My pals, M.A.C. and Macy

Long time readers will know of my smoldering love affair with the nice people at M.A.C. Skilled staff working with terrific cosmetics, in settings that are 100% free of the possibility of a hassle about gender/wardrobe incongruity. Lovely people with an abundance of passion and personality. Really, they had had me at "yoo-hoo!"

My inaugural M.A.C. trip was chronicled here. I have been back on a few occasions, slowly padding out the color palette and generally adding to my arsenal of tools and skills in matters of maquillage. I have also been discovering how beguiling a business the beauty biz is. The array of shades, textures, purposes, tools and etc. is practically infinite. And as is the case with shoes, you can never have all the stuff you want, or feel that you need. Again, as is the case with shoes, there is the possibility of a more attractive, more noticeable, more unique you, right there that you can try on and take away with you.

Unlike shoes though, the price points are low to the extent that it is easier to say yes, easier to open the purse and treat yourself.

Yes, this whole beauty business courts the client well, and pushes the buttons of borderline addictive personality types (moi? Pas de tout!) quite expertly. That and my seemingly inevitably destitute non-retirement aside, things are slowly picking up for me on the beauty front. I have been motivated in this effort in part by words of, well, perhaps words of encouragement is not the perfect word, from Mrs. Bellejambes.

“You look like you are wearing makeup. Too much of it. Way. Too. Much.”

Hmmm. In fairness I had to agree. I had been for some time using a Dermablend concealer/foundation cream and finishing powder, and really I have no complaint with the quality of the products. In hindsight though the advice I got at the ULTA shop where I picked them up was inexpert. They got my skin tone wrong.

I have switched over now to a couple of M.A.C. products that I highly endorse. Concealer here and finishing powder here. Terrific finishes, not invisible, but closer to it, close as I might get, or can expect to get given flaws of complexion.

If hitting a makeup counter en femme is beyond your reach or the limits of your nerve, really do not hesitate to engage with a technician in drab. Explain your requirements. Offer your hand up as a test area. Getting a quality product on your skin is easy. Getting the tone right is not. So give a technician a chance to get it right, and it will pay dividends in the form of beauty. If you feel as though you are invading a territory you are standing out like a sore thumb in, get over it. Chaps buy gifts all the time. And unless it is 9:30 A.M. you are likely not the first Cross Dresser they have met on the day of your visit.

Earlier this week I popped into the M.A.C. Pro Shop in Atlanta Perimeter for an inexpensive treat. My false lashes were not going to stand another wear, and so I dressed fully, did the make-up entirely minus my eyes, put a big pair of starlet sunglasses on and waded into the mall. I worked with a lovely technician for about 45 minutes getting a beautiful new pair of eyes painted on for the price of new lashes and a couple of shadow colors. I wanted these colors in any event (this is my year of purples and lilacs), and watching a pro work for basically no extra charge is great value. With a happy new look on, and the little extra confidence in the stride that goes along with it, it was time to say so long to Mac, and to drop in on dear friend Macy.

I really took my sweet time getting from A to B, and for a couple of reasons. Firstly, men rush through malls. A lady does not. I do still consciously need to moderate my pace of movement en femme. Next, and of equally vital import, you cannot really see what other people are looking at when moving at man-pace. So, in between longing looks at window displays and mental notes on the wardrobes of younger, hipper, prettier things than your correspondent, I was meeting eyes to see what was in them.

Lots, as it happens.

For the most part, males of the species who do notice you scan you pretty quickly. Top to toe with a slight pause somewhere between necklace and belt. Hmmm. I am glad that I am not too busty a lass. I think it might get tiresome. Legs, yes, they get a look too. How many of them perceived a difference about me beneath the surface? Surely some. Not one of them though betrayed shock, alarm, delight, bemusement or any strong sentiment by their facial reactions. And their eyes, when met go elsewhere. Just, kind of look away and move on.

And the women? Much better watchers. Again, they are moving more slowly, and are more receptive. There is a longer look, it takes in more details, but goes right back to the face. And then a Mona Lisa smile. The smile mostly seems to impart a message that goes like so:

“Wow, look at you. You are a guy, dressed as a woman, getting away with it, kind of, maybe mostly, but I got you, didn’t I?”.

