Hello, I'm a M.A.C., and I am a CD.

Some years ago, when famed RuPaul wore the ambassadorial sash for M.A.C (Make-up Artists Cosmetics) it was a pretty good signal that this company was brave enough to dramatically differentiate, deviate really, from make-up market norms. M.A.C. is a stridently progressive brand too, and puts its money where its pretty mouth is. Since 1994 they have kicked in north of $135 million to the M.A.C. Aids Fund through sales of their Viva Glam product line. Bravo M.A.C. Goodness can be good for business too. They win a lot of young consumers hearts early, and do much to lock them in for life. M.A.C. locked in an older consumer just last week. I thought I would share the story with you here today.

I gave the nice people at the Lennox Square Macy’s M.A.C. counter a call to book a make-over.

“ ... Sure, terrific, what time are you looking at …. Good, I’ll have someone ready for you. What name do you want this reserved for?”

OK. That was simple and unfussy. Nice. I did up my face with liquid concealer, setting powder (Derma Blend, great stuff), glossed the lips, threw on a little cheek color, wigged up, slid a nice big pair of shades over my undone eyes and hit the road.

Fully padded, dressed and heeled I click clacked in at the appointed time, and was warmly welcomed. My technician was going to be ready in 5 minutes, so I was encouraged to look around, and to take a flip through their look book so that they could get an idea of where exactly I wanted to take my face.

The first thing I noticed looking around was the interior promotion signage: All Ages, All Races, All Sexes. You will note that it does not say “Both Sexes”, it says All Sexes. I think this is the most inclusive statement I have ever seen on a corporate welcome mat. You just know you are in the right place, and not breaking any new ground.

Pratur, our cosmetician for the evening, introduced himself, showed me a chair, and we started talking. Eye treatment was complementary with a $25.00 purchase, and a full facial re-do would run only an additional $25.00. In for a penny, in for a pound says I, and so we trowelled my handiwork off and started from scratch. The shop was buzzing with people, really quite busy. Atlanta based readers will know that there is a pretty thick current of people surging through Lennox practically any time of the day. It was only slightly unnerving to have my clearly unmade guy face pretty much out in the open, but do you know, people just kept shopping and really did not pay any mind.

Eyes first, lashes expertly glued on, liner to my completely deforested lower lash line. A tri-color effect for the upper eye with the objective of achieving smokiness. Objective achieved. Brows now shaped and darkened, and the reapplication of cream base and finishing powder was then engaged. It was at this point that I could see the whole effect really take root, and lost the worry that anyone on the planet could actually recognize me as me.

There was lots of general chit-chat along the way. Pratur moved north to Georgia from Florida so that he could enjoy more seasons. I moved south to Georgia in part so that I could enjoy fewer. He noticed my wedding band, and asked if my wife knew. Yes, and I mentioned it was a tough thing to do, took a long time to find the nerve, and a great relief now. He replied that as a gay man, he had some sensitivity to acceptance and sharing struggles, so there we were, strangers with something different in common.

He finished up with the lips and cheeks, and the effect was to me, the best that has ever been achieved with my raw, raw material. Totally happy, I could not help smiling. And yes, they do want you smiling at this point in the exchange when the shopping starters pistol is fired. They eye shadows, some base cream, and a couple of pencils came out at around $70.00, but there is much more than a good amount of inventory for the investment, and a prettier face for the evening.

I kept my eyes open. I really paid attention to technique. I asked questions, and filed answers. In short, I learned enough to improve my own capabilities by a huge leap. There is a money saver right there.

Make-up has always been my biggest stumbling block. I think I pushed it pretty far off the path on this evening. The department store make up counter has always been on my Stations of the Cross Dresser list (# 5 out of 14), and was a milestone I made ages ago. This time around though I felt much more in a state of grace with myself, and my dressing. Beyond that, the whole M.A.C vibe is so in tune with the special requirements of my market segment, that this entire experience was a real topper. One more odd customer for life for M.A.C, a nice new face for me, and a prettier world for everyone else. I hope that whatever age, race, or sex you are that you have felt the same way, or will feel inclined to give M.A.C. a chance the next time you want to look your best.

Off into the mall, and on with the evening. More later.

