Living life as a Dressed Oyster?? Preamble and digression...

I suppose when you're looking in at the weird and wonderful world of cross-dressing you would probably tend to initially clump us all together under the most common sort of label, possibly something like "Oh look, a bunch of trannies!". And to be honest, for your average stag do, Scaffolders Social or White Van Rally that would probably pretty much do. I mean why would you over-complicate things? 

Google Image 'A Bunch of Trannies' and this 
is what comes up. Slightly unexpectedly...

However, the trouble with such a harmless piece of banter is that nothing is more likely to inflame a cross-dresser's passion than to be incorrectly labelled. Criticize our skirts, ridicule our legs, mock our wigs... yes indeed such comments will dig deep and the barbs draw blood. We will slink away to lick our wounds and try to re-build our shattered egos. But should you dare to mislabel us then be prepared to face the full wrath of our potty mouths, the sudden thrust of surprisingly un-ladylike biceps and the stomp of a size 11 platform shoe on your instep. All of which will no doubt be captured on a passing phone only to come back to haunt you when humiliating footage of your good self being tonked by a raging cross-dresser surfaces on Youtube the following day. And you will wonder where it all went wrong. You will wonder exactly what it was you said. You will wonder how you seemed to be in complete control of the humiliation process only to have it suddenly flip. You sir will have been guilty of mis-labeling your opponent and for that you deserve all the sniggering upvotes your humiliation deserves...

Oyster Tranny? Apparently Tyranny is 
too hard to spell....

Now if I'm being honest, the only reason I'm venturing into the tricky waters of cross-dressing nomenclature is because I've just invented a new category of cross-dresser specifically for myself. Let it be known that I am now officially (subject to any legal challenge or any obscure EEC regulation of course) to be recognised as an 'Oyster Tranny' or, if you prefer, 'A Dressed Oyster'. (pause for muted fanfare)

Of course as a new and controversial sub-category of a much maligned parent group I couldn't resist Image Googling the term itself and am intrigued to show the following as the definitive, logarithmically determined definition of the term 'Dressed Oyster'. And lo and behold it looks like a dodgy 90s album cover. But it's actually a dodgy 70s album cover that's way ahead of its time (Blue Oyster Cult: Tyranny and Mutation (1973) to be exact)

OK, bearing in mind that no two cross-dressers can even agree on what shoes are permissible with a pair of black tights, this is my personal take on some of the current cross-dressing tribes and terms in common-ish usage.  After all if I wish Dressed Oyster to join them I should be clear about where it sits. There will be omissions, there will be points of debate, there will be squeals of indignation but for what it's worth, this is my personal pocket-sized take on our diverse, divided and divisive community. All to be taken with a pinch of salt of course (usual riders apply)

Drag Queen: Usually gay, flamboyant and acid tongued. Likes torch songs. Critiques the patriarchy but only lives for performance.

Outfits to Die for??

Panto Dame: Usually gay, flamboyant and acid tongued. Likes torch songs. Critiques the patriarchy, loves the prince but only lives for winter performances. Confuses children and Americans.

Tranny Psychos:  Mainly to be found in vintage movies and tv shows (sic). Wears women's skins, becomes their dead mother etc. Usually has a wig that falls off at awkward moments and an inability to apply lipstick or remove 5 o'clock shadow. Not ladylike at all!

Hairy Panty Wearer (HPW): Occasional part-timers grabbing a fleeting instant of make-believe. In the cupboard. Which is kept in a closet. Conveniently close to the wife's undies drawer. Where it may stay for the rest of their lives until they either explode or become...

Transvestite (tranny, TV): In the words of Madness, HPW's who venture 'One Step Beyond!!!' and actually resist the Act of Onan long enough to put on a few clothes. In the early stages this may closely resemble some of the beardy-men cross-dressing adverts on the telly, but without the faux innocence. The happy hunting ground of the guilt-ridden and those attempting to live a double-life.

Cross-Dresser: A 50 year old transvestite who shaves their legs and watches Youtube make-up tutorials for 18 year olds. Committed to the cause but have usually left it a bit late in the day to regard themselves as a...

