Being Julia











{November 24, 2007}   Julia and the village people

Done it again! And this time had a conversation . . . well, three words. But at least Julia has spoken (although I think the voice might need some working on).

Plenty to think about after it as well, more of which in a moment.

It happened after I found myself with only a couple of hours to spare midweek and that itch that just needs scratching. In all honesty I was in two minds (bloke v Julia) . . . but you can guess who won.

Lorraine Bracco in The Sopranos - in my dreams!Exactly the same modus operandi as before – boots, wig and make-up in sports bag and the same girly clothes underneath baggy sports trousers and jumper. Off in the car into the countryside and then a quick change after pulling off the road.

Again, another total disaster with the eye make-up . . . I’m going to need much more practice (or some advice . . . can anyone recommend a good “eye-make up for beginners” website?) but for now my wraparound girly shades come to the rescue.

Another drive in high heels, this time to two different villages . . . I really am exporing all sorts of places in the countryside as Julia.

I park the car in the first village high street, check my look and step out (have you noticed how I slip into the present tense during these descriptions?). There’s someone heading towards me in the distance walking a dog and two women have just walked past. Not quite ready to come face-to-face with anyone just yet, so I turn in the other direction, crossing a patch of grass.

Lesson Number 1: Wet, grassy patch and stilettos = sinking feeling!

Yes, my heels go straight into the mud . . . not usually a consideration in bloke shoes. Oh well, I kind of teeter on the balls of my feet on to the pavement and then rescue some grass and leaves from the heels, brushing them off with my gloves.

Attempting to regain my dignity I head off back in the direction I’ve just driven, trying out confident, feminine steps, tryin to find a realistic style for Julia’s walk. A few cars pass by and I keep my head up, feeling rather nice, pulling my faux fur coat around me. No reactions so far.

A couple come out of a shop ahead, neither the man nor the woman does a double take as they get in their car and drive past me. So far so good.

I turn off down another street (out of sight of the car now . . . definitely getting braver) and walk for a minute or so, past some houses and a small school, before deciding to turn round and head back.

As I return I pass the dog walker – a woman, who definitely looks but doesn’t seem to react in any way. After passing her I check back and she hasn’t turned round in disbelief or shock or anything.

Back to the car. Don’t walk on the grass this time and off to my next desination. On the drive over I passed another village with a tiny post office. Just three parking spaces outside, so it should be pretty quiet. I don’t really know if I dare yet, but my confidence is rising and I’m sorely tempted by the idea of just walking around inside . . . in company!

I arrive outside the shop in a few minutes and just go for it, first of all standing outside and reading the notices in the window before just taking a deep breath and pushing the door open.

There’s a security mirror and I can’t help but check myself out in it . . . a T-girl all over, eh? The guy behind the post office counter doesn’t even look up so I check out the rest of the shop, a typical small newsagents with magazines and newspapers and a spinning rack of greetings cards.

I’m studying these intently when an extremely friendly female voice cries out: “Hello, are you alright?”

Gulp! My legs turn to jelly. I turn and for the first time Julia is face to face with someone else – a woman behind the news counter.

How will she react? Will I be thrown out? Laughed at?

I reply with my three words: “Hello. Yes. Hi” delivered roughly an octave higher than usual, a little huskier too. No idea if I’ve “passed” as Julia as I only keep eye contact for a fraction of a second before turning back to the greetings cards.

My legs are shaking like crazy and another customer has just come in (another man who pays no attention). I can feel panic beginning to set in though and I decide it’s time to leave, but I’ve no idea if I can actually manage to walk back to the car with my limbs threatening to go on strike.

Somehow I do get out, down the shop steps and back to the car where I sit for a second, catching my breath, trying to calm my beating heart and waiting to see if a curious face appears in the shop window. It doesn’t.

So then it’s back to my countryside changing spot and into bloke mode again for the drive home. It’s only been the shortest of transformations but still daring and exciting. I do still feel somewhat silly all dolled up in public and maybe that’s one of the lessons I’m learning from this . . . I’ve got to decide if I’m dressing for pleasure or to blend.

Hands up, there’s a strong fetishistic side to all this. In the privacy of my own four walls, thigh-high boots, basques and French maid’s outfits fulfil that particular need . . . the higher, shinier and fluffier the better. The fact that I’m a fairly hairy fella and not in a position to wax myself smooth for daily life means I seem to view myself with special filters, I can ignore my maleness (to a degree) in the mirror.

But if I want to blend in the outside world then I’m going to have to rethink my outfit. For a start I think my wig is a little too short, so I’ll treat myself to something longer in the new year. But the big no-no is that fur coat. Although I love it to bits I’ve got to admit that standing in that post office in boots and fur I felt a little too obvious and OTT.