Stations of the Cross Dresser – The Brassiere Fitting

My eyes are often cast down not for reasons of shame or poor posture, but out of sheer delight in what I believe to be some of creations finest handiwork. I am a devoted admirer of legs. Womanly legs. When I am not cross dressed, I am a leg man. When I am cross dressed, my own legs are on good display and I think of myself as rather a leggy woman. But there is more to us than legs, ne c’est pas?

To put not too fine a point on it, there are breasts too.

I have a terrific pair of silicon forms, modest in size and rather life-like from a weight, shape and feel perspective. If you have not splashed out on quality breast forms, and want to improve both your experience and your appearance, they are a key investment. In the cross dressed game of poker, a nice pair tops every other hand in the deck. I have long felt though that I have never merchandised my forms, and therefore my own form to the fullest extent, focused as I have been on matters south of my equator.

My smallish selection of bras fit me, well enough, I suppose. Pretty yes, and not uncomfortable. My old favorite (a splendid little Victoria’s Secret number) does not slip at the shoulder or ride up at the back. It is well made, is laundered and stored carefully, and has provided me with the required support. But I want more don’t I?

Access to very exclusive places of feminine experience is something that I want. I envy genetic women their private rituals. I want small glimpses of those places for myself, and in those moments, to grow my kinship with the fairer sex. As far as powdered, perfumed and pretty places go, you cannot get much more exclusively feminine than a fine lingerie shop. And once there, when you place yourself, quite literally in the hands of a skilled personal shopper and fitter, well, lets say this is an intimate moment. A moment worthy of mention in my own personal CD Bucket List, the 12th shrine in what I have called The Stations of the Cross Dresser. Background notes on the whole concept can be found in older posts, including this one here.

This past Wednesday, the Bra Fitting was as the very top of the to-do’s. It had been many months since I had been out en femme but after a mere couple of hours though of driving, chatting, shopping and walking I felt fully immersed in my Petra-ness. Complete, tranquil, attenuated to the world around me, and fully ready to enter and enjoy the experience at Intimacy.

Intimacy operates 8 or so major-market boutiques here in the US of A, and makes a proud specialization of expert advice and fitting services. Change your Bra, Change your Life, is the very serious mantra of the whole zealous squad. You have to love people on a mission. And a fine mission it is say I. Here now is how mission gets accomplished.

First things first, one does not simply stroll in and start pawing away at the nice things. No, no, no… the polite, firm and certainly not-to-be-ignored concierge at the shop entrance welcomed us, and inquired how she could help.

“I am here for a fitting”

“Good. Here, please take a moment to fill out this form, and a fitter will be with you presently”

Now, having visited a doctors office or 2 in my life, I can typically handle a clip board and a ball point with the best of them. I had not however done that seated on a stylish and low quilted bench, having to figure out where to put my purse, and with which hand I should smooth my shortish skirt. Hmmm. There is always something new.

The form was a questionnaire, a sort of bra-ography. How many bras do I own? How often do I wear my favorite? What is the commonest flaw from a fit perspective? What features am I most desirous of? My darkest fears plumbed, and fondest hopes held within view, but still out of reach. I passed the moments flipping through a Vogue and chit chatting with Ramona wondering … what comes next?

Having now confessed my frailties, I was deep into a process, and somebody else was driving. I was a happy captive of quitely whirring silken machinery. Jennifer appeared after a few minutes and in a no-nonsense but friendly way, led me to my private fitting room. She then talked through some of the philosophy of Team Intimacy, much of which simply bounced off my feathered head. I really wish I could report the details. It was all so overwhelming, and I do not mean that in a bad way. I was being wordlessly unzipped by a stranger. My thoughts first, next my dress, then the Danskin turtleneck leotard, and there I was surrounded by mirrors, clad from the waist up only in my black bra, most assuredly putty in Jennifer’s hands.

We talked then about my fashion sense. I wanted a flesh tone bra, the better for lighter blouses. I wanted a smooth finish, the better for tighter knits. I wanted something lightweight, not over padded, something that would allow me to feel as natural as possible. Jennifer listened, and nodded, and vanished, pulling the door closed behind her.

