Once in a while there comes an event that is rare, or at least uncommon. In this case the event is called February 29th. Normally it only happens once every 4 years, but sometimes it's once every 8... (don't ask, I didn't invent it).
Because the Earth takes 365 and 1/4 days to travel once around the sun means we accrue an extra day every 4 years, so the leap year day was added (it would be nice if if was June 31st say, but I digress...). But when it's evenly divisible by 400 (as was the year 2000) there isn't. Again... I didn't invent it! However, part of me wonders where the missing leap days got to (so far it's minor, only 2 days since the Gregorian calendar was implemented, 1600 and 2000, but small adds up over time)?
Anyway, I am not making this a lesson on 2/29 or the insane jealousy I fee for people born on 2/29 that age 1 year every 4 (it makes waiting to drink and vote and drive a car really hard but after that it tends to help out a lot). :-)
Speaking of leaps, I had a bizarre dream the night before last and I am hard pressed to really explain it. I'll skip most of the details, but it was like an out-of-body experience for me at first (like I was a camera filming a documentary). There was something like 'American Idol' where several runners-up (male and female paired, like you'd see in a wedding party). Then the winners (rather like a bride and groom, the girl was in a nice white dress and the man was in a tux) were announced. They stood in between the row of runners-up, the girls to the winners left, the guys to the winners right. They stood in the middle like a bride and groom. Then (hence the title) I was in the woman's body as her name was announced. I was her. I stepped forward and gave a curtsey and waved, thanking the applauding crowd. I then stepped back (hoping I would not tip over in my heels) and the man was announced. As he stepped forward to acknowledge the crowd, I leaped again, back to that roving 'eye of the camera' perspective as chairs were set up and people kept talking about arranging them.
People milled about and were all talking about how everything had to be 'just right'. I remember not knowing what was happening until a woman said (women always have smarts like that) "everything needs to be perfect for when Galvin McLeod and the 'Love Boat' crew arrive."
Seriously.
I have NO idea where that came from. Sure, I had watched it as a kid before the behind the sofa peeping of Ricardo Montalban's liquid oozing and overly creepy appearance on 'Fantasy Island'. It's not like I was stuffing my stockings with DVD copies of'Love Boat' or whistling the tune aimlessly while in the toilet stalls of public bathrooms. I don't serenade people with the lyrics from ancient history when shows were recorded on 1" videotape and often 'spliced' together (quite literally).
The leap was the interesting thing, I was aware that I wasn't in 'a body' of any sort again, but I had seamlessly leaped into the woman's body and was fluid and graceful. It was a nice experience, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Albeit maybe a curtsey wasn't the proper thing to do nowadays, it was in olden times. But since the 'Love Boat' crew was coming (no, I never saw any of them, just the preparations to host/honor them) I supposed that maybe were on a casting call for a remake? Who knows, really (unless I have a sequel dream to it lol)?
Later on, I perceived I had "leaped" again, this time as a male. I was bustling about, trying to find some tissues to blow my nose and I was almost gasping, I couldn't breathe well (I woke up breathing fine). I was drinking some kind of lime juice thing (I think it may have had alcohol in it, but I am not certain) and trying to breathe normally.
Now, if you know anything about dreams (I profess I do not) maybe you can explain a few things to me:
1) The fact that I was having an 'out-of-body' experience - does that mean something?
2) When it came time for the woman to step forward, I was her (and conscious of it because I had seen her stand and step to the line and then I was her and stepping forward to acknowledge the applause) striding forward, curtseying and waving and thanking the audience.
3) The fact that I was so smooth, graceful and able to control myself as a woman, even negotiating in heels with relative ease.
4) The fact that right after, again I was 'out-of-body' and wherever she was I didn't see her.
5) The fact that when I "leaped" into a male body, I was having a difficult time breathing and seeking some salve to make me be able to breathe.
My gut instinct tells me that the female was graceful and accepted because my mind feels that is who I should be. As a male, I struggled to breathe, feeling constricted and fearing I would stop breathing. Does that make sense?
Getting acknowledgement of applause and whatever award I have might have been my minds way of indicating to me that I deserve some sort of acknowledgment of myself in feminine form that is lacking in male form. Could that be true?
The fact that in-between these two events I was again 'out of body' which perhaps might lead me to believe that I deserved some acknowledgment for my female side, being graceful and not hiding but being applauded, the male was behind the scenes, gasping and hidden in a back room forced to seek solace in whatever way they could - and perhaps my mind (or subconscious) had a lot to do with telling me that as a woman I could be more accepted and awarded than as a male.
On the other hand, is it me trying to convince myself now, awake and lucid, that that was what I wanted to see? Hmmmm....
Questions....questions....questions...
I know that in the land of dreams, as vivid and lifelike as they may seem, the mind is wresting itself from the day-to-day onslaught, trying to push questions out of the murk of the what if to the 'reality' of life. Dreaming of being a woman is nothing new. Dreaming very vividly of being a woman and waking in a sad state of disappointment has happened as well. Often I will wake up and wonder is this the day? The day I awake and realize that I am a complete woman? Those having undergone SRS will attest that they felt that way, awakening and realizing that the physical manifestations were correct and having to spend the rest of the time complimenting that with the quintessential inside, because if you only look at the skin, you are ignoring the true value of a person. Beauty is WAY more than skin deep!
So on this Leap Day, I have this compunction to wonder how the journey progresses and what the next big leap shall be. One thing is for sure, it will be interesting, and it won't star the cast of 'Love Boat' :-)
Hugs until next time!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Freedom to Marry! When comes Freedom to Dress?
In a crisp winter morning, twilight just ghosting the sky with a faint gray like an overreaching fog, a small SUV pulls into a parking lot. Two doors open. From one emerges a man ready to head to his office and start the day. The other is a woman, obviously his wife after they share a kiss. She is a lovely lady, wearing a nice business skirt suit.
A pair of eyes look at her, not in the lecherous way that some people do when 'checking out' someone else, but studying, examining, rather like you would clues in a mystery. The eyes watched her walk, wearing nice, comfortable flat shoes, a fabulous looking skirt falling to just above the knees, black nylons and long brown hair streaming down her back. The eyes sense a tiny bit of rush leading to the goodbye kiss, it is cold and she wants to retreat into the car to stay warm in the obviously increasingly ventilated outfit she is wearing. Of course the man is not acutely aware of this and takes his time getting his things. The watching eyes understand her desire to keep warm and smile slightly. She is a pretty sight to behold. She makes the watcher keenly aware that they would, with some practice, be able to transcend that position and be the focus of understanding eyes and not stares.
Yesterday the eyes watched another beautiful lady, dressed similarly to the cold morning woman, her legs reminded the watcher of the legs they had and thought heck, I could look as good that. Well, at least close. Matching legs and she was almost the same height as me (she was wearing heels as any professional woman might choose to do) and despite that I would be a little taller in heels it was almost like looking at what I could be. It was interesting to consider.
Yesterday heralded the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals ruling on Proposition 8 in California. In ruling it unconstitutional the way is paved for gays and lesbians to marry in the state. It's a step forward for progress.
But let me ask you this... when does it become okay (or legal) for transgender people to use the bathroom they identify with? When does it become acceptable to have laws or acceptance that transgender people have the same rights? To be able to go out, be accepted and not people to be ridiculed, embarrassed or made fun of?
To me, it seems a bit of a double-edged sword. Equal rights ARE important, equal protection under the eyes of the law is as well. But when equality only covers a few people and not all, it's not really equal, is it?
I say it's a wonderful thing, marriage equality, and it has been a long time coming. Detractors say it ruins the traditional family. Well, by making marriage equal for all, will people who are a straight, heterosexual couple be barred from getting married and having children? Not at all. It just gives marriage rights to gays and lesbians, and to an extent bisexual couples. But what of the transgender people?
If it wasn't against the law, we might still have separate water fountains for African-American people. Women night still have to be told you cannot vote. The majority cannot vote on the rights of the minority.
So, that being said, the trans population can't be pigeon-holed into the same class and, dare I say it, caste, as these classes of people that have been afforded equal protection. Interracial marriage is legal. A woman's right to vote is protected. Heck, even alcohol was outlawed and then overturned. It's time that trans rights also came under that umbrella.
See, most trans people live in fear of what will, or could, happen to them as members of society. I believe that gender can't be put up as a black or white issue, a simple matter of you answered True to one question and False to another. Things have developed far past those rigid guidelines.
In my last blog, I wrote how I hoped that openness and acceptance would come from the free dispersion of information. People no longer had to be alone and afraid, as I was growing up, but be able to learn, accept and grow from the times we spent getting to know real people who were going through exactly what we were going through. It was time to take a stand and open up to openness and understanding, not surrender to hate and violence.
This decision, it seems to me, opens the doors to future acceptance and understanding. People need to know that the LGBT population is out there, ready to be heard. The "T" needs to be part of that, no matter what others say we should be. In the closet, living alone and afraid, it doesn't matter. Every step we take to making ourselves more open leads to greater chances that equality will find us too.
I'm not saying this struggle is going to be easy, or smooth, but it's a struggle and isn't anything worth fighting for a struggle? We can't sit by, waiting for a golden rainbow to shine down on us and illuminate what we feel. So we must always remain vigilant and strong, support each other no matter where we are in life or our feelings and accept the truth that gender isn't black and white, but a broad spectrum of colors that highlight wonderful feelings inside.
And like that trans woman who watched the cold wife this morning go about her retinue, so the watcher would want the same freedom, the same excitement, and the same thrill to go out as herself and let no wind or laughter make her cringe and be afraid. She might look pretty good in a skirt suit. She might look nice in a classy pair of heels and a nice female business outfit. She might just look good to eyes watching her as the watcher's eyes looked at another girl.
The winds of change are still blowing...
A pair of eyes look at her, not in the lecherous way that some people do when 'checking out' someone else, but studying, examining, rather like you would clues in a mystery. The eyes watched her walk, wearing nice, comfortable flat shoes, a fabulous looking skirt falling to just above the knees, black nylons and long brown hair streaming down her back. The eyes sense a tiny bit of rush leading to the goodbye kiss, it is cold and she wants to retreat into the car to stay warm in the obviously increasingly ventilated outfit she is wearing. Of course the man is not acutely aware of this and takes his time getting his things. The watching eyes understand her desire to keep warm and smile slightly. She is a pretty sight to behold. She makes the watcher keenly aware that they would, with some practice, be able to transcend that position and be the focus of understanding eyes and not stares.
Yesterday the eyes watched another beautiful lady, dressed similarly to the cold morning woman, her legs reminded the watcher of the legs they had and thought heck, I could look as good that. Well, at least close. Matching legs and she was almost the same height as me (she was wearing heels as any professional woman might choose to do) and despite that I would be a little taller in heels it was almost like looking at what I could be. It was interesting to consider.
Yesterday heralded the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals ruling on Proposition 8 in California. In ruling it unconstitutional the way is paved for gays and lesbians to marry in the state. It's a step forward for progress.
But let me ask you this... when does it become okay (or legal) for transgender people to use the bathroom they identify with? When does it become acceptable to have laws or acceptance that transgender people have the same rights? To be able to go out, be accepted and not people to be ridiculed, embarrassed or made fun of?
To me, it seems a bit of a double-edged sword. Equal rights ARE important, equal protection under the eyes of the law is as well. But when equality only covers a few people and not all, it's not really equal, is it?
I say it's a wonderful thing, marriage equality, and it has been a long time coming. Detractors say it ruins the traditional family. Well, by making marriage equal for all, will people who are a straight, heterosexual couple be barred from getting married and having children? Not at all. It just gives marriage rights to gays and lesbians, and to an extent bisexual couples. But what of the transgender people?
If it wasn't against the law, we might still have separate water fountains for African-American people. Women night still have to be told you cannot vote. The majority cannot vote on the rights of the minority.
So, that being said, the trans population can't be pigeon-holed into the same class and, dare I say it, caste, as these classes of people that have been afforded equal protection. Interracial marriage is legal. A woman's right to vote is protected. Heck, even alcohol was outlawed and then overturned. It's time that trans rights also came under that umbrella.
See, most trans people live in fear of what will, or could, happen to them as members of society. I believe that gender can't be put up as a black or white issue, a simple matter of you answered True to one question and False to another. Things have developed far past those rigid guidelines.
In my last blog, I wrote how I hoped that openness and acceptance would come from the free dispersion of information. People no longer had to be alone and afraid, as I was growing up, but be able to learn, accept and grow from the times we spent getting to know real people who were going through exactly what we were going through. It was time to take a stand and open up to openness and understanding, not surrender to hate and violence.
This decision, it seems to me, opens the doors to future acceptance and understanding. People need to know that the LGBT population is out there, ready to be heard. The "T" needs to be part of that, no matter what others say we should be. In the closet, living alone and afraid, it doesn't matter. Every step we take to making ourselves more open leads to greater chances that equality will find us too.
I'm not saying this struggle is going to be easy, or smooth, but it's a struggle and isn't anything worth fighting for a struggle? We can't sit by, waiting for a golden rainbow to shine down on us and illuminate what we feel. So we must always remain vigilant and strong, support each other no matter where we are in life or our feelings and accept the truth that gender isn't black and white, but a broad spectrum of colors that highlight wonderful feelings inside.
And like that trans woman who watched the cold wife this morning go about her retinue, so the watcher would want the same freedom, the same excitement, and the same thrill to go out as herself and let no wind or laughter make her cringe and be afraid. She might look pretty good in a skirt suit. She might look nice in a classy pair of heels and a nice female business outfit. She might just look good to eyes watching her as the watcher's eyes looked at another girl.
The winds of change are still blowing...
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Blend or Break?
A lot of people talk about 'blending in', becoming the background, like a moving art mural that is designed to make you think people, animals, buses, small cathedrals and clouds are all streaming by. Blend in and be one with harmony you feel by being just the same as the rest, no more outstanding than anyone else. Basically sit down, stay still and let the world go by like clouds overhead. Don't mess with the natural order of things.