TGirl:  A cross-dresser who has mastered the short skirt, the high heels and the selfie. These can be seen as the slicker elder sister of the 

TGurl: A cross-dresser who has mastered the art of the funky wig, the Doc Marten and the selfie. Even 'younger' manifestations can be seen in the

Sissie: Frills, white ankle socks and metres of shiny material draped artfully over petticoats and knickers. Usually instructed to dress in such a manner by legions of strict females so can't really be held responsible for their awkward predicament. Honest. And then there are

Adult Babies:  Nappies and bottles where gender is pretty much defined by the pink or the blue ribbon on your bonnet. The Trans no-mans land, especially as genetic women are often adult babies too. Confusing, so best back quietly out of the nursery to visit

"I know my place girls..."

Transgender: "Q. What's the difference between transvestite and transgender? A. About 18 months"  Cross-dressing may be an early stage in accepting a gender dysphoria and an essential stage on the route to transition. Or it may not. Tricky one that. Also I've a sneaky feeling that a lot of TGs regard TVs as a bit of an embarrassment and a barrier to their being accepted by the world in general. The Rubicon of gender has been crossed and they are now women so no longer cross-dressers and as I've little experience of the world of Male to Female (MTF) TGs I can only offer the following wildly inaccurate guidelines based on the famous vintage 'Class' sketch (and I can offer no thoughts at all on Female to Male (FTM) Trans Men. You're on your own there). 
Here we go then...

• Transgender (no-op):  Happy with the name change and the new wardrobe. And the laser of course. Bit squeamish about scalpels so retains more than most. Secretly looks up to Post-Op. Bit worried they bricked it.
• Transgender (pre-op):  Being a Pre-Op TG seems to be both a declaration of intent and the planting of a flag. Also the drawing of a line in the sand. And the determination to face a Brave New World. It also means you can secretly look down on Non-Op for bricking it whilst looking up at Post-Op for having finished everything, especially given how slow everything transition-related seems to go.
• Transgender (post op): Looks down from lofty peaks. Life is tough on the mountain but at least she's there, unlike those unfortunates lacking her experiences or bloody-mindedness. Officer class.

And then there are a few other groups where you really have to think about a bit that come under the heading GenderQueer. A bit like all the smaller parties and individuals that appear on polling sheets at the general election

Bigender. Too much of a good thing?

Gender fluid: Can't make up their mind what to wear and have exceptionally large wardrobes.

Androgynous: Boring outfits

A-gender: No gender. Really boring outfits

Bigender: Not someone with strong views on which part of an egg should be eaten (see Gullivers Travels) but someone with two distinct personalities, one male, one female. Very convenient but sounds a bit Jekyll and Hyde-ish to me 

There are probably lots more classifications and tribes out there but at this point it all starts to get a little 'People's Front of Judea' vs 'The Judean People's Front' for me so I'll call it quits for now. Anyway, this is all well and good but such a long diversion has totally undermined my original thought  regarding my own specific sub-classification of Oyster Tranny. So I guess I'll have to address that less than earth-shattering topic at a later date...

Coping With The Female Gaze - The Mo Shoot

"Two hours!! Two. F*****g. Hours."

I admit I've never been the quickest at changing, make-up, hair and all that malarkey but I hadn't realised that maybe I'd been taking quite so long. And although Mo seemed to be absorbed on her computer, tweaking an image here, replying to an email there, it seems I may have been slightly indulgent in the time allowed me. 

Oh dear. I think I'd been enjoying the luxury of stress-free dressing-space a little too much.

"Subtle and inconspicuous..."

It's been quite a while now since the actual event but it was only a couple of weeks back that we'd been discussing the shoot, with Mo mentioning how long she'd been waiting to actually get started. If her emphatic expression is anything to go by time has obviously not dulled her memory of the occasion.

So, to recap, this was my second photo-shoot and it took place not long after the first one with Bex but an altogether different affair. For a start I had already met and chatted with Mo several times before and I was aware of her body of work, not only photographing cross-dressers, but also Romanian workers in Britain and the homeless of Kings Cross among others. I enjoyed it too and Mo is one of life's inquisitive people, open and welcoming to everyone she comes across which must be a great boon both as a photographer and a human being. She'd mentioned that it might be interesting to do a session with me but,with a typical British reserve (though an un-typically tranny one), I'd hesitated and tried not to appear too eager until I was actually invited to her flat at Borough Market, next to Southwark Cathedral and London Bridge. 

