Maids In Uniform

Over the last couple of years there have been a number of cases reported in the press of members of the armed forces and the police who have dressed as women and gone on to undergo treatment preparatory to a complete sex change. Is there something about the wearing of a uniform which impels them to seek the comfort of the softer more attractive garb of the female? The tabloids have a field day when such a case comes to light with headlines such as the vulgar 'a nicker in knickers', and articles brimming over with double entendres for the delectation of their more prurient readers. There is of course always the lure of a woman in a uniform, but that is the attraction of seeing the uniform graced by the complement of a skirt and long black stockings. No doubt that was partly the motivation of the police officer who, having been revealed as a secret transvestite, announced his intention of seeking a sex change so that he could continue in the police force as a policewoman. Well, I remember my secret ambition as a child to become a member of the WRNS; that smart but nevertheless utterly feminine uniform of the blouse and skirt, with shapely jacket and slightly coquettish hat was utterly fetching. And so often in the films of yesteryear, of heroic naval deeds, the Wren officer played the subservient feminine part alongside the brave handsome naval officers, and the rough macho common seamen with the hearts of gold concealed by their tough exterior and old-fashioned gallantry. Enough to turn any girl's head, including mine. The nearest I ever came to satisfying this ambition was in the days of National Service, an utterly frustrating time for any transvestite. Needless to say I had secreted a case containing all my pretties at an address near my station where I could retrieve it quickly when the opportunity of weekend leave presented itself. Unfortunately, I was not in the Navy, but in the Air Force on a camp which also contained a fair complement of WRAFs. Our work was in a secret control bunker where airmen and airwomen worked together as equals. My chance came one night when I was deputed to control the bunker against the outbreak of fire. I was alone in the deserted building with access to all parts of it, including the offices of the Commander of WRAF at this base. Routinely checking every hour, my excitement may be easily envisaged when I saw in her office a wardrobe containing her dress uniform. I looked further and found a chest of drawers containing some underwear and also some civilian clothing. It took me very little time to strip off my uniform and soon I was stood before her mirror dressed in the full panoply of a WRAF senior officer, complete with shoulder bag. I was safe for at least two hours before the duty officer would come on his rounds. I relaxed sitting at her desk, reading a couple of fashion magazines she had left there. The time passed all too quickly before I had to change back at the end of my shift and remove all traces of my activities in her office. The opportunity never arose again during my term of service, but whenever I saw the Commanding Officer on parades dressed in her finery, I had a secret giggle. If only she knew what I had been up to. And if I had been caught, I wonder what naughty headlines the tabloids would have printed? And would I have announced my intention of changing sex so that i could serve in the Women's Royal Air Force as it was then known? It is an intriguing thought.

