort of Tanya’s Home for Wayward T-Girls, but my requirements are pretty strict, and they subsume those of my strict landlady, and sadly even this amazing girl doesn’t qualify due to her severe health problems and having two kitties that she understandably loves but that doesn’t reconcile well to moving to a no-kitties-allowed place in the boonies more than two thousand miles away.

And so I traveled to her, more than two thousand miles. I paid for more airfare and hotel bills than I can easily afford but then again if this girl turns her life around, maybe she might one day be willing to work for one of my companies and she’s brilliant so she’d do well. I justify the expense as “recruiting” and in the past, this sort of thing sometimes pays off very well and I end up with someone dedicated, grateful and appreciative, only too happy to have a workplace where she can live as who she is. In my experience, high-quality people thrive in that sort of a situation. And when their thriving also helps my business, it’s a mutual “win.”

Due to being in stealth mode, the t-girl didn’t wanna spend the night since then her mom would wonder what’s up. So at best she could visit me during the day. She was scheduled to arrive at my hotel at noon.

Since she has a boot fetish I also brought along my long, black, high-heeled leather boots even though, well, yes, it is the hottest part of the summer. Since she wanted to see me dressed in my Dominatrix outfit (even though I’ve retired) here’s how I was dressed while waiting for her knock on the hotel room door.
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Around that time, she sent me an email explaining how she’d had an unexpected emergency procedure that morning and was sedated and it was unsafe for her to drive. If I really wanted to meet she might chance it but felt wary, and she was also groggy. And of course I told her to rest well, and we’d try again the next day.

I presume I could have rented a car and driven to her but even without that this trip is straining my finances and had I rented a car, I would be unable to pay my rent in a few days’ time. Things are that tight, for me. I could presumably have tried public transportation and she might have come out of the house and we might have strolled around the neighborhood (since her mom’s place is off-limits) but that’s also not really viable for various reasons. I hoped the next day would be better.

It wasn’t. She ended up being hospitalized. I’m not allowed to go visit her because she’s still in stealth mode and my presence would raise too many questions.

I will have traveled maybe five thousand miles for zero time with her in person. Not good. However unhappy I am about this, I’m being gracious since she already has enough to worry about. But since she’s a highly sensitive person, she obviously feels very embarrassed and disappointed, because the event that she’d hoped would be life-changing ended up being a non-event.

If you’re a t-girl but not sure as to that, then yes, take your time until you’re sure. But once you’re sure, I don’t see any reason to wait one extra day. From what I observe, every passing day in a hostile environment weakens you. I’m not limiting this topic to coming out. I’m including working in a hostile-to-you environment, remaining in a hostile-to-you relationship, living in a hostile-to-you neighborhood.

When you finally get ready to act, it might by then be too late, or at best far more difficult for reasons that you didn’t expect while choosing to wait one more day at a time.

Even without a major negative development, the one universal regret I hear from already-out t-girls is “I wish I’d acted sooner.”

To me, the most chilling quote in the “Lord of Rings” story is:

“The hour is later than you think.”

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Alchemy: Sincere Compliments if you Read Between the Lines

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Sincere.compliments are the best.kind, and I got to hear some of that tonight. The above picture shows what I looked like tonight, while out and about in Las Vegas. For this picture, I stood too far away from my camera flash and so I lightened the picture, and it got grainy, sorry. Below are some more pictures, but the above one is my favorite in spite of the bad lighting.

I tend to be friendly and chatty, and even though I’m in Las Vegas every month or so, plus or minus, folks seem to remember me. The lady at CVS pharmacy was commenting on my affinity for Reese’s Peanut butter cups as soon as she saw me. The waitress at the Grand Lux Cafe asked if I still like extra milk for my coffee. The lady who cleans the tramway lobby at Treasure Island also recognized me and chatted with me in a friendly way. I love Las Vegas.

ggIMAG2219I’ve been working extra hard (or smart) and so I have a few spare dollars, and today I took a break from working and I went wandering about the Grand Canal shops at the Venetian. The Angl store is my favorite; they have elegant clothing at affordable prices. If you look good, they can make you look great. While I was standing around nearby the changing rooms, a pretty Indian lady went in to try on an evening dress. When she came out, I said “wow!” so loudly when I saw her that it must have drowned out whatever her boyfriend was thinking or saying. Oops. Sorry! But in my defense, she looked like a beauty queen in her Angl evening gown. And so in I went too, into a dressing room, to try on a midriff-baring outfit that was on sale. My boobs are fake and my hips are unimpressive, and my legs are really too muscular. So the only feature I can reasonably hope to show off is my mid-riff. And this outfit does so. Sold! And for less than $40 I now own this amazing outfit.