Bex had chosen my outfit for her shoot but Mo was more than happy to photograph me in whatever outfit I arrived within so I decided to go all out vintage with a recently acquired dress (or two) from the Lindy Bop sale. The main dress was quite a colourful number with flared skirt and netting and I also had a backup that was more of a pencil dress sort of style, just in case something drastic happened to the first one. I'm not sure what that might have been but you can never be too careful..Of course this added layers of complexity as I also needed a multitude of accessories, make-up that was way beyond my skill levels and a wig made up into an appropriate vintage hair-style. Thinking about it all I'd say Mo was actually lucky to get away with two hours but finally, finally, I was 'ready for my close up Mr De Mille' and Mo could start clicking away.

"Sunlight, people, fresh air... yikes!"

Mo's flat has large windows that overlook the market and there's a lovely yellow sofa that is made for posing on so I was more than happy that the first session meant I could sit down and catch my breath. Or as much as I could in a corset anyway. Mo was experimenting with light levels, shade, silver discs, ring-flashes and other mysterious and arcane devices and I could sense I was as tense and lock-jawed as a parent letting their 'lively' son drive them on the dodgems for the first time. The camera may love some people but it has to work it's socks off to show me any affection and I started to feel sorry for Mo striving with intermittent clouds and a rigid mannequin for a subject.

But nevertheless the morning morphed into afternoon, as it tends to, and maybe I started to relax a bit. We had photos not only on the sofa, but on the stairs and in the corner of the room before Mo casually asked "Do you want to go outside for some pictures?"  Oooooh! Decision time... middle of the day, a busy market full of barrow boys, city types and tourists, dressed in vintage outfit with a dodgy hairstyle and uncertain make-up. To be honest I think quite a few women might have balked at the prospect but as this was the year of living interestingly I decided to go for it and before I had a chance to back out off we went.

Stepping through Mo's front-door into the street was... surreal. A bit like an out-of-body experience where the dress, shoes, gloves and hat-veil that I was aware of in the periphery of my vision actually belonged to someone else. I just happened to be in the cockpit, safely tucked away and quietly observing. Very much like the body hi-jack in "Being John Malkovic" in fact. Of course it helped a lot in that Mo was there with a camera so obviously that would lend a whole air of legitimacy to it, wouldn't it? Well of course it would. Obviously. Must be an art-house project. Or something.

"Quick change before I go!"

So, having squared everything up with my brain, off we went swanning around the market, pausing here and there for a few photos. Plonking myself  down on a table outside a cafe, leaning casually against a pillarbox, underneath the arches, up and down ancient stairs, you name it I posed there. Then of course there were the sudden and violent gusts of wind that are obviously tricky to deal with in petticoats and and swing dresses, so much so that whilst I was holding them all down the hat went bouncing off down the street with Mo in hot pursuit. I was slightly concerned to see that Mo was leading me into a local estate, presumable for something a bit more 'urban' and 'gritty' although it was actually to get a nice bit of The Shard in the background, but we emerged unscathed before heading back into Southwark Cathedral for a cup of coffee and a cake in the cafe. By now I was feeling rather blase about strolling around in my subtle and inconspicuous outfit and had relaxed enough to ask if Mo would take a few photos of me in my other dress, back at the flat. A quick change (really quick this time) and Mo obliged with another quick session in her front room.

So an interesting contrast to the session with Bex a few weeks before. Soho and Borough Market. My choice of outfit and an outfit selected for me. Two sites as opposed to wandering and selecting locations as the muse arose. I don't think either of the photographers were interested in 'pretty-ing up' the subject (me!) but I think both are intrigued at an attempt to gild masculinity, however unsuccessfully, with certain notions and cliche's around 'femininity'. I'm looking forward to one day seeing both bodies of work in an exhibition setting and maybe having the opportunity of talking to them with regard to what it is that intrigues them as they look down the viewfinder!

"Nothing that a nice pot of tea wont fix..."

Coping With The Female Gaze - The Bex Shoot

The first of my photographic shoots was with Bex, a photographer who favours using untouched film for her portraits. She has been published in on-line photographic and fashion magazines as well as mainstream media and her work is quite arresting and visual. For some reason I was reminded of Grant Wood's painting American Gothic  when looking through some of her images so maybe she has a similar outlook. 