So a different look is required. I’ve got to dress like a stylish 40-something would, not like a tart. Still going to keep the boots but I need a better, more suitable coat.

I think I’ll be off to Primark or Peacocks after pay day. One of my GG colleagues has just bought a gorgeous cheap coat from Peacocks but I think it would be a bit creepy to go and buy exactly the same.

The look I’m aiming at is a little like Lorraine Bracco when she plays the psycho-analyst in The Sopranos . . . that’s her at the top of this post. I think she is stunningly attractive, way more so than the strippers in the bar Tony Soprano frequents. I’m amazed to discover that she’s almost 10 years older than me too.

Anyway, that’s the plan for the new year . . . “Julia the office girl”. And for the first time I find I’m welcoming the chillier months because it means I can cover up completely and complete my transformation.

Sadly the return of summer is likely to see Julia becoming an indoor-only girl as I’m not going to get away with skimpy dresses . . . unless leggings stay in fashion for 2008.

Mmmmmm . . .

Till next time.

Julia P

x



{November 14, 2007}   Julia the debutante

County lane

Nobody laughed. Or pointed. Or swore. Or whistled. Or jeered. Or dragged their infants for cover. Nobody called the police.

The world did not end.

One old fella did a double take of sorts, but maybe he doesn’t get too many 6ft dames in four-inch(ish) heel boots walking down his street.

And two workmen must (I hope) have thought “bloody women drivers” when I got stuck in a cul-de-sac doing what felt like a 17-point turn!

Yes, as you’ll have gathered I have been out en-femme for the first time. I’ve walked those streets . . . even driven in high heels.

I’m amazed it’s happened so soon after I decided it was time to get comfortable with my T-girl side. Dee and I talked a while back and she said it was fine by her for me to enjoy that side of my nature in my own time. If I’m completely honest, I don’t think she would have included me going into the outside world in my feminine persona, so I still feel like I’m skulking around a little.

Anyway, I woke up with the day ahead all to myself, and although I hadn’t absolutely planned to to make such a leap the thought was certainly niggling away. After a morning of chores I wondered up to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and thought “What the hell, let’s go for it”.

What followed was planned like a military operation and not a little comical.

Glad to see the back of meThere wasn’t a chance of me walking out of the house in skirt, wig and boots, so I first just shaved and put on my foundation. Happy with that, I got dressed in my La Senza and Primark undies and opaque tights (two pairs, just to make sure!), Primark long-sleeved jumper and a gorgeous Bon Marche deep blue, pola-dot skirt with a little frilled under skirt that peeps out underneath (a £2.50 charity shop bargain).

But then I clambered into some baggy jogging pants, trainers and my big coat, wrapping all my T-girl clothing inside – and ended up looking like I was off on manouvres.

The rest of my girly gear (gloves, boots, wig and make-up) were shoved into a sports bag, plus another charity shop bargain – my faux fur coat. Making sure there were no neighbours around who might stop me for a chat I made a dash for the car and then sped off down the street, before heading into country lanes looking or somewhere where I might complete my transformation.

I was feeling such a strange mix of emotions as I finally found somewhere to park up . . . a buzz that while not quite sexual had a certain frisson about it, a gorgeous feeling of being allowed to be the other me for a while . . and a fear factor that someone might see me changing and things could go very wrong.

Well despite a couple of cars going past I think I did OK. I decided to take off my coat and get my wig on first, so that if anyone drove past they’d hopefully just see a woman putting her make-up on in the car mirror. Then it was jogging pants and trainers off and calf-length boots on (always my favourite bit, the footwear).

The make-up didn’t go so well, my hands were shaking just a little and I made a hamfisted attempt at putting lipstick on and an even worse effort with eye shadow and eyeliner. There was only one solution . . . the £1 sunglasses I’d snapped up in the Primark sale!

The whole outfit was finished off with my leopardskin print scarf and cute black gloves with furry leopardskin cuffs. Completely covered, there wasn’t single bit of the male me to be seen.

Then the big moment. Check the country lanes around and not a car to be seen. Open the door and plant those high-heeled boots in the real world. Julia is here!

It was a bit like an astronaut on a spacewalk. Clinging to the safety zone of the car I’d walk a few steps and back, taking in all the differing sensations – how tall I felt in those heels, how surprisingly stable I felt in those heels, the way the fabric of my skirt moved against my legs, just the whole damn “rightness” of it all.

So of course it had to be captured on camera (two other essential T-girl items it seems, a camera and ANY mirror/reflective surface!). Much fun followed with the 10-second delay on the camera . . . focus on roughly where I reckon I can totter to in heels in 10 secs, press the shutter, plonk camera on top of car and “dash”.

