Saturday night was invited by the Wizard to go to a cross dressers club, London’s ‘premier’ transgender club, no less.
“You look so pretty” I told him, experimentally.
He sighed with satisfaction. He then told me about his new love, a whispery hippy girl. Inwardly I seethed. Surely it is the prerogative of the dumpee, not the dumper, to confess to meeting someone new.
“Why didn’t you ask her here tonight then?” I snapped.
“Oh she’s not into this, she’s terribly fragile. You can hardly hear what she is saying.” he replied. “Unlike me, she has no dark side. She’s into yoga. I love her energy. She’s really submissive.”
Knowing this guy is a power-tripping, game-playing sexual pervert par excellence, with a thin veneer of hippydom, all drawstring trousers and dreadlocks, it was all I could do not to scoff. In fact I don’t think I managed to hold back.
“It’s like all those men who fancy Thai women, thinking they are so docile. What rot! Those women are hard as nails” I commented.
I stood around bored out of my mind. It was the opposite of sexy. The vulnerability is so evident, wafer-thin under the pancake foundation.
“I don’t know who to fancy”. I complained to another bio-female.”The ones that look like boys are probably gay, the ones that look like girls could be either way, ‘gay’ (depending on whether they have had the op, which would mean they fancy women), or ‘straight’ (if they were pre-op and fancied women) or …well it’s all rather confusing.”
A female impressionist did a performance, miming to Cher (black Charles I wig), Kylie (blonde wig), Dusty (tight lurex evening dress). Her spandex leotard barely contained the bulge in her groin. Her face was odd, huge eyes and grin, no hips.
The wizard said “She looked so embarrassed.”
“Well that’s the difference between a real woman and a trannie” I shot back.
One of the things I like about you is how you come right out and say what others are afraid to. It's not the way of the charming libra, who prefers to sugar-coat, but it is refreshing.
Hope you didn't have to pay to get in.
That spandex leotard must be rather uncomfortable for anyone whose male bits remain in their intact pre-op form! It may explain the singer's vocal prowess!
I too find it an odd phenomenon. I have tried cross-dresing at a novelty works party. I put on a nurse's smock and a wig! Yes, it was a chuckle but I felt no desire to go on clothing myself like that after the gig had broken up. To me that's not a turn-on, but each to their own. Sorry you didn't have much fun there, ML, but like me you had to attend to find out.
'Annie' fortunately I didn't have to pay to get in. For 3 reasons:
1)Last year I did the wizard a massive favour.
2) I don't have much money, have a child to bring up. He has money and no responsibilities.
3) I've made a promise to myself that I'm not going dutch anymore.
Dear MsML,
Another storming post.
I was invited to a TG/TV club (perhaps the same one) before xmas by a very sweet TV friend of mine who was down from the north east to meet their similarly inclined lover …
I demurred as I knew that after a few drinks my use of the appropriate pronouns would diminish exponentially …
and like you, would feel out of place …
and drawstring trousers on men … EWWWWW!!!
AHIH x
Annie Oakley, just wanted to say also, welcome to my blog. (Don't 'spose you are related to Billy the Kid?)
Reason no.4 of why I should not have paid to get in: to get a cab there and back to the club would have cost a minimum of £40 return. You don't really want to travel on public transport in cross dress either.
So the wizard paid £12 for me to go, which means it cost him £6 each way to be driven there and back by me.
On reflection, possibly the reason that I was invited after a 6 month resounding silence?
Thanks for your honesty! It is great to see!