While cases have been reported throughout history of males feminized by means of castration, sex-reassignment surgery did not come about until the 20th century. The first complete male-to-female operations were performed in Germany in the early 1930s on patients referred by pioneering sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld (whose writings mention incomplete attempts dating back to 1912). Himself a homosexual, Hirschfeld was an early advocate for gay rights and was among the first to study transsexualism - a word he is thought to have coined. He often visited bars in Berlin catering to gays and transvestites as he researched the first-ever book on transgenderism, Die Transvestiten (1910). The first surgical sex change is variously attributed to two individuals who underwent the procedure in 1930 and 1931. Lili Elbe, formerly Danish painter Einar Wegener, had a series of operations that included the implantation of ovaries. Having undergone castration years earlier, a patient called Dorchen (born Rudolf Richter) received what is likely the first vaginoplasty, performed by Felix Abraham in Berlin. Some female-to-male transsexuals, like Alan Hart in 1918, also sought surgeries - such as ovary removal and mastectomy - to make their bodies better match their identities. The first sex-reassignment operation to enter the public spotlight in America was that of Christine Jorgensen. The New York Daily News broke the story in December 1952 with the headline "Ex-GI Becomes Blond Bombshell." Tall and attractive, Jorgensen became a popular nightclub performer. "Now, looking back, I realize it was the beginning of the Sexual Revolution," Jorgensen told an interviewer in 1986. "I just happened to be one of the trigger mechanisms." Harry Benjamin, a German-born doctor who practiced in New York City, traveled frequently to visit Europe's pre-eminent sexologists. In addition to Hirschfeld - whom Benjamin had met as a university student - he also visited renowned Austrian endocrinologist Eugen Steinach, who conducted some of the first experiments to change the sexual characteristics of animals by castration or implanting testicles. Benjamin later became acquainted with sex researcher Alfred Kinsey, who is thought to have sparked Benjamin's interest in transsexualism by introducing him to a patient who claimed to be a man trapped in a woman's body. Rejecting the prevailing view that transsexuals were either mentally ill or poorly adjusted homosexuals, Benjamin provided sympathetic care to hundreds of patients at his offices in New York and San Francisco in the 1950s. As the publicity surrounding Jorgensen's sex change gave transgender people new hope, Benjamin's practice exploded. He became known as the country's foremost expert on transsexualism, a distinction furthered by the publication of his groundbreaking 1966 book, The Transsexual Phenomenon. By the late 1950s, the care of transsexuals had improved markedly thanks to medical advances such as skin flap surgery (which reduced the need for disfiguring skin grafts) and hormone therapy. At that time, French plastic surgeon Georges Burou developed the modern penile-inversion technique. Female-to-male techniques improved as well, but creating a fully functional penis remained a surgical challenge. Despite these advances, few U.S. hospitals permitted sex-reassignment surgeries until the following decade. In the 1960s, the prestigious Johns Hopkins Medical Center set up a gender clinic, which began performing sex-reassignment surgeries in 1966. Some 40 or so university-affiliated gender clinics were established in the ensuing decade, including one at Stanford University in 1969. That same year, Stanley Biber, previously a general surgeon, began performing sex-reassignment operations in Trinidad, Colo., following hand-drawn sketches obtained from Johns Hopkins. Biber went on to become one of the most prominent surgeons in the field, performing 150 operations per year at the height of his career. In the wake of a 1979 study claiming that male-to-female transsexuals who received sex-reassignment surgery experienced "no objective improvement," gender clinics began to close - led by Johns Hopkins - until only a few remained. To avoid the poor outcomes the study revealed, a group of psychologists, physicians, and other experts created the Harry Benjamin International Gender Dysphoria Association (HBIGDA) and put together a standard of care meant to ensure that only appropriate candidates could obtain sex-reassignment surgery. Among the characteristics of a supposed good candidate was adherence to a traditional, heterosexual feminine or masculine role. According to the standards (which are still used today), a candidate must first undergo psychotherapy for at least three months. With approval from a psychologist, he or she can obtain a prescription for hormones, then complete the "Real-Life Experience" test, which requires living full-time as the desired gender. While many transsexuals lauded the HBIGDA standards, subsequent social and political shifts led to controversy. Some transgender people felt they should not have to jump through hoops to receive medical treatment, while others opposed the traditional gender role requirement. In response to such criticism, the latest revision of the standards (2001) relaxed these restrictions. In addition, an alternative standard of care was put forth by the International Conference on Transgender Law and Employment Policy in 1993, stating, "Persons have the right to express their gender identity through changes to their physical appearance, including the use of hormones and reconstructive surgery."

