How I met the perfect gentleman (and yes, I’m still gay)

jMAG1013A few weeks ago, I rented a U-Haul van (long story as to why, not relevant here) and I had parked my own car at a local casino a few blocks away. After my project was complete, I dropped off the van, and walked along Virginia street (the main north-south street through Reno, Nevada) to the casino, to have a nice lunch and then get my car and drive home. It was a pretty day, sunny but not too hot, and I enjoyed strolling along the sidewalk.

jMAG1011As to my shoes, I finally love being me, i.e., being okay with who and what I am. That includes me being happy with myself as a sexual being. I love to celebrate looking sexy. Few things inspire me to feel as sexy as do 6” stripper stiletto shoes.

I own several pairs. I can’t afford them new, but good used ones are available. I either buy comfortable ones (yes, they exist) or I modify the ones I have, to make them comfortable. And if they can’t make that grade, I toss them. So please don’t feel sorry for me when I wear them. They feel just fine. Better than fine, actually.

I have trained myself to where I can walk a mile or more at a time in such heels. It’s not just about walking in them … the whole point is to move as the girl I am. It took me 4 years, but I learned that too. Even if my static aesthetics don’t inspire you to think I look hot, then the way I look when I sashay along in my stripper stilettos might — especially from behind. I also learned to dance in them and to look graceful (or better) while doing so. This post shows two pictures of me wearing my most recent pair of 6″ stilettos.

I’m mainly attracted to girls sexually, and I used to date fellow strippers (and yes, I’ve worked as a stripper). I was impressed by how club strippers could stay on their feet while wearing high-heeled stiletto shoes for hours on end — and still look hot in the process. I figured: if they can do it, then there’s no reason why I can learn it. I patiently and diligently trained. If, three years ago, you saw a tall blonde transsexual girl walking around Virginia Lake in Reno at 4 a.m., then yes, that was I. And yes, that’s a distance of one mile, around that pretty man-made lake.

Over the course of four years, I was always trying to find mirrors in areas where I can walk and watch myself, and learn, and improve. The window at the Fallon auxiliary police station has a weird angle and a mirrored finish, so that works. The Sparks Nugget has many mirrors on the second, third, fourth and fifth floors. Of course, reflective windows and mirrors are not hard to find. The difficulty has been in finding ones that are angled just so, so that I can watch myself walking without having to look ninety degrees sideways all the time — though I’ve done much of that too.

As my body weight slowly decreases, walking in stilettos becomes easier yet because, we’ll, there’s less weight to lug around. Simple physics, really.

The problem is that (give or take half an inch) I’m 5’ 12” tall, as Susan Anton would say, who’s the same height as I am. On stripper heels I’m 6’ 6” and it’s elicited observations from strangers such as “damn, you’re tall” when really “damn, you’re hot” was more what I was going for.

I slowly learned that looking like a stripper 24×7 doesn’t inspire the perfect social dynamic anyway. I get enough weird looks as it is, due to my too-masculine male facial structure. So I try to limit my enthusiasm to also dress like a stripper in broad daylight, on city streets.

I have really struggled with learning how to have an elegant female gait. I finally have the body mechanics figured out, so now it comes naturally to me. The net effect happens to also involve hip-swinging as a consequence, in a less-than-blatant way, yet hot. All this training and learning time has paid off.

I used to feel sorry for myself until a supportive and graceful g-girl friend pointed out that her own hips didn’t initially move as such either, and a teenage girl goes through much of the look-awkward, feel-awkward, move-awkwardly, feel-disempowered, feel-less-curvy-than-ideal things that I was experiencing. Girls rarely, if ever, just magically know everything as to femininity. Whether we’re g-girls or t-girls, we have to work at it. We have to put effort into learning and training.

This realization had a weird psychological bonus for me, too. I’ve felt like I’ve missed out by not having a typical teenage-girl childhood. So then, here was my opportunity to experience many of the essentials of the real thing. So I stopped feeling unique and pathetic in my struggle — and I focused on learning.