About half of them work out, not bad I suppose.

At one point I see a car coming down the lane and so head back to the car as casually as possible. My first real test and I seem to pass.

There are a really curious mix of emotions. Nerves, of course, that electric frisson . . . and a growing sense of confidence. Of wanting to test this thing out. So it’s away from the isolated country lane and time to let Julia strut the mean streets.

Well, the tiny, virtually unpopulated hamlet/village streets actually. Best to start small. I drive for about 10 mins (surprisingly easy in the heels after all) untill I arrive at my first destination. Small village, one pub, no shops but a village hall with a car park. So I park up, grab a handbag for extra realism and walk all of 30 seconds to the village notice board at the side of the road.

Despite the place being tiny it’s on a fairly busy road and there’s plenty of traffic. I appear to be getting no untoward attention as I study the parish notices. I can see me reflected in the glass, which is great. I walk back to the car and safety and just as I get inside another car pulls into the car park, two women (GG) inside. I’m quite glad not to have done a face-to face in Julia mode just yet so carefully drive away to another village nearby.

Similar deal here, except that this place has two pubs! This is where I have my workmen encounter (That sounds horribly porno . . . it wasn’t). I spot this village’s hall too but it has no car park so I decide to park in a cul-de-sac and manage to get stuck because there’s a white van parked and workmen at a house. They watch me mangling the usualy simple procedure of turning round but then seem to ignore me as I park up further down the road. I check in my mirror and they’re not peering round so I guess I’ve escaped any undue attention.

Out of the car once again and this time I have to wait to cross the road as traffic goes by. I feel fantastic and am loving trying to develop a feminine walk, smaller step, swinging the hands out a little more than usual.

More fascinating parish notices to study and then back to the car. As I cross the road I’m aware of a bloke in his 60s having a cigarette outside his house and watching me. Not sure if I’m clocked or not but when I drive away he’s paying no attention – so either I passed the test or he’s disgusted.

Back to my country lane now for a couple more photos, with me wearing my faux fur coat. It’s a teeny bit too small but I love the feel of it. However, when I look at the pix taken from behind (see top pic) it makes me look hunchbacked (But not yet ready to share pix taken from the front).

Time to turn back into bloke mode, so it’s out with the make-up wipes, wig off and jogging pants/bloke coat back on.

Back home and everything is safely packed away with a coupe of hours before the house is full of Dee & kids.

How do I feel? Happy, Natural. Relaxed. Relieved.

Wonder when I’ll do it again . . .

Julia P

x



{November 7, 2007}   Wanting help with finger tips

In bloke mode I’m not the blokiest of blokes. Not for me the joys of stripping down an old engine or knocking up a two-storey house extension in an afternoon.

Plumbing is too full of pit falls, electrics just make me go “eek”!

But what strikes the greatest terror in me is a visit to a DIY store (Hang on in there tranny fans . . . there is a point to all this).

You know the sort of place; those giant emporiums filled with anything you could (or couldn’t) want in the dizzy world of DIY. Saws, planes, hammers, sanders, grinders, wrenches, spanners . . . The list, and the choice, is endless.

Most confusing, for me, is if I need that simplest of things – a packet of screws. Easy eh? A quick trip down to B&Q and you’ll be out in five minutes.

Not a chance.

Instead you are greeted with one wall of an aisle groaning under the weight of assorted lengths and diameters and screwheads. Not to mention materials. Do I want silver, brass or black? Short, medium, long? Thin or fat? Pointy or blunt? Cross-head or slot? Arrrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!

Anyway, the reason I mention all this is that as a male shopping for one’s female side there are plenty of equivalents to the DIY dilemmas above. It all depends what mood I’m in of course. If I’m visiting a town where I don’t know anyone then I’m often quite happy to browse women’s clothes shops looking for a choice purchase. Who cares what strangers think?

But if, for example, I feel the need for yet another pair of lacy knickers and there’s a chance somebody I know might be around, then it’s a whole other operation.

The old hunter, gatherer thing kicks in and, with pulse racing I find myself checking out the racks of frillies from a safe distance, pacing up and down while weighing up out of the corner of one eye the size, colour, shape and how well they’ll contain the extras we fellas pack. Then it’s quick . . . in for the kill, grab, purchase and out as fast as possible.

But even more confusing for anyone new to the whole tranny scene is a make-up department. It’s that DIY thing all over again.

I was in Tesco the other day and “just happened” to pass through the beauty and make-up aisle when I came upon a huge display of false nails (for fingers, not for hammering). Now I’ve been thinking for a while of trying some out on one of my dressing sessions, with some nice deep plummy nail varnish.