And then the eyes lock on yours. This is a real invitation to engagement. I felt as though I was losing a game when I looked away. It is tough to not look away though, in a feigned act of indifference to the scrutiny, or simply because I am so easily befuddled and confused by women.

In the jungle of the mall though, there is no doubt that the women are the Alpha predators, the Lions, and the chaps are either feral packs of teenage hyenas or easily herded stray lone herbivores.

Several herbivores had been corralled in fact into a nice pen just outside of a massive warren of fitting rooms in Macy’s. Rather a sad looking bunch, docile and sleepy, sunken into a too low peach-shade sectional couch. Penalty box, purgatory and not pleasant for the lads. Their lasses were obscured from view, doors slamming, hangers flying, winners and losers determined inside the fitting room, and in my 15 minutes or so within earshot of the place not once did I hear a woman say, “honey, what do you think of this?”

What I did hear was one of the Macy’s shop assistants engage in a lengthy and clearly expert discussion with the 4 or 5 guys in the antechamber to the fitting room about football. While I bided my time removing chunky jewelry, peeling off my cardigan, stepping slowly out of my skirt, unbuttoning and hanging up my blouse, on and on they went. The Macy's staffer really knew her stuff. Back and forth they talked and trash-talked sounding like something off ESPN, expert analysis, analysis that was way over my head, and moreover, of no particular interest.

What was of interest was just how perfectly my dress fit (mine is blue, her sister is pictured here). This feeling, is visceral. Everybody on the planet deserves to know just how fine the moment is when you try a dress on and can believe, if only for an instant, that this is as good as this dress can look. It is a wonderful feeling. I could have kept the feeling to myself. But I am more generous than that. Perhaps generous is not the right word for this moment though.

On the way in, I had noticed the tailors platform and panoramic mirror complex just next to where the chaps were seated. I wanted a better look at my soon-to-be-mine dress. I knew that this would come at the expense of giving everyone in the bleachers a look too. And I did not mind. I admit it. I sought the moment out. I felt, I believe, for the first time as though I was the Alpha predator.

Conversation slowed and then stopped while I exhaustively, critically 360’d myself in the 3-way mirror.

“Great dress” says the nice Macy’s lady, slowly, after some moments of silence.

The lads were wordless.

They both were right.

Café Society Continued

The prior post just a few paragraphs due south of here has all the background notes for this post. I left things on a bit of a cliff for you dear friends. Let us continue then.

A couple was leaning over the patio rail, vaguely lost, looking for The Bonefish Grill, and asking the smart young lady at the table next to me for guidance. She was drawing a blank. My Atlantic Station restaurant directory showed me that they were misinformed. Boneheads Grill was the actual place, and I could see it on a Google Map, 1 block south and 2 east of where I was seated.

I descended from my high stool and waltzed myself and my MacBook into the conversation.

“I think you are actually looking for Boneheads not Bonefish folks. See here it is, just around the corner …:

“That’s it” says the fellow. “Thanks!” and into the early evening they went.

When they were out of earshot my new acquaintance opened up the conversation.

“You know they said they were looking for a pretty fancy place. I wouldn’t call Boneheads fancy. Would you?

“No, heck no. Fast casual at best. Bonefish is nice, but Boneheads… nah”

“Yeah, exactly! Ah well, whatever floats the boat I suppose (or other words to that imprecise effect)”

Readers might be reminded at this point that regardless how expert or convincing my presentation is, when I start to chattering with people I am quite obviously not what the surfaces indicate. I do not possess, nor have I yet cultivated a feminine voice. I do turn down the volume a little and edit for profanity but otherwise the voice is the same voice I engage the world with every day.

With the laptop placed back on my table and me pulled up into a chair closer to her, facing her, we continued the chat. Dialog is not my strong literary suit, so I will expose the action as epic narrative here.

I invited her to my table, because she was getting peppered with inquiries from passers by. She smiled and declined, needing to hold the table for her friends who had left PC’s, bags and gear there while investigating the premises on foot. She had wanted to join them but her bum knee and a small crisis at home kept her at the table. Her knees looked just fine to me, but she showed a weary face and described some gawdawful bug her 8 year old had picked up at school or playground that had necessitated several visits to the Doctors, and a mitt-full of shots, pills and suchlike.