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A Transvestite Story

She did not have many visitors these days. Her contemporaries were already deceased or equally as immobile as herself. She gazed down wryly at her fingers, twisted and and gnarled with arthritis. Sixty-odd years ago those fingers had been white and soft, deft enough to make her own dresses for the County Ball, deft to apply the powder and lipstick artfully; soft to touch the hands of handsome young men, to stroke their hair, to wrap around their shoulders as their lips met in a passionate kiss. Those days were long gone. Her fiance shot down in a dog fight over the Channel in the darkest days of the war, she had devoted herself to nursing until, after the war when she could somehow no longer face the prospect of courtship and marriage with someone else, she had settled back to help her older brother, back from the war with a substantial gratuity which he had invested in purchasing a run-down boys' prep school in the quitest part of the Lincolnshire Wolds. Together they had built up a reputation for the school, expanding its accommodation so that in its heyday it took ninety boarders and almost as many day boys. But her brother too was now dead, and the school buildings long since sold to a major international company intent on relocating outside the metropolis. She had lived quietly in retirement until she was no longer physically able to look after herself properly, and now she lived in this retirement home in the country, a large mansion accommodating some thirty folk like herself. Comfortable and well looked after as she was, she still regretted the loss of her valued independance. But she was a realist - she accepted her lot and her constrictions philosophically, although sometimes she wished for company. For despite her immobility, her mind was as acute as ever. Today was special: she had been wheeled out onto the terrace to her favourite spot. From here she had a good view out over the lawns to the distant lake with its fringe of trees. Their leaves were just beginning to turn in the early autumn sunlight. Drama Late September was her favourite time of year. It had been, for her, the beginning of a new school year with all the promise it contained for the new intake of boarders. She had taught English at the school - she had been a good teacher, capable of inspiring her charges with a love of poetry and literature, and especially of drama. Sometimes she mused that had life turned out differently for her, she might have gone on stage herself. At school she contented herself with staging the annual play production, and the beginning of the school year was the time when she enjoyed the excitement of choosing the production of the year, and planning and casting. Even now as she sat at the end of the terrace, she had asked the nurse to bring her one of her favourite plays to dip into and sample the pleasure of its language. Her hand trembled as her fingers grappled with the book on the table beside her, her favourite collected edition of the plays of Shakespeare, heavily marked with her own editing now faded and blurred. The book fell heavily into her lap, opening out at the middle of one of her favourite plays: "As You Like It".
    She began to read a little, but she found it difficult without her glasses. She would have to wait until one of the nursing staff came outside , and ask her to retrieve them from the cabinet beside her bed., Still with the book open upon her lap she fell to musing about the message she had been given that morning: someone was coming to visit her. There had been a telephone call the previous afternoon. The caller had told the staff that she was an old friend who happened to be in tha area, staying in a nearby town, and would visit if convenient at around eleven in the morning. Was there anything she could bring as a present for the old lady? The line had not been good - it had not been easy to hear against the background of a vacuum cleaner in operation, but it was thought that the caller had given her name as Linda something or other, perhaps Linda Price. Did she know anyone of that name? As she at in the morning sunshine she thought long and hard about that name. It meant nothing to her. She was very surprised as her memory for names and faces was still surprisingly good, but the name rang no bells and no face came to mind. It troubled her, but when at last one of the staff emerged onto the terrace she was able to ask for her glasses, and soon she dismissed the puzzle from her mind and began to read the play where the book had fallen open: Rosalind, banished into exile, resolves to seek her likewise banished father in the Forest of Arden, in the guise of a young man to escape the attentions of thieves and robbers. "Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, A boar spear in my hand; and - in my heart, Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will. We'll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other Mannish cowards have, That do outface it with their semblances..." What a delicious ambiguity is there. In Shakespeare's day boys played women's parts. Here was a boy playing a woman playing a man. In school productions boys perforce had to play the female parts, usually with extremem reluctance, never quite managing the feminine touch. That is, all except one... She remembered him now, a new boy, in her last production at the school before it closed down - this very play, her favourite, chosen as her swan song. This boy, she had sensed, was likely to be the best Rosalind she had ever coached, and she had been right. She saw him now in her mind's eye as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. He was of slight build, soft skinned, fair haired. For a twelve year old he carried himself with an amazing maturity, his movements were graceful, almost feminine. He was quiet, reserved, self sufficient, unpeturbed by the ribbing of his peers. He had an air of authority about him which enabled him to ride any difficulty with the other boys without appearing to be in any way affected by it. In a word, he was unruffled.
    When she told him that she would like him to play the part of Rosalind in the forthcoming production, there was no show of reluctance, no questioning. He seemed to regard it as the most obvious and proper role for him. She had never known such a reaction from any boy before in the like circumstances. He was quick to learn his lines, he seemed to be even quicker in understanding the demands of his role. She had never before seen a boy get so quickly into the mind and the character of a girl. It was uncanny. She found she had little to teach him about deportment. In character he moved and walked like a girl although out of character there was nothing in his manner to suggest effeminacy. Garments When it came to the dress rehearsal and he donned female garments for the first time, she could have easily mistaken him for a girl, and, surprisingly, when he was called upon to wear boy's clothes again as part of Rosalind's travesty in the play, he seemed to be just that: a girl in boy's clothing. "Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on." She could hear him now saying those lines as naturally as if he were indeed Rosalind herself. And when adjured to be good of heart and counterfeit to be a man, "so I do: but i'faith I should have been a woman by right.", the double ambiguity which would have been apparent to the Elizabethan playgoer was as lacking when he played the part as it would be to a modern playgoer seeing a female in the part. She remembered in particular one little incident which had surprised her at the time. It was the first performance of the three scheduled for parents at the school. A small army of women teachers and male teachers' wives were assisting the boys into their costumes and with the stage make-up. She hereself went to help 'Rosalind' with his make-up for the part. Lipstick To her surprise she saw him before the mirror applying his own make-up with professional skill and competence. After dusting powder powder over the foundation cream designed to give a natural appearance under the powerful stage lamps hired for the occasion, she watched him expertly wielding the lipstick and admiring himself in the mirror. He had already taken on the persona of the heroine and he walked gracefully, head held high, to the stage door to await his entrance alongside his companion, another boy playing the part of Celia. The contrast between the two was remarkable.
    On the last night came the greatest surprise of all. Shakespeare wrote his Epilogue for the heroine to speak, and in Shakespeare's time the boy actor would doubtlessly have doffed his wig to reveal the urchin beneath and speak the cheeky lines: "If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me..." - words more than likely to excite ribald comments from the groundlings. But this Rosalind changed without warning and without the slightest embarrassment to "As I am a woman, I would kiss..." And incredibly, the words sounded absolutely right coming from him in his character as the woman Rosalind... For September, the sun was now quite strong, and as she sat musing on her last production, the old lady began to doze. She awoke with a start at the chime of a distant church bell, she counted eleven strokes and then she heard the sound of a car on the gravel in front of the entrance to the nursing home. A few moments later there was the sound of footsteps behind her, and the voice of a nurse calling out cheerily "Here's your visitor". She turned in her chair to see a tall young woman approaching, bearing in her arms an enormous bouquet of flowers. She was wearing a navy blue pencil-slim skirt and open matching jacket. Firm pointed breasts were concealed behind a white cotton blouse open at the throat to reveal a thin gold cross and chain. Her long, shapely legs were encased in sheer nylon stockings and she wore navy high-heeled shoes. Her hair was tied back into a tight bun wrapped in a chiffon scarf at the back of her head, and her lips were parted in a smile as she approached. "How lovely to see you again after all these years. I hope you remember who I am?" "Of course I do," the old lady replied. "In fact, I was just thinking about you. How are you, my dear, darling Rosalind?" The End

MICHELLE'S STORY

  Since I started looking at the Transformation web pages about a year and a half ago, I have read so many stories that were dialogues of some of the most sacred parts of the people they are about. Before I do continue on I would just like to say that the Transformation site is second to none and that it has helped me immensely with my own transformation. Due to the fact that so many people like myself have been willing to put their story on the site, I would like to add mine for those younger, confused members who may be looking at this site at the minute, due to the fact I have only just turned 18 and live as female almost 100% of the time. My story begins when I was 11 years old. Like most youngsters at the age of 11 I began to notice the girls at my school. I knew this was normal, or thought it was at that point of time. Most of the guys in my class would spend time talking about this girl, or that girl that they had met and that she was cute or nice looking. I simply put 2 and 2 together and assumed that the feelings were one of attraction towards the opposite sex. As I continued to grow and reach the full blown stages of puberty I began thinking more and more of women. Most of the boys in my class at that time were beginning to have more sexual thoughts and feelings that became apparent whenever the topic of a nice looking girl came up in our conversations. At this point I began to notice a more evolved sense of feelings, I was starting to distinguish my feelings apart from the rest and read into what I was really feeling. My emotions and feelings were not ones of the normal animal sexual desires but ones of respect and admiration for the opposite sex. It became more anymore apparent that my attractions were not that of the woman but the shape of her body, her makeup, the clothes they wore and the little things like the way they would wear their hair. As more time passed I found myself hitting 14 years old. I will not bore you with the details but my big sister had left and married and unknown to her had left a stockpile of clothes in the attic. They fitted perfectly. I found myself from time to time going into the attic and trying on her panties and stockings. This soon developed to an addiction, having to ware them under my clothes for school and anywhere I went. After about 6 months, I began having sneak sessions while my parents were out and put on skirt, blouse bra and jacket. I would put some tissue paper down my bra to act as breasts, until one day my mother decided to enter a fancy dress contest. She bought a long blonde wig for it and after she was finished with it put it up the attic. I decided at this point that I was going to go the full hog and dress female. By this time I was 15 and a half. I had a friend at school called Jolene. She was a lesbian and confided her secret in me. She had told me a year before about it and was expecting a bad reaction from me. I just shrugged and asked her if she was happy, to which she told me she was, so that was a good enough answer for me. I decided that it was time to confide in her the same way she had trusted me so I took her out to lunch and told her. Don't ask how because I don't really remember the details! At this point I asked for her help as a woman. She was a beautiful girl and also spent time preparing her each day. She was always stunning but never over the top, had I admired her for her style. She agreed and when her parents went on holiday for a week, I stayed over. She made sure I was shaved, trimmed and fully made up with her makeup kit. She also shaped the wig for me and helped me choose my garments. While she was doing this she kept me away from the mirrors. When she was finished she gave me a set of high heels that were fawn in colour with a thick strap across the middle. I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I was absolutely stunned at what I saw. There was no boy in that face or body, only a young woman looking back. I felt vibrant and alive, I felt comfortable, I felt like myself! I continued to dress for a month afterwards, every weekend until my parents divorced then I took a few months break to sort my head out. When I went back to it again I wore the same garments I wore as the first time. It felt just as exciting and amazing as the first time. At that point, with my 16th birthday only a week away, I made my decision. Was going to tell my mother, who I was living with. My father had moved to the USA so I didn't see him often. I wrote my mother a letter and left it on her pillow. I stayed the weekend at a friend's house to let her absorb it. In the letter I explained my desires and how I didn't feel like a boy, I was a Girl and I wanted to spend my 16th birthday dressed as and being Michelle. Then I went home my mother agreed to it. She told me she had no idea about it and that if I felt so strongly I should have told her sooner. My mother never stood in the way. In fact for a couple of days afterwards she went shopping for me. On the 17th of Dec my life would change, I would be 16 but best of all would be a 16 Year old woman. More to come ........... Love Michelle