IKEA bags stuffed with goodies. A cross-dressers
surreptitious suitcase

Bex had posted a message on a forum looking for middle aged cross-dressers for a project she was engaged with. It sounded interesting and in tune with my intention to be a bit more outgoing in the coming year and Bex had also given a bit more information in response to a query which pretty much summed the project up.

The book is about portraying older trans individuals in a positive light and empowering them, I feel there is a lot in the media currently about young and prepubescent trans individuals but not much about the older generation and what it means to just be trans. 

Each subject in the book will have 2 images and 2 pages of text to go with. One will be written by yourself and one by me.

I will not publish photos that you are unhappy with and we will work on a consent form together.

I will also hopefully be hosting an exhibition to coincide with the launch of the book. 

I am working to a time frame of hopefully 6 months to get everything together but it may take longer.

I also shoot on film so all my money goes into that. 

I dropped her an email to express interest and we subsequently met up for a coffee and chat in Bethnal Green where I guess she had to decide if I might fit in with her requirements for the book. It was actually quite interesting getting to chat about the whys and wherefores of cross-dressing with someone who presumably found it all a bit strange and (I suspect) a bit of an anathema. Interesting from my point of view of course - for Bex it was probably like putting up with someone describe their favourite holiday. OK for a few minutes, but a bit wearing over an hour or so (even if I only had a couple of photos to thrust under her nose). 

It wasn't all one way though and as Bex had her laptop with her I was also able to see some of the sessions with other cross-dressers that she had already completed. Very interesting it was too but it did throw up a slight issue, namely the locations used. Beth really was looking to capture cross-dressers at home and at work. This might be fine for some and would be fine for someone in the process of  transition but to be honest neither of those options were really possible in my case. However we decided to chew it over and I agreed to send her some photos of me in different styles of outfits to see what sort of look she was after.

This in Soho? Well not this obviously - far
too splendid - but this sort of thing

As part of my 'leaving everything to the photographer' attitude I was more than happy to leave the outfit choice up to Bex but this actually became an interesting point of contrast in the two shoots. Where Bex looked through loads of my old photographs on Flickr and suggested those outfits she thought looked interesting, Mo (the photographer involved in the second shoot) was happy to take pictures in whatever I happened to turn up in. It'll be interesting to see if this aspect of control had much outcome on the finished photos.

The issue of venue remained a sticking point though and in truth I began to wonder if Bex is really interested more in transgender than transvestite issues - after all I'm not sure that many transvestites would actually seek to go to work dressed - but after a bit more correspondence we decided to meet at Muse in Soho in order for Bex to photograph me out on the local streets - as close as I could be I suppose to Alexandra's 'spiritual' home, although certainly not her place of work!

After Bex made some choices with regard to clothes I had a few days to get things together.Packing about four different outfits with a couple of wigs and loads of different accessories was a bit of a chore and I just about staggered through the doorway with the equivalent of a small suitcase of stuff. Well more a large blue IKEA bag if I'm being honest and I then spent a goodly while getting ready in what I hoped would be a good starter outfit. When I finally emerged into the bar Bex hadn't actually arrived and in fact had been delayed at Oxford Street. When she did arrive she came with a very friendly assistant and loads of equipment and after a quick look at the outfits and a glass of white wine, decided that what I was wearing definitely wasn't  what she wanted! She had a look through the bag, made a few suggestions and off I dutifully went back to change.

When I re-emerged suitably attired and minus all my carefully thought-through finery, Bex decided that she'd like to start with a series of head and shoulder portraits down in the club itself so with the approval of the Muse manager (many thanks Tara) she sat me on a stool, set up some lights and then started taking photos. Here I fail a little as I hadn't a clue what she was doing. However lots of different bits of coloured film were put over portable, pop-up light reflect-ory things. There was much snapping and swapping of cameras, bemused looks from other customers and orders 'not to smile'!

This is the sort of sign that could be
confusing to pose by!

Having eventually done and dusted the head stuff, off I went to change into something a little more chi-chi (and looking not unlike an extra from Downton Abbey it has to be said) before we all went into the wilds of Soho to try to find some interesting backdrops. Of course think of Soho at night and you think of neon and the best bit of low level neon was up by Ed's Diner by a peep-show bar. Mmmmm nice!!

