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.

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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 Amazon.com. 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.

A Most Sincere Compliment

2014-12-09 00.11.44This picture is how I looked, just before midnight, about 3 hours ago.

Earlier today, I had my hair professionally washed and blow-dried because if I don’t do that, it starts looking frizzy.  And, I have permanent lashes because that saves me a lot of time with mascara.

I’m in Las Vegas staying at Treasure Island hotel and casino, and I worked late so I decided to take a break and go have coffee at a 24-hour coffee shop at the Mirage hotel and casino, which is right next door. This requires crossing the driveway entrance to Treasure Island, on the corner of which stands a lady whom I’ve seen many times before. She hands out business cards of girls who can get sent to someone’s hotel room, presumably for paid-time hanky-panky. Having observed this lady many times during the last year or two, I’ve noticed that she makes a point of handing these cards to guys and not to girls.

Yesterday I wore some new and sexy high-heeled shoes to go have coffee at the nearby Venetian hotel and casino,  They hurt my feet so much that it was hard to walk sexily and eventually it was hard to walk at all. I was sorely tempted to take them off and walk barefoot, which in Las Vegas is a bad idea. So, I endured the pain and I don’t ever plan to wear them again.  For tonight, I wore some semi-elegant flat-soled booties but they don’t go well with a skirt or dress.  So, I wore jeans.  I was also wearing my leather jacket.  And, I’m 6 feet tall.

So, as I was walking past the card-dispensing lady, she was standing with her head down. She noticed that the lady walking next to me was, obviously, female, and didn’t hand her a card.  When she saw me (or to be exact, the lower portion of me) she saw a tall person in androgynous, possibly-male clothing and she automatically offered me a card. Then she looked up, saw all of me, and she yanked the card back and mumbled an apology. It wasn’t due to me looking hostile. In fact, I was smiling.

I’m always self-conscious about my face and figure looking too androgynous and not sufficiently feminine — so it gives me hope when on the merit of my chest, face and hair, someone changes her mind and classifies me correctly as being basically female.

I like it.

Busty Me, Two Months Later

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No, the above isn’t a picture of me. It’s a statue at Treasure Island resort and casino, Las Vegas. But, curvy, wow.

Below are two pictures of me, with my new fake boobies. They’re not implants. They’re … outplants: bra stuffers. I’m getting used to their shape, size, weight, feel, etc. before I go further.

IMAG1653IMAG1656After two months of this, yesterday was the magical day I’d been waiting for.  Until now, I’ve always been giddily happy with my new boobies, even though (yes, I know) they’re even more fake than implants are.

But, yesterday was different. For the first time, I felt lazy when it was time to put my bra on.  I’d worn my favorite bra for enough days that it was due for laundry day yet again, and so I needed to choose another (and less-comfy) bra.  I chose one from my stash. It looked nice enough. It felt … not bad.  So, more out of routine than sheer delight, I put the bra on. Into it went my pretty boobies and … yay, I’d passed the basic test!  Even when the excitement wore off, did I have the discipline to still go through the process? Yes! It’s almost like these fake boobies are part of me now, like contact lenses might be for someone else.

By the end of the day, my shoulders were hurting. The bra straps had carved into my shoulders, ow. On a hunch, I weighed my fake boobies. They weighed a puny one-and-a-half pounds each. That’s almost nothing.  And yet, there I was, feeling sore.  By contrast, girls like Chelsea Charms have boobies that weigh approximately 30 pounds … each.  Wow.  That really puts things into perspective, for me.

I’ve always fantasized about owning a V-12 BMW 750iL.  And now I do, with all of the glory and the issues, including having to buy two replacement fuel pumps. Until I can get them installed the car is parked in my yard and has been for several months. The reality of the total ownership experience … it’s good to have the entire picture.