She needed this like a run in her tights of course, because the business was demanding so damned much of her just now. My earlier instincts were pretty much on the money. She represented the property developer to commercial real estate brokers, and was in the business of arranging marriages between them and retailers who might sign a lease at Atlantic Station. We spoke about the personality of the place, and what sort of shops might thrive here. Chico’s she thought should move in, while I thought they were a little OTP (Atlanta slang for bland suburbs “Outside The Perimeter") for this setting.

My consideration was that there was a possibility of creating a genuine destination shopping venue in Atlantic Station if more marquee retailers with very small retail footprints in North America were courted. More designer boutiques, luxury brands, European vendors looking to test for expansion in America, and etc. Hartsfield-Jackson is the busiest airport in the world, the convention center is a straight shot down the 85/75 corridor, Lennox and Phipps don’t have room for new tenants. From a business and differentiation perspective, this made sense to me.

Having an excuse to go swanning around Europe looking for clients I proposed might be a nice sideline motivator for a clearly cosmopolitan gal like my chatty new pal. This was some different positioning and thinking to her, and a little outside of her plan. I was smiling inside reminded of just how close this moment felt to my typical business life. I am always the voice in the room questioning the first principals of just exactly what the hell makes this business uniquely definable, sustainable and well defended against the competition. Some days I don't get burnt at the stake for my thinking too. It is a pretty natural line of work for me, and here I was, at it again.

In heels this time though. Pro Bono too.

Occupancy rates were pretty good she opined, given overall economic conditions. No, the residences are not fetching what they should, and finding great brokers was next to impossible. She really hoped the two new guys she had signed on to the challenge would succeed where others had tried and faded away. But topmost in her mind was her poor sick little boy. 5 shots of who knows what and still laid low he was. If she or her husband or the dog caught whatever the hell he had things would just fall apart. It is just so sad to see a sick little kid and you want to snap your fingers and make it all good, just now, and maybe have some ice cream then .....

Alas.

Here friends, are a few things we did not talk about: Her outfit. My outfit. Why a chap might dress smartly en femme and visit this café today.

Her colleagues returned from their tour of their new battlefield with bright ideas to air and campaigns to mount, and I smiled and excused myself from the now serious business setting. The wine finished, the check signed, the Mac shut down and my things gathered up, it was time to move further on into the evening.

I found some killer shoes and a beautiful new blouse. I met some friends, one of whom is a new acquaintance from the recent Southern Comfort Conference for a nice supper. And I drove home, still surprised at the all-encompassing feelings of newness that come with these explorations of … I am not sure what to call it, but lets settle on these explorations of my fuller self.

And the thing that stood out was the short, deep, in some ways really intimate conversation with the stranger at the café. A conversation that did not light even for a second on my differences, or my admiration of her differences.

I hope you find that hopeful. I do.

Café Society

The following post was written on Wednesday Sept, 29 around 5:00 - 5:30 in the evening. It has been edited for spelling and clarity, spit polished just a touch, but appears largely as first drafted. It is a little departure from my typical writing routine. This is a quick, on-the-scene reportorial effort, rather than the multi-draft editorial mini-essays typically found on the menu here. ..............................................................................................................................................

The setting is quite nice. It is genuinely Autumn. Temperatures are in the low 70’s (which, for my Metric friends, converts to super-comfy). There is a lovely breeze, perhaps just a bit too fresh as my hair is blowing quite randomly across my face, and lodging all too often on my glossed lips. My MacBook, a cool glass of Pinot Grigio and I are loitering around late Wednesday afternoon at Café 19 for a little exercise in real-time blogging.

The effect that I am out to achieve here, deep in the heart of Atlantic Station in Atlanta that of a professional woman catching up on firestorms at the office that happened in my absence. My ensemble is office appropriate, at best, a look that a successful media exec, or perhaps a lawyer might adopt for a day in front of the clients.

I am surrounded by women who are dressed like me, and men who are dressed fairly much as I typically am. People who are loafing, and engaged in business, shoppers and tourists, wait staff and wastrels. The idea today is enjoy my wine, look around, write what I see and feel, and share with you my observations. From an authorial perspective, it is my hope to limit editing as much as possible. I am an embedded reporter today, and will try to deliver just the dry facts of the event.

And I must confess that the facts are as dry as the wine. This I could put down to one of three possibilities.