f593_1153gnrsfeatofpoonpage1 JOHN WILLIAMS first wrote in TV Scene about the incredible transvestite dancers he encountered in the Thai resort of Pattaya. Later, he returned to the resort and spent a day on the company of Poon, one of the prettiest dancers of the large 'Simon' transvestite cabaret, which attracts hundreds of tourists every night. Pattaya is a seaside resort about 3 hours drive from Bangkok, and one of the main tourist attractions is the big transvestite cabarets, particularly the Simon and the Alcazar. Each has 40-60 dancers, all boys, most dressed as beautful girls. The cabarets are family shows: tasteful and glamorous. There are three sittings each evening, starting around 7pm and end at around 11.30pm. Coaches tour the big hotels to convey tourists to them and most sittings are packed out. f593_1157gnrsfeatofpoonpage1I first saw Poon on my second visit to Pattaya - many of the boys look amazing as girls, but Poon was perhaps the prettiest and most feminine of the all. He also conveyed on stage how much he enjoyed the glamour of the cabaret, and the gaze and admiration of the audience. I was entranced, but I was told that he had a boyfriend, and my efforts to see him after the show failed. On my next visit however we became friends very quickly. His English was limited so our conversations were slow, but he was lovely to be with: delicate, affectionate and happy. Now 19, he had started dressing when he was about 12 or 13, and had lived full time as a girl since soon after leaving school at 15. At 16, he came to Pattaya to join the cabaret: it was the fulfilment of his dream.
    Now he is able to send money back home to his family in Bangkok. He visits them regularly and they fully accept him in his new lifestyle; they also periodically visit Pattaya to see him in the cabaret. When I met them I was struck by the pride they took in his beauty, in the glamour of his clothes and make-up, and in the fact that he was one of the stars of the show. Poon Clearly loves living as a girl. He is on hormones and considering whether or not to have the operation. He delights in pretty clothes and took great pride in showing me his dresses and lingerie: he adores silk and lace.f593_1155gnrsfeatofpage2 He loves going shopping and visiting the hairdresser - when we visited a dress shop, the assistants recognised him as one of the stars of the show but enjoyed helping him select various dresses and skirts to try on. As they helped him into one of the outfits, one of the girls commented on the silk lace-trimmed teddy he was wearing and asked where he had bought it. I enjoyed his blush and shy smile as he answered her.
    f593_1154gnrsfeatofpoonpage2I relished my time with Poon, being able to share his delight in his femininity, and the attention he attracts both as a girl on the streets and as a performer in the show. I particularly enjoyed sharing his pleasure in his own appearance as he looked in the mirror. Perhaps the loud applause he received at the end of a show was like a mirror too?