FEMBITIONS

  Yes we all have them, 'ambitions' while we look or are in feminine mode. Let me give you an example. I am neither into motorbikes nor leather, but I have an ambition or a fantasy (let's call it a fembition), concerning both. It's not a sexual thing but something that the feminine side of me yearns to do. I have this vision of me, the female me, riding pillion behind a young cyclist. Both of us are appropriately dressed. I am encased on one of those all enveloping black figure hugging leather outfits, wearing heeled boots and have underneath, but unseen, as little underwear as is necessary. I recognise that leather and motorbikes have strong fantasy connections for some but this is not the case for me. It's just something that I'd love to do and have wanted to do for many years. The young man is purely there to steer and drive the bike, and provide a body for me to clutch to. Why I, who has never owned or ridden on a motorcycle should have this ambition, I have no idea. Is it the suppressed exhibitionist within me? Is it the promise of helpless dependency on the rider while he (or I suppose, she, I've never comsidered the rider's gender) puts the powerful machine through its paces and I hold on tightly? Is the unmistakable statement of gender, despite the disguising helmet, made by the figure hugging leather? Perhaps it's simply my feminine side's sense of adventure. The male me certainly wants nothing to do with motorcyles. I thought, until recently, that I was alone in these adventurous fembitions. After chatting with a friend I realised that not only was I not alone, but I had seen others fulfilling their ambitions, either not recognising what they were doing or hoping that no one would understand what drove them on. I am an amateur thespian. Amongst groups performing pantomines very often it is the same male that plays the dame, year after year. Now there's nothing wrong with that. He might be the only one capable of taking what is a very important and central part. He might be on an ego trip, determined to be the star each year. But equally there are some perennial 'dames' who would deny any interest such as ours, but fight tooth and nail to make sure that only they wear the dresses. Often the costume demands of these characters are quite extraordinary. How can you know which is which? The test, I discovered, is Mother Goose! Those of you who know the story will remember that Mother Goose has various wishes granted for money, power, beauty and often a full wardrobe we would all kill for. Frequently, since it gets the best audience reaction, MG ends dressed in the very height of fashion. perhaps like a current female pop singer - what a dream for a closet TV! But these males are very often not TV's, closet or otherwise, or so they claim. One, I know, is aggressively 'macho' and any suggestion that he had an 'unhealthy' interest like ours would immediately result in a bash on the nose, or worse. He is avidly anti-gay, anti-perv and anti-non normal. What is normal? If you aren't a beer swilling, chauvinistic, woman chasing, pot bellied, bigoted male, then you aren't normal. You might gather that he and I do not see eye to eye. His requirements for Mother Goose? Two special changes of clothes, which had to be correct in every detail. The first was a powerful 'Dallas-type' outfit complete with matching accessories. The other a 'Marilyn Monroe' dress, reminiscent of that famous scene where her skirts are blown uncontrollably upwards. Now that might be a scene any one of us might aspire to figure in, but this specification was so precise. From the closet I seethed with jealously but it was the silky underwear and matching handbag he demanded that made my hackles rise. All this for a man who would instantly lead a mob to make a TV's quiet walk down the street a misery, and who accused me of being a 'nancy' for my quiet southern accent.
    Anyway, having got that off my chest, I hope you see my point, even 'outsiders' have fembitions. Having chatted to others, from our TV world, I find that the fembitions are almost endless. A keen golfer and TV of my acquaintance is desperate to play, en femme, at his local golf course. He would love to play a course from the ladies tees as Angelina. If anyone out there knows where she might be welcome, let me know. In a limited way I have already achieved this fembition. You may have played one of the many golf games that are available for your computer. The more sophisticated ones allow you to choose and name your own players. Driven, I presume, by 'political correctness' some even permit you to select the sex, not to mention skin, hair and clothing colour. Hidden away in my directory of players are Maggie and Rose. Maggie - redheaded, fair skinned, and whose emerald green top suits her colouring. Similarly Rose, attired in lilac complementing her tanned complexion and dark hair. The greatest advantage is that I can nip off for a quick game as Maggie without having to leave the office (and the attendant difficulties it might create). But there's no ladies locker room to retire to for a chat or to repair one's face. From others I've found fembitions to serve in shops, banks and restaurants. I've even come across a fembition to ride to hounds, become a chauffeuse, and play in ladies cricket or tennis matches. That ignores those who want to be brides, geisha girls or tarts. I didn't enquire whether they wanted to take their roles to the logical and ultimate conclusion. Fembitions are not only for TVs, through. Not so long ago, I saw and was involved in a female achieving her fembition. Even though I was alone on stage with her and in front of an audience, this caused me no problems. Sally and I were performing in a revue and our sketch was set in a hospital room. There I was, lying in my hospital bed being visited by my 'wife'. On each previous night she had made her entrance in a fur coat and completed the scene precisely according to the script. But on the last night as she stood to speak, with her back to the audience, her hands lifted to her hips to draw the fur coat open and reveal to me - alone - a white basque, tiny white bikini knickers and stockings tautly gripped by suspenders. The audience had no idea what I could plainly see. Afterwards she confessed that she had fulfilled a life long ambition. She had discussed with her husband and my wife what was to happen beforehand, and she had enough confidence in me to presume I would not give her secret away to the audience. Little did she realise that my stuttering reaction was caused less by surprise then the recognition of a fembition of my own!! The flashing isn't important to me, nor to be recommended, except under those very controlled circumstances. It was the thought, for me, of appearing in public so apparently respectable, and yet beneath being so vulnerable. But if Sally can fulfil her life-long fembition, why shouldn't Maggie? Anyway, you must excuse me, I have to dash. Angelina, wait for me on the first tee, will you? I'm just popping into the locker room to adjust my bra, it's cutting into me.



 The Office Boy

My name was Mike Grant, and I say was, because it's different now. I have two years of college and I'm taking classes at night to finish with a degree in Business. In order to support my school expenses and have some spending money, I found a job working in an office as sort of a glorified office boy. I'm 5' 7" tall with soft brown hair and blue eyes and I have never weighed more than 140 in my entire life. Valerie Hooper, the woman I report to is in charge of the office, and also prepares parties for Christmas and so on. Valerie is about 50, married, with two sons and a husband. For Halloween she wanted everyone to come to work in costume, fully expecting a lot of monsters or ghosts. When I told her I wanted to do something different but had no idea of what, or who, to come as, she smiled and told me that I could easily come as Diane Benson, the actress, when she was my age! "You have the same facial structure she does, and with the right makeup you could be her twin Mike. Think about it and let me know. That night I told my mother what Valerie had suggested, and to my surprise she agreed! "I can help you if you like Mike. Your sister still has a lot of her clothes here so that would not be a problem. Besides, it could be a lot of fun!" I told her that I would think about it. For years I was lonely, depressed, angry at myself, the world, