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!

Petra’s Poll – Who is the fairest of them all?

I am a little surprised that the very fair did not fare very well. I bear no animosity to blondes. I have been treated cruelly only by one, and she knows who she is. Oddly enough, she does not know who I am, so we can just leave that whole episode on the curb thank you very much.

In any event, I have forgotten the hurt, smoothed my skirt, and reviewed your input on who amongst a bouquet of exemplary beauties stands out as the most blooming, most fragrant and irresistible.

Our contenders were a mix of contemporary and classic, from China white to Mocha brown. There are shades and shapes absent from the set principally because I only rummaged the attic between my ears for avatars of beauty for a few moments, but also because a truly comprehensive slide show of stunners would take too much time for me to build and for you to review.

And I, for one, need to focus on my own looks.

In any event, your runaway favorite is the ripe and alluring Selma Hayek. I share your enthusiasm, and Selma was my personal pick. I would encourage you to visit the Campari site for all the wonderful video that this still was pulled from. Yum.

Enduring English Rose Julie Christie and smoldering Spanish senorita Penelope Cruz top the podium with no objections from your editrix, and most of the rest of my favorites get a polite nod from one or more of you refined people.

Some personal observations here. I am delighted that Kim Novak got a tip of the tiara from one of you. I practically died the first moment she appeared bullet-bra’d and sweater-dressed in Vertigo. Intoxicating mix of strength and frailty.

Surprised given her high current profile that the beguiling Aussie Cate Blanchett drew a blank here, but truly in this company, anyone could.

I did feel poorly leaving Diahann Carroll out, and was fearful that she might get shut out of the voting as well. Alas she did. To me, she has maintained so well, for so long. She stood out when I was a kid watching Julia in the 60’s. She made all the other girls on Dynasty look garish in the 80’s. And even today well into her own 70’s she has legs I would kill for.

I will some time in the future repeat this poll because I suspect that one of the things that draws us to cross dressing is a profound admiration for womanly beauty, and the subtle irrefutable power that is just such an elegant part of the feminine inheritance. If you have a favorite femme that you want to see a little tribute paid to here, don’t be shy. Please leave a comment with your favorite here.

So this weeks poll? All about the shoes friends. I had a transformative experience in a Designer Shoe Warehouse this past week. You are never too old it seems to acquire a new obsession. There will be a post on the topic later this week. In the meantime, I would like to see just how many heels we are all stowing around the house these days. Stroll on over and vote, would you my dear?

Happy dressing and happy everything else….

Petra's Pantyhose Parade – Between me and my Calvin’s

Dear dear depilated and leggy friends. Far from the glimmering finish line we are, but we can take comfort not only from the electric thrill of lycra-rich sheers on our collective thighs, but also from the emerging reality that, with your patience, my formula for judging the merits of pantyhose is now standing up well to repeated scrutiny.

For the first 4 weeks of Petra’s Pantyhose Parade some new discovery or unconsidered consideration caused me to slink back to the math and tweak my too too complex matrix. Recently however, the formula has been rock solid and returned to me results true, O so true. The numbers and my legs have a perfectly straight back-seam line. All that is required now is time immeasurable and a 7 figure bailout to fund an epic shopping spree. With those 2 small, small gifts I am confident I can return to you a gold standard, a true north, a magic touchstone that fully reveals the good, the bad and the saggy of the entire loving world of Pantyhose.

Failing those little gifts, I will continue to deliver it here in weekly increments.

Again, the ground rules:

I seek no favors from the selfless merchants who labor long to clothe our legs. I am beyond corruption. That is to say, I am so irredeemably corrupted by life itself that a new pair or 2 of free tights would barely get my attention. If, however, you are a senior VP of marketing of such a firm who might look kindly on me and my sisters, I promise to distribute your largesse (container loads only please) fairly. Ship me what you can. I will line up the ladies, from thinnest to thickest ankles, and make your hose proud, so proud.

If, however, you are in a position of influence or responsibility at Calvin Klein, I have a ’97 Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon with your name on it simply for bringing the CK Matte Ultra Sheer Control Top Pantyhose to the attention of my many friends and I. You are my hero.

I splashed out a bit at a Macy’s last week. Lovely assistant who knew my size in a knowing top-to-toe glance. I knew in a glance as well that I wanted her boots. But that is for another day.

On this day I am compelled to report that caramel can be woven into a 20 Denier sheer fabric. Yes the label indicates 14% Lycra and the rest (minus the cotton gusset) in nylon, but they are lying, damn them, lying! If not for the diminishing flexibility that comes with advancing years, I would gladly have eaten my own thigh once my Calvin’s glided into place.