The Luckiest Man

I couldn't believe it! The lights came on and Jen grinned mischievously at me and threatened to pull my wig off. Jen and Andrea were loving this. I was loving this but I was as scared as I could be. This is not a work of fiction, this is a true story. One of those true stories that when you read it, it must be a work of fiction; the sort of fiction that comes under the heading Transvestite stories: fiction. I was in a club in Brighton, near the pier, popular with not so serious clubbers, but an ordinary club all the same, open from 8:00 till 2:00am and I was in it sometime after nine with Jen and Andrea and I was completely dressed up and having the bizarrest and most exhilarating evening I had ever had. It started like this. I'm 32 and married to a fantastic wife who is more or less tolerant of the fact I like to dress as a woman. Well, it was her birthday party and we were having a great laugh with loads of mates and I was chatting and having a laugh and circulating and found myself sitting next to our next door neighbour Jen and her friend Andrea. Jen and Andrea are great fun and up for anything and I'm not sure how we got round to it but suddenly and without my prompting I'm being invited out on a girl's night out with Jen and Andrea dressed as a girl. "Go on, I dare you!" she chided in her Cardiff accent. What! She can't possibly know, can she? I'm paranoid, like most men I imagine, about letting it slip, about being found out, but how could she know? She can't have. Andrea can't have. But here is a plate put in front of me and a fantastic chance lay upon it. In front of me. Asking to be snapped up. How could a girl refuse? This was a Saturday and I had to wait for the following Friday and the week was agony under the weight of expectation tempered with the thought of the crushing disappointment if it didn't happen. The wife? Oh yeah, Well I had to ask her permission and she knew that it was something I wanted to do so "Don't worry, I'll baby sit for Jen so you can go out." In fact, she bought me some stockings and made the lovely, sexy and elegant elbow length gloves with a feather trim that I was pulling over my shaking hands as I got dressed in Jen's bedroom the following Friday. I had gone round there desperately trying to hide my enthusiasm and exploding Joy and Jen said "right then,", upstairs, use my room and I'll get you made up when you come down." Gulp. No ceremony. No do you want to wimp out just go upstairs and get dressed! So now I am walking tentatively down her stairs wearing a slightly tarty but dangerous outfit. First I had put in the black shiny bra that fitted very snugly and with a little padding gave a good representation of breasts, then very feminine cream suspenders with little frills and bows on. These were attached to the fresh black stockings that seemed painted on my legs and stopped the regulation distance from frilly, teasingly smooth black knickers that held me in place and felt so amazingly sexy. If they saw these then they'd know.
    I put on the animal print top and then from my bag a dangerously short skirt that only just covered the stocking tops. I couldn't believe this. I was about to walk down stairs and face two whistling, laughing women wearing the sort of clothes that had never left the safety of my house and present myself to them. The last touches were some Pat Butcher like jewellery and a pair of Lady DI high heels - a genuine mix of cheap tat and expensive shoes. Their faces when I opened the door and tottered in were a picture - both Jen and Andrea were screaming with laughter as they sat me down and teased me and admired, jealously in Andrea's case, my legs. They didn't shave them, luckily I'm fair haired, but they did go to work on my face and cover me with silky foundation and lashings of mascara, lipstick, eye shadow etc. They were having more fun that I was. Finally the long blond wig I had brought from Transformation was placed on my head and arranged to look deliciously feminine and an overly generous spray of perfume was aimed at me and then I was ready. Ready for a night out with no keys, my money handed over, no male clothes, no surrender, total reliance on my two friends (why do women seem to love humiliating and titillating men like this) and no way home until they said so. Fantastic. Who ever has been out for a walk dressed up will know that stomach knotting feeling of apprehension, especially when the seconds drag by as someone walks towards you, or drives past, but suddenly, no matter how "interesting" I looked no one was really paying me much attention. There was no way that I could be 100% disguised but people just weren't paying me any attention - at least not to my face. The British sense of reserve is a wonderful thing. And then before I really knew it the short drive was over and we were in the queue to get into the club, chatting and Joking and still no one seemed to pay me much attention and then I was paying for my entrance ticket and then walking into the bar and then "Well, hello there!" The DJ had spotted me, oh yes, and to him I was a perfect target. "Look at the gorgeous girl who's just walked in." Ok, it's roughly half eight and the place only had about a hundred people in it but that's 200 hundred eyes staring at me. Oh my God. The fear instantly rose. There was a big bunch of guys at the bar already getting drunk. I expected to get through the night relatively unscathed but this could go anywhere. Jen seized the moment perfectly and went up to him and said I had lost a bet on the England - Argentina World Cup football match and this was my punishment (if only you knew Jen, If only you knew.) an then the DJ got really mischievous - as did Jen as she conspired to win me a bottle of champagne from the DJ if I danced on the stage with her - IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. The wind from the smoke machine nearly raised the skirt to new heights as I was paraded on the stage and made to dance with Jen as Andrea took photograph after photograph. It was then that the fire alarm went off and Jen decided that now might be a good time to pull my wig off. Jen! People from my work come to this place! But she resisted the temptation and I got my bottle of champers - but we could hardly drink it for laughing so much. Any tension I had left disappeared as the alcohol flowed and from then on it was non stop and I was on the dance floor, in the ladies toilet (when I needed to pee), in the arms of a Thai girl who thought I was very sexy (this is all true), back on stage with a hen night from Rayleigh, getting chatted up by a very excited gay bloke, dancing with Jen and Andrea and some other girls, having more make up and perfume applied and then, finally being allowed to relax and sit down with a more manly pint of beer at some time around 1:30 and then "I'm starving. Let's go to the local store and get some food." Said Jen. This was getting bizarre and bizarrer still! By two thirty we were walking round the 24 hr store in Brighton in and out of the aisles while Jen looks for cheese and onion pasties and Andrea for some sandwiches and then having negotiated the giggling girl on the till who could only just find the composure to scan the items we had bought, I had to sit with the girls in full view of the late night shoppers while they sat and ate them. What a night for the staff of the store! All the time, I was made to feel like a princess, but a naughty one who had to do what her wicked aunts demanded. Bliss. Finally, closer to three, I was dropped off home and we sat and giggled and laughed and recounted what an amazing night it was. If it were transvestite fiction I imagine this would be where the kinky sex scene would be put but there was none of that. Just a gentle end to a thrilling night. My wife was so happy to see me home unmolested and un-beaten-up but she thought the whole thing was hilarious and wants to come out again next time. They'll definitely be a next time, but maybe not to that club again. Kim Shaw.

St Paul said that there abide faith, hope and charity - but I have more hope than faith in the charity shop as a source for transvestites' clothing...

 

The Charity Shop

 

In Heaven, no doubt, charity shops are Aladdin's caves for transvestites. This world, alas, is a more cruel place. Buyer beware: rather than Aladdin's cave, here, charity shops are all too often little shops of horror. I think that there are three main reasons for people giving clothes to charity shops - they're worn out, they no longer fit or they were a mistake from the start. To take the last of those first - if it looked ghastly on the woman who originally owned it, it will probably look even worse on you. On the whole, transvestites need to take more care over what they wear than women do. I, for one, am not crossdressing to wear someone else's discarded horrors.

 

A quick glance with a critical eye will be enough to assess the ghastliness of a lot of clothes. Sometimes, though it's necessary to try the clothes on to see how awful they are. There are garments which seem fine in theory but in practice, just don't work. There are clothes which could be splendid, but they're cut so that they don't hang right on a human body. If they hang badly on a woman, they're likely to hang a whole lot worse on you. The cut of clothes can offend a lot more than the eye. I have a friend who picked up a teddy from a charity shop. Exceptionally, it was large enough for a transvestite's body - and it was certainly very pretty. The snag appeared when putting it on for the first time. It was decorated with piping which cut into the flesh in some extremely sensitive places. The original owner had probably found it too painful to wear, but I think it must have been even worse for my friend!

 

Acceptable

 

Less painful, but still a pain, are problems around washing and ironing. There are clothes which are a lot of work to keep in half way acceptable shape. There's no reason why transvestites shouldn't iron their clothes - all the same, if someone took a garment to a charity shop because it was too much trouble to iron, it probably really is too much trouble to iron. I've given clothes to charity shops for this reason - I'm sure that a lot of women have done the same. Other pains include hand-wash only - how good are you at hand washing? Worse are problems around garments not being colour fast. I once bought a red skirt with an elasticated waistband from a charity shop. Its original owner had removed the washing instructions, so I decided (as I thought) to play safe. I hand washed it, with a few other things, in tepid water. The skirt came out fine. Everything else emerged mottled with pink. It ruined some expensive undies. More extreme than hand-wash only is dry clean only. Charity shop items in that category generally cost more to clean than to buy. Something which looked to be a real bargain turns out a bit expensive. Washing and ironing are compounded by the fact that a lot of charity shop clothes are without manufacturers' labels. Some of these may be home made, but in others one came to see where the labels have been ripped off. Why anyone should do this I do not know, but it leaves care of the garment as a lottery in which there are only booby prizes. Wrong guessing can ruin not only the clothes without labels, but other things in the same wash. Instructions for washing and ironing are not the only label to be snipped out. Size labelling can also be missing. That allows three possibilities - carry a tape measure, try the garments on, or guess. Someone did once advise me to carry a tape measure as a matter of course. I've never done so, and don't know anyone who has. Even the friend who gave me the advice (a transvestite) doesn't do it. Trying clothes on would be the ideal - but it takes an unusually bold transvestite to do so except in such safe outlets as Transformation. Not having attempted it, my guess is that a trannie wishing to try on women's clothing in a charity shop would meet with, at best, a frosty reception. It could well be worse than frosty. In fact, 'frosty' is an accurate word for the attitude of many assistants in charity shops towards men who bring women's clothes to the counter, let alone towards any male who wished to try them on!

 

Guessing

 

Size labelling brings us to the size of the original owner. An important point on this is that there's an overlap between the issues of clothes being ghastly and their no longer fitting the original owner. I married a woman who wore size 10 clothes. I saw her through the traumas of going up to size 12, then size 14, and on to size 16. She was concerned not only at her increasing girth, as such, but also by the fact that, with each increase in size, it became harder to find nice clothes. The problem for us, here, is that not only does the male body tend to be larger than the female one, but it is differently proportioned. Men generally have thick waists, which increases their skirt size several notches. Probably worse, they also tend to have broad shoulders, which can have a dramatic effect on blouse and dress sizes. Towards the end of our marriage, my wife was finding it difficult (at size 16) to find clothes she liked in ordinary dress shops and department stores. The task would be much more difficult for a transvestite who is more likely to need sizes up in the 20s. Someone I know, who doesn't seem an unusual size for a man - and certainly isn't fat - says that he takes a size 22. If flattering garments in that size are difficult to find in shops selling new clothes, they will be very much more so in a charity shop. This brings us to the reason why clothes no longer fit women - and are given to charity shops. Generally, it has to do with the process through which my wife went. Women tend to grow larger as they grow older - acquiring matronly figures. The result is that there are plenty of size 10 and size 12 clothes in charity shops. The proportion of transvestites who can squeeze into these must be as tiny as their waists are. In fact, probably the most frustrating thing about charity shops is that there are some lovely clothes going very cheaply in size 8 or 10. I've seen some really beautiful leather skirts available for a couple of pounds. Alas, all of them have been designed for anorexic teenage girls. The most beautiful leather skirt I ever saw anywhere was in this category. It combined black and wine coloured leather sewn to form an applique pattern. It was in a Leyton charity shop. I don't know why I tortured myself by giving it a second glance, but I went so far as to gauge the size. It was hard to believe an adult human being could have a waist as small as that. Much the same applied to a skirt of electric blue satin with a tulip hem. This wonderful creation was sighted in a Southend- on-Sea charity shop. I still think about that skirt. Even if I could have returned to my early teenage dimensions, I doubt if it would have been possible to squeeze into the tiny waistband. It would have been better if I'd never seen it. The likes of that skirt can offer me nothing but heartache.

 

Bargain

 

It comes as a relief to leave the subject of beautiful clothes much too small to wear, and consider the third reason people give things to charity shops. This is because they're worn out. Clothes of this kind can be found on the bargain rails - cheap even by charity shop standards. Alas, unless you're good with a needle and thread, you are unlikely to rescue anything useful in this category. Indeed, even if you can sew, it isn't worth trying to fix anything worse than unstitched seams. When the fabric of the garment starts to give out, there's not much to be done apart from ripping it up to use as dusters. That said, perhaps the most intriguing thing I've ever seen in a charity shop came into the worn out category. I didn't buy it - the item wasn't worth having - but it did set me wondering. It was a red suspender belt which had been repaired repeatedly with large and clumsy stitches. A woman who sewed that badly would surely not bother to sew at all. Women don't usually repair their lingerie, in any case. Suspender belts continue to be worn in this age of tights because they are sexy - the much repaired one had long since lost its last trace of sexiness. The original owner was almost certainly a transvestite - but why had the worn out suspender belt gone to a charity shop instead of in the bin (where it belonged)? I sensed that there was a story behind it - and I still wonder about it. Perhaps the best treasures to be found in charity shops are such intriguing little hints of other people's lives. I've donated several items to charity shops which, I'd like to think, may have set someone wondering about the original owner. These have included garments carrying Transformation labels - at the end of their useful lives.

 

I have found one (and only one) useful garment - repaired by its original owner after much wear - on the bargain rail of a charity shop. It was a little pink blouse with re-sewn seams under the armpits. I bought it for 50p, expecting the seams to go again very shortly. Many wearings later, the seams are still holding - and the blouse has proved itself a genuine bargain. I've wondered about that original owner. She may have been an exceptionally tubby woman - overly fleshy arms, perhaps. Alternatively, the blouse may have formerly belonged to an other transvestite. The strain on the armpits could be the result of broad shoulders (a major problem in clothes made for women placed on a male body). The restitching of the seams, while not as clumsy as that of the red suspender belt, does not exhibit much delicacy. That may be another sign of a tranny former owner. To be fair to charity shops, I ought to mention another excellent buy - albeit one that few trannies could have worn - a genuine girl's blazer. Can a schoolgirl be properly outfitted without a blazer? This was - and is - a treasure, not least because the blazer is an item of school uniform not available from such outlets as Transformation. Buying a blazer from a school outfitter is not a transaction I would care to make. They would surely wonder why my 'daughter' hadn't come with me to try on her new blazer. And then, perhaps... "What size is she, sir?" "Oh, about my size..." Really, I'd rather not even think about that. But here was a blazer that would be easy to buy. It seemed natural enough that I would snap up a charity shop bargain while it was available, rather than risk losing it by waiting to return with my 'daughter' at some future time. The only question was whether it would fit me...

