Jessica's story.
Many of you reading this article will recognise certain parts of my
story from your own life. Try to smile about it all as I do.
Others out there, specifically those still in the cross-dressing
“closet”, need to read my story. It may convince you finally to walk out
dressed as a woman and discover, quite literally, a new world.
I am a transvestite, a cross-dresser, a “tgirl”.
Those terms mean I dress in woman's clothing and I use them equally. My reasons for cross-dressing are obscure but
deeply engrained within my psyche: it's something I need to do to relax and
enjoy myself. I have been cross-dressing since I was very young, perhaps 5 or
6, that is, almost all my life.
I do not consider myself to be a transexual
and have no desire to change sex. That said, I have pondered long and hard
about the means to grow my own “female” breasts. I will leave it to others,
someone more attuned to the semantics and terminology of fetishes, to decide my
true calling in the fetish lexicon.
Before starting to recount things, let's be clear: at one level I
consider the act of cross-dressing rather illogical. I am not a woman. I should
not need to dress as one. Even so, for much of my life an urge to cross-dress
has been powerful enough for me to wear clothing belonging to almost all the
women in my life and also take sometimes quite unreasonable risks of being
discovered. I recognise my compulsion, my fetish, for the odd “condition” it
is. However, having spent half a lifetime fighting the desire to cross-dress, I
now welcome and enjoy it.
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The beginning of my cross-dressing was probably commonplace for many
TV's. Put simply, I had a difficult relationship with my mother. (The American
comedian Robin Williams once said something like “When it comes to
psychoanalysis, it's either one thing or a mother”. His pun is apt for my case)
To tell it briefly, I will recount a specific
instance. I believe I was about 4 or 5, certainly pre-school, and I remember
sitting on the stairs in my house listening to my mother talking to a neighbour
in the kitchen below. She explained how she had desperately wanted a girl
rather than a boy for a second child (my brother is three years older than I)
She also went on to say how she had been using contraceptives but that they had
failed and I was the result.
I was young but not stupid. I remember to this day her words; spoken
in a tone of bitter regret and disappointment. It was just such a tone that
carried itself into my everyday life as a child; a mother who always shouted, a
child who could do no right no matter how he behaved. A measure of my childhood
discomfort can be judged from the fact that I remember always being happy to
leave the house and go to school. Some mornings it was a relief just to get
away from my mother's voice.
There is a final event in this story that is perhaps even more
telling. One day and at the bottom of the same stairs lay a small table with
several of my mother's dresses on it. For some reason, I crept down the stairs and
put one of the dresses over my head. I do believe it was the same day as the
eavesdropping described above but, in any event, my mother found me in this
half-dressed “girl” state. It was the first and only time I can remember her
laughing and sounding so happy with me. She was ecstatic and to this day I can
picture her face at that very moment smiling down at me.
My mother was finally pleased with me. All I had to do was get into her
dresses.
There are many other memories of my childhood that might ring a bell
with others. From about eight years of age I can recall dressing slightly
peculiarly, slimming down my pants to look like knickers, make-believe bras
etc., and also getting involved in self-bondage. Bondage is a very common
secondary fetish to cross-dressing. I believe as many as 75% of transvestites
also have bondage fantasies or actually take part in some form of bondage
activity. In addition, I also developed a taste for nudity which was probably
unusual for so young a child. I went to serious lengths to be naked even as a
young child; going so far as to expose myself to girls from the age of nine or
so. I was immensely lucky that this type of event was to occur only once or twice
and nothing ever came of it. Looking back, I am amazed at my precocious
sexuality at a young age and can also see the beginnings of some fairly dark
compulsions.
Puberty changed things substantially. From the age of thirteen I began
dressing in my mother's clothes when she and everyone else was
out of the house. My mother worked during the day and when I came home from
school she would still be out. As a result, I would spend many hours slipping
in and out of her underwear and dresses. I closed the curtains but I inevitably
must have been seen and things was noticed. What woman
wouldn't know that her personal clothing had been disturbed in her draws? It is
clear to me now that my entire family knew about my activities but said
nothing.
There was worse. On one occasion another boy who lived in the same
street asked me if I dressed in women's clothes. I laughed it off; there being
no alternative at the time. Fortunately, it appeared to make no difference to
anyone but the implications are obvious; the word was out!
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I left home at seventeen and was happy to go. Later, I did university,
got a degree, went to live in London, found a girl, married and “settled down”.
My wife and I had three children but the marriage turned into a disaster after
15 years or so. I began working away from home and became a “week-end
dad”. At this stage, it needs to be
clear that, like most transvestites, I considered myself to be heterosexual,
even if perhaps imperfectly heterosexual. There had been a couple of
“incidents” as might happen to many young men of “odd” thoughts and dreams but
I ignored these for the most part. Eventually and given the state of my
marriage I took on a girlfriend for those very sound and sensible, heterosexual
reasons of wanting and having sex with a woman.