I went back to my room, and put on my 6″ black velvet stilettos and my new outfit, and off I went. Wow, can I walk far in these heels. I walked from my room in Treasure Island to the elevators and then all the way down to Las Vegas Blvd, across to the Venetian, up to the Grand Canal shops again, down to the Casino and the Grand Lux Cafe for dinner … a lot of walking. On the way back to Treasure Island my ankles got wobbly and it was time to change into the elegant sandals I’d brought along for that purpose. Still, in the old days just getting from the hotel room to the elevator in stilettos would have been an achievement.

ggIMAG2201Anyway, as I sat on the bench near the tram from Treasure Island to the Mirage, the lobby cleaning lady showed up, looked at me and told me I look especially nice tonight. I really appreciated that. I’d certainly gotten an above-average number of stares but it was nice to hear it verbalized. Then, still while I was sitting on the bench waiting, the tram arrived and three male passengers got out. In age range, look, dress code, mannerisms, tone of voice etc. they radiated the sort of asshole vibe that makes someone more likely to be homophobic and … sure enough: they walked past me, and one of them stared at me. Then he made a rude comment and sneer-laughed derisively and his friends looked and did the same. What a sincere compliment that was, when you analyze it. Most people ignore me or seem to like my look. A few females frown or glare as if they’re jealous. But these three guys were different. They were downright focused on me and trying to outdo each other in sounding extra disgusted about me.

The key point is, we all know, it doesn’t matter how hot my clothing or body looks, my facial structure announces I’m a t-girl, and these guys didn’t overlook that. And tonight I dressed to look hotter than I’ve ever looked in these parts. Seemed to me I succeeded.

The process is: the guy sees me and feels attracted to me. But he notices I’m a t-girl and he lives in a backward culture that hasn’t gotten the memo that t-girls are (in the beginning, anyway) “chicks with d*cks” with emphasis on the “chicks” aspect. So to his mentality, I’m a guy (as to his mentality the earth was flat and gays needed to be beat up until quite recently).

So OMG he realizes he’s attracted to someone he thinks is a guy and OMG that means he’s gay and to him that’s like burning a Bible or an American flag. He’s aghast and confused, flustered, horrified and disgusted with himself, ashamed, embarrassed. All of this happens in a split-second.

Also he realizes he’s in the presence of his fellow assholes, he’s afraid they might notice his inner state and so he tries to hide his emotional turmoil behind loud posturing to convey the opposite of what his first reaction was. His two friends hardly notice since each of them is also performing the same idiotic routine for the same reasons, each of them trying to convince himself that he’s convinced the two other idiots that, oh no, he’s not attracted to the girl (or whatever) with the flat tummy, long legs, long blonde hair, big boobs and lots of skin showing.

Since I understand the homophobic mindset, what a sincere compliment all three of them had just given me. I smiled.

Las Vegas locals are open-minded, yes, but a great many people visit Las Vegas, and that includes the worst elements of the most rednecky places in the US. So, at some point, one runs into them.

ggIMAG2195Ironically, later that night, I saw them again. This time I was walking towards them. I mention this because I look a lot better when I’m walking.

Opinions vary as to how I statically look. Some people tell me I look good; I think I look good on one out of every 12 pictures that I take. I do have facial bones like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and a body whose bones were shaped by the wrong type of hormone during puberty, so whether from the neck up or down, it’s difficult for me to look like Miss Nevada. As to looks, I’d give myself a “C” grade.

But, as to how I walk, THAT I can control, and I do. I have spent vast amounts of time practicing how to walk elegantly. As to how I move when I walk, I’d give myself an “A” grade. Maybe even “A+” when I’m on stilettos. So when I walk, yes, I do think I look hot. And this made the second encounter poetically ironic: when the three homophobic assholes saw me again, I was walking right towards them, and then right past them. There seemed to be a sort of awed silence and wow, were they staring (yes, I’ve trained my peripheral vision well).

Belatedly one or two of them tried to recapture the spirit of homophobia with a sneering guffaw but the slow timing meant it was too little, too late and it seemed clumsy, awkward and weak.

