Impromptu Cross Dresser Outreach

Last Friday was a gorgeous sunny late winter day here in Atlanta. Daffodils and other aggressive spring flowers have begun to sprout. A fine time for this aggressive flower to put my head above ground and bloom at least for a few moments. I had a late lunch planned with a friend of the full time female persuasion, and a little time to kill en femme. Phipps Plaza was near enough to the rendezvous point, and so I ventured in to test out the waters and break in a new pair of shoes.

I had been fearful that the new purple suede pumps might pinch, but they carried me nicely, and I think I returned the favor by putting them into a great outfit. They paired well with the purple suede jacket purloined from Mrs. B’s side of the hall closet, some choice accessories and a day-suitable Ann Taylor ensemble, all pictured at left. I have never made a bigger color statement before, and felt terrific. Purple is the color of royalty and perhaps some of it rubbed off on my carriage.

This story will sound a little vain. It can't be helped if it is to be told faithfully, so I will risk it. I want to share the story, not out of pride of passing or about pulling something off but out of a desire to tell you about a terrific conversation with a complete stranger.

Belk’s had a shoe clearance on, and had their heavily marked down merchandise corralled away in a quiet, off-the-beaten-track enclosure, a storage room really, with the layout and dimensions pictured below (click images to enlarge of course). Myself and another shopper brushed passed each other a couple of times, nodded and smiled in recognition, handled the merchandise and did all the private calculus one puts into shopping. She was having better luck than I, standing in front of the floor mirror and considering the strappy platform partly laced up on one foot.

I liked them. I did what etiquette called for, on my way stepping through the door to leave, saying:

“Cute. I like them. You should get them”.

She held up a hand, and worked for about 10 seconds or so attempting to form a sentence.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course … shoot” says I.

“No. Over, over here ... (still really not getting the words out easily, but pointing back into the tiny room).

I obliged, sensing that she wanted to converse out of view of the rest of the world, and so I sidled back into the shoe room. Here now, is my best effort to recreate the conversation. The words are off here and there, but the spirit is true, golden true.

“You are not a… , you were not always …., O, my, how do I say this, you were not born female were you?”

“No” (me smiling)

“ I just … I really, I just did not know until you were leaving, until just now … I … can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course, anything”

It was clear that she was really grappling with thoughts, and fearful of saying something that may offend. She looked about my age, smartly dressed, not overly so, but clearly an educated, responsible adult. She abandoned three of four sentences before she felt like she had something she could safely express.

“So, you are like … this … (head to toe hand gesture) … all the time”

“No my dear, this is just a now and then thing for me. Really not all that often”

“ Hmmm. Uhhh … do you make money doing this?”

“Make money? O good god no. I spend money doing this, just like you.”

I think I could have filled in some of her blanks, but her curiosity was so interesting, her line of questioning so unexpected, I just waited for her next thought.

“So … it’s just that … I am sorry, really, I just did not know. I mean I really just did not even think twice about you. You just seemed natural”.

“Bless your kind heart my dear, that means everything to me. Thank you so much, really. And I mean it about the shoes too, they look great”.

She was not going to be detoured by shoes.

“So what are you … like … the rest of the time” (top to toe hand gesture again)

“Pretty normal I suppose. I work, I have a home, a wife …”

“A wife?! You’re married??”

“Yup. 15 years now. She is the real beauty of the home”.

OK, this had her eyes popping, and it was time, past time I suppose, to help her out a bit. It was becoming clear to me that she had never considered that a man in a skirt could be anything other than a gay man living out some sort of confused fantasy. This was most certainly her first close encounter with a visitor from Planet Fabulous.

“Married? Wow. I mean uhhh. I don’t know what I mean… I mean …” (more jaw motion, no more words for the moment, Petra to the conversational rescue)

“Yeah, married. My wife knows about all of (now I am using the hand gesture) this. We are pretty “ normal” couple otherwise. Pretty typical. Most Cross Dressers are straight, or most that I know. We are not that scarce either. I am probably not the only one in the mall today, you know?”.