The trouble is that like screws, the choice of false nails seems endless. Ones that you glue. Ones that are self adhesive. Natural looking nails. French nails. Decorated nails. And they come in different sizes? Arrrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!

Some even say “will last up to six days”. Six days? I haven’t even got six hours until I’ve got to present myself back to world in full bloke mode.

So please, if there are any T-girls out there (or any genetic girls who are feeling benevolent) who can pass on some hints and tips over nails (would you call them “finger tips”?) I’m all ears. Getting them on is one thing. But getting them off with not a trace to be seen is something else.

(By the way, did you notice I still managed to get “stripping” and “knocking up” into the intro? Still a smutty git, whether guy or gal!)

Julia P

x



“Hello, my name’s Julia and I’m a transvestite.”

Actually I don’t like that word transvestite much – it’s rather hard, cold, scientific and not one bit feminine. It sounds like the perversion that some think it is.

Cross-dresser is an unflattering description too and seems to carry the weight of others’ prejudices with it.

It was only recently while surfing through other tranny blogs on the net that I finally found a description that I liked and could read and say, “Hey, that’s me!”

So let’s start again . . .

“Hello, my name’s Julia and I’m a T-Girl.”

That’s better. So, welcome to my world on the web. My first post is just a chance to spread my wings a little online and tell you something about myself, my tranny life so far and why on earth I’ve dedcided to share any of it on this blog.

Well, despite that intro, my bloke name is clearly not Julia. Nor is it Julian, in case you wondering, although that was a name my parents considered for me – but they decided against it in case other kids teased me and called me, er Julia.

Well, I think it’s a lovely name and it seems to suit my female alter-ego when she peers back at me from the mirror.

As for the male me, he’s in his 40s, living happily with a wonderful partner, Dee, in the Midlands in England.

First important thing here – Dee knows.

I told her last year when I was going through one of those in-denial phases, when I thought I could kick it and maybe that owning up to it and naming it would finally allow me to bury it for good.

Didn’t work of course. It never does. But after the initial shock Dee was amazingly loving and understanding and ready to accommodate my needs . . . up to a point.

But I said ‘No, I want it out of my life for good’. Well, I managed to keep it buried until a couple of months back when it just appeared, louder and prouder than ever and insisting “Get dressed up girl, I wanna wear heels again!”

After a lot of sleepless nights and dreams about dresses and heels I had another chat with Dee and the upshot is that she’s fine for me to dress up and enjoy myself but it has to be in my own time, when she and none of the kids are there. Fair enough.

So this month I’ve been shopping . . on a budget (hoorah for Primark!). I got the boots, of course, some slinky lingerie, a black woolen dress, a print scarf and my first ever wig and some make-up. What a difference a wig makes. I think I look a bit daft, but it kinda works too, I do feel like I’m still me but someone else too.

So far I’ve only dressed in the confines of the house and taken a few snaps, none of which I want to share just yet. But there is such a desire to step outside, to go somewhere as Julia if only for a few fleeting moments. I did step onto the patio for a quick snap when there was no-one around and it felt exhilarating.

I’ve got a feeling Julia’s going to go for a drive out fairly soon. The thought terrifies and thrills in equal measure.

I’ve been trying to figure out when I got my first tranny inkling and I’m guessing it might have been very early teens. I remember a cousin coming to stay who had the highest, pointiest stilletos I’d had even seen.

She kicked them off in the hall and skipped off into the house, leaving me alone staring at her red, shiny shoes and for some strange and unknown reason wondering what it would feel like, just for a second, to slip a foot into one of them. I did. I felt strange and giddy and guilty – a familiar combination of sensations I guess for those of us on the tranny road.

And that has continued for the past 30 years or so. Never continually and never, until now, has anyone else known. Through teens and 20s and 30s I’ve been on a rollercoaster of solo dressing, usually just lingerie and high-heel boots , and then into denial, throwing it all away and pretending that wasn’t me . . . until a couple of years later and “she” is back.

That denial, of course, causes a certain amount of stress, of internal tension. It’s only with Dee’s help and approval that I’ve finally been able to say ‘I’ve spent years in conflict with myself, maybe it’s about time I stopped fighting myself and learned to enjoy it’.

Which is where this blog comes in. I have had so much help reading others’ experiences on their blogs, realising that I’m not alone, that nearly every emotion I go through is shared and has been shared by countless others. Maybe what I write here over the coming months will be a source of help and comfort to others too. I hope so.

I don’t know how often I’ll get to blog, that also is a solitary and secretive activity, but I hope it will give me a chance to let of steam, to think out loud and consider whatever lies ahead.

Anyway can’t chat any more. Must go. I’ve seen some gorgeous gloves!

Julia P.



et cetera