This reminds me of two specific friends / acquaintances (they’re right in that “middle ground”). They’re both nice ladies. They also have the same size boobs and they’re about the same age (beyond early 30s). One of the ladies admits freely to not having made bra-wearing a priority.  How do I say this nicely … it shows. Gravity, over time, is not kind. The other lady made bra-wearing a priority, and wow, does it show. Her breasts look perky and gorgeous, and even though she’s personally lovely anyway, boobies or no boobies, her lovely curves certainly add to the overall “wow” look. So, whenever I feel inclined to be lazy about wearing a bra, I think of these two extremes. Conclusion: bra-wearing is a good habit to maintain even if it’s sometimes tedious.

When I’m feeling less-realistic, I fantasize about having huge porn-star style breasts. If I wanted to be cynical, I might say that from then on I wouldn’t even need facial feminization surgery because nobody would look at my face anymore except maybe passport and security officials.

But, it seems to me that if one-and-a-half pounds of weight, times two, can be enough to give me sore shoulders, then I need to buy a better bra, and also be more cautious as to how bigger and heavier boobies would feel.

Although my plans to have  nice curves are congruent with who I am, I do suspect that my enthusiasm for an unusually large size might be: I’m overcompensating for a time when I hated being flat-chested and looking less feminine than I basically am.  Overcompensating is not necessarily a bad thing, as long there is basic self-awareness as to one’s decisions and the underlying elements.

Winning One Battle at a Time

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When someone finds out she’s a t-girl, it tends to be a happy realization. Thereafter life is much harder in some ways, and much easier in others. Either way, it’s very different from then on.

Problem is, the image in the mirror. If your journey is like mine, then your aesthetics in the beginning were overwhelmingly masculine and not even pretty by any stretch of the imagination. Personally, when I thought I was a male, I had little interest in maintaining my looks or physique or health. I was on my way to an early heart attack, diabetes or both. Even so, I couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to do anything about it. Intellectually, I’d read and learned much, professionally and personally. But as to my non-cerebral aspects, it was a sad situation. And even as to my mental state, one vital conclusion was still absent.

As soon as I realized that I’m fundamentally a girl, everything changed. I was highly enthused to improve things but didn’t know where to start.

As the above picture suggests, a t-girl’s front is the most problematic part of her transition. Typically, that part costs money to improve: Adam’s Apple surgery, breast implants, facial feminization … but even as I saved money to pay for that, I could work on the rest.

I ate healthily, exercised, attended to my skin, grew my hair long, waxed my body and facial hair into oblivion, slept enough, drank enough water, and avoided the obvious vices and dangers. That alone helped me make a lot of progress. And whenever I was glum I could always look at a picture of myself from behind, since that’s where the progress showed sooner than the front.

I know this is a difficult road, but it might help if you realize that your looks don’t define you. If you’re a t-girl, you’re a t-girl due to your brain structure, not due to looking hot or looking feminine to any (key point: ANY) extent.

Yes, aesthetics do matter in the grand scheme of things, but if good looks are the consequence of being radiantly healthy, that’s typically a very good checkpoint along the way to looking better.

A t-girl friend of mine described herself to me as an ugly woman. I sympathize with her aesthetic self-assessment — and wow, do I relate based on how I personally felt for a long time. But, at least she IS a woman and she knows it.

As to the rest, it’s a journey. Once you realize you’re a t-girl, everything else just becomes a change to a matter of degree. You’ve basically won the hardest battle, the conflict within yourself. What remains is the easy part, and there are no further fundamental victories after that. Even if you get Adam’s Apple surgery, or breast implant surgery, or facial feminization surgery, or surgery ‘down there’ … fundamentally, nothing changes.

Everything beyond your basic realization (that you’re a t-girl) is merely a qualitative improvement. It’s just the size of the improvement that varies.

Play-Acting Out a Fantasy — By Mistake

Sometimes I do some exceptionally not-so-bright things. Today was a day with much of that.

This morning, before 7 a.m., I got dressed for a Greyhound bus ride to cozy and warm Sacramento. I work sandals, and this elegant business suit top, and a dress that was … way short. And, bare legs. I didn’t think much of it since I was just planning to pick up my old Volvo at a mechanic’s place and then meet a friend in Livermore — not much public exposure planned. This is what I looked like:

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Yeah, the dress is short. I know. I figured that only the mechanic, and my friend and maybe a very few other people might see me in that. And, the mechanic and my friend are each open-minded and encouraging of me dressing up as the wild girl if that’s what I choose to do. My excuse, if I need an excuse, is that I’m compensating for years’ worth of repression of my female sexuality.