The effects have paid off in psychological terms, too. I’m fundamentally confident nowadays. It shows in my posture – upright, slightly leaning back, shoulders back, tummy in. I don’t even try any more. It’s just how I stand and walk, all day and every day, with rare exceptions.

On that particular day, when I was walking along the sidewalk, I had managed to discipline myself. I wore a conservative skirt (like in these pictures) and beige, flat, $10 Walgreens plastic sandals (NOT like in these pictures).

When I wear stilettos I feel almost like I’m Supergirl and when I don’t, I feel like a mere mortal. But I was a happy mortal even so. I strolled along happily.

The social demographic of most of the folks who walk along that particular sidewalk at that particular time of day isn’t exactly the shrimp-and-caviar, listen-to-Beethoven set, so I tend to not invite conversations with my fellow pedestrians in that area. That day was no exception. I became aware of someone walking behind me, and that person hadn’t been there all along so he was probably walking a little faster than I was. I didn’t turn or say hello to my fellow on-foot traveler as he approached.

But then, he spoke up. “You have POISE,” he said. I stopped, turned and smiled. He seemed like an average gentlemen, perhaps with some cash flow issues (like me) and not dressed as if this were Beverly Hills (like me). In a completely non-offensive and most eloquent way, the gentleman elaborated on how he’d watched me move, and he’d loved it. His compliments centered on the poise I exuded.

I thanked him and was tempted to say “if you think this looks good, then you should see me in my stripper stilettos” and then I decided to kill off that train of thought and just focus on the here-and-now: a guy telling a girl that he likes her style, period. It was just a nice, eloquent, simple, delightful compliment from a sincere and nice man. I didn’t need to tell him that I could look better yet. I could just shut up and enjoy the moment. And so I did.

I felt the need to introduce myself (it’s a British-culture thing, and I might have too much of that still, having lived there) and so I did so, and so did he. We shook hands and smiled at each other. And then, off he went, across the street — and he went on with his life.

And yet, he’d enriched mine forever. I learned some things that day. I don’t have to dress up like a stripper to look nice. I don’t have to look hot to look nice. I don’t have to try to look nice. I just do, nowadays. And much of it is due to how I move. It’s not just what I have to work with, but what I do with what I have. I don’t have to feel quite as self-conscious about my still-too-male facial structure and still-too-male physique. The way I move transcends all that. It announces “here’s a female” to the world – a female with a too-male facial structure and some serious hormone issues, but yes, dammit, a girl and clearly so. Yay!

Not that the world’s opinion makes me who I am, but it’s nice that there’s nowadays less general confusion as to that point.

And thank you, Eric, for being the perfect gentlemen.

Better Self-Confidence

I hate stubble.  Yes, there are cool hi-tech ways of removing it, but I have light-colored facial hair. So, lasers don’t work very well, and besides I can’t afford anything more pricey than wax.   Wax hurts, but it works!

imag8556I’ve been diligently waxing myself from the neck down, for the past three years. By now, my body is for the most part smooth and hairless.  The hair follicles have basically given up trying, and what little hair still grows on me is mostly sparse, light and golden-colored — very feminine.  This has worked because I have let the hair grow out long enough for the wax to grip, and rip out by the root. Since the body hair was covered by clothing, there was no problem with growing it out long enough so as to be able to wax it.

The same principle works for facial hair, but I’ve been more reluctant to grow it out so as to be able to rip it out by the root with wax. Reason: I hate stubble and I especially hate being out in public with stubble.  However, it’s time to be disciplined and get on with it, so now I have a steady routine of growing out my facial hair and then waxing it away.  Eventually (soon?) I won’t have to do this any more, as the hair follicles are weakening or dying.  I can hardly wait.

As a result, some days I might look like a pretty-enough girl with big fake boobs, long lashes and long blonde hair, but … I also have stubble. Yeah, it looks weird. I know.

As planned, when I’m just about to wax, it’s 4-day old stubble, and I hate it even more then.  I try to schedule my waxing sessions so that I’m at home alone over the weekend when the stuff is extra long, and I either stay in or I only venture out only late at night. Yes, it really bothers me that much.