I extended a hand and said:

“Hey, I shouldn’t be so rude. My name is Petra. Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

"I'm Liesl".

To be continued...

Cross Dresser Crossover

I am happy to welcome some new visitors to Voyages en Rose today, by way of The Lingerie Addict. Treacle treated me to a guest post there on her wonderful blog, and I summoned up a 700 word love song to a really smart pair of sheers acquired from Stockingirl.

So a few words of welcome are in order for first time visitors. First of all, I love, love your reading habits. Treacle is terrific. So knowledgeable, passionate and generous with her experience, her posts brighten me up every day. Easy on the eyes too.

Next, this blog might be the first blog you have visited written by a part-time, Cross Dresser. And while that may be true, I can guarantee you that you already are on friendly terms, and perhaps even love a Cross Dresser. It's just a numbers game. If you have met more than 100 men in your life, at least one of them shares this habit. Maybe three. Maybe five. Maybe more, nobody knows for certain. He may be very close to you, aching to share, and a little frightened by his habit. He is probably not too different than me, or most of the other people that make your day go along as smoothly or chaotically as it normally does. He just is drawn to explore parts of himself that most of the world does not have an easy way of coping with.

So I am your proud, happy ambassador from Transistan today. A bit of a gabby ambassador too. Let me gab about me for a minute.

That is me on the left. And those are my legs in the post over at Treacle’s place. I have been Cross Dressing for as long as I can remember. I stopped fighting my life long curiosity about women’s clothing just a couple of years ago, and life has become simpler and much more rewarding for me. I also found the guts to share all of this with my wife, who has been a real champ about it. I lead a reasonably successful life as a guy, and spend about 95% of my time happily being that guy. It is a pretty easy and untroubled life. For the 5% en femme, I enjoy getting out of the house, having a nice lunch, doing a little shopping, doing normal things in vanilla locations, and just blending into the world around me.

Blending is key. I have a couple of “Drag Queen” friends, and as much as I admire the kind of shock and awe approach they bring to their art, I am much more interested in observing than being observed. Clothes that are suitable for the scene, make-up that does not scream out, and a generally demure approach to my interactions with people is more my tone, and much more typical of the Cross Dresser. For the most part, my sorority mates and I are really nicely welcomed, wherever we go. This makes it easy to continue to love doing what we do. I hope you extend the same sort of easy, no-fuss welcome to people like me whose path you may cross.

Please stay a while, browse, graze, follow a link or two to some of the blogs listed in the side bar, and by all means feel encouraged to leave a comment or two. I would be really happy to know your thoughts on this topic, to hear how you might react to a loved one who Cross Dresses, or whether you have any personal experience with guys like me. If you have a question or two, please use the gadget over on the right. Answers will be promptly posted to my Twitter feed and gathered all together here in a post in a couple of days. I will be upset of course if I chip a nail in the effort, but my dears, you are worth it.

For more regular readers, don’t mind the crowd in here today, even if they are better looking than us and don’t have heartaches trying to find size 12 shoes. There is room for us all, yes?

Happy dressing, and everything else.

On the other foot.

My wife has periodic outbursts of shoe madness. It would be fair to guess that she owns somewhere in the 50-60 range. Handsome, or pretty, as her stable is, she is a piker relative to some genetic women I know, for whom shoe shopping is a competitive sport. The compulsion to own many shoes is a calling, something that largely passeth the understanding of the normal guy.

The "normal" Voyages en Rose visitor however is exceptional, and perhaps might better understand how people can become mesmerized by the towering heel, the exposed arch, the binding strap and the vast array of shapes and shades that meet the eye when shoe shopping, or when simply admiring the passing, click-clacking feminine parade.