As a transgender person --or well showing signs that I am -- I am not one who easily blends in when I am dressed. I don't feel that it's an unnatural or shameful thing, I just know in a way I don't have that complete grasp of things... womanly things, from having been raised on a different concept than I felt (and do still feel) - how do I fit in has often been a question I have not had an easy time getting answers to.
First there was the pure state of being a sensitive kid who was awkward and liked girls more than boys. Girls didn't play sports (much) and this freaky kid didn't either. This kid was shy, introverted and in many ways verbally and emotionally abused. This nightmare child was never very 'manly', didn't play sports, watched science fiction on TV and liked being with the girls because they didn't want to play all rough. Playing 'house' this kid was always the 'mom' and that was fine. This weirdo would put pillows under their shirt to simulate breasts (even in prepubescence it was understood that this was the most striking aspect of females). Once the kid put on his mom's skirt and tried it on. It felt important to the child. This kid's best friend was a girl. The girl would be the bossy type when playing sometimes and the freaky kid who wasn't at all like a boy should be, was okay with that. She told him to do things and he did them. She wasn't mean, just authoritative. The kid thought women should be in charge.
As things went along this oddball kid was a recluse from boys AND girls when puberty set in. Complicatedly shy, the teenager couldn't be with their girl friends because suddenly they were something akin to the Black Death. No longer was it cooties, it was big time stuff. True enough some girls remained okay with everything and friendships continued, but more often than not, they were aware of their own developing sexuality and the obvious changes in their bodies. They were supposed to kiss boys and such, not play games with them. So the teen got the idea they didn't fit in anywhere, in between bouts of growth and wanting to maybe feel like 'a man' or something. But the urge to dress never disappeared and sometimes panties or underwear would be acquired and tried on in secret. It was a mental and sexual thing, right? There were no adults to ask about such desires, there was no 'Internet' (yes kids, there was life before Google) to search or find out things. Going to the library was a sure way to get caught by a classmate looking at such things and wanting to study them, and then getting taunted about it constantly. The teen was awkward, insecure and with a body that was growing faster than they were ready for, making them awkward and uncoordinated. The teen sought solace in other things, like music and trying their hand at writing. They had some measure of happiness with music. Girls seemed to enjoy music and performance than men did. The teen went through spells of wondering if they might be gay, mentally retarded or just further down the evolutionary path than others who were exhibiting signs of 'normalcy'. The teen wanted to fit, they were desperate to fit, but they never quite did. The most they could hope for is to keep quiet (for shyness is a defense mechanism) and sincerely hope and pray that no one discovered the teen was wearing pantyhose under their work pants and reveling in how they felt. The only thing the teen could see through to completion was music and wearing women's underwear. Somehow the teen could not understand why they wanted...no, needed to dress up in underwear that belonged in girls' bedrooms. Silky, satiny, lacy panties were what the teen craved. Even wearing conventional briefs brought alluring mental images of wearing something feminine and feeling pretty. The teen wished they had more underwear that was smooth and soft, comforting and soothing. The comfort was about the only thing they could enjoy and draw happiness from.
Except that there was no explanation of it to be had. It was quietly shuffled to the back of drawers with the sincere hope that the parents would not find it. The uncertain treatment by the adults would make the teen feel worse about themselves, even contemplating suicide. The time was about right and no one would really care or mind.
The girls, though, the girls seemed to always find a way to care, to support, to nurture. To come to the assistance of a teen that was more prone to crying and moodiness than 'men'. Men were expected to take care of issues behind the gym after school. This teen just kept quiet and did their own things alone because they didn't want to feel trapped into having to battle with someone. They were so shy they didn't know how to ask a girl out and what's more, was frequently laughed at when trying to do certain activities, like sports. This teen was pretty miserable. Death seemed like a good fit. They'd go out in a blaze of glory. No one would care and maybe if it was done right there wouldn't even be a body to bury. A neat and tidy solution to the problem of what to do with that weird teen who was a wimp and liked wearing girls' underwear.
But like the prior things, the teen was an abject failure in killing themselves. Sure they had black periods and things just didn't get better with advancing years. But kids slowly figured out that the wimpy, bookish, awkward kid who was in the band and seemed to get along better with girls than guys (despite maybe being gay? No one knew...) also had one other thing working for them.
They were pretty smart.
Perhaps it was from the years of seclusion, the reclusive behavior of hiding the desire to wear girl's underwear and pantyhose, of hiding the ideas behind wearing a long t-shirt and imaging it as a dress, the idea of putting rolled up socks over their nipples and pretending they were breasts, the uncomfortable place they had to go when it came time for mom to insist on a haircut. The sensitive teen was in tumult, except for one area. They seemed to have no issue with wanting to be one of the girls, even in secret hidden worlds.