So that's where we set up and I spent the next half hour or so posing in the cool night of the evening in a 30s style dress by the neon sign of a peep show and providing an interesting spectacle for small groups of Asian tourists. They were no doubt confused as to the exact requirements for European lady boys as obviously build, looks and youth were not high on the list of 'must haves'. Also I suppose I was lucky that the bar owners didn't take exception to my presence under their 'Girls, Girls Girls' sign either. Then I was caught by a couple of other girls out for the evening and slightly amused to find the normally demure Alexandra draped over the doorway of a Soho sex venue. I tried to explain that it was art, but they weren't having any of it.  Anyway, the shoot carried on its merry way until Bex's batteries ran out, leading to a quick trip to a corner shop and a retreat to Muse for a drink and change of outfit. Or so we thought...

Being a bit of a quiet evening Muse had decided to call it a night and with no-where else to change or to leave my bags it sort of bought the curtain down on the evening. I had to stay to hurriedly change and remove my copious make-up before grabbing the tube home and Bex provided a very professional release form for me to sign my images away.

Was Bex happy with the shoot? I'm not sure and as she shoots on film, I'm not sure she would know until they were developed. I believe she is hoping that her book will come out in autumn and if I'm in it I'll be very pleased, will buy a copy and be very smug. Even if I don't make the cut (and as I'm not the most photogenic of individuals I'm prepared for the let-down) I'm still hoping for an invite to the launch party and maybe a copy or two of some of the better pictures!

So, all in all a fun evening, slightly chilly, lots of lighting set-ups, interesting outfit choices, reasonable amounts of wine along with some frustrations (delayed start, batteries, Muse closing early, not having yet seen the photos). Bex and her assistant are both young, enthusiastic and not averse to having a giggle so as an experience I'd give it seven out of ten and a thumbs up!

Coping With The Female Gaze - The Prologue

The Male Gaze - Not the friendliest of sights

A few years back, in an attempt to preserve and exercise some of my few remaining grey cells,  I decided to do some evening classes on psychoanalytic psychology. This was partly because the first session was on sex and gender, which I thought might be fun, but mainly because my wife had already opted for the stained glass classes and there wasn't a great deal else on offer. As it turned out my ten week, one-off course ended up as a three year diploma covering a range of topics which not only kept the grey matter exercised but was actually quite enjoyable as well. One of the most stimulating  of these topics (and I don't mean that sort of stimulating either) was the"Psychoanalysis and Film"  module where we were able to watch and analyse movies for any lurking  psychoanalytic traits. Not surprisingly Hitchcock movies were a particularly fertile area but there were others. One of these was "Peeping Tom" an excellent film directed by Michael Powell and released in 1960. Apparently it was so shocking at the time that it promptly sank from sight only being 

Well I did warn you...

recognised for its qualities in the late 1980s!

 Without spoiling too much of the plot, I think it's safe to reveal that the main character is fascinated by capturing fear and death on film, and manages to do this by picking up female prostitutes and then filming them in close-up as they first realise that things are not quite right and then rapidly realise the danger they are in. He then captures the moment of their demise for later enjoyment. It's quite intense stuff but a fascinating movie and well worth seeing if you get the chance. Anyway it was during this class that I first heard about The Male Glance which is neatly explored in this particular film. OK. so this is a very roundabout way of getting to the real cross-dressing nub of this post (and we are still only in the prologue after all) so I'd best get a move on with trying to sum up exactly what it is  

Well, according to Wikipedia 

"The male gaze is a concept coined by feminist film critic  Laura Mulvey. It refers to the way visual arts are structured around a masculine viewer. It describes the tendency in visual culture to depict the world and women from a masculine point of view and in terms of men's attitudes. 

The male gaze consists of three different gazes:

• that of the person behind the camera (the camera as it records the actual events of the film)

• that of the characters within the representation or film itself (the characters that interact with one another throughout the film)

• that of the spectator (the nearly voyeuristic act of the audience as one engages in watching the film) 

The main idea that seems to bring these actions together is that "looking" is generally seen as an active male role, while the passive role of being looked at is immediately adopted as a female characteristic. It is under the construction of patriarchy that Mulvey argues that women in film are tied to desire and that female characters hold an "appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact".The female actor is never meant to represent a character that directly affects the outcome of a plot or keep the story line going, but is inserted into the film as a way of supporting the male role and "bearing the burden of sexual objectification" that he cannot."

Honey Ryder apparently un-conch-ious
 of Bonds gaze

And this pretty much holds for all the visual arts - painting, photography, sculpture etc. It's usually the male looking and the female being looked at and on top of that it's also usually, for some 'inexplicable' reason, an older man looking at a younger woman. For another obvious illustration of this phenomena all viewers, male and female, see Bond girls through James Bond's eyes. The camera lingers over their bodies as they emerge unsuspecting from the sea (or however else they turn up) and they are there to be coveted, touched, won and eventually discarded in time for the next movie. Now there's a lot more to this Male Gaze thing which I'm sure you will all explore at leisure but the reason I've had such a long explanatory pre-amble is that I've recently had the opportunity to actually reverse this process. In effect I've been in a position where I might well have been the subject of The Female Gaze! 

At this point I want to admit that I'm not really sure if there is such a thing as the Female Gaze, and if there is, what it actually consists of. A Wiki search told me that The page "Female gaze" does not exist. Well, suffice to say that I'm giving it my best shot here and if feminist film critics pull me up on that, well so be it. 

So what did I do.

Basically I recently had the opportunity to 'model' for two very different female photographers both of whom are interested in exploring and examining the world of the cross-dressing male. I use the term 'model' in its loosest term of course because when you have the facial expression of a plank and the physical dexterity of a stalactite then it's less about modelling and more about the increasingly desperate photographer trying to capture  a certain 'something'. Anything probably... One of the aspects that appealed to me though was the fact that I'd be the object under scrutiny. I'd be dressed as a woman wearing all those imposed masculine fetish clothing items like stockings, corsets and heels but still very obviously masculine. I'd be posing in a public place and available for public scrutiny and comment. I'd be taking direction from a female photographer behind the lens who would have an idea of what they wanted from the shots and they would then have the power of selection, image adjustment, commentary, context and the format in which the photo was presented to the public - online, in a book, exhibition etc.  If there was ever an opportunity both to see if there is any difference between the Male and Female Gaze then this was it!

However, as this is going on a bit I'll save the details of the two very different sessions for further posts

Not quite as scrutinised as Caitlyn though...

A Game of Two Halves (or 'He Shoots! She Scores!!)

Not sure what the exact instructions are here...

To explain what this whole thing is about I have to be really upfront and honest and confess that I do like a decent analogy. Stumbling across one provides me with a little thrill of excitement similar to that of finding a blenny hiding under a rock in a pool at low tide but at the same time I am aware that this is very much a personal guilty pleasure and that others are not quite so enamoured. With that in mind I'm going to be devoting a whole posting, albeit short, on one particular analogy that occurred to me the other day. Since then I've been playing around with it, chewing it a bit, pulling it out of shape before dropping it and going on to something more productive. Time, I think, to nail this mind-worm in the blog.

The nub of it, I think, is this - It seems to me that cross-dressers share an awful lot of characteristics with football supporters. Well, granted lots of us are football supporters but on the whole I'm thinking about their attitude to their passion and their various ways of showing it.

Most supporters are pretty passionate about their club. They develop a relationship that transcends it just being the provider of 90 minutes of 'entertainment' every week. In fact they identify with the club to such an extent that the club seems to become an extension of themselves and their sense of 'self' (and self worth). If the club does well, they feel good not only in themselves but with colleagues and friends. If their club looses they hit the dumps, sulk and feel emasculated. Face has been lost and the weekend ruined. Bottom line though, is that they both identify with and support their club

Fans and Trans both love a wig 

Well it seemed to me that cross-dressers have a similar relationship to women, or at the very least to the notion of femininity. I (and by arrogant extension all cross-dressers) love women. I love the way they look, move, smell, behave. On the whole I feel uplifted if I'm in the presence of women. Female dentists and doctors make the trip to the surgery worthwhile. Wives and daughters are a delight. I like looking at women (in the non-creepy way of course), chatting to them, just being around them. In fact I'm probably as star-struck being next to an attractive woman as others might be schmoozing up to Ronaldo for a selfie. In short I am fully paid up season-ticket carrying  supporter of Team Fem.