A little over a year ago, I polled readers on shoes. The purpose of the poll was to find out how large the Cross Dressers shoe collections were. The results are pictured at the right. At the time, I owned 4 or 5 pairs, which were perfectly adequate to my needs. This number put me comfortingly in the largest group of respondents (33%).

The next largest group of responses (22% of participants) indicated that they simply could not count how many shoes they owned, or rather, how many pairs they themselves were owned by. This got me to thinking about the similarities of shoes and cats. I have a friend from a former life who confessed to having “18 or 20” cats in the house he shares with his wife. I asked just how in the hell you get to having that large and weirdly uncertain number of cats.

“Not sure, but somewhere we hit a number where the next one just did not seem to make a damn bit of difference”.

My suspicion then was this: Like cats, there is an incremental shoe that puts the household on a practically unstoppable slope. I believe as well that they share a number. The high-heeled, pointy-toe number of no return, the “Tipping Point” number is Five.

I stayed perched on Five for a good long while mindful of its statistical significance. I picked up Pair Six just after emerging from last years Summer Drabbatical. I went through much of the Autumn without adding to the inventory, and in December, Mrs. Bellejambes made a gift of a nice pair of tan Mary Jane’s to me. I held steady at Seven for a good while. But there has been a nagging, persistent little voice calling to me of late.

I came home with Pair Eight a couple of days ago.

I am in the curious position of being capable of self-intervention, and yet a little drawn to the idea of letting things, in the lovely words of Leonard Cohen, slide in all directions.

I have made a few more forays around the shoe sections of shops lately. I left empty handed, certain that I had not seen the perfect thing, but clueless as to what the perfect thing was.

This represents a complete reversal of my guy-mode shopping. I never venture into a shop without a very complete vision of what is required. I do not shop speculatively. But for Petra mode, and of late specifically on the shoe front, a different model is emerging.

I slowly started to develop a sense of the perfect thing. The emerging vision was tied to a recently acquired skirt. The skirt is a grey/black animal print that with a nice purple detail. The skirt required a top, and the universe provided one in the form of a lush, deep purple silk blouse. The black pumps would be fine, perfect in fact, but only one perfect outcome out of many possible states of perfection. The perfect thing seemed over time to resolve in my mind as a purple suede pump.

And lo, there they were, at 70% off, in my size, nesting in a Macy’s clearance rack. Perfect. And then at the next shop, a belt to match. Again, perfect. And then I found myself looking at bags. Exponential possibilities pulled at me. At which point, the expense of letting things “slide in all directions” was becoming abundantly clear. I took a deep breath, and headed for the exit. Self intervention while I still had the wits, will and wallet in tact.

Let me now tender my sympathies to all who have trod upon this slope. I no longer have any mystification about how it can happen that all the closet space in a comfortable house slowly disappears. I have a clearer idea of how seemingly aimless browsing can periodically result in a great win, a feeling of at least temporary completion, of a mission that really has no complete state.

I think that this ever receding horizon, is something that women are more inclined to reach for than men are. Those of us who Cross Dress, or who identify as transgendered, can be easily drawn in to the same compelling game. These thoughts are an extension of my recent ramblings on the Cost of Cross Dressing. These thoughts have now put my in mind of a mathematical model that might explain some of it. I am going to take on the Math of Feminine Dressing in a post next week. After a little shopping sortie en femme today.

Happy Dressing, and everything else.

From the Mouths of Babes

A couple of weeks ago I braided together a Twitter-centric application from Formspring with the normal bits of bloggitty goodness here on Voyages en Rose. The “Ask me anything” widget on your right is the result. I added this feature for a number of reasons including;

- Morbid curiosity. I remain skeptical of the utility of Twitter, but thought that this thingy might be, if not a “killer app”, at least an app that stunned people for a moment at a time.
- Quest for inspiration. I hoped that questions from the great internet protocol beyond might kindle the odd post thought when my well runs dry .
- Respect for the reader. I like to write about things that my readers like to read about. Your questions should help me tune my instrument so to speak.
- Concern for the environment. Here I can recycle your questions and my answers, and avoid overgrazing my brain.
- CDADHD. I have an acute case of Cross Dresser Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I am easily distracted by gadgets. And sparkly strappy sandals.