Three more sincere compliments, then. Good. I smiled to myself again, and happily kept walking.

Why Fortune Favors the Brave

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I’ve observed enough mean people to conclude: if I tolerate abuse, I’ll get more.

Being gracious is one thing, but staying put while someone else is being inappropriate sends the message “yes, I am willing to stay here and tolerate your bad behavior.”

If there’s more bad behavior aimed at me then, should I be surprised? I have two feet; I should use then. Walking away from mean or bad behavior is VERY empowering. Believe me, I know.

I’m NOT saying walk away from a fight. That’s a whole different subject. I’m focusing here only on a non-violent context. Different context, different rules.

I was in such a negative situation last night. I was providing someone with a business opportunity that they could take or leave. To illustrate the point, let’s say I’d brought some clothes into a dry-cleaner’s, though in fact this wasn’t a dry-cleaner’s and didn’t involve clothes. Essentially, though, it was that sort of dynamic.

I had made it clear to the other party that I don’t consider them obligated to take my business. Only if it was a mutual “win” was I interested. Even so, they were complaining about the task — not constructive input but simple negativity. Me pointing out the negativity didn’t improve things. Me reminding the person that it’s a deal they could accept or refuse, no pressure, also didn’t improve their mindset.

Then, I explained that this business deal is not worth putting up with negativity. Hardly any deals are, to me. I’d rather bypass the deal of the century than tolerate bad behavior. I’ve walked away from bad situations so often that it’s by now easy for me. It’s a useful habit to have developed.

Anyway, I gathered up my stuff and started putting it away. The other person became livid, being even more mean and insulting, and even holding onto some of my property to prevent me from putting it away. I pointed out to them they were being insulting, and I packed away whatever they weren’t holding onto. From then on, every time they said something insulting, I just said “insult” so it would be a nice reminder as to why I’m leaving I got to say that multiple times. Finally I took the last pieces of my property firmly out of the rude person’s hands, and left. Better.

Then, this morning, I had a similar opportunity. I was playing online chess. The other party is good chess player and way outranks me. And, he was being inappropriate. Within reason, making sexual overtures is fine and good. I’m a sexual being and I even enjoy some online flirting; I take it as a left-handed compliment. However, I don’t like it if the other party does it blatantly and persistently, while I’m not reciprocating, and clearly not interested.

I’m all for good-natured openness and I’m no prude, but wow, this guy WAY crossed the line. He’d initiated the sexual topic using the game’s online chat feature, and he just kept pushing. He pointed out that he’s 80 years old, his wife 75 years old. He asked my age. I told him I don’t divulge it. After that he tried to trick me into divulging it. I don’t enjoy that sort of thing, but fine. Anyway, he finally concluded I’m 19 or 30 or so. Good enough. Back to playing chess. Then he suggested I have a sexual session with him and his wife. Whoa. He phrased it trickily, like a good chess player — so me saying “no thank you” could be construed as “I disrespect older people.” Not wanting to step onto that land-mine, I gave a vague answer of “Geez, I don’t really know what to say.” I mean, golly, I was there because I like to play online chess. Everything else is secondary.

Anyway, his next statement was essentially: “Good, so you’ve said you agreed to a session with my 75-year old wife. Let me tell you how this would play out.” Wait, what? I typed “You’re misreading my level of interest. Please stop.”

Then, I thought about it some more. I don’t need to ask for him to behave. That would give him control. He doesn’t matter. I can just walk away. He’s free to behave, misbehave, whatever.  He’s not my problem unless I choose to make him my problem. And I choose not to.

I abandoned the game, which ends the chat session — and I learned more from that chess game than I’d expected.

No! You’re a Boy! Boys don’t Play with Dolls!

I have just had a very interesting lunch with my mom. We were discussing my dad’s behavior while I was growing up. The good things I can say about my dad could fill several thick books. The bad things could fill at least one thick book, too.

About 20 minutes into the conversation, my mom looked awkward and told me: “I’ve never told you this, but when you were very young, you had a doll of which you very very fond, and you loved to play with her. I remember seeing you with the doll when your dad came in, saw that, and viciously ripped the doll away from you, and angrily said: ‘No! You’re a Boy! Boys don’t Play with Dolls!’ ”

My dad was mostly soft-spoken; more into non-confrontational conflict … so this sort of outburst was unusual. I don’t remember the incident, but it must have sent a very strong message to the young t-girl who was playing with her doll at the time … and she grew up living by the agenda of “behave like a boy regardless of how you feel inside.”