Of course, like any football supporter I realise that I'll never actually play for the team, no matter how outlandish a scenario my imagination might come up with for justifying it. But I can still fantasise about the possibility. And of course, like any supporter worth their salt I'll certainly be showing my devotion by shelling out for the team shirt. Except in the case of the cross-dresser it will, of course, be a lot more than the shirt! It has to be admitted that Team Fem is not an inexpensive team to follow and we as 'supporters' tend not to lose our sense of individuality by all insisting on wearing the same colour (I mean with those shoes?), but nevertheless walking down the street there's no confusion as to where our interest lies, supporter and cross-dresser alike. 

So, in conclusion if I ever need to come up with some sort of explanation or justification as to why I dress, one way might well be to frame it terms of the support, adulation and association shown by football fans. I love femininity but am fully aware that I'll never make the team and even if I can't really afford a season ticket I'll still try to make it along to a home game now and then, wearing team colours with pride. When I get home then it's all off and in the wash, ready for the next opportunity (I mean what sort of person wears their football shirt all the time?)

With luck that might frame my passion in the sort of context that the average male might comprehend, but if that fails dismally then I can always resort to the defiant cry of the Millwall crowd  "No-one likes us and we don't care!"

Before legging it...

Cheese, Hard Drugs and Crossdressing

Hey kids. Sniffing cheese. It's not big and it's not clever...

As a cheese lover I was quite interested to see a piece of research floating around the internet claiming that cheese was actually shown to stimulate the same areas of the brain as hard drugs. It was widely reported in the mainstream press but in case you missed it here's the report from The Independent. What the various reports didn't suggest was that cheese was actually capable of giving you a high, although various headlines referencing hard drugs, crack cocaine and the like were obviously titillating along those lines. And of course the comments sections were full of 'mainlining brie', 'high on Stinking Bishop' sort of remarks. So who am I to spurn the opportunity either? (see pic above) What actually seems to be suggested is that cheese, due to the concentration of elements in the milk used to make it, is high in a chemical that stimulates a specific part of the brain relating to addiction and cravings. This area particularly relates to fatty and sweet foods which were valuable and highly prized elements in our ancestors diets. In a time of food scarcity it were these foods that were particularly valuable so it makes sense that our bodies did their best to promote their consumption by flagging them up to us in some way. And craving and addiction should do it well enough, although some manifestations are a little odd. It's pretty well documented that pregnant women also have unusual and, thankfully, temporary food cravings and I'm pretty sure that one of the explanations I've heard is that this is also the body's way of getting just the right elements it needs for the growing baby. Although you'd hope there were viable alternatives to coal and soap sometimes. But what on earth has this to do with cross-dressing?

Well, if I'm being absolutely truthful, probably not a lot although I might make a very weak attempt to link it all up  

                                      All cheese-lovers are addicted to cheese. 
                                                  I am addicted to cheese.
                                                      I am a cross-dresser.
                                         All cross-dressers are cheese-lovers.
                                                            and maybe
                                         All cheese lovers are cross-dressers

but I don't think anyone is really going to buy into that one... rather what made me link the two was something that has been intriguing me with regard to my own and others cross-dressing. Namely how much of it might be down to an actual chemical addiction in the same way as alcohol, tobacco, drugs and, of course, cheese?

I've been wondering if my own patterns of behaviour are not really unlike that of, say, an

Sexy cheeseboard. No corset required.

alcoholic? I'm quite devious when it comes to my dressing and I'm used to hiding things; if I don't get to dress on a fairly frequent basis I can get very crotchety and irritable; when younger I would on occasion have a 'purge' and get rid of everything, only to fall back off the wagon later on; my real pleasure is in the anticipation and satisfying of my urge to dress rather than the actual dressing itself (once I'm dressed and done up there's not much more to do really); I spend way too much time thinking about dressing and the issues around dressing than I really should. Does that make me sound a bit like an addict? Of course what would be really fascinating would be to have one of those really useful infographics showing nebula-like clusters of brain activity of an alcoholic taking their first shot of the day; an artisanal cheese producer sniffing at their blue cheese rind and myself ratchetting the corset up one notch too far. Would that show or prove anything definitve? Probably not but I'm up for it if there are any Phd students looking for a project...

Those damned spots...