It's not a very comfortable place, I can tell you, being told one thing by people who ought to know and feeling the opposite. The teen wanted to dress in soft, comfortable clothes, perhaps a skirt and wanted to find a way to magically transform into a girl. So the brain began to work. Music? No, not really. Math? Not really. Science? Yes, but as a loner and outsider what person would want to find a magic powder that would make them into a woman? It was an attractive idea, but not a realistic one. Writing? Hmmmm....now there the possibilities were endless.
So the teen secretly started writing stories, mostly of an erotic nature but often when it was written from a first person perspective the scene was sometimes of a woman. I didn't know what women felt, sexually, and it was awkward to write it, but the urge was there. I could let loose my mind and have it lead me into a happy place, where I was the girl and she was having sex. In painful reality, I was neither the girl nor having sex. I could only imagine and masturbate.
There was no recourse, it seemed but to secretly order a few female things, as discretely as possible and slide them on when I was alone. I would imagine myself as a female and she was me. I wasn't a weak-kneed wimpy want-to-be 'man', I was a woman and proud of it.
But I was still alone.
The writing slowly gave birth to the idea of a consistent person, someone whom I could have as my alter ego, the civilized Jekyll to my failed masculine Hyde. And so the first glimmers of Samantha emerged from the shadows and slowly took shape.
At first she was a lesbian, she had a girlfriend. She loved wearing skirts and stockings and garters, plus shiny, smooth satin lingerie.She even had a fairly decent job allowing her to update her wardrobe with regularity. and be as sexy as she wanted to be. The stories came about from various stages involving her and her girlfriend having sex in a place where they could be caught, or even just a romantic night at home, followed by passionate sex. Her character found her way to working as a manager at Victoria's Secret, a Mecca I stared longingly at but never dared enter. Samantha could freely enter and work there with no issues. I was imagining living life vicariously through Samantha. What a girl she was... and she was all mine.
True that Samantha never had a use for or affinity for men. Her character tolerated them, even employed them. But even so, she was certain of one thing: when the lights went out and the sheets were parted, the companionship would have firm breasts and the light scents of another woman, for whom a wild ride was sure to follow, ending in sweat-laden female bodies falling asleep, exhausted from their efforts and wrapped tightly in each others arms.
The most enduring thing about Samantha, after her gender of course, for me was that she was popular. Girls loved her and she had no problems in finding a new partner or sexual ride when she needed it. The head she lived in craved the idea of being popular and liked, instead of the painfully shy and awkward exterior that more-not-than-often couldn't be described as a "man".
Samantha had traits that I found appealing in other women outside of the literary realm. She had shaved her head at least once, she had fondness for were sensitive and yet a little free-spirited as well. She liked travel and adventure and wanted to travel the world to experience new avenues of the unique sexual preferences she felt. I could imagine her (or me as her) walking down the avenues of Paris, sipping coffee and stopping into dazzling boutiques where scented roses graced the air and soon she was having a relaxing massage, naked and desirable. Then passions would ignite and one thing would lead to another.
In essence, Samantha was my exact opposite. I'd never been on a plane, never had sex, never was in any situations where I suddenly was desirable and wanted. Nothing like her adventures, her success at being herself and her hot desirability was to be found anywhere in my life, except the pages where I sucked my mind back into Samantha's universe and I disrobed from something I didn't care for and started to imagine more of my life as hers. Blending her into me. Blending, after all, leads to all things getting wrapped up neatly.
That was what I started out saying, right?
Except that in real life, Samantha was incredibly hard to reach. She was the polar opposite of me, in every way, shape and form. She was the antithesis of 'that guy' and an incredibly hard person to reach outside of stories. So Samantha began to slumber and before long, she was quiet again, her life dropped at the moment she was trying to break out, not to just blend in. She never really left my side, she just went quiet. I stopped thinking about her and she nodded off, like a train conductor might having collected all the tickets. She was just along for the ride for a while.
Life got hectic on the outside, leisure time became non-existent and I certainly was thinking less of how to dress than how to make ends meet. Conflicts came with money, resources, health and well-being, stress and poor additional habits. After all, could you blame me for letting her slip away? Life threw so many curveballs at me for so long I often thought it might be better off if I just didn't wake up again. I was so far from thinking about Samantha now that she all but completely disappeared. I was still alone, there was no avenue to seek support and paying for it was completely out of the question. I just barely had time to sleep and then I was off to work again. Struggling to make ends meet is not conducive to "living" life through an upscale, popular woman who has enough to travel the world and dress in whatever sexy attire she wants to model.
Things slowly came around, life started to settle down and I started to find some free time with which to enjoy considering new activities I had long since let languish. Like a rush of blood to the head after standing on one's head, the need for the woman became the needs of me. I started buying clothes, not just lingerie but blouses, skirts and the such. I had fixed numerous issues with my credit and was making just enough to afford small luxuries. But still I didn't go very far. I just hoped to blend, no?