Whatever doubts one harbors as to whether or not they are a dyed-in-the-wool, bred-in-the-bone crossdresser will not survive the next 3 precious minutes. Yup. There you are, made up, dressed down, with nothing to do but to regard your infinite reflections and wait, patiently, for your bra. Magic friends, pure magic. The rest is trivia. I am glowing now, days later, just remembering and reliving the moment.

I went through a bakers dozen of candidates, each lovely, most just imperfect in some tiny way. I became increasingly discerning and discriminating as the silky river of sad failed contenders piled up on the benches and hung from hooks all around me. Too much lace on that one. A little loose here, too tight there. Too stiff, too frail, wrong shade. Aubade’s, Freya’s, Chantelle’s, Fantasie’s, Contourelle’s and LeJaby’s ... an embarrassment of quality, exclusivity and femininity.

The puppy in the pound, knows how to look at you, hold your attention, and find their way home with you safely. I am not sure who exactly was the puppy in this exchange, me or the Simone Péréle (pictured at right, the Liz 3D Plunge). It matters not, we are one forever bound by our special introduction.

It is perfect. It moves with me, it feels pliant and real, the color is a rich pewter tone, and quite clearly it is made of wonderful fabric, and finished in part by hand. It is a pricey piece of French Lingerie, possessed of everything that a pricey piece of French Lingerie should be. It is tough to justify spending what I did spend on a bra. But some moments demand a little abandon. It was a priceless experience. I wish the same for all of you here, and especially you genetic girls. Some luxuries are necessities at least once in a life.

Here now, close to Thanksgiving, I hope you have whatever luxuries and necessities your lives require.

Happy dressing, and everything else.

The Stations of the Cross Dresser - The Wig Salon

Cross dressing involves doing many everyday things in slightly changed ways. Pulling on a pair of heels seated and with leg flexed at the knee rather than jamming the foot into a pair of loafers while standing. Fumbling in a purse for keys rather than diving a hand into a trouser pocket. Backing into a car seat and turning legs in together rather than extending one leg and folding the rest of the male body in behind.

Cross dressing involves doing many things that are (largely) exclusively in the realm of the feminine. Adjusting bra straps and closing hook & eye clasps. Centering zips on the back of skirts. Touching up lipstick after a glass of wine.

And then, there are places for cross dressing. Places that are the exclusive domain of women. Places designed to repel male boarders. Places whose very color palettes, accoutrements, and conversational sound track compels most men either to flee or to uncomfortable occupy a chair and lapse into a comatose and catatonic state.

Such a place I visited last week, breathless with anticipation, that flouncy fulcrum of femininity, the Wig Salon.

Regular readers of Voyages en Rose will remember that I picked this milestone as Shrine # 10 of the 14 Stations of the Cross Dresser. For newish visitors, you might like to take a moment to read some background information here, here, or even all the way over here. Alternatively, simply search here on site for Stations of the Cross Dresser for the whole story.

A woman’s hair is indisputably and beautifully different than a mans hair. Short, long and in between, something in the way it is cared for, styled, worn and touched sets it apart, and sets me mad with desire to possess it. It has an X factor. I have a Y chromosome. Something must be done, and can be done with the help of the correct wig.

My wig shopping to date has been well intentioned but poorly executed. Cheap showgirl numbers pulled from chipped head forms in bargain basement beauty supply stores. Indifferent cashiers stuffing them into plastic bags and likely not to tender an opinion along the lines of “now that just won’t do for the shape of your face…”. I knew I could do better, and so my sorceress of transformation Ramona and I set out for Sunny’s Hair & Wigs. (Atlanta shop, pictured above)

We were met warmly upon arrival by Dafina (pictured below with your correspondent), a second generation hair enthusiast. The families first salon in Minneapolis has thrown shoots out to warmer places including Atlanta, Las Vegas, and Mesa AZ. A vast range of product from custom designed natural hair masterpieces to mass produced synthetics and everything in between. The Sunny’s people very much operate at the fashion forward edge of hair style. The aesthetic is very young, very fresh and very creative. If you do not live in or near these cities, they do sell online, but would admit themselves that you cannot beat taking the time to audition a whole line up of wigs live, en femme and in your favorite local salon.