So, this morning (being Sunday) I was maybe a day or two away from having grown the stuff out long enough to wax it, when my phone rang.  A dear friend of mine had just returned back to the US from abroad. Although for the first few days since her return, her car behaved, today it refused to start.  So, her phone call to me was a polite cry for help.  Since I know how to fix cars, I packed my tools and dressed relatively elegantly, in a nice top and a long skirt — sort of like a society lady albeit with stubble. There wasn’t time for me to put on make-up because the lady had to be at an appointment soon. I was tempted to shave but this would have killed this week’s waxing session — and besides there wasn’t time.  Off to Reno I went, stubble and all, to save the day.

Swapping in a fresh battery didn’t fix the car, and the lady needed to go somewhere for an important hour-long appointment, so I drove her there. During that hour, I got hungry and since I was near one of my favorite restaurants, I decided to be brave. I went in. I got some odd looks from customers, but the staff was wonderfully nice to me. I was as friendly as I always am when I have smooth skin.  It all worked out OK.  The friendly treatment registered with me emotionally, and the funny looks somehow didn’t bother me.  I liked that.

Unfortunately, the car saga remained problematic and as part of being a helpful friend, I ended up making several visits to other businesses in Reno during the remainder of the day.  The last trip was to a Wal-Mart in a nice neighborhood.  By then I didn’t just have stubble but also grease and old oil on my clothes, hands and face.  I was probably the most peculiar-looking person who’s been at that Wal-Mart in quite a while.

I thought back to three years ago, when I was excruciatingly embarrassed to stand in the cosmetic aisle at Wal-Mart even though it was late at night and the place was almost deserted. I looked 100% male and I was looking at fingernail polish, and I was fearing that doing so might “out” me as a transgender girl.

By contrast, how openly I was “out” today, ironically again at a Wal-Mart, reminds me of the “attagirl” phrase of “you’ve come a long way, baby.”

Indeed, I have.  And it was nice to realize this.

Feeling Self-Consious

I understand how the first few steps down the transition-your-lifestyle road are intimidating.

When I first realized I’m basically a girl and needed to start living accordingly, I was so self-conscious. I bought one nice dress and one pair of high-heeled shoes and when I was in the SF Bay area where nobody I knew would be likely to see me, I’d go to remote places and practice being out and about so I could get used to the new me.

I recall thinking that a city dump would be as remote a place as any at 2 a.m. so I went there and walked around, not realizing there was a security guard on duty even then. I was mortified when he saw me.

Fast-forward to last weekend, 18 months later or so when I stayed at a nice hotel in the SF Bay area and bought myself a nice In-N-Out burger which meant walking into a restaurant room full of people who look at whoever just came in and walks up to the register and places an order.

I was wearing my tight LA Idol Jeans and my 6″ heels. I walked in there, placed my order and made chit-chat with the cashier lady. I felt good and  I looked good, with my make-up just so. The next morning, I went down to breakfast in the hotel lobby area. I didn’t have my make-up on yet, and I still looked and felt just fine. There was some or other confusion as to whether or not breakfast was included in the price of the room, and this involved me walking back and forth to the front desk in my 6″ stilettos several times and talking to several people. I was fine with that too.

I recall feeling overwhelmed one day about 15 months ago and I bought a mouse-colored wig. A wise friend asked me what I was doing and I explained that I’d planned to wear that instead of my blonde wig (my hair was short at the time; nowadays it’s long and the wig is long-retired). This way, I explained, I could blend in and not be stared at so much. My friend reminded me that I’m a 6′ tall, athletic transgender girl with showgirl legs and a curvy butt and there was no way I would ever blend in. I might as well just learn how to deal with being highly visible.

It reminds me of a scene in the movie “Hunt for Red October” where the one submarine is in dire straits and a torpedo is coming right at it, about to destroy it. It turns out the best thing for the submarine to do was to go full speed into the torpedo and destroy it before it could arm itself.

Similarly, my own approach has been to face obstacles and resistance head-on, including my own trepidations — but they nevertheless existed, to a great extent.

So, if you feel self-conscious, I hope my story helps you …