 

Growing

 

As school blazers go, it was a fairly large size. The previous owner had probaby finished with it on leaving school, rather than growing out of it and being bought a larger one. I looked for a size label. There wasn't one, although all of the other labelling was intact. I felt doubtful - could I squeeze into even a large school blazer? As a teenager I'd worn an elder sister's blazer sometimes - but that was a long time before. The blazer was cheap for what it was, but it wasn't free. Trying on the blazer in the shop was out of the question. I am generally fairly open about my transvestism, but there are limits. A trannie going for schoolgirl items is sure to raise issues around paedophilia in the minds of a lot of people. It may be nonsense - there is no link that I can see between wishing to dress as a schoolgirl and wishing to abuse children - but that would probably not reduce the trouble which would ensue. After dithering for a little while, I bought the blazer, took it home and tried it on. To my great pleasure, it fitted. It was a very snug fit when buttoned, but I was able to wear it. Few transvestites, however, would have been so lucky. I am small by male standards, and - most important - have very narrow shoulders. My last girlfriend, in fact, had wider shoulders than me. Turning from the best to the most surprising transaction, it arose in the purchase of a matching camisole and French knicker set. This was another purchase over which I dithered before making the transaction. It was very pretty - but would it fit? There was no size label and I had to guess. My feeling was that the knickers would be OK, but the camisole could be too small even for me. (As it turned out, this guesswork was about right). Eventually, I decided that the camisole didn't matter because the French knickers were worth at least the £3 asking price. On that basis, I took the lingerie set to the counter. The lady looked at it, picked up a pen, crossed out the £3 and wrote £2 instead. And that was what she charged me - but why? I've often wondered about that... Possibly the lingerie set had been priced by a rival whose prices she enjoyed altering. I would like to believe that she thought transvestites should be encouraged to wear frilly undies, and liked to sell them as cheaply as possible if a trannie was buying. I've tried to convince myself of that explanation - but haven't yet succeeded!

 

I have made a few really good buys in charity shops - but has the charity shopping, overall, been worthwhile? I doubt it. I am reminded of people with gambling habits. Speak to any gambler and you'll be told that he or she (usually he) has made an overall profit from betting. If this was true, Ladbrooks, Coral and all the rest would have gone bankrupt. Instead, they appear to be doing very nicely. The punters misperception is surely a matter of selective memory. Occasions So it is with charity shopping. I remember a few real bargains. How could I forget them? The things are still in my wardrobe. What I rarely do is to balance these against a large number of mistakes. More - what have I done with these mistakes? For the most part, they've gone back to a charity shop. This is a process which increases the size of the charity shop haystacks of the unwearable which obscure the needles of occasional real bargains. If I added up the total of my charity shop spending, and divided it by the wearable clothes with which I emerged, I'm sure that my bargains would prove rather expensive. If I added on the cost of the undies ruined by dye from the red charity shop skirt... Well - I'm sure you get the picture. There's no such thing as a free frock. You'll be lucky if you even find a cheap one that's any good. Normally, a charity shop habit is not quite as expensive as a gambling one, although a wash day disaster can leave it so. However, the truth is that almost all of my wearable girlish clothing was bought new. Alas, in this cruel world, charity shops are very far from Aladdin's caves for transvestites...



Many transvestites applying make-up for the first time are appalled at the mess they make of it, but there's no need to be discouraged. The art of using cosmetics has to be learned like every other skill - and if you use your common sense, it's something you can master. Don't be afraid to experiment in the safety of your own home. You will always learn from your mistakes and, unlike say sky diving, if you make a mess of it the first time you can always have another try. Remember these basic points and you won't go far wrong: Emphasise your good features Camouflage your blemishes Always use good quality cosmetics If in doubt what suits you, get professional advice When make-up is really well applied, no one knows you're wearing it. So, the secret of making the most of yourself is discretion. Disguise the fact that you're using foundation or beard cover by taking the extra five minutes to make sure it is well blended in and that there are no edges or abrupt changes of colour showing. The Nose Noses tend to shine, and shiny noses draw attention to themselves. Right on the point of the nose, there is an area which needs special attention paying to it. It needs a matt finish, but the colour of that finish must blend in so well with the rest of your make-up that no one knows you've touched. Use your fingers or a cotton wool pad to blend the powder well in and to remove any excess. The Jaw Too often, beginners to the art of applying make-up concentrate on the front of their faces, and forget that people look at the rest of their face aswell. Work down from your cheek bone and blend the foundation cream, derma blend or powder down from the highlighted area (right) going under the jaw. Examine yourself carefully to make sure there are no lines showing where the make-up ends, that there is no excess make-up on your hair, and that you haven't left any make-up on your ears. Either that - or wear a very large wig! The Eyes The eyes are considered by many to be the most important - and most attractive - part of the face. Carefully outline the eye with an eye pencil, and discreetly shade the eyelid with eye shadow. Remember not to use an eyeshadow the same colour as your eyes - try for a contrasting shade of the same colour for a superb effect. If you have light blue eyes, use dark blue eyeshadow; dark brown eyes, use a light tan shadow and if you have green eyes use a contrasting shade of green If you have red eyes, wear sun glasses!  
  The Underjaw Pay particular attention to this area when you are shaving, as there is nothing more ugly than a little tuft of hair protruding through a beautifully made-up face. A slightly darker shade of concealer used here will give you a slimmer jaw line and disguise a multitude of faults, but be careful there is no perceptible border between your darker make-up and the lighter one you used on the front of your face. Go over this area several times with a cotton pad or powder brush to ensure an even blend and a natural graduation of shade. If you've got a double chin, take twice as long! The Eyebrows If you intend using false eyebrows, ensure that the colour does not contrast too much with your hair or wig. If you are shaping your own eyebrows, do not make them too pencil-thin because they will end up looking as though they have been drawn on. Wherever possible, try to maintain the natural line of your eyebrows, but make sure you trim any parts that intrude onto the top of your nose area. Noel Gallagher is not the look we want. When you are satisfied you've made a superb job of your make-up, take a last look at yourself in the mirror and then go downstairs and make a cup of hot, steaming coffe. Drink it slowly, holding the cup under your chin the whole time, then go back upstairs and take another look in the mirror. In five minutes, the steam from that coffe will do the same to your make-up as five hours at a party will do. If your make-up stands up to that treatment and still looks good, then you've made an excellent job if it. Congratulations. But don't get complacent... Carry fresh supplies of make-up with you all the time, and get to a mirror every half hour during the time you are out to check that all is still well. Like all works of art and the Forth Bridge, make-up needs constant maintenance!  