Dafina took the time to walk us through the shop, speak briefly about the virtues and price ranges of the lines, and then provided space for us to explore, talk and just generally get comfortable with the pretty pink space. She had great questions about how often I dress that helped her start to recommend qualities and price ranges that would make sense for me. We three ended up clattering armloads of contestants to the setting booths discretely tucked away in the back of the shop.

Something beautiful happens to a wig when it is lifted from the lifeless head form and fastened to a living, breathing, made-up and hopeful face. It grows light and takes wing. It wants to move and is dieing to be seen. And when you are in a salon chair, legs crossed just so, on full mirrored display, and syncopating the O so natural pas de deux that they stylist and the stylee assume, well, let me simply say that this is a happy time.

I found I have critical faculties I did not know were there. It was as though the Hair Matrix was revealed to me. Winners emerged clearly and quickly. I really felt as though I was working with a professional, someone who knows their product, who has passion about hair, and style and beauty. It made me very happy as well that this cross dresser was simply and openly welcomed. I felt like a valued customer, not a curiosity. I believe I will be remembered and welcomed again on my next visit. I think these are characteristics that you can determine with a phone call or 2 before choosing a salon for your next (or first) Wig splurge.

And so, what did I buy? A beautifully banged, brown bob with auburn highlights wig. It frames my face nicely. It feels light on my head. It falls back into place after being wind tossed. It did not break the bank. It is mine and I love it. So much so that I am sure I will provide her with company soon. I so want to do this again. And again.

I have read a good many stories from CD’s and TG’s on a variety of online forums. I could really feel the excitement of the authors in their posts, and anticipated feeling all of that myself, when the time came. The event did not disappoint. This is intimately feminine stuff. If you have dabbled around wigs, if you have borrowed, if you have not gone full force femme on a mission to get wigged up, I highly recommend it. This is a truly worthy Station of the Cross Dresser.

Stations of the Cross Dresser - Driving en Femme

ed. The Stations of the Cross Dresser is an occasional feature of Voyages en Rose where the odd essay on some of the seminal moments of the life of the Cross Dresser will be presented. Here you will find my list of the 14 Stations. Here, some background on what tickled my odd mind into wandering down this path. Thanks for walking it with me.

We take driving our cars too much for granted on routine drab days. It is second nature to put it in drive, and simply, efficiently arrive where we intend.

It is impossible for the Cross Dresser to take driving for granted en femme though. It starts with the ladylike way we lower ourselves to the seat and swing the legs in together. The controls and the keys feel different with nails on. Pedals feel different with heels on. Seatbelts feel different with breast forms. O, and that new face in the mirror, ah yes this is all different, and it captures your attention, fully.

Your car now becomes an enabler of a much bigger exploration of your femme self. It is a conveyance from the very private setting our homes provide to a vast, daunting and tempting public space. And for this reason, Driving en Femme* must be considered one of our Stations of the Crossdresser.

My own maiden drive was terrifying and intoxicating and is decades gone by. I was captured by an inner voice that would hear no argument. And on that beautiful spring day, I exposed my underdressing to an unsuspecting highway and gulped down 200 miles clad only in a nicely matched garter / panty set, beautiful sheer stockings and a more or less buttoned shirt. Every sight and sensation was in very sharp focus that day, and the memory has not dimmed.

My own circumstances today are optimal. My cars are garaged so there are no exposed spaces between them and the neighbors who might not understand Petra. A ¼ mile from my drive, I merge into an anonymous stream of cars, without concern for identity. Many are not so lucky. Staci Lana over at Femulate shared a story with me that many of you might relate to…

" ... I always dress at home to go out. At our first home, I had to be careful making my getaway because our garage faced my neighbor's deck less than 25 feet away. I could not exit en femme if the deck was occupied.

One day as I got ready to leave the house, I checked outside and the coast was clear. But just as I pulled out of the garage, my neighbor came out of her house and onto the deck and she looked in my direction trying to figure out who was driving my car.

I panicked and tried to get out of Dodge as fast as I could driving out onto the street without considering the traffic. A car coming my way had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision and I was free.

Can you imagine if there was a collision? I would have been outed to the whole neighborhood and worse if the incident made it to the newspaper.... "

Worse indeed. In a heartbeat, terrible outcomes were avoided. Beyond the awkward neighborhood realities, the insurance claims and premium increases looms the possibility of personal injury to self and to strangers. A possibility that Petra very narrowly avoided just last week.

After merging onto I-85 northbound I needed to rapidly navigate 2 leftward lane changes to stay on my pretty path home. In the split second it took to double check my blind spot, the fast moving traffic in front of me slammed to a halt. I had no choice but to take the lane. I missed clipping the truck in front of me by feet, travelling fast and accelerating while at it. It’s a wonderful thing to feel very alive. Moments like this on the road will get you feeling that way at the speed of light.

Any of us who Dress and Drive have had those moments and more. Wrong turns in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Speed traps and roadside sobriety tests. Purse contents flung around from sharp turns and sudden stops. Unwelcome solicitations of romantic interest.

Given the risks, you might think us mad to leave the house at all. But we are not mad. Just driven.

And O how it feels. Legs closer together, nyloned thighs caressing. The air conditioning swirls around and through finer fabric. Adjustments to the different and sensitive fulcrum that our heels provide are tentatively made. Posture smartens up a little as both hands take the wheel. We notice other drivers, and note, perhaps for the first time, that the other drivers may take note of us.

Cars, particularly in the American context are practically mythical things. They represent liberty, choice, independence, freedom. Cross dressing represents these same things to many of us as well. Put the 2 together and the journey is on, bigger, faster and farther.

We catch our breath when the door slams, look quickly in the mirror and, practically aloud to ourselves we say, are you ready for this girl? When we are, and when we put it in drive, the world is never the same again. When did the world get bigger for you? Don’t hesitate to leave a story with us all.

* Urbanites who simply do not need a car can substitute the public hailing of a taxi, or getting from A to B on any form of Public Transportation. Crossdressing friends in Amsterdam can claim riding a bicycle in a nice A line skirt.

Proofreading, Crossdressing and Femme naming.

One takes pride dear friends in ones work. When one screws up pretty badly though, one does the following:

1. Stop referring to ones self in the 3rd person
2. Fix the problem.

New improved 14 Stations of the Crossdresser presented here. (click to enlarge)

You see, I managed somehow while tweaking the 14 Stations of the Crossdresser, to squeeze out only 13. Nice. You would suspect that that is the sort of thing I would get right. Alas, I am human.

So, notes on the remedy. It occurred to me that the process of naming something is important. When we give our femme selves a name we are accepting of its permanence in our lives. We are providing the world, or at least the parts of the world that meet us en femme a users manual of sorts, a means of addressing us, of saying hello.

For ourselves as well we get to engage in an important creative exercise. The name is important. It is something, unlike our names at birth, that we are the sole authors of. There is much in our lives that we may feel inclined to blame our parents for, but our femme name is not one of those things.

What thinking goes into our choice of a femme name? I think we often aim for pretty and sexy. Perhaps we look for something that is a close female approximation of our birth name. Perhaps the name of a girl from the dark recesses of time emerges, a girl you had a sad and sweet and complete crush on and it swims above the rest. Maybe a desire for something absolutely unique after having grown up with a generic, middle of the road male handle drives us into exotic naming territories.

For me, I never thought Petra was sexy. Unique yes, and a name that I knew nobody else in the room would answer to. Unique is important to me. I liked as well the slightly exotic sound of a French family name. Not that Bellejambes is a true family name. I just think I have nice legs. Bellejambes = Nice legs. Allow me my vanity.

I like my name. I hope that you like your name as well. I would love to hear how you chose yours, and whether you feel that the private ceremony of choosing a femme name is a fitting event for The Stations of the Crossdresser.

Happy Monday.

14 for the 14th

It’s a Friday the 13th which is always big stuff. Its especially big stuff when it happens in February, because that betokens Valentines Day. I am dropping a quick (very quick by Petra standards) note today to say the following:

Tomorrow, being Valentines Day is devoted to my feminine partner, known to you sleek and glossy girls as Mrs. Bellejambes, and not at all devoted to my feminine inner self. You will not see me here tomorrow.

The poll results for the week will likely be commented on Sunday. Encouraging results so far and I truly look forward to divining our collective thoughts on the curious blessing of crossdressing then.

For today I have created for your consideration, and in honor of Valentines Day, a First Draft of The 14 Stations of the Crossdresser. Regular readers (I’d like to thank my accountant and my seamstress) of Voyages en Rose will remember the idea. You gorgeous first time visitors ought to read the background material here.

The table below is a very quick trawling of many memories and a handful of hoped for moments in my cross dressing life. I am sure I am missing events and thresholds that far more accomplished crossdressers would want to include in the list. Where that is the case, please raise a delicately boned hand, and beckon my attention. Set me on the proper path, or at least help me stray less comprehensively. What milestone am I missing? Leave comments below. If you, in your infinite feminine wisdom feel it’s a good list, well you should say so too.

And so with a little virtual fanfare I am proud to present our first draft 14 Stations of the Crossdresser here just in time for the 14th of Feb. (click on image to enlarge).

They are presented in rough, loose chronological order. Or in some logical order that makes sense to me in any event. I had to leave a few I really liked out. I needed to condense a couple of unique firsts into a composite milestone. And I did not have the benefit of your experiences. And so again, before anything gets carved in marble, share, and share freely.

O, and about me, how am I doing? 10 down, 4 to go. 2 of them I have scheduled. 1 of them I can take care of along the way. And the last one? I have lots of nerve friends, but I need a little more than I possess today. You can guess which one. And even if I did have the nerve, I suspect that Valentines Day would be the wrong day to show that surfeit of courage and that deficit of consideration with my very special, and very exclusive Valentine. Some other happy day.

Do take care of yourself and be sure to let those that love you know how important their love is, and how much they are loved in return.

Happy dressing, happy Valentines Day, and happy everything else.

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...

The Stations of the Crossdresser and Monday Miscellany

Dear friend. So nice of you to visit. I must tell you that last weeks post on “The Stations of the Crossdresser” generated some fine suggestions, and even a couple of (mostly) complimentary private notes. I was happy to note that nobody thought there was any heresy in this little line of investigating our various Voyages en Rose. All good.

The lovely and talented Staci Lana over at Femulate had a few terrific suggestions that I want to list here:

• First time driving en femme wearing high heels. (Bonus points for manual transmission.)
• First time shopping for a wig in a wig shop.
• First time shopping in a corset/lingerie shop
• First time being fitted for a bra.
• First time using the ladies restroom.

I believe that these are superb suggestions. I beatify them unilaterally. They are included in The 14 Stations of the Crossdresser without any requirement for committee markup, public hearings or private crying jags.

Done, and done. Now, with last weeks post chronicling my full frontal assault on DSW we are up to 6 Stations. I will be adding a post of my own selection tomorrow detailing the First Fitting Room en Femme session, which brings us up to 7. There we are,

halfway to Cross Dressing salvation if you will.

Now, if I may place a figurative hand on your pretty little knee and confide in you, I simply must tell you that I cannot do this alone. I need your help, you absolute lamb you, in these 2 ways …

Your suggestions. Yes, I know I could think up 7 more terrific landmark moments in the life of an accomplished crossdresser in a fluttery heartbeat, but goodness me, this is an interactive media we are working with here. I would feel so much more certain if I could hear your thoughts. So please leave comments here. Remember, I am going to do all 14 (or die happily trying) in the ahem, fullness of time. So, you devil you, if you feel like setting the bar a little high and tempting or daring me into something just a little out there, well you let your imagination run wild. I am a fool for a challenge.

Your story. I want to ask for a specific story that has to do with driving en femme. Been there, done that, used my turn indicators correctly and the whole thing. Apart from a few moments of adjusting to the feel of heels on the pedals though (and the electric tingle of the nylon clad knees touching) my own driving experiences just don’t seem shrine worthy. I would love to hear from one of you who has had something special happen on the road. Please drop a line or start off with a comment here. I will be happy to preserve your anonymity to whatever extent your preferences require. We understand each other, no? Splendid.