Problem is, the mechanic who came to pick me up at the Greyhound bus station was not punctual, so I waited and waited outside the bus station, with some not-too-savory folks milling around. I got hit on twice, which is a nice compliment but kinda awkward too.

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I turns out that my now-fixed Volvo drove well, but not well enough. So, my short dress and I ended up visiting MANY young guys in automotive businesses trying to get the car’s issues resolved. So, by now, half of northern California has seen my upper thighs.

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Early this morning, to get to the bus, I had driven my little old BMW to downtown Reno and parked it close by the bus station, on 2nd street. By the time I got back to Reno, it was WAY later than I’d planned: after midnight. And, it was cold. As in teeth-chattering cold.

For reasons I won’t get into, the Volvo needs to stay in Reno, and there’s a good parking garage on 5th street. So, I parked it there. To get from 5th street to 2nd street, you have to cross … 4th street. In fact, to get from where the Volvo was parked to where the BMW was parked, a logical-seeming route took me along 4th street, and right by the Sands Casino.

Problem is: in Reno red-light district culture, if you have to choose ONE street for picking up a working girl (a.k.a. hooker) then 4th street is your best bet, and (no disrespect intended towards that fine establishment) if you had to pick ONE casino resort, it’d be the Sands. (Also, no disrespect intended towards that profession.)

So, let’s re-cap. It’s after midnight, in downtown Reno. And, here, walking the streets is a tall transgender blonde with huge, fake boobs, bare legs and a super-short dress. She’s walking around in 45 degree weather, and she’s doing it along 4th street and past the Sands … not subtle.

I wasn’t even trying to turn tricks. I was just walking to where my little old BMW was parked. However, I’m sure it looked like something very different was going on.

Ironically, while I was on 4th street, a Reno Police car drove by and stopped by (oh, more irony) the same red light where I was standing. It was a red traffic light, but … still. Red light.

The officer was probably thinking “you can’t make this stuff up” and, to my relief, didn’t arrest me for being a blatant cliche.

I have to confess that I have fantasized many times about being a working girl, but this acting-out event was the result of pure bad planning … though Sigmund Freud might have argued that subconsciously, I masterminded it all brilliantly. Maybe he’d have been right.

This means I can explain today with two very different possibilities. I was either super-ditzy or deeply brilliant.

Bare Mid-riff, Public Compliments

A few years ago I thought I was doomed to live the rest of my days in a male role, and the idea made me miserable. There’s nothing wrong with being a male and living as such, but to have a female brain structure and yet live as a male, that IS miserable. I stopped caring about my health. I put on weight. I had a fat male-shaped tummy. The rest of me didn’t look any better. It was a sad picture.

Fast forward to last night. I was in Las Vegas, and I was about to go out to dinner at the Venetian casino resort with my lovely female romantic partner. I wore a black top that barely contained my large (fake) boobies, and a skirt that clung to my hips, revealing a mid-riff that looks VERY different than it did a few years ago. Now that I live as a female, I’m motivated to stay in shape.

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I wore little make-up: some eye-brow pencil and some lip gloss. I’ve seen enough pictures of hot celebrity girls with and without make-up, and I’m clear that good make-up can make a dowdy girl look like a model, but I don’t want to go that route. I want to look however I look with relatively minimal help from make-up.

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Being 6′ tall already (or as Susan Anton would say: 5’12”) I tend to wear flat sandals otherwise I tower above everyone else. With my 6″ stilettos, my 6’6″ figure has in the past elicited a “damn, you’re tall” comment from a gentleman when really “damn, you’re hot” or some polite variation thereof would have been preferable. So, I mostly get no help from the shoe department, as to looking good.

Even so, I got my share of stares and admiring smiles as I walked through the Venetian casino resort, last night. Looking good inspired more self-confidence, and I walked more sexily, and had a better posture yet — including automatically pulling in my abs for a yet-more pronounced effect.