Well, there has been a trickle of questions over the last week plus, not a torrent, but good questions. Here is the blue recycle box of questions and answers:

When did you first know that you liked women's clothing?
Age 7 my dear. Everything that I saw women wearing just seemed so different, so secret, so ritualistic relative to my choices, I was drawn like moth to flame...

What's your favorite item of women's clothing?
This is almost like asking a mother which child is favorite. I must say though, that a beautifully tailored, back-zipped sheath dress is the very acme to me. I feel fully attenuated to the world when I feel the limits of my stride, the slight catches of breath, the baring of thigh when seated. A lovely exclusive privilege...

Is this spam proof? :-P
I don't think any thing is fully spam proof. Risk / Reward seems usually to tip in the favor of curiosity for me though. Perhaps you have another question?

There's a house fire, what do you save?
If it is my house, my dogs, presuming my wife can find her way out...

When did you start cross-dressing? I mean...what's your earliest cross-dressing memory? :-)
Great question, and do you know, I have not tried to pinpoint this moment yet. I suspect that I was 11 or 12. I had, before then, paid a lot of attention to how women looked. And then, the girls in my class started to change. Curves appeared, and straps started showing beneath blouses. My curiosity grew and the pressure got to be too much.

In my memory it feels like early summer. I had an afternoon at home alone, and like many others, I rifled drawers and closets in my parents room. I know there was a bra or two. Heels, yes. A dress, certainly. Not clear in my mind whether I got around to the hosiery then, but that could not have been too far off. I did not have a name for what I was doing, but I felt as though I was doing something absolutely wrong. It all felt good enough to banish the feelings of guilt and fear for the few moments. Quite a struggle, my dear, to make those things go away, decades in the waging.

You have given me a nice uber-theme to work out for my dressing through the decades which will of course show up on the blog. Thanks!

Typically, how long does it take you to get ready?
Too long, so I try to savor it. Make up is a 1 hour thing for me, from foundation up. Most of the time is lost to the eyes. Dressing itself, from foundation garments to finished layers is 30 minutes. None of it ever feels like a chore though, so it is time well spent :). Thanks!

What size bra do you wear?
I am rather a petite thing I will confess. 34 b is ideal for me. I took a pair of C cup silicon forms out for a test toddle one day, and really felt a little Dolly Parton-esque. Thanks for asking! Your question will appear on Voyages en Rose later this week.


It is a real treat to have these questions pop up on my Formspring profile page, and so they get priority attention and are answered on Twitter pretty much instantly, or whenever I see them, whichever comes first. So I do hope to see more of them.

Formspring allows anyone, you included, to ask a question, anonymously or with a Google / Facebook / Twitter / whatever ID. I promise to answer all questions, and where standards of decency allow, to publish them here again when enough accummulate, or whenever I am flat out of ideas of my own.

I really do not mind if the questions come from beyond the normal editorial orbit of the blog. We are all bigger than our closets and gender identities after all.

So go ahead, make my day … Ask me anything

The Cross Dresser on the Ramparts of Change

This post has been fermenting in the recesses of my brain for some time now, and has been uncorked in part as the result of a recent post on Gabrielle Hermosa’s blog. There, you will see the old pictorial of our species emerging from the muck, slowly shaking off fins, sprouting limbs and finally assuming a decidedly female form at the natural end of our possible progress. Nice bag in hand too.

Many of you are old enough to remember parts of the sixties. One of the more memorable cultural events of this tumultuous time was what was then known as the “Women’s Lib” movement. From a fashion perspective, things started off poorly in my mind with bra burnings. Tragic as the loss of countless innocent foundation garments to the angry bonfires of revolution was, change was clearly in the air, and change and I are old friends.