We can picture in our mind the typical drawing-room scene. The upright father in his dark suit, the timid-looking mother at her writing desk, the elder son in his Army uniform, the young girl in her lace-trimmed pinafore, and finally the maid in her starched apron and cap, all posed rigidly for the camera.

 

But imagine, if you would, that the timid looking mother is really in charge of the family, and that beneath that frilly blouse and cameo broach lies the heart of a true dominatrix.

 

Her husband sits so erectly in his chair because of the tightly-laced female corset which he has been forced to wear for years and years.

 

The young girl is, in fact, a 14 years old boy, put into pinafores to curb his early signs of waywardness and rough manners. Underneath, he has to wear his corset day and night to train his waist to become as tiny as possible.

 

The elder son, also in a lace-trimmed corset under his khaki uniform, has only enlisted to stop his fiancee dressing him up and treating him like a maid.

 

And the maid herself, she's, of course, a boy as well. A young nephew who came to stay when his mother died, and found himself forced into female domestic service.

 

Far fetched? Perhaps, but only because such a number of males dominated into corsets, pinafores and maids' uniforms were unlikely to be all in one household. However they did exist, individually, all around London and the rest of the country, and most likely every other country in Europe.

 

The evidence is presented in a recently published collection "Confidential Correspondence on Cross-Dressing 1911- 1915", edited by Peter Farrer. It makes fascinating reading.

 

For example, let's start with the young recruit. You may have heard of British men who failed to enlist during the First World War being handed white feathers by women in the street as a sign of cowardice. But some women went very much further, as a letter printed in a newspaper in June 1915 pointed out.

 

This was from a wife of a 24 years old man who had thought twice about volunteering for the trenches. She and some friends had formed their own corps, with the women all dressed in khaki and the men as maids...

 

"Most of us have husbands who will not join the forces, and we have compelled them under persuasion and application of the birch to don female attire and do all the housework."

 

"We hold meetings in each other's houses. Our husbands have to wait on us and call us "Sir", and we always say "Miss" to them. I expect they feel awfully foolish when they have to get matches and light our cigarettes and dust around the room with us looking on."

 

"We sometimes take them on our knees, and one poor boy had the humiliation of being made to stand in a corner. This is exactly what wants doing with those who won't enlist. We have made them feel ashamed of themselves."

 

"The boys have been dressed like this for four months now, each one being made to swear in front us all that he would for the rest of his days wear the petticoats."

 

To some of these men, such feminised punishment may have come as a shock. To others, it might almost have been second nature. For the collection, mainly taken from the newspaper New Fun, has many examples of teenage boys being persuaded to dress as girls.

 

One letter is from a man whose mother insisted he wore white pinafores from the age of 14 to keep himself neat and tidy. To begin with, he shared his sister's, but over the coming two years began to collect a drawer-full of his own.

 

"Lady friends of my mother expressed great admiration for the plan, and several of them, to my disgust, sent me pinafores for Christmas presents. These were carefully chosen for me when the donors came to call, and I had to appear wearing their presents and was made to thank them and say how pretty I thought the pinnies."

 

Others who came across women feminising their sons were less supportive. One 1915 letter is from the wife of a "big strong man" whose son is fighting in France. She claims to detest effeminate men and cites one example she recently came across.

 

She had been invited out for tea with a friend, and to her horror had found her hostess's son pencilled, painted, powdered and dressed as a girl.

 

"Several ladies present gushed over him, and his adoring mother proudly produced a tape in order that his admirers might measure his pinched in the waist, which proved to be 16 inches.

 

"I was disgusted with remarks such as 'Doesn't he make a lovely girl?' 'His corsets squeeze him beautifully', or 'Isn't his waist delightfully pinched in?'. Needless to add that I was glad to go home".

 

Some boys learnt to love the feeling of constriction and the slim waist which tight corseting brought. There are a number of letters from men who are proud of their figures, amongst them a young draper's assistant who had been in the trenches himself fighting for King and country.

 

"I've have read some of the remarks about that effeminate men is a kind of weakness, but from experience, there are men who have that fascination fighting at the front now (I myself have done a bit, but am home again and expect to go back shortly) so that shows that all are not weak," he writes

 

Others had hated the experience of being feminised and never wanted to return to girlish clothes once they had escaped them. A letter printed in the summer of 1915 tells of the experiences four years before of a young man who went to stay with his aunt while his widowed father was abroad.

 

The aunt hadn't really wanted him but decided that if he was going to take up space he might as well work for it. The maid was dismissed and the nephew took her place.

 

At first, this sounds like classic trannie fiction, but then comes the ring of truth:

 

"I must say that a small waist and pretty lingerie has quite a fascination for me when on a girl, but I have not the slightest desire to go back again to my female attire."

 

Surely, for a real trannie, such thoughts would be sacrilege.

 

There is undoubtedly some fantasy about. A number of the letters do seem too much like wishful thinking to the more cynical reader of the 1990s. One, for example, concerns a young man who has to pretend to his dying father that he is the daughter that never was.

 

But even these only serve to underline that much about being a transvestite hasn't changed over the last eighty years. There are reports from trannies who chance going out dressed, and pleas from others for advice on how to go about buying women's clothes. In those days, it must have taken quite a nerve to have gone to a dressmaker.

 

There are over 200 letters reproduced in the collection, and Peter Farrer has indexed them under subject headings, dates and newspapers for ready reference. He's done a magnificent job on bringing to life a transvestite world that history tried to ignore.

 

"Confidential Correspondence on Cross-Dressing 1911-1915" is available priced £7.50 (plus £1 p&p) from bookshops or direct from Karn Publications Garston, 63 Salisbury Road, Garston, Liverpool L19 OPH.



