An 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.
I 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.
The 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.