Ladies who Lunch

For many cross dressers, the very best that can be hoped for are short and private moments of delight. It seems to me that a smaller number of us are able to enjoy much longer and much more public sessions en femme. I am deliriously happy to find myself in the latter set. And I have been on a bit of a tear of late. Some nice and surprising findings have come out of this flurry of activity. I wanted to take a few moments this beautiful Friday to share them with you. A couple of background thoughts first though:

I suspect that all of us at the start of our explorations of cross dressing were drawn to the exceptional things. The remarkable feeling of fabrics less coarse and more clingy. The danger and risk of being caught. The breath catching moment when you see your made-up face or filled-out figure in the mirror. These remarkable highs are intoxicating. Once tasted, you know you will be back for seconds. And god forbid those feelings should ever go away. I want to be surprised and delighted every time I dress.

I want to talk today about moments that are the polar opposite of exceptional. Lets call them moments of normal. And what, dear reader, could be more normal than lunch?

I am privileged in my work to have a great deal of schedule flexibility, and a home office to conduct business from. I am also privileged to have a GG friend who has, shall we say, a calling and a professional interest in the life of the cross dresser. Time to time she provides a setting for me to enjoy dressing more completely, and additionally lends an artistic competency to the application of makeup that I will never have for myself.

Last week we enjoyed an epic shopping day together. I chronicled some of it in this post. After a solid 4 hours fully dressed and perched atop teetering stilettos it was time for the reward of a late lunch. The Virginia Highlands neighborhood of Atlanta was on our route, and furnished plenty of choice. We happily settled on Murphy’s which was busy as ever, and bright as it always is

When we seated for lunch, or waitress made a very nice point of finding us some black table linens for us … “you ladies don’t want your outfits ruined”. A glass of Pinot Grigio and a nice Waldorf salad on a croissant seemed like the right choice for the daytime shopping set. Ramona excused herself for a moment and I was able to catch up on a couple of emails while I waited, legs crossed and a buzz of diners all around. Naturally, food arrived while my friend was away freshening up. A sympathetic smile from our waitress and…

“ it never fails, when one of us has to go the food has to come…”

A diner at an adjacent table, a woman perhaps in her 60’s in the company of her husband offered up a conspiratorial endorsement of my selection….

“I love the Waldorf salad here, lucky you, I nearly ordered it again today….

Ramona was soon back, lunch was delicious and the world just continued to turn as ever.

I was in the neighborhood again this week. The Highland Tap is not so sunlit a room as Murphy’s and was not as busy a place on this chilly day. Lots of dark wood paneling, serious booths and subtle green shade lighting. A very clubby place, and so I was happy to have a nice suit on.

We were seated, handed menus, told of the specials of the day, none of which I heard because I was staring. You should have seen the lashes on our waitress. I had to complement her. She was bashfully thankful and then started into the news she heard about a pill that causes eyelashes to grow longer, fuller and better and can you believe it? she asked because something about that just seemed too wrong for words.

So there the 3 of us were pondering along these lines … would I take a pill for better lashes? and just how do they make them grow without giving me even more hairy arms or worse?

She was fairly new on staff we found out, having recently moved back to Atlanta from out west. Tremors in the economy had swallowed up her job in the banking sector in a mad gulp. Here she was working her way through an unexpected and undeserved set back in life. How tired that must make you feel on a bad day. I was imagining too how much I would miss big endless Scottsdale sunsets and the stark beauty of the desert if I had to leave them against my will. But how graceful and honest and cheerful she was.

Lunch was delivered and was delicious, and Ramona and myself spoke about many things, not all of them to do with cross dressing. As it happens we both have diverse interests and busy lives beyond the bras, breast forms and butt padding. The sorts of things that you find out while having a nice lunch. The sort of nice, normal human experience that makes you for moments forget the silky feelings on the leg, and the electric touch of your wig on the nape of your neck.

Yes, our dressing is, it seems to me, exceptional, and I love the exceptional feelings that come along with it. I never want them to dim. I want these days to be exceptional. It is a pleasant surprise to me though that dressing and presenting has a potential for normal that we all need as social animals. I am realist friends. I know for certain that I was “clocked” on both occasions. If nothing else, my voice gives it all away. But all of that does not need to get in the way of normal. And these are moments that I would wish on any of you reading this today, and on all the people you care for.

Happy Friday.

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!

Daylight - Part 2

ed. As the title indicates this is a continuance of an earlier post. You can start from scratch here, or pull Daylight - Part 1 up out of the blog archive section below and on your right. I think I will be able to wrap the story up in 3 servings, unless overwhelming negative commentary forces me to reconsider just how I spend my spare waking moments.

I cannot really recall precisely how the day ended. Nor should I. When not en femme, I am nothing if not a gentleman. I was in short supply of everything the next day though. Everything except hope, delirious hope. I was short of breath, short of clear thinking at the office, and short of focus on the homicidal drivers that haunted my drive home. My wife had other distractions on her way home though. She had made a little pit stop of her own accord at Victorias Secret. When I saw the famous pink striped bag I must have gulped air.

The contents were her attempt to gather some things for me that I might wear without feeling too too girly. There was a stretchy pull-on bra top that was as close as Victorias Secret got to sports gear back then. There was a black chemise without lace, stays or garters. I really believe that she was gingerly stepping away from classically, overly feminine styles to keep me in the spirit of helping out with her bosses party. The sweetness was unbearable. And O so absolutely unnecessary.

We spoke a little about what was required of me at the party. She explained what she knew, which wasn’t really very much, but it seemed that the whole evening and the “drag” part of it was designed more for comedy (and likely closer to tragedy) than for fantasy come true. But that little reality was not going to get in the way of some good spirited exploration in the intervening days.

There were lots of pretty things in drawers nearby, and I gamely volunteered myself up and into a waiting pair of pantyhose. While I was able to suppress verbal clues about my delight, other clues about my enthusiasms for the effort were not to be suppressed. Especially in a pair of nude light support hose. And so we discovered a new wrinkle on our time together. I am not sure that I heard the choir of angels sing, and whether it really was a fiery comet streaking the darkening sky but I may have more happily met my maker that night than any other in my life to date.

There were repeat engagements over the course of the week, and wonderful all of them. And gradual admissions on my part that this whole crossdressing thing, it was … well …. interesting. In fact I might be persuaded to try on some other things if she thought that was all well and good.

But one thing at a time. We had a party to attend after all. I was fearful that out in public I would be seen to liking this just too much, that my kink for crossdressing would shine like a beacon. False fear. The look was all camp, no tramp. A completely hideous electric blue Bridesmaid dress, bare legs and white pumps. After the little pageant was over I talked politics and golf with some of the other guests, drinking a beer straight out of the bottle, very butch and natural for maybe 30 minutes, got back into my civilian cloths and blended back into the party. Really nothing to it. I think one of the women did fondle my butt and think I feigned indignation, but things were not going to get out of control out with this public.

In private though, things were poised to get out of control. I felt that I had been waved on, green-lighted and given a passport to pursue this passion, this hidden thing, that had not been shared for long decades. Men are famously self-centered and insensitive creatures though, even those of us with a carefully tended other side. And this, I forgot about myself. If I was not so intoxicated by events, and if I was more sensitive to my surroundings, I may have been bright enough to detect some misgivings on my wife’s part. But you must know that I did not.

I did the next bit of shopping for myself, panties and pantyhose only. I remember justifying the purchase by suggesting that we could save some wear and tear on her things. I snuck in a little private underdressing and squeezed my way into some of the more risqué items in her top drawer. Lingerie rapidly became the fetishistic starters pistol for our moments of intimacy. Yes, the moments were more frequent, but now they were not ours alone.

My wife had a business trip out of town, and I had home to myself for a few days. There was a flurry of shopping. Fredericks, Charlotte Russe, a no-name shoe shop. I had my first little black dress, heels to teeter on, and the beginnings of a feminine shape underneath the outer layers. She came home, and breathlessly, I debuted my full new look without a word of warning, and without any consideration that this mad, wild escalation might somehow not be met warmly and fully anticipated. And before really even saying, “hi honey, how was your day, and can I get you a drink of something?”

Any of you who have been “caught” by significant others or wives (or anyone I suppose) can imagine the look on her face, and some of the questions she was able to pose. And perhaps you can remember or imagine how difficult it is to articulate a complex and nuanced thing with a waist cincher tugging at your stocking tops.

I stammered and blushed and changed. Back in drab, I could only explain that I was not any of the things she feared. I could not explain exactly what I was though. And in so failing, managed to walk out of the daylight I had been so freakishly fortunate to find.

And so now, like last week, I will hit the pause button. Next week I will attempt to conclude the story for you and me both. Observations on this story, or your own story are most welcomed here. Thanks for reading - Petra

A Tale of 2 Visits to Victoria's Secret

Over the years I have bought many nice things in stores. Typically in drab. Sometimes for my wife, sometimes for Petra. My shopping was typically cloaked, (like many of you, dear readers) under the pretence of buying that nice thing for my wife.

Now, I do have some advantages. I can pick up a size 6 skirt or a 34C bra and the cashier or the girl on the shop floor could easily reason that, yes, that is likely the size of his wife. And a quick glance at my left hand would add evidence. There is a gold band on the 3rd finger.

And yes, I can fit my skinny butt into a size 6 skirt and hook a 34C bra around my, well, bust if you must. If I weighed another 60 lbs, things would be a little different. I suppose when you are shopping in a Lane Bryant for a size 24 dress, you are kind of giving yourself away. And that's OK. I am not either editorializing or gloating here. Its just the way it is.....

Nonetheless (even when I am legitimately buying something nice for my wife), there is a part of me that wonders …. “Does this nice stranger think this is for me? Did she clock me? And is she just humoring me? Does she deal with crossdressers everyday?”

Well, I did some nice shopping en femme recently, and it gave me encouragement to change the way I shop in drab. Here goes:

Visit # 1

After a superb make up treatment (Thanks R!), I had a little time to kill before the cocktail hour. I popped into Macys, and it was a little bit of a ghost town. Staff said hello. I stopped in intimates, looked at shoes, thought about a couple of dresses, not seriously shopping, but rehearsing shopping. Nothing really stood out, including it seems, Petra. Just another girl in a store.

I strolled out into the mall and was drawn inevitably into Victoria’s Secret. Now the fun begins. The entirely cute and petite Asian girl was envious of my ability to walk in heels. I swear to goodness, I was giving a Ggirl tiny lessons in letting the hips do the work. And there was a terrific promotion in the shop. Spend a minimum of $10.00, and get a gift card with random value --- likely $10.00 but possibly a thousand. How could a girl say no?

The abundance of mirrors and the O so nicely merchandized collections of pretty things were just music to me. Nothing furtive about my browsing. I know I was clocked within seconds by the staff, (and, if I am a realist, by some of the quicker clientele), but no worries at all. In fact, my new friend who can’t walk in heels said that if I wanted to try anything on, I was most welcomed.

Somebody shoot me while I am happy.

The fitting rooms were a little crowded, and really I had the wrong outfit on ( turtleneck dress, a real wig-popper) so a little try before you buy was out of the question. But do you know, the point was, I was fooling nobody (fully) and it just did not matter. Just a guy in a dress.

Just a guy in a dress on a budget too. I really did not want to splash out too much that night, but had to pick something up. Hosiery of course is something you can never have either enough or too much of. So after all the touch and feel, just picked up a pair of superb semi-boarded control tops with a very pretty lace effect at high thigh. Cashed out, got a little spritz of perfume, a nice catalog, a yet to be redeemed gift card and pretty pink bag to walk back out to the car with.

And this really got me thinking. I cannot get out as much as I like to en femme (too many reasons, more on that later). But I do like to prepare for nights (and days) en femme. I do like as well to keep in touch with Petra, and do things for her. Sometimes it is just a visualization exercise. You see a nice look on a real woman, and say to yourself, yeah Petra ought to have that look. And then, maybe you go shopping for that look. In drab.

Visit # 2

So I was in drab yesterday, and my Victoria’s Secret Secret Value gift card was burning a hole in my pocket. Those control tops I mentioned earlier on – fabulous. Really snug around the hips and butt. Nice glossy finish. Yum. So I dropped in.

“Can I help you find something today?”
“Sure, I am looking for hosiery”
“Is this a gift?”
“No, its for me. I wear a size C here”
“OK, just over here…”

And do you know something, there were no flashing red lights, no PA announcements of the presence of a deviant in the store, no women and children shrieking and running away. Just me and the nice girl talking 'bout tights.

“You don’t need the control tops do you? I mean look how skinny you are…”
“Well, I have different parts I need to ... ummm.... well, contain you know… and the padded panties, well they need to be smoothed out a bit too.”
“Really? Well, yeah, I guess that makes sense … oops, hey, I think we are out of the black in C. I like the almost black. Would that work for you?"
"Sure, that will do"
"Do you need anything else today?”
“No, I really just wanted to find out whether my surprise value card is worth $10.00 or whether I like struck gold and got one of the high value ones…”
“Well, I hope you get lucky – check out is just over here...

Nice for the environment too. She did not bother asking me whether I wanted a gift box.

“Do you have a Victoria’s Secret Angel Card?”
“Um, not yet.”
“You really ought to get it. You'll never ever pay full price”
“OK, well I will figure that one out later….”

And so it went.

And so it will go in the future. When I shop for me, I will shop openly. I suspect that some people will just be too unnerved to do their job well. And that is ok. I pretty much expect that I will get terrific service, and will probably meet some nice people just by being a little more honest about it. Perhaps this will help drive down the stigma factor that many of us still fear to one degree or another. And it might just make life a little more interesting for the nice, nice women working in a small handful of shops.

I will keep you posted on how it goes.

Curtain up!

Yes, I had been out before. Just not so well put together. Just not without the covering excuse of Halloween. Just not so prepared to go out and stay out. Just not so much fearful of being “caught” as ready to be “met”.

Settling on the right venue was key. A dear and helpful friend suggested Paris Decatur. And this was interesting. I had previously confined my en femme nights out to gay bars. There is a long and obvious tradition of drag friendliness at most of these establishments. Lesbian bar though. I really had to think twice. A part of me worried that a genetic male type (even with all the nice feathers) might not be so welcomed. Straight boy playing hot-chick in a room of women who prefer women …. you know, I just wanted to be sure I would not be offending the aesthetic of the place or pissing off the regular clientele.

I called beforehand. “Hell yes, everything goes, no problem, see you later”. As per usual, overthinking gets you nowhere. And really that reaction is pretty consistent with all the reactions … “guy in girls clothes? Yeah, and so what?”

So, off to Paris. Perfect curbside parking spot had just opened up. Managed to execute a superb parallel park even hobbled by the 4” stiletto boots. And the rest of the (visible parts of the) ensemble (I will do a little essay on foundation garments some other happy day):

▪ Fishnets over sheer black hose
▪ Short, tight black cotton/lycra skirt
▪ Back-zip, crotch-snap Danskin turtleneck (second skin, yumm)
▪ Lots of silver accessories
▪ Nice shawl.

“R” had fixed my makeup and hair. I really felt good. A quick smoke for the nerves out front. The benefits of the smoke was cancelled out by the freakish cold though and I entered shaking like a leaf. The joint was pretty full. There was a stool still open at the end of the bar. “Is this seat open? Thanks”. Brain freeze around the whole issue of where the hell do I put my purse? By my feet? On the bar? Gawd how do real girls get any damn thing done? Its all so complex.

Drink, sure, a glass of …. (what works for my look? …) Pinot Grigio thanks.

I am not too outgoing in most social settings. I prefer to observe people. I do not really throw myself out there. Other people are way more interesting. I did though ask the lovely barmaid what was on the program for tonight.

“Drag Kings, starting up well, sometime soon.”

O this is good. Lets see if I can capture it here. Lesbian bar. Karaoke/Lip synch entertainment by woman dolled down as men. And undoubtedly emphasizing the more lamentable stereotypes and laughable characteristics of male behavior. For an audience of women. And at least one genetic male dressed, well, provocatively to say the least. And her/me standing at the end of the bar right next to the performers platform. I may as well as had a little pink spotlight on me. Well this is all on the verge of wierd.

The nice looking and quiet woman beside me was working on a beer out of the bottle. She was much more civil then me, or at least possessed of finer social graces.

“Hi, my name is Stefanie”

“Hi Stefanie, I'm Petra”

I indicated that I would usually be more inclined to drinking a beer out of the bottle just like her, but it just didn’t seem to go with my look. Smile. So what are we both doing here? Well Stefanie had just finished dinner with a friend, and was within site of her apartment and said to herself, what the hell its Friday and I am not going home just yet. Good for Stefanie. And it gets better. She lives within walking distance of Paris, fits right in and and yet had never once been to Paris (Decatur that is). A pair of rookies. I could only shake my head. Never been here? No, I guess I don’t get out much anymore.

Well, I had to admit is was my first trip here too. And no I guess I don’t get out much (at least not like this) anymore either. Stefanie is very attractive. A little younger then me. A complexion that does not need makeup. And a native of Atlanta. I found it funny that I pursued the same lines of conversation en femme with her as I pursue with strangers in other social settings.

Asking someone in Atlanta if they grew up here is the surest way to find out that, no they were born in Racine or Cincinnati or Schenectady or Ocala or Huntsville or any damn where but Atlanta. But no, Stefanie is a native. Of Atlanta. Take that.

The entertainment started. I won’t dwell on it all too long. It was a very young crowd. When I was that age I worked hard at ensuring that anyone over 30 would be deeply offended by my musical tastes. If grey hairs were digging on what I dug, I felt I was digging the wrong stuff. So, full credit to these youngsters. But the tunes were just not my cup of tea. With the possible exception of the cover version of Phil Collins "In the air tonight".

That said, so much of it made me happy. The energy, the dancing, (some of) the F to M transformations and the general wonderful freedom and license that drenched the room. This generation was out there and really holding nothing back. Cool.

The star of the evening, or at least the focus of a lot of the attention was a totally cute barely 20 something who was shipping out to Iraq the next morning. She was holding nothing back. I wished her well and thought about the sacrifices being made by beautiful young people to preserve my freedom to wear a padded panty girdle. Its all kind of asymmetrical. I really do hope she does well in this tour and beyond. Her friends were out in pretty big numbers and really hootin’ / hollerin’ for her.

Other parts of it made me happy too, or at least forced out the performer in me. You see, Drag Kings it seems to me need to do the whole "leering guy" act at attractive girls in come-hither outfits like the outfit I was poured in to. And I’m like standing there like I cannot be missed. The attention was nice though, and not at all gropey. Yes, I was to a certain degree objectified, but not badly. I did a couple of classic hair and scarf flicks to indicate disinterest in the Kings’ advances and it was all good theatre.

In between sets Stefanie and I got a chance to share 40-something observations. Our views were not too far apart. I think Stephanie was a little envious, not jealous, just nicely envious, of the youngsters and their full throttle out-ness. And happy for the youngsters too. I did not however want to totally take her attention all night in so far as Paris was a pretty target rich environment for a nice looking real woman and there was a total hottie who reminded me of Kim Novak (think of Vertigo) right beside her at the bar. I chatted with Melodie for a bit, and stole some fashion tips, but was kind of hoping that she would make nice with Stefanie and maybe exchange numbers.

Now ultimately I don’t think that happened --- there were some other dramas in the air that evening. Situation normal I understand from friends. But I do know this: Melodie and I emptied the bar of the Pinot Grigio over the course of the evening.

Melodie, if you are reading this, I still want your sweater with the furry collar trim. And please drop me a line anytime.

In any event a small handful of nice people said nice things about my look. Everybody that approached me was kind, a little curious, and sweet. I was made to feel very much at home.

And just as I was getting ready to call it a night, my new friend Stephanie asked if I wanted maybe to grab a coffee the next day. It was the sweetest thing. I was totally flattered and entirely surprised. And happy to say yes and exchange numbers.