  John felt nervous sitting in the lounge of The Black Horse opposite his fiancee, Veronica, to whom he'd been engaged for eighteen months. They had begun to see each other more and more until Veronica had pushed it to seven nights a week. "John, why are you so worried about seeing me every night?" she asked in a dainty feminine voice. "No real reason." "We'll be married in a week - surely you'll not want a night off then?" she frowned. "Of course not." "Well, what's the matter? You can tell me. We don't have secrets do we?" She smiled and held his hand beneath the table. John looked deep into her eyes and smiled. He loved Veronica dearly but he also had something on his conscience. "Look, Veronica. Perhaps we should call the whole thing off," he blurted out. Veronica looked up from her glass, letting his words echo through her mind. "What?!" she shouted, then blushed as people looked in her direction. "Did I hear you right?" she asked, melting into the chair. "Perhaps I'm not the right man for you..." "Of course you are, John. We love each other." "But there's something you don't know about me. A secret only a few other people know about..." Veronica stared at him. "Surely you can tell me?" "You wouldn't understand." "I will! Look, we are getting married and nothing you say will alter my mind," she insisted. John paused, then: "I've been talking with some of my special friends and they said it would be better for you to know now rather than later, and have to go through a divorce." "Divorce?! We're not even married yet!" she retorted. "Drink up, I'll take you home and show you something..." They finished their drinks with John refusing to answer any more of Veronica's questions. Once in his house, he opened a bottle of wine, pouring two glasses. "You must promise to stay down here," he said. "Where are you going?" "Upstairs, I won't be long," he said nervously. "I thought you were going to show me something?" "I'll be half an hour. Amuse yourself," he insisted and left the room, closing the door behind him.
    Once in his bedroom, he removed his shirt, trousers, shoes and socks, then stood before his long mirror in black tights, a pink pantie girdle and a pink bra. He put on a full-length underskirt and filled his bra with foam padding. His hands caressed the dainty feminine material before he put on a knee-length green dress with a zip-up back. Sitting before the dressing table mirror, he quickly applied his make-up. First foundation cream, then powder. Picking up the applicator, he covered his eyelids with green eyeshadow. Mascara followed, then blusher and finally lipstick. He looked at himself, turning right then left before finally feeling satisfied that everything was perfect. Picking up his wig, he carefully put it on and clipped it firmly in place. A quick brush and he looked the part. He glanced at the bottle of nail polish and then at his watch, asking himself if he really had the time. With a deep sigh, he shook the bottle and unscrewed the top. Soon his nails became a bright cherry red. A quick blow with the hair dryer and they were dry. He stepped into his black three-inch high heels and strutted proudly towards the door. The only thing missing was his handbag. He gave the problem some deliberation and decided to take a small clutch bag. Going down the stairs, he wondered what Veronica would say. He pushed the lounge door open, his stomach churning with butterflies. A second later he was standing in the room and a very surprised Veronica stood up to face him. "This is my secret and the reason why we shouldn't get married. I have thought it through and it wouldn't be fair on you." He stood still while Veronica caught her breath. "What do you mean?" she asked after a few seconds. "I'm a transvestite." "A what?" "A transvestite. I like to dress up in the clothes of the opposite sex." She gazed at him and chuckled aloud. She walked around him and sighed, waving her head from side to side. "You really have brought something on me. I never expected this." She lifted the back of his dress gently feeling the soft material of his girdle. "Do you really enjoy wearing these clothes?" "Yes, I do." "I must go to the loo," she said nervously. Some time later John heard the flush go. "Look, John, I have to think this over," Veronica said upon entering the lounge. "I've ordered a taxi, it'll be here in a few minutes." He went to hold her but she backed away, smiling as politely as she could. "I need time, John. You may as well stay in those clothes as you love them so much. I suppose you have a nightie as well?" "Yes, and a negligee with slippers. If you are leaving you may as well know the worst. I go out to special parties dressed up like this. You see, I was right to tell you, I knew it wouldn't work." "What size are you then?" she asked, surprising him with her question. "Eighteen," he replied just as a taxi sounded its horn. "Goodbye John. Don't call me, I'll call you." She quickly left. John spent the rest of the evening drowning his sorrows in wine.
    Two days later, Veronica arrived at his house. He was surprised to see her as he had grown sure the wedding was off. "I've talked with some doctors and read some books on the subject," she said once she was in the lounge. "I see. I'm sorry about the other night." "Never mind. I think I can live with it. Here is a present - try it on," she commanded. He took the bag. Inside was a skirt and blouse. He gazed at her, wondering what was happening. "Hurry up, I'll cook tea," she said with a broad smile. Fifteen minutes later John returned downstairs in the new clothes. "Do they fit?" "Perfect!" She walked up to him, brushing the blouse with her hands. As their faces met, she smiled and leaned forward, kissing his lips. The kiss turned into a long, drawn-out lustful one as her arms wrapped around his body and his moved around hers. "We have some talking to do. I would like to see your wardrobe. And your make-up is dreadful. You'll need my expert help there, and that wig just doesn' suit you at all." "Is all this as a friend or what?" "A lover and a wife. To save any embarrassment later I've told my parents all about you." "That's incredible," he sighed. That evening, with John wearing stockings and bra, they made love as they had never done before. The two days to the wedding soon passed and John had a surprise package delivered by hand with the early morning post. Inside was a pair of white stockings, panties, bra, suspender belt and cami top in white satin and lace. A simple note read "Wear them for me". The wedding went without a hitch. They were due to fly out to Spain for their honeymoon the following day. Instead of spending the night at the airport hotel as planned, Veronica insisted they stay at John's house. Watching him undress, she saw he had done as she'd asked. "I like these clothes on you," she said grinning and fondling them. "They feel adorable. I have a surprise for you," she said giving him a large bag. He opened it in silence and grinned. "It's your wedding dress!" he gasped. "Now it's your wedding dress." "But it won't fit me!" "Try it on," she commanded. John stepped into it. As he pulled it up, millions of tingling sensations flowed through his body. He put his arms into the sleeves and to his amazement they fitted. Even the zip fastened properly. "But how??" "When I changed this afternoon, I gave my dress to a seamstress who quickly did the alterations for your size. Darling, you look almost as beautiful as I did." "Then you really don't mind?" We are going to have the best relationship we could have ever dreamed of. Girlish outings, shopping for all those dainty clothes, and above all, the love to go with it." She clung to his dress, feeling his arms around her back. As they kissed together, the white lace veil slipped over their heads, joining them together for ever.