But after a spell, I found myself (now thanks to the popularity and ease of access to the Internet) finding resources. Almost swooning, I realized that there were other people out there just like me! It was an enlightenment, but I was a lurker. I didn't join because I didn't know how to join as who I saw inside. Then one day I came across the notes I had made on Samantha and she woke up. More mature, more sedate and less traveled, she had grown from the sex-starved lesbian who managed a Victoria's Secret to a more graceful woman of early middle age, her thoughts no longer of shaving her head or traveling to Paris for a wild passionate massage. Samantha had mellowed a lot, but she was certainly no prude either. She still longed for sex but now she was curious. She retained her dreams of being with a wonderful female partner, but she wondered if perhaps her perfect partner was someone such as herself, the outside appearance not matching the inside complexity.
Samantha went out, in public, and things changed. People saw her and new she was "real". Kind souls told me how feminine she looked and how nice she dressed, She was terrible at makeup and wearing hair that was far too short for what I later desired, but she was out and she was a little about. Still conscientious and fastidious about how she wanted to be perceived. Her traits were anything but blending, a woman out with friends can seem intimidating to outsiders. Some wish they could mingle and bite their lips in mysterious silence, others seem uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, perhaps from a feeling of attraction to the transgender girl but feeling uneasy about why and what it means. If it's any consolation, though I don't wish you to feel uneasy understand my own thoughts are jumbled about my own sexuality. The Samantha of old and the new do share a delight in perhaps a short skirt, some heels and delightful, comfortable underwear. We both love the feeling of comfort. And we both love to shop and see what new delights can be found.
Never as a child would I have imagined that such a day would come where I would step out of the private, secluded existence and actually find friends who not only share this puzzling gift, but also those who are loving, caring and want to show that while you may doubt it yourself, you have the ability to be whomever you want to be. This world needs more understanding people, generous and loving, caring and concerned. Kids like me these days have new avenues to look for and communicate. May my generation be the last having to grow up afraid and alone, fearful of what fate would do to me if I revealed that deep, dark secret. It's time to let all our inner people out to grow and be nurtured by life.
Samantha may have changed, and certainly has changed me. She doesn't mind being in a position one day to blend in with her female human beings, and she is also willing to break the stereotypical view of transgender ladies (and men) as being something to be scorned and derided. I had enough scorn and derision as a kid, now I'd just like to find some peace and happiness.
Something which I know the Samantha "of old" would be totally cool with.
As a transgender person --or well showing signs that I am -- I am not one who easily blends in when I am dressed. I don't feel that it's an unnatural or shameful thing, I just know in a way I don't have that complete grasp of things... womanly things, from having been raised on a different concept than I felt (and do still feel) - how do I fit in has often been a question I have not had an easy time getting answers to.
First there was the pure state of being a sensitive kid who was awkward and liked girls more than boys. Girls didn't play sports (much) and this freaky kid didn't either. This kid was shy, introverted and in many ways verbally and emotionally abused. This nightmare child was never very 'manly', didn't play sports, watched science fiction on TV and liked being with the girls because they didn't want to play all rough. Playing 'house' this kid was always the 'mom' and that was fine. This weirdo would put pillows under their shirt to simulate breasts (even in prepubescence it was understood that this was the most striking aspect of females). Once the kid put on his mom's skirt and tried it on. It felt important to the child. This kid's best friend was a girl. The girl would be the bossy type when playing sometimes and the freaky kid who wasn't at all like a boy should be, was okay with that. She told him to do things and he did them. She wasn't mean, just authoritative. The kid thought women should be in charge.
As things went along this oddball kid was a recluse from boys AND girls when puberty set in. Complicatedly shy, the teenager couldn't be with their girl friends because suddenly they were something akin to the Black Death. No longer was it cooties, it was big time stuff. True enough some girls remained okay with everything and friendships continued, but more often than not, they were aware of their own developing sexuality and the obvious changes in their bodies. They were supposed to kiss boys and such, not play games with them. So the teen got the idea they didn't fit in anywhere, in between bouts of growth and wanting to maybe feel like 'a man' or something. But the urge to dress never disappeared and sometimes panties or underwear would be acquired and tried on in secret. It was a mental and sexual thing, right? There were no adults to ask about such desires, there was no 'Internet' (yes kids, there was life before Google) to search or find out things. Going to the library was a sure way to get caught by a classmate looking at such things and wanting to study them, and then getting taunted about it constantly. The teen was awkward, insecure and with a body that was growing faster than they were ready for, making them awkward and uncoordinated. The teen sought solace in other things, like music and trying their hand at writing. They had some measure of happiness with music. Girls seemed to enjoy music and performance than men did. The teen went through spells of wondering if they might be gay, mentally retarded or just further down the evolutionary path than others who were exhibiting signs of 'normalcy'. The teen wanted to fit, they were desperate to fit, but they never quite did. The most they could hope for is to keep quiet (for shyness is a defense mechanism) and sincerely hope and pray that no one discovered the teen was wearing pantyhose under their work pants and reveling in how they felt. The only thing the teen could see through to completion was music and wearing women's underwear. Somehow the teen could not understand why they wanted...no, needed to dress up in underwear that belonged in girls' bedrooms. Silky, satiny, lacy panties were what the teen craved. Even wearing conventional briefs brought alluring mental images of wearing something feminine and feeling pretty. The teen wished they had more underwear that was smooth and soft, comforting and soothing. The comfort was about the only thing they could enjoy and draw happiness from.