One day during the 1980's and by fortuitous chance I spotted an
article in a magazine about the Northern Concord transvestite club. The story
was matter-of-fact and a couple of tgirls posed for
the camera. The location of the club, Manchester, stuck in my head as you might
expect it would. So, there are others cross-dressers too!
Other things were happening. From my mid-forties onwards the urge to
cross-dress had become acute. I now needed make-up, to wear a wig, to wear
girl's shoes etc. I remember being anguished over the difficulty of getting
girl's shoes when I had all the other clothes I needed to fully cross-dress. A
minor thing like that made the rest of dressing a waste of time! Nevertheless,
I began dressing in the evening at my home when everyone was out and actually
getting into my car and driving off in female mode. Also, and as I often
travelled in the early morning on Monday's, I began dressing at home and
travelled the M25 motorway in make-up and women's clothing only removing
all the make up and re-dressing as a boy
at Clacket's lane service station!. Looking back,
this was quite a “mad” period; the chances of my being discovered were high.
During the whole of my life I had, of course, looked for feminine
things to keep as my own and dress in them. In my forties, two things happened:
my job took me to the Brighton area and the internet became all powerful.
Through the internet I discover Fantasy Girl, the TV shop in Hove. I travelled
up to and around the area of the shop for some weeks; afraid to go in. Do I
want to enter this world of fetishism and perverse sexuality?
OK, so eventually I did.
In the shop I met Ashleigh, a pretty transvestite who has a day-job
dressing as a woman! How perfect is that? She was rather shy and a bit worried
about the two of us being in the shop together. We talked a little nervously at
first but eventually we calmed down and she showed me two breast-forms and various
girl clothes in the shop. I stripped my top off and put the forms on, peering
at myself in a long mirror. Ashleigh asked me if I wanted a bra to try the
forms out properly. I realised then that I had entered another world, one in
which feminine clothing and activities were normal. I bought the breast-forms
and held them up to my chest secretly on many occasions all over the place; at
home, at the girlfriend's house, in hotels. With a bra they are perfect and
look fabulously feminine. I returned to the Fantasy Girl shop and bought a
slinky tight dress and make-up. I looked for shoes and bought a nightie. Fantasy Girl became a regular haunt. Ashleigh
talked to me about pubs and clubs cross-dressers can go to and feel relaxed.
Finally on a Friday night, away from family and girlfriend I booked
into the Travelodge in Hassocks near Brighton. I made up and changed in my
room. When it became dark outside I cracked open my hotel room door and
listened a rather long time for noises in the corridor before I finally took
courage and plunged out into the real world in women's' clothing. Every hotel
corridor was filled with people and noises. I was sure the local vicar and the
entire congregation of the local church were waiting just around the corridor
of this hotel. I was petrified.
The first ever person to meet me in female mode was the hotel night
watchman. Poor fellow, it must have been quite a sight.
An hour later, I was sitting in my car outside the Harlequins pub in
Brighton. I waited there for a long time too. Eventually, Claire came out of
the pub wearing a short skirt and flouncy wig. She smiled and said “get out and come inside”. The
pub doorman had spotted me and sent her out to get me. They all knew the score
about first-timers. I walked with Claire into the pub. There were four or five
transvestites in the bar. We bought drinks and chatted. The rest of the place,
a blare of noise and lesbians, ignored us.
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After some years my job in the South ended and I was offered a job
near Manchester. Quite suddenly I was living 12 miles from Manchester, the home
of the Northern Concord club I had read about many years before. Determined not
to spend my life in B&B's, I decided to rent a flat. My selection of locale
for the flat was not solely based on any beautiful views over the area; I chose
a flat that might allow a girl to go out quietly and had private parking.
Finally, I had my own space. I could wear nighties to
bed and women's clothing when I was indoors. The bathroom in the flat had
mirrors and lighting that made one look good. It was a perfect spot to change
from boy to girl in peace.
Six weeks after arriving in Manchester I dressed in front of my
mirrors one evening and went looking for Northern Concord, the transvestites'
club. It was easy to find the address on the internet. On that Wednesday night
I was sitting in my car across from the club, dressed in women's clothing,
made-up and wearing a rather straw-like wig. After an hour, I worked up enough
courage and got out of the car, walked across the street and into the club.
Meeting Mary, the Concord club hostess, for the first time is a bit
disarming. You have no idea what to expect and what you find is a matter-of-fact
pleasantness and the offer of a drink. Mary showed me the Concord changing room
and talked about the club. I remember looking at myself in a changing room's
full-length mirror. Blond wig, made up eyes, short
skirt, tights. I was really pleased if not slightly mesmerized with my
appearance. Unfazed and patient at my self-indulgent mirror-gazing, Mary later
took me to a couple of other pubs and clubs and then Napoleon's dance bar. When
I walked into Napoleons for this first time, it was bursting with tgirls. On the top floor the tgirls
were dancing. On a good night, the place rocks.