Well if cross-dressing did ever show any correlation to addiction I suppose that would provide ammunition for those who would be looking to 'medicalise' the whole thing so on the whole probably best let it lie. However, in the course of some random googling that I laughingly refer to as 'research', there was another interesting snippet that I came across. Now if cross-dressing as an addiction might be a little too much to take, I was intrigued to see several references to cross-dressing as a form of OCD or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (you know, the one we all associate with continual hand washing). A study from 2001 concluded "It is possible that some cases of transvestism are OCD-related while others are more related to a gender identity disorder." which I took to suggest that if you're transgender then probably not but if you're a transvestite probably yes. Bear in mind though that this research seems to have been carried out on a total of two (yes 2) individuals so I'm not really sure how much faith to put in it really. Another thing is that the NHS website defines OCD in terms of an 'An obsession - an unwanted and unpleasant thought, image or urge that repeatedly enters a person's mind, causing feelings of anxiety, disgust or unease. and a compulsion as a repetitive behaviour or mental act that someone feels they need to carry out to try to temporarily relieve the unpleasant feelings brought on by the obsessive thought. Well I can't really say that I find dressing makes me disgusted, and really I'm only anxious if I think I may be caught. And can I really say that dressing up now and then constitutes a repetative act to relieve these unpleasant feelings? Using these definitions I'm not sure I can.

A Sense of Perspective

Gratuitous meerkat in a dress pic. Had to be done...

Now I'd be the first to admit that I'm not the most confident and out there of cross-dressers. Not for me the defiant flick of the wig and a steely gaze, the 'tits out, shoulders back' stride or ability to travel on public transport as though I actually had a right to be there. Oh no indeed. In fact I'm happy to categorise myself as a 'timid trannie', a rouged meerkat constantly scanning the horizon for the least sign of disapproval, just about able to travel short distances from a safe bolt hole in a familiar and well-scouted environment.  Actually I'm sure this is a phase that most cross-dressers go through before gaining a bit more confidence but it seems to be my stage currently anyway.

Well, this week I was going to get dressed in Soho to then go along to the Odeon Covent Garden to see The Danish Girl. No big deal maybe as it's only a five minute walk away but, in a way, for me it was. This was the first time I'd be going somewhere truly public rather than a pub or bar in a bohemian part of town. Queuing up, settling myself down and watching a movie with a few hundred others, most of whom would have expected their men in frocks to have been safely on the screen rather than sitting in front of them in unfeasibly luxurious wigs. So I was a bit nervous really. Slightly apprehensive. A touch uneasy. 

And then I started to question what I was actually worried about and of course it was the usual. Being stared at. A sarky comment or two coming my way. A bit of innuendo maybe. Having someone trying to confront me or force a reaction. Some member of a group showing off possibly or having a bit of 'fun' or 'banter' at my expense. Being made to feel threatened or exposed, that sort of thing. 

Either wolf-whistling or sucking their knuckles...

Which is of course what my daughters and most other women experience practically every time they're out of an evening. My fears and concerns as a cross-dressing man are really not that different I suspect. Instead this time I'm not the safety net, going out to collect a rattled daughter after she's texted from a club. I'm actually going to be walking, if not a mile then at least five minutes, in someone else's shoes and if that prospect worried me at all or made me nervous then it seemed to me that it would be slightly hypocritical of me to consider myself particularly 'brave' in any meaningful sense of the word. Should I pat myself on the back for briefly experiencing something that my daughters have to put up with on a daily basis? Probably not...

Actually, the thought occurred to me that most wives/girlfriends/friends seem to feel a heightened sense of anxiety and protectiveness toward their cross-dressing partners when out dressed. Could it be down to their concerns that their partner won't know how to handle what they've grown up dealing with? Anecdotally many seem to adopt an almost bristling maternal attitude ready to snap at any perceived slight or comment so maybe they find themselves overcompensating for their partners potential vulnerability and inexperience.

All of this had been going through my head before getting I my car for the journey home from work. I turned on the radio just in time to hear a feature about the regular sexual harassment a young woman had experienced from the age of 13 - usually from middle aged men. Her mother had been shocked and dismayed to hear the length and extent of the comments and gestures that had been aimed at her daughter which, apart from being one of those interesting instances of synchronicity, certainly put my own concerns into perspective.