Except that there was no explanation of it to be had. It was quietly shuffled to the back of drawers with the sincere hope that the parents would not find it. The uncertain treatment by the adults would make the teen feel worse about themselves, even contemplating suicide. The time was about right and no one would really care or mind.
The girls, though, the girls seemed to always find a way to care, to support, to nurture. To come to the assistance of a teen that was more prone to crying and moodiness than 'men'. Men were expected to take care of issues behind the gym after school. This teen just kept quiet and did their own things alone because they didn't want to feel trapped into having to battle with someone. They were so shy they didn't know how to ask a girl out and what's more, was frequently laughed at when trying to do certain activities, like sports. This teen was pretty miserable. Death seemed like a good fit. They'd go out in a blaze of glory. No one would care and maybe if it was done right there wouldn't even be a body to bury. A neat and tidy solution to the problem of what to do with that weird teen who was a wimp and liked wearing girls' underwear.
But like the prior things, the teen was an abject failure in killing themselves. Sure they had black periods and things just didn't get better with advancing years. But kids slowly figured out that the wimpy, bookish, awkward kid who was in the band and seemed to get along better with girls than guys (despite maybe being gay? No one knew...) also had one other thing working for them.
They were pretty smart.
Perhaps it was from the years of seclusion, the reclusive behavior of hiding the desire to wear girl's underwear and pantyhose, of hiding the ideas behind wearing a long t-shirt and imaging it as a dress, the idea of putting rolled up socks over their nipples and pretending they were breasts, the uncomfortable place they had to go when it came time for mom to insist on a haircut. The sensitive teen was in tumult, except for one area. They seemed to have no issue with wanting to be one of the girls, even in secret hidden worlds.
It's not a very comfortable place, I can tell you, being told one thing by people who ought to know and feeling the opposite. The teen wanted to dress in soft, comfortable clothes, perhaps a skirt and wanted to find a way to magically transform into a girl. So the brain began to work. Music? No, not really. Math? Not really. Science? Yes, but as a loner and outsider what person would want to find a magic powder that would make them into a woman? It was an attractive idea, but not a realistic one. Writing? Hmmmm....now there the possibilities were endless.
So the teen secretly started writing stories, mostly of an erotic nature but often when it was written from a first person perspective the scene was sometimes of a woman. I didn't know what women felt, sexually, and it was awkward to write it, but the urge was there. I could let loose my mind and have it lead me into a happy place, where I was the girl and she was having sex. In painful reality, I was neither the girl nor having sex. I could only imagine and masturbate.
There was no recourse, it seemed but to secretly order a few female things, as discretely as possible and slide them on when I was alone. I would imagine myself as a female and she was me. I wasn't a weak-kneed wimpy want-to-be 'man', I was a woman and proud of it.
But I was still alone.
The writing slowly gave birth to the idea of a consistent person, someone whom I could have as my alter ego, the civilized Jekyll to my failed masculine Hyde. And so the first glimmers of Samantha emerged from the shadows and slowly took shape.
At first she was a lesbian, she had a girlfriend. She loved wearing skirts and stockings and garters, plus shiny, smooth satin lingerie.She even had a fairly decent job allowing her to update her wardrobe with regularity. and be as sexy as she wanted to be. The stories came about from various stages involving her and her girlfriend having sex in a place where they could be caught, or even just a romantic night at home, followed by passionate sex. Her character found her way to working as a manager at Victoria's Secret, a Mecca I stared longingly at but never dared enter. Samantha could freely enter and work there with no issues. I was imagining living life vicariously through Samantha. What a girl she was... and she was all mine.
True that Samantha never had a use for or affinity for men. Her character tolerated them, even employed them. But even so, she was certain of one thing: when the lights went out and the sheets were parted, the companionship would have firm breasts and the light scents of another woman, for whom a wild ride was sure to follow, ending in sweat-laden female bodies falling asleep, exhausted from their efforts and wrapped tightly in each others arms.
The most enduring thing about Samantha, after her gender of course, for me was that she was popular. Girls loved her and she had no problems in finding a new partner or sexual ride when she needed it. The head she lived in craved the idea of being popular and liked, instead of the painfully shy and awkward exterior that more-not-than-often couldn't be described as a "man".
Samantha had traits that I found appealing in other women outside of the literary realm. She had shaved her head at least once, she had fondness for were sensitive and yet a little free-spirited as well. She liked travel and adventure and wanted to travel the world to experience new avenues of the unique sexual preferences she felt. I could imagine her (or me as her) walking down the avenues of Paris, sipping coffee and stopping into dazzling boutiques where scented roses graced the air and soon she was having a relaxing massage, naked and desirable. Then passions would ignite and one thing would lead to another.
In essence, Samantha was my exact opposite. I'd never been on a plane, never had sex, never was in any situations where I suddenly was desirable and wanted. Nothing like her adventures, her success at being herself and her hot desirability was to be found anywhere in my life, except the pages where I sucked my mind back into Samantha's universe and I disrobed from something I didn't care for and started to imagine more of my life as hers. Blending her into me. Blending, after all, leads to all things getting wrapped up neatly.
That was what I started out saying, right?
Except that in real life, Samantha was incredibly hard to reach. She was the polar opposite of me, in every way, shape and form. She was the antithesis of 'that guy' and an incredibly hard person to reach outside of stories. So Samantha began to slumber and before long, she was quiet again, her life dropped at the moment she was trying to break out, not to just blend in. She never really left my side, she just went quiet. I stopped thinking about her and she nodded off, like a train conductor might having collected all the tickets. She was just along for the ride for a while.
Life got hectic on the outside, leisure time became non-existent and I certainly was thinking less of how to dress than how to make ends meet. Conflicts came with money, resources, health and well-being, stress and poor additional habits. After all, could you blame me for letting her slip away? Life threw so many curveballs at me for so long I often thought it might be better off if I just didn't wake up again. I was so far from thinking about Samantha now that she all but completely disappeared. I was still alone, there was no avenue to seek support and paying for it was completely out of the question. I just barely had time to sleep and then I was off to work again. Struggling to make ends meet is not conducive to "living" life through an upscale, popular woman who has enough to travel the world and dress in whatever sexy attire she wants to model.
Things slowly came around, life started to settle down and I started to find some free time with which to enjoy considering new activities I had long since let languish. Like a rush of blood to the head after standing on one's head, the need for the woman became the needs of me. I started buying clothes, not just lingerie but blouses, skirts and the such. I had fixed numerous issues with my credit and was making just enough to afford small luxuries. But still I didn't go very far. I just hoped to blend, no?
But after a spell, I found myself (now thanks to the popularity and ease of access to the Internet) finding resources. Almost swooning, I realized that there were other people out there just like me! It was an enlightenment, but I was a lurker. I didn't join because I didn't know how to join as who I saw inside. Then one day I came across the notes I had made on Samantha and she woke up. More mature, more sedate and less traveled, she had grown from the sex-starved lesbian who managed a Victoria's Secret to a more graceful woman of early middle age, her thoughts no longer of shaving her head or traveling to Paris for a wild passionate massage. Samantha had mellowed a lot, but she was certainly no prude either. She still longed for sex but now she was curious. She retained her dreams of being with a wonderful female partner, but she wondered if perhaps her perfect partner was someone such as herself, the outside appearance not matching the inside complexity.
Samantha went out, in public, and things changed. People saw her and new she was "real". Kind souls told me how feminine she looked and how nice she dressed, She was terrible at makeup and wearing hair that was far too short for what I later desired, but she was out and she was a little about. Still conscientious and fastidious about how she wanted to be perceived. Her traits were anything but blending, a woman out with friends can seem intimidating to outsiders. Some wish they could mingle and bite their lips in mysterious silence, others seem uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, perhaps from a feeling of attraction to the transgender girl but feeling uneasy about why and what it means. If it's any consolation, though I don't wish you to feel uneasy understand my own thoughts are jumbled about my own sexuality. The Samantha of old and the new do share a delight in perhaps a short skirt, some heels and delightful, comfortable underwear. We both love the feeling of comfort. And we both love to shop and see what new delights can be found.
Never as a child would I have imagined that such a day would come where I would step out of the private, secluded existence and actually find friends who not only share this puzzling gift, but also those who are loving, caring and want to show that while you may doubt it yourself, you have the ability to be whomever you want to be. This world needs more understanding people, generous and loving, caring and concerned. Kids like me these days have new avenues to look for and communicate. May my generation be the last having to grow up afraid and alone, fearful of what fate would do to me if I revealed that deep, dark secret. It's time to let all our inner people out to grow and be nurtured by life.
Samantha may have changed, and certainly has changed me. She doesn't mind being in a position one day to blend in with her female human beings, and she is also willing to break the stereotypical view of transgender ladies (and men) as being something to be scorned and derided. I had enough scorn and derision as a kid, now I'd just like to find some peace and happiness.
Something which I know the Samantha "of old" would be totally cool with.
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