From that time onwards I visited the Northern Concord club every week
on Wednesday evening and sometimes arranged to get into Manchester on Mondays
and Thursdays and even at the weekend.
With my flat to change in it was a dream just to make up and go out
whenever I wanted. I try make-ups, buy mail-order clothes, take
photographs. I perfected my looks, noticed and overcame my problem areas: wig,
shoes, Adams' apple, colour-matched clothes.
One Wednesday night at the Concord club Susan (a real girl) held a
sale of transvestite accessories. I bought a dress but I was really looking for
a better wig, my old one being rather “rough and ready”, i.e. cheap. I spot a
long, wavy auburn wig and pop into a private spot to try it on. In the changing room
is the full length mirror. With the new wig on I walk up to the mirror and
finally see myself.
Born again
There is a common saying, “born again”, which is used in a religious
context and by which expression new converts to a religion describe that moment
of epiphany, the sudden vision or understanding that affects the whole of
one's beliefs. When I stepped in front
of the mirror at the Concord club with my new wig on that Wednesday evening, I
was, quite literally, born again.
Fifty years after my mother said she wanted a daughter, one arrived. I
am Jessica.
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Going out into Manchester dressed as a girl on a regular basis,
changed things, I saw other tgirls and made friends
with them. I learnt over time to use the mirrors and looks of the admirers to
make myself as pretty as I could, trying new make-ups, new clothes, new jewellery in different combinations. I learnt to dance
in 4” heels. I discovered nails and learnt how to put them on and take them
off. Long nails are a delight. (Sorry, patient reader, as yet another fetish
emerges.)
By now I think I have a girlie “look”. I practised walking in my
flat's 6 yard corridor so I should have a girlie walk. I think I should be
attractive, let me be honest, to men. OK, that is largely based on short skirts
but it works. I know my appearance has often been more than slightly outrageous
but why be anything else other than overbearingly feminine? So what?
So
what?
I do not present this photo just to show off my figure (OK maybe I do
just a little bit) I show it because it is so very girlie. The woman in
this picture is bursting with femininity and is not afraid to show it.
Why should she be afraid? She is desirable. She is sexy. She is
everything I always wanted Jessica to be.
After so many years in the closet, she is the perfect Jessica, she has
walked out in the streets, she has shopped, she can
wear what she likes and look a beautiful woman.
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There's not much more to say.
Recently, I have changed a little and not been going out quite as much
as a tgirl. This type of change in attitude happens
to me a lot and is usually as a result of my stress levels at my place of work.
It's been hard for my many friends who have occasionally found me indifferent
to our friendship because I am simply not feeling girlie
enough to respond to them as Jessica. Time and circumstances may change my
attitude back to being more feminine later but it's difficult for me to fake my
interest, or lack of interest , in my femininity.
My relationship with my mother is much improved with time. She knows
nothing of Jessica and never will know anything of her. A
pity? Should she know? Not really, there is no point in telling her
anything. I am not a daughter and cross-dressing is not an activity she would
appreciate in a son. The past is forgotten and I am content.
Northern Concord club was replaced by Manchester Concord and
eventually moved to a new home in the Rembrandt bar. The Manchester Concord is a
proper club with membership dues and events. Mary remains the hostess;
unflappable, friendly, chatting to everyone, helpful to everyone. Her confidence
and relaxed manner were a great help to me on my first nights at the club.
Thanks Mary, I hope my words here have expressed the sense of completeness that
being Jessica has made me and the large part you and the Concord club have
played in helping me to develop myself as a woman. Long may our valuable club continue. For many transvestites and others it serves as a
“safe haven” and meeting place where no eyebrows are raised
nor judgements made.
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Eventually I lost my job in the Manchester area and took another one
in the south-east. I had to give up my flat and clear it of Jessica's things;
dresses, make-up. Removing all my make-up from the bathroom and putting it into a
hold-all was extremely hard; I realised that Jessica was not going to be around
for a while. I could no longer choose to to go out
dancing in a short skirt whenever I wished. It felt very much like a death in
the family.
Jessica is now in two hold-alls in my loft. None of my family know of her existence, neither does my girlfriend. Jessica
is in the closet once again. I have no doubt however that Jessica will go
dancing in Napoleons bar once more and soon. Things will be different then,
less relaxed, less natural but it will be worth the effort just to meet old
friends, to feel the pinch of my bra, to swish my dress and to dance.
And get looks from a few admirers, maybe.
Only one life.
X X
Jessica.
PS. At the time of writing this article I am 58 years old. All the
photos in this article were taken within my 58th year. If you are in
the cross-dressing closet, trust me: you can do all I have described above too.
Find the Manchester Concord club and go there.