Now then, where were we? I will have a breath-catching, death-defying and zipper-impaired fitting room story up here for you by a respectable hour tomorrow. The regular Thursday Pantyhose Parade will feature the very tip of the Hanes Hosiery Iceberg. Beyond that, who knows what else will tumble onto my keyboard this week.

And for those you who like pictures, I did manage to get a couple of recent snaps up on Flickr and on Facebook (friend me if you like there…). Happy to have you visit me practically anywhere. See you back here soon though I do hope.

Happy dressing and happy everything else.

Stations of the Crossdresser – Shrine # 1 – Designer Shoe Warehouse

Ramona, my Fashion Consultant and Transformation Expert and I had a few stops planned for the day. And I felt the need to look smart and have some great advice along the way. Ramona is the proprietress of “Explore your Feminine Side” in Atlanta. Two things quickly here:

1. Having a GG with you while shopping is a real plus. Girls have a shopping sonar that I for one do not possess. This is a real time saver. A little easier to navigate fitting rooms too. Additionally, shopping with a friend makes the effort more sociable, and so much less furtive than crossdressers sometimes make it.
2. Looking your absolute best really helps free your mind for the tasks at hand. If you can, do seek professional help. It really makes a huge difference. Thanks Ramona!

Now, back to the shopping. The one chore I simply could not fall short on had to do with the shoes. When I mentioned this need, Ramona suggested that if we could not fill the order at the mall, that DSW would not fail us.

I had dressed for the occasion in a manner that no self-respecting, hyper-shopping, genetic girl would do. Stiletto boots, dressy sheers (Donna Karans thank you very much), the little black skirt at 5 inches above the knee and the leopard print trench coat. We had poor fortune at Lennox Mall. I am a girl on a budget, and the clearance racks had been pretty expertly gleaned. I made a couple of mercy purchases just to work on purse handling technique, but found nothing I could not live without. OK, the lace blouse is indispensible.

We were already 3 hours deep into a mall walk but the gams were still game, the purse not completely pilfered and my shoe closet still lamentably sparse. We decamped the covered parking comfort of Lennox for the more exposed and less upmarket confines of Buckhead Station, home of our nearest Designer Shoe Warehouse. The torrential rain stopped long enough for us to make the dash across the parking lot without my makeup melting away.

For those of you not familiar with this mega-church of stacked heels and pointy toes, imagine an enclosure larger than a football field filled with shoes. Upon entry I swear I perceived the curvature of the planet. I would not have been surprised to hear the alarming “beep beep beep” of airport people movers. Far in the distance, at the very horizon loomed the big clearance racks.

“Is that where we start Ramona?”
“Yes Petra, you learn well, your instincts are good”

Very nice smiles and a “welcome ladies” from 2 of the SA’s on the long walk back for the beginnings of my revenge. Revenge I say because I can barely find men’s shoes in my size, but 8 ½ represents a pretty rich seam in the realms of heels. 3 solid racks of all the odds and ends that made it through a season without finding a decent home. All the sad orphans. It simply breaks ones heart. I start now to understand the maternal feelings that most of my ex-girlfriends have about their shoes, and shoes they have yet to own.

It was relatively easy for me to harden my heart and not come home with armfuls for one reason, and a reason I will encourage all of you to borrow. I went shopping knowing exactly what I was after. In this case, the perfect black dress pump. True and shameful. Strappy sandals and boots I have. Wine shades and browns. Peep toes and patterns. But I have somehow missed on the one pair I would want to wear on the trip through the Pearly Gates. Never too late to atone though.

The clearance racks were not the sweet spot for the perfect pump. The classics never fall that far from grace. But the variety and value for the girl who has everything (except an entirely ruined credit rating) was spectacular. Anywhere from 30-70% off regular DSW prices which are ~ 40% of the department store prices on highly sought after designer labels. I timed myself – it took a full 25 minutes just to consider and walk away from everything in my size.

With resolve and a heavy heart we strolled back into the main pews of the cathedral. Our SA Stephanie was enlisted to do a little of the leg work, and set about it with charming determination. A quick note here on the staff. In broad daylight I think Helen Keller could clock me. Perhaps I am a little hard on myself, but you dear people know what I mean. In any event, my dressing and my gender are, it seems, on planet DSW a complete non-event. Just a gal looking for shoes. And a gal slowly disappearing behind the stacks of boxes served up by Stephanie in her desire to make me even happier.

Many contenders failed in the qualifying rounds owing to the wrong taper on the heel, or too round a toe. The "A Team" was assembled consisting of the BCBG, the Steve Madden and the Nine West and a death match ensued. “R” counseled patience.

“Walk them around the shop. Don’t just go home with the best looking one”.

This struck me as the “get to know them slowly before putting out” equivalent of shoe adoption. And sound advice too. A decent shoe store is one place you are certain to have floor height mirrors in abundance, and that is an opportunity not to be missed. Additionally, one can never get too much practice delicately lowering ones skirted butt onto a try-on stool. The society for the preservation of modesty would have been proud. I really don’t think I flashed anyone.

Ultimately, the Nine West won the pageant, and there is no saying why. Just an understanding between feet and shoe that words cannot adequately express. Either of the runners up will be able to fulfill the duties of my beautiful new matte finish 4” dress pumps should they be stolen.

These are perfect shoes. I am delighted. And I lament the years that we have not spent together. But I am born anew, possessed of the glowing zeal of the newly converted and ready to provide all the loving care that these darling shoes so richly deserve. I think I want them to have lots of siblings too. And I know where to find them.

I will end this minor pilgrimage by lighting a candle for this Shine of Shoes, our first of 14 Stations of the Crossdresser, the miraculous, the bountiful and all-forgiving Designer Shoe Warehouse. To find a shrine near you, just visit the store finder here.

And so to you dear friends … what Station should we genuflect at next time? I breathlessly await your suggestions…

The Stations of the Crossdresser

For crossdressers who are happy exiles from, or active participants in the life of, the Roman Catholic Church, faint echoes of vanishing rituals may come to mind at the reading of today’s post headline. Yes, Petra was raised in a Catholic setting. I suspect now, after some reflection, that most of my family would rather picture me in Priestly robes than the robes I prefer. Alas. I ask myself though, exactly what kind of lapsed Catholic Cross Dresser and blogette would I be if I could not somehow integrate my past and present rituals in a nicely twisted tumble of words? Hence The Stations of the Crossdresser.

For those of you from different faith traditions, The Stations of the Cross are the 14 tiny shrines that depict the final hours in the life of Christ that line the left and right interior walls of the typical parish church. During the Lenten season the flock might stop briefly at each of the stations for a moment of reflection. Each station could be thought of as a minor pilgrimage.

And do you know what? 14 seems like a good number of milestone events that the crossdresser might achieve in an exemplary life. And together we might call them The Stations of the Crossdresser. Each of them a minor, or for many, a major pilgrimage that together aggregate up into a greater gurly whole. A thing to be proud of, not boastful, but quietly proud. In the same way that a mountaineering enthusiast might want to summit the highest peaks on each continent (mounting The 7 Sisters for you clowns in the back row) we dressing enthusiasts should agree on our badges (broaches?) of honor.

I don’t have a comprehensive list just now of the 14 Stations of the Crossdresser but a handful come easily to mind. A makeup session in a public setting. A trip to Victoria’s Secret. Dinner out en femme. For the rest, I am going to count on informed input and breathless suggestions from you dear reader. When I am privileged to make a pilgrimage, I will report back to you. Perhaps we can agree on an orthodoxy, on our shared rites, not a theology per se, but with your forgiveness and forbearance, perhaps a Sheology.

I propose here that the First Station of the Crossdresser is a trip to a shrine known to my American sisters as the Designer Shoe Warehouse. I believe this to be a fine place to start because while the barefoot pilgrimage is fine for other traditions, I think we can agree that barefoot is entirely wrong for our set.

I will publish the particulars of this pilgrimage tomorrow. Its all simply too much to ask you to try on in one sitting. In the meantime, and anytime really though, I encourage you to think of those special milestones, those places of meaning, those frontiers of femininity that should be on our list of Stations of the Crossdresser. Ours is an inclusive congregation here, deliberative and refined we are. Your help is needed. I so look forward to hearing from you.

Have a Super Sunday, whatever shape and shade that takes for you!