Stations of the Crossdresser – Shrine # 2 – The Fitting Room

A very fine day to you my silken sisters, to all of us ensnared by curious and compelling habits of presenting female. Presentation is not all about outer appearances of course. Clearly, there is much that needs to project out from within. With that true thing said though, let us agree that there is more than a little truth to the old expression “you are what you wear”.

Well nothing says girl quite like a dress. Not only to the audience, but to the dressee too. There is a flow of fabric over the body that is different, entirely different from all the drab garments. There is a magic moment in dressing where the garment falls in place, takes shape and catches your breath. There are the moments in the wearing too. An outstretched arm forces a lift of hem. A turn on your heel causes a slight flare of fabric. The taking of a chair exposes a little thigh. Bless the dress, say I.

Ah, but finding the fit, the flattering line, the colour that compliments, that is another matter entirely. Up until very recently, I have relied on eyeballing the garment in the shop, typically in drab, breaking speed limits on the way home, praying that this dress is the dress of the dreams. And in truth, I have done more or less well.

But still, I have envied the girls who attack the racks with abandon, who disappear behind a swoosh of curtain, who peek out and confide in confederates that the 4 won’t do, and see if there is a 6 there for me would you? And I have wanted that certainty that the dress in the bag was made for me and me only before we travel home together, forever. The lure of the fitting room is strong. Stronger than I. I recently surrendered to its embrace. And I hope you agree that this is a worthy Station of the Crossdresser.

MissSixty is a designer line with a small networks of boutiques dotting the globe and catering to a definitely younger gal than I. Flattery is far too important to leave to chance though, so I am always ready to flatter (ed. delude?) myself and shop young. The dress in the window looked perfect: a rich geometric pattern, high necked, long sleeve with a nice subtle ruche at waist that lent a little bias to the lovely well above the knee hem (the sleeveless, empire waist version is pictured here). I wanted the dress, and was dressed to shop.

The short black skirt drops in a heartbeat, and the second skin leotard has a slick enough finish that I would just be able to pull anything over top of it. GG friend Ramona and I waded in to the shop, smiled and said hello to the young, freakishly fresh and beautiful SA. O, for the complexions of youth, but that is another story.

“Do you have the dress in the window in my size?”

“Hmm, I hope so, let me check”

Clocked certainly, but no hang ups as to my crossdressing. Alas there was only the S and the XL on the racks, but our friend vanished to a back room while I considered whether this very true looking small was even worth the effort of a try on. There are limits to the degree that I am will to flatter myself after all.

“Hey, I found a medium, I think this will do you nicely”.

And now the moment of truth…

“Sweet, may I try it on?”
“Of course! If your OK, we’re OK”.

OK? More like ecstatic. This is what I came out for today. The sound of metal rings on curtain rod as I pulled the blue drape closed behind, and saw myself reflected full length. Stepping out of my pooled skirt and bending from the knee in high heels to pick it up and lay it safely on the bench. The soft handle and elastic give of the fabric as I pulled down the back zip to free it from the lifeless hanger. Surely, this was my dress.

All of these things conspired to intoxicate. I should have seen it coming. Even opened at neck to the fullest extent, I managed to yank my wig fully off, unmoor my wig cap, and cause my own longish natural hair to flounder free at angles and aspects only achievable by random chance or crazy tides. And me without a brush

I give myself credit here friends for not weeping. And for thinking too. After all, I still had a dress to consider. And once smoothed out, holy runway, what a dress. Complete magic, but tragically flawed by what appeared to be an iron-burn in the fabric, a dark scar travelling the light contours of my left boob.

It makes for good fun dear friends, and as this tale displays, safe times to shop with a friend. I encourage it highly. I would have been lost, exposed and awkwardly dependant on the kindness of strangers for a pretty big fix, and if not for Ramona, well I am not sure how the story ends. A cordon of Federal Agents in a tense stand-off, the deranged man with melted makeup and very sore feet yelling for a private plane and a one way ticket to Venezuela. The mind does scatter at these moments.

The wig never fully regained its prior poise. My foundation and concealer had certainly taken on a sheen. And my breathing was slow to come entirely back down to earth. But dammit, I was alive, dressed, and privileged to have been welcomed behind the curtain. I can’t wait for the next time, and for those of you who have not had stopped at this Station of the Crossdresser, I implore you. Do. You deserve it. Minus all the bad stuff. Bring a friend, just in case...