The bra burnings were a stunt, but there is always a kernel of substance within a stunt. The substance of the movement was that the rules were stacked unfairly in favor of the fellows, and that much needed to change. Broad challenges to gender role definitions and the status quo here and abroad were accepted and engaged.

Laws did, and continue still, to change. Most public sector and many private sector employers adapted their organizations to remove barriers to success in the workplace. Academic life here stateside was forever changed by the adoption of NCAA Title 9 rules mandating equal funding of women’s athletic programs. Elementary school curricula changed to mitigate gender biases in approaches to education. New role models in media, and on the streets we grew up on emerged. And new generations have been born and grown to adulthood with a different set of gender ideals and expectations than the ones we slightly greyer folk inherited in our youth. All good, and mostly great in my view.

Women now more commonly occupy more senior positions in more industries. A majority of college students in this country are female. The industries that depend on muscle-power are dead or dying. The industries that depend on brain-power are (relatively) thriving. Yes, wage gaps and all manner of subtle and not so subtle barriers to full and equitable participation remain, but those barriers are under siege everywhere. Again, hurray, says I.

Change has rough edges. Fashion for some time favored mannish fabrics, curve free silhouettes, and dull pallets. God awful shoulder pads even had their day. Overt displays of femininity, both behavioral and on the surface or were penalized. Avoiding the suspicion that the successful women was either dazzling or sleeping their way to the top was job one. We seem to have thankfully emerged from the worst of that. Femininity, surface or otherwise, is not inconsistent with success. All of this is arguable of course, and forgive me my broad brush strokes here. They are in service of a point. You ready?

The validity and the value of the female experience is sought, accepted and acted on, on it’s own natural terms more now than at any time in my experience. I suspect that this trend will continue. As it does, as the pendulum swings, as tides reverse, as societal plates shift and groan (ed. and as my metaphor hip-check the crap out of each other) a certain amount of displacement is bound to happen. The value and the necessity of a purely, brawny, traditionally male skill and sensitivity set is bound to diminish. We already feel this reality in many aspects of our daily lives.

My wonderings on the matter go like so: Do men more inclined, as I am, to discover surface and interior elements of our “femininity” have a shaved leg up on the competition?

This is a serious question. I am not interested in a revolution that makes it acceptable for me to take a meeting in a pair of heels rather than a nicely tooled brogue. I am not interested in working for an organization where my ability to mount the org chart (figuratively, dear friends) is dependant on my ability to smartly accessorize a pencil skirt and blouse ensemble. I am interested though, in providing value, and getting paid for it, where the demand is greatest, where my competition is disadvantaged, and where my skill sets are well adapted for the need.



I have a client whose customers are 99% female. The founder and CEO of the organization is about my age. Her prototypical customer has a college education, leads a growing family, and has growing economic power. The product my client sells to her client is a highly emotionally charged gift. Men do not get it, or buy it. I strategize with my client on how to engage better with her perfect prospective customer.

I am the only male outside consultant / contributor to her businesses growth. My client has commented, surprisedly, that I “get” the business, and that I understand her customer. This is a key to my continued utility. This reinforces a personal belief I have that the Cross Dressing is merely a surface aspect of a bigger, whole, true me. This really makes me happy and then I want to go shopping with my client. But not really. OK, I do. I could help her out a little. In the meantime, we are able to help each other out with our businesses in a way that could not have happened 20 years ago.

I do not have 20 years of work ahead of me, but you might have.

So dear friends, over to you. Do you believe there is something that you have, beneath the surface, integral to your worldview that you can leverage to your benefit? Are you better enabled than most of your workmates to understand women, work with them, work for them, learn from them, and make their world better? Does your secret endow you with secret powers?

Comments welcomed, as are business referrals if a marketing consultant with a uniquely cultivated view of the female consumer is required.