So now we know where it might have all begun. Of course, the conservative society in which I grew up reinforced the point.

Some of the missing puzzle pieces are still showing up, even so many years later …

ggIMAG1251Here a much-happier grown-up version of the same girl, who manages to overcome all the hurdles in the way of her living as who she really is.

Hot Dress Means: the Stakes Zoom up

gIMAG2336An acquaintance of mine also lives in the Reno, Nevada area. At the time of this conversation he was driving a late-1980s red Porsche 911. It snows here (Nevada means “snow”). He told me how he had been driving on an icy road when the tail end of his Porsche lost traction and swung loose. The car was heading on a sideways slide towards a very sturdy fence post on a narrow country lane. The driver had taken his foot off the accelerator and he had two choices:

  • Do nothing, sit still and take the hit, and pay the repair bill for some mild bodywork damage
  • Apply power again and hope to regain control and stop the slide.  If the plan worked, no damage. If the plan failed, the stakes had just gone up and whatever he’d hit, he’d hit it at a higher speed with more resulting damage.

He chose the latter option and was able to regain control and avoid the collision — and had a cool story to tell.

The same thing is true for a t-girl dressing in very sexy clothes as opposed to normal female attire. If she can succeed in looking feminine enough to tip the scale, she’ll look VERY hot. If she fails, she’ll look VERY odd. And if she overdoes it, she’ll look VERY odd too. So it’s a difficult balancing act.  She has to be just-right, in the middle.  As someone who has strayed across either line, I’m well aware of the limits’ existence and the social consequences.  I mean, someone who looks like an escapee from the Rocky Horror Picture Show is still in her rights regardless of how she looks — but really, speaking for myself, I’m ready to have the “t” in “t-girl” de-emphasized more and more. I’m ready to just live a normal life as one more girl.

Even so, I still am a t-girl, and for me to look hot enough means I can’t just fall out of bed and look feminine enough to pull off looking good in a hot dress. I have to really apply myself, including putting on 6″ stilettos, and a sexy walk. The latter is difficult because what looks great actually feels very awkward to me.

When I stop being critical to just myself and I look at other girls, whether t-girls or cisgirls, I notice that the same applies to them. Most girls don’t walk well in high heels. And even in comfortable shoes, most girls don’t walk sexily.

I adore female grace and beauty, and even though I’m a part-time stripper myself, I also enjoy going to strip clubs and just enjoying the view (yes, I’m a lesbian). When a lady walks on-stage just-so with a particular walk, even though she has yet to remove anything, I find that mind-blowingly sexy … the walk does it, for me. It’s sort of a crossing-ankles walk but it looks natural due to the swiveling hip movement. I can do it well enough but it feels weird to me.

Last week, after a day of wearing informal clothing, I decided to dress up prettily. I have a dress from the Angl (as in, Angel without the “e”) boutique that I hardly ever feel worthy of wearing, but that night while staying at the elegant Embassy Vacation Resort in Seaside, California, I felt myself and the surroundings to be worthy of “The Dress.” I’d brought the dress along just in case, with some elegant velvety 6″ stilettos. They’d make me 6’6″ tall.

The dress is red (of course). It has an unusual style. It has multiple translucent layers. The top is high, so no cleavage shows. The bottom has a non-translucent barely-doesn’t-show-underwear ultra-short mini-skirt in the same color as the rest of the dress, and then it has a fold of short translucent fabric hanging down in front to obscure the min-skirt that so that the dress hints, without being blatant. The front translucent fold is long enough to obscure the mini-skirt and that’s all. The girl had better have pretty thighs because they’re totally uncovered in front.  So it’s almost like it has a slit in front, but it’s more than a slit, it’s a sort of inverted V or U. The rest of the dress has long translucent folds down the sides and back.

IMAG2333I practiced modeling the dress in my room first, using the huge windows as mirrors. As I had expected, when I walked in a way that felt inside my comfort zone, I looked awkward in the reflection, like a young teenage girl in a dress for which she’s not ready.  it made the dress and the girl both look … well, silly. Or worse. Like the picture on the right. Eww.

