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.