Forgive me, it is difficult to not be rhapsodic about these pantyhose. I will go now to bullet point mode and attempt to regain my newly shredded journalistic credentials:

• A nearly liquid feel. You expect ripples when you touch them


• Tight, even yarn that moves on the leg, but is in sure and constant touch


• Fashion forward reinforcement – clean lines between leg and panty right at the hinge of the thigh


• Sewn-in CK logo provides easy retrieval from crowded, chaotic hosiery drawers


• A healthy nude shade not exactly like any other I own called Praline. It looks like a tan of a far wealthier women than I


• Holds shape as though life itself (if not fashion) depended on it, and


• Possessed of an X factor that just makes you feel like a thousand fragrant kisses.

And this by the way from someone who is not much impressed with labels. I am not easily moved by a big brand, friends. But I do know how to fall in love.

And here I am. Smitten. Hopelessly so. And I don’t mind.

The current champ, Nordstrom Sheers have been effortlessly flicked off the pedestal with a massive ~33% improvement in Petra Pantyhose Points. The adjusted top 3 are charted here. And there is now nothing between me and my Calvin’s, but the next pretender to the throne. I urge you to look under the couch cushions (and do bend at the knee for the love of god) to scrape together the necessary $12.00. If you cannot manage that, drop me a line, and I will create a distraction by attempting to steal the Macy’s Sales Assistant boots. That may provide you the cover required to fill your handbag with these pantyhose of evidently unrivalled quality.

Getting old is a drag

While the art of transformation is so at the core of our intoxicating and compelling urges, I will confess, dear friends, to being a bit of a data fiend. I do hope that my love of math does not erode what little womanly appeal I may accidentally possess. I trust that we, above all people, are able to rise above stereotypes (perhaps aided by impossibly high heels) and be smart girls without sacrificing even a smidgen of our feminine appeal. So here are some numbers and thoughts on last weeks poll that so many of you were kind enough to participate in.

I asked what age we are. I honestly volunteered my own (46) and another 48 of you clicked in, Many thanks! Here is what we look like:
To me, there are some results that run slightly against expectations, and one big puzzle. O how I want your help with the puzzle, which nets out like so: Where are all the young crossdressers?

My own polling and numbers gleaned from other sources indicates that we are called into the pink fitting room at very early ages. Anywhere from 80-90% of us either crossdressed or had the dawning realization of a gender gift before we escaped from high school. And yet this next crop of fashion forward friends is completely absent from the Voyages en Rose readership. (Click on images to enlarge)

Where O where are they? Measured against the national demographic data provided by the never glamorous US Census Bureau you can see how silver haired we are relative to the overall population. Fully half of our site visitors are 50 years or older where this sophisticated set comprises a mere 25% of the broad male population (absolutely no pun intended). The chart shows Petra’s readership shamefully below national population distribution in the under 30 set though, and this begs a little speculating. Mine follows, and your ideas are solicited here.

Do we spend our earlier years experimenting and then, believing in our young adult years that this will simply go away? Is there a drive for “fitting in” and even mating up that suppresses the dressing? Does the habit go dormant or only periodically erupt until we mature a little and really take ownership of it? This theory is based on only a little consideration of my own case. There is however, one other possibility that I must contend with if I am to be an honest correspondent from the front lines of crossdressing. Here goes:

Petra Bellejambes' Voyages en Rose could be so irredeemably uncool and out of touch with youth culture that I lost the younger CD at “hello”. If so, I can live with it. I know that I certainly lived with the “never trust anyone over 30” suggestion that a generation just a little older than me lived well by back in the turbulent 60’s. Perhaps my blog has just too matronly a fragrance around it for our youngish friends.

Recently on one of the crossdressers.com forums one of the sisters started a thread wondering where indeed the younger set were. An instant flurry of 20something hands were virtually and proudly raised. That was encouraging. It seems to me that we live in a time of broader acceptance of alternative expressions of gender specifically and of self in general. With those conditions in place, it would be a shame to keep desires that don’t seem to vanish too deeply buried to enjoy them to the fullest extent.

Especially when you consider that most of us had so much better a figure in our slightly younger years. Alas, perhaps that is why I am so rarely in an age appropriate dress.

If you have any comments you would like to share, don’t hesitate. Happy to hear from you anytime, and especially in this case if you have the perspective of the 20something CD/TG.

I am going to put the data away for a little while now. I have some terrific en femme shopping planned for tomorrow. And likely not dressed age appropriate methinks. I suspect the next couple of posts will be a little less academic. Till then, happy dressing and happy everything else.