As I had expected, when I walked in a way that I knew was proper to that dress, it felt far outside my comfort zone, like I was exaggerating even though I knew conceptually that I wasn’t. I looked down at my shoes, walking … almost now gliding … towards the reflection, ignoring it, looking down at my shoes, focusing on walking well.

It was the perfect paradox. What felt good looked bad, and what felt bad looked … I looked up at the reflection. I was shocked. 

I felt the same reaction as I felt when I am sitting in the audience at a strip club, when the curtains opened and one of my colleagues glides out as if she owns that stage. Wow. It’s a sort of weird primal shock, a sort of jolt in my stomach. And that’s what I felt, watching this long-haired blonde on stilettos and a gorgeous dress glide towards me. My eyes flicked down to her thighs. Yes, they looked good. The entire image looked good. All that just took an instant.

gIMAG2335The next shock was the realization that “Helloooo, Ms. Dumb Blonde, that’s just a reflection so that’s you yourself you’re looking at, wake up.” So that was a whole new way of feeling awkward and ridiculous. It was an emotional night. Intense ups and downs.

Anyway, I was ready for some coffee. This meant going down to the 24-hour lobby. My room was on the ninth floor. By the time I stepped out, I felt awkward again. There was nobody in sight — not surprising since it was, by then, 2:30 a.m.

By the elevators, all the old doubts came back. It was one thing to feel brave enough in my room but in public much harder. I tried to walk to where I felt comfortable with myself. There was a mirror by the wall near the elevators. I walked towards it. It looked horrible. My heart fell. I turned around and walked away, turned around and looked the reflection in the eye and walked like the perfect stripper, regardless of how weird I felt. And it looked great. There was all the proof I needed. I needed to find the courage to walk as who I am. So, I found it.

The rest of the mission became easy. I took the elevator to the lobby and sashayed to the lounge area. When I found out that they had no more milk, I asked the bartender for some.

He responded in a way I’ve come to recognize as: “how many men respond to hot women.” There’s an extra hint of distance, friendliness, helpfulness and efficiency. It’s hard for me to explain but I know it when I see it. I saw that, that night. It helped me feel better yet about the process.

I’ve come to make peace with the premise that feeling excruciatingly awkward sometimes is simply a part of the journey. Being a t-girl is not for sissies.

Looking more Feminine by Having Less-Bulky Muscles

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ggIMAG2300One of my advisers is Dr. Ousterhout, who is highly skilled in feminization surgery. He did my Adam’s Apple removal.

He advised me that to look more feminized I’d need to lose weight … not just fat but also bulky muscles. Over the years since he said that, I’ve taken his advice and lost 50 pounds or so … slowly.

I’m still 25 pounds away from my ideal weight and now that I’m on feminizing hormones it’ll be harder yet to lose those last 25 pounds, but at least I don’t have bulky muscles any more. This look goes a long way towards enabling me to look as feminine as I basically am, brain-wise.

With that progress comes confidence. A few years ago, I was embarrassed to go out in public looking like the girl I am … and this last week I was wearing short shorts and a mid-riff baring top, and doing a sexy photo session in public.

It feels good.  These are the pictures from that shoot. The sun was in my eyes, hence the squint, sorry.

And no, I don’t shave my legs except touch-up work. I’ve waxed the hair into submission or oblivion. Better.

As I look at these pictures critically, I realize that I’m not really all that slender any more. For example, my tummy is starting to take on a female-tummy shape. That’s just fine with me. It’s not a must-have as to having a particular weight. That is just a guideline. For me, it’s about looking feminine, looking good and being healthy.

Here are some more pictures from after I’d checked into my hotel.
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ggIMAG2327Here’s a picture of how my tummy looked when it was slender, before feminizing hormones:

IMAG8624Below is what my legs used to look like.  Maybe hot, maybe not, but more muscular than I’d like:

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The Problem with Being a Dirty Blonde with Large Boobs

2015-08-08 21.04.12My mom owns an Audi A6 that seems to need an automatic transmission service (the transmission is automatic, not the service).

And since the little town where I live has just as many Audi repair shops as it has Martian spacecraft repair shops, I had decided that I’d better do it or it won’t get done.

I figured I’d get dirty so in anticipation, I wore a long-sleeved top and tights. And yes, I got dirty. Guess where?

I’m not complaining, I love having large albeit fake boobs. But it makes for an odd post-work photo session, doesn’t it?