- People here are just entirely o.k. with a Cross Dresser,
- I am occupying my role well enough to “pass”, or
- We are all too busy to pay mind to the people around us.

Of course it could be a combination of all of these things, and some other unconsidered elements thrown in for good measure. Who’s to know when it comes to Earthlings after all?

My waitress today is the heartbreakingly cute young thing who has taken care of me before. I love her privately. I find it so charming that so often it is the people with the most menacing piercings who are the most gentle and happy people you are likely to meet in a day. But she is doing a little extra, deeper look at me today.

I think, that she has put Petra together with a chap she has served in the past. I think she knows the face under the make up, but wonders whether it is quite the right thing to say, “ ... howdy, you look different today”. Out of politeness, she just takes care of me. Out of politeness, I am happy to be just another customer even though we both know something extra.

The woman at the table next to me, has wonderful fashion sense and very nice legs. She is a little younger then I, and is sporting a smart black pencil skirt, and a very fancy dark faux-lace cardi over a simple camisole. She is in commercial real estate, going by the table chat. Her two male colleagues have just left her table to take a foot tour of this nicely designed, upmarket, but far from fully occupied commercial / retail / residential development. We exchange smiles.

The poor dear, she looks lovely, but there is a mountain of paperwork and a Coke in front of her. As soon as her colleagues go walkies, she is on the phone to her husband to figure out exactly what to do with their child who came down with something yesterday and has had five shots today.

And if this isn’t enough, she is seated at a corner table where the wind blows wild, and every lost rube from Mobile to Monticello is leaning across the patio rail asking her where such and such a restaurant is or how far Ikea is from here. She does look competent, yes, but she is not wearing a name badge, or a tiara and sash. She seems to know her way around here though, and so as soon as she sets somebody off in the right direction, a new couple leans in for help. I have just pulled up the Atlantic Station merchant and services web site on my totally cute Mac. I am going to sign off and go help her out.

To be continued.

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There was a lot of good stuff that happened after I stopped taking “live” notes. I will be gathering all of that from memory, putting it back together and serving it up as time allows later this week.

Brush with Celebrity. SCC Video Cameo

Typically, I have pretty good instincts around cameras. That is to say when other people are holding them, I try to stay out of the frame. I really do try, but quite deep in the evening of the final night of the recent Southern Comfort Conference I let my guard down.

My charming friend Aislin spied me walking through the scene of a short interview with a very visible star of the TG universe, Chloe Prince and sent me a link. Chloe is noted amongst other things for her blogging, the creation of the Pink Essence social network and a very graceful and informative ABC Primetime feature that exposed a lot of mainstream living room dwellers to one remarkable woman’s life.

The second lass swanning (thanks Aislin, I can't really quibble with your language) by Chloe’s left shoulder towards the camera around 15 seconds in wearing the black boat neck cocktail dress is me. The dress is holding up nicely. My makeup, not so much. As to the walk, I cannot recall whether I was going for an amplified hip-sprocket gait or had simply fallen prey to the effects of too much wine, women and song.



It seems as though the embedded YouTube vid is not displaying on iPhones, and perhaps other devices. So here is a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMeYjHsJ3Gs

Next year I think I will use the service doors and avoid the camera crews. In the meantime, I suppose one must in some way note their You Tube debut.

As for Chloe, she is just admirable. A completely genuine person. I attended one of her presentations at SCC, on the topic of living genuinely, online and otherwise. She spoke from a position of authority on the matter, and with such feeling for we “students” in the room that it was all quite moving. There were a few sniffles and many dabbed eyes. Her seminar was one of the things that made conference attendance a real dollar value for me.

If you are not a member of Pink Essence, you should go look around, and join up if you like what you see. You will likely feel more compelled to attend SCC too if you do, so be forewarned.

If you are camera shy you should, like I will, practice your 180 degree turn and retreat move, and do try, my dears, to pay attention to where you are walking.

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On another note, this post is #200, which is I suppose somewhat of a milestone. Thanks to everyone who has visited, full body hugs to all of you who have left comments. I would have stopped much sooner without you. I suspect there are another couple of centuries still left in me. I look forward to sharing them with you.

Happy weekend all.

Petra Guest Blogs, yet again

It is my delight today to center and smooth my skirt before answering the virtual doorbell to welcome visitors from Guilty Pleasures, where I have a guest post up today. Darling, you look smashing, love your bag, please come in.

Regular readers of Voyages en Rose are encouraged to go and visit with Ally and friends over Guilty Pleasures. I wrote a product review on some terrific new tights there, and you might get a laugh out of it. In just under 900 words I was unable to discern whether my new Scrunchy Sheers were made for Supermodels or Streetwalkers. They might be appropriate for solicitors in general, or The Solicitor General. Honestly, I still can’t make my mind up.

In fact, I went so far as to model them in both modes. I do know for certain now that I am not made for the life of the Streetwalker. The gal in the middle (pictured below, please do not click to enlarge) looks pretty much like I like to feel. The more risqué ensembles left and right did feel weirdly empowering for a couple of minutes, but a couple of minutes only. Truly I did not recognize myself. That is not good. Our clothes should reveal the true person within, not distort her. I will think about Halloween though.

So go and read, and then do hurry back would you? While you are away, I am going to have a quiet chat with our newish visitors.

Just now I suspect that you might be surprised to find yourselves reading a Cross Dresser's blog. You probably would have guessed earlier if I had posted a pic on GP, but my real camera is out of town with Mrs. Bellejambes just now and the low-res snaps I did get were just not sharp enough for a real blog. Additionally, it must be said that the model in the snaps over on GP does have nicer legs than me. I am an authority on legs if nothing else.

In any event, welcome to Voyages en Rose. For those of you who have not already hit the back button, I have a thought for you:

You already know a Cross Dresser. It is likely though that you do not know who that person is.

Perhaps a neighbor, a happily married chap like me, whose wife knows and is to one degree or another is supportive. Perhaps somebody who is deeply private in their habits, a little bit guilt ridden and fearful, and is just now wearing a smart pair of tights at the office under his khaki’s two cubes down the way from yours. Perhaps the new woman in Customer Support with the biggish shoulders who, in the not too distant past, had a different name and a different gender assignment, but discovered her true nature through wardrobe experimentation. We are all over the place.

We have wardrobe elements in common, but at some level we are unique as fingerprints or snowflakes. For me, I arrived at this place in my life after long decades of pushing a curiosity away. When I welcomed the curiosity and explored it fully and freely, here is what I found: I am a pretty happy, successful and well adjusted guy, and am good and natural at those guy-ish things. All good, but just not a big enough canvas for me to fully express myself on.

I have always been entranced by and envious of women. Really, you must know you make our heads snap and swivel with your looks. My, but you are beautiful. And your minds, how they confound and delight and sometimes short circuit ours. The company of women is infinitely more interesting and rewarding than the company of men. For me, by presenting as well and fully as I can as a woman, I get as close as I can to experiencing the world through a more feminine set of sensibilities. This is a real privilege. This makes me a happier, better guy.

I have been blogging about becoming that better guy for a couple of years now. If you would like to read a little more about my take on femininity, fashion and foundation garments, I would be happy if you would stay a while and browse here and there. Here are some links to prior posts you might want to follow:

Guilty Pleasures readers being fond of Lingerie, may enjoy this essay: a year end review of a years worth of very rigorous hosiery reviews.

This is a good time of year to remember what a nightmare Black Friday is. Last year I hit the shops and lived to tell the tale here. Take my advice – stay home.

Try this one for a small essay on some of the style icons that caught and held my attention on TV when I just a youngster (hint – there was a Josie and the Pussycats before Rosario Dawson).

Strappy sandals, honesty and openness with a beautiful stranger in the shoe clearance racks. Sounds like a little slice of shopping heaven over here.

Lastly, a small essay on how technology, specifically the internet is helping people like me to find a way to express themselves more openly, with fewer negative repercussions.

And you, dear new friend, can help that happy process along too. In fact, your help is needed.

Cross Dressers, and Transgendered people in general do not have an easy time coming to terms with themselves. But many, and hopefully more each day, do. So if you find someone in your lives struggling with such issues or living out loud with their truths, smile and show some kindness. That will help. And please, by all means, whatever fashion tips you have for us are most sincerely welcomed.

I do hope that the time you have spent here today helps your best, most admired and most envied feminine characteristics surface when that moment arises.

Thanks for visiting.