As I walked past a couple in their 60s or so, the gentleman (whom I didn’t know from Adam) told me I look good, and his wife chimed in with enthusiastic agreement with words like “you look beautiful, sweetie.” I can mostly identify sarcarm when I hear it, and there was none this time; the words were benevolent and sincere, and that made for an extra-nice evening.

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It feels wonderful to finally live an integrated life.

Weird Moment in the Mirror

This post is another one about my aesthetics. By now, I feel the need to point out that I also do spend much of my time focused on far-less-superficial issues, in case anyone was starting to wonder … 220px-My_Wife_and_My_Mother-In-Law_(Hill).svgThe above picture is a classic “ambiguous image” — depending on how you process it, it’s either the face of a young lady as seen from behind her left ear, or it’s the face of an older lady as seen from the side.  The same image can come across as two separate things to the viewer.  It’s kinda cool and odd at the same time.  I recently experienced something like this, personally.

My own journey towards better aesthetics has been psychologically excruciating. The worst experience of my entire month would be when I’d get a haircut and for 20 minutes I’d have to look at a very unhappy, ever-fatter, aging male face in the mirror. I don’t know if I hated myself but I certainly hated how I looked. Picture-taking was something to be avoided. My health and looks were deteriorating and I was unable to find the motivation to do anything to stop or reverse the process. It seemed pointless.

[I hasten to add there’s nothing wrong with looking male if someone is male, wants to look like a male, etc.  I just personally don’t. ]

Now that I know I’m a girl, I’m actively taking care of my health, looks and style. I wear make-up, nice clothes that I choose and match carefully, well-styled hair, and I take care of my skin, figure and general health. Over the last two years, my looks have gradually improved to where I look less and less male, and I generally look better and better.

However, it’s always a strain, an uphill battle to look less androgynous, something that I can make progress towards if I wear dark glasses to hide my male-shaped brow, or I wear extra nice eye make-up, or whatever. It’s never a magical transformation. It’s always the feeling of actively trying to pull away from having a basically too-male-shaped face.

Granted, things are much, much better than how things were … but I don’t look in the mirror and expect to see a lovely young blonde girl look back at me. That’s because I’m not lovely and not young.

However, even with my aesthetic challenges, I like taking pictures.  I like my physique a lot more than my face and so my pictures tend to focus on my butt or legs or abs.  But, in the process of feeling self-conscious about my face and trying hard to make it look as good as possible in pictures, I have learned a lot about posing and shadows.  Turning my head so I’m facing the camera or mirror at just the right angle (as to horizontal rotation and vertical elevation) hides the too-male brow, forehead, chin and jaw perfectly even though they’re all in plain sight.

The angle is everything, and it’s a very, very narrow range of angles that this effect possible. A day or two ago, I was sitting in my hotel room, and I glanced at the mirror when I happened to find just the right angle. The effect was like looking at the picture, above, and suddenly seeing the “other” way of envisioning it.  For the first time ever, I saw the image of a pretty young girl looking back at me.

I knew it was not accurate because that’s not how I generally look, and I knew it was fragile because if I moved, the angle would be different and the just-so effect would be destroyed. But, if only for a moment, it was a freeing, shocking, weird and satisfying feeling to see that image reflected back at me. Being able to think of myself as a pretty, young girl was wonderful even if only for a few seconds.

It reminded me of some hypnosis CDs I’d bought years ago, intended to inspire an overweight male-looking person to become feminized and to release the pretty, slim, shapely female within. The marketing materials showed both profiles superimposed, and it made for a stark difference.  And yet, that’s what I’ve done … changed from one to the other.

Another piece of marketing material showed an unhappy, not-pretty male looking into the mirror. The reflection that looked back was a lovely young lady. It all seemed so impossible to me.  And yet, for however briefly, I actually experienced it.

Ever since I allowed myself to live as the girl I basically am, I have experienced so many things that beforehand had seemed utterly preposterous and unachievable.

It has been a wonderful journey and not nearly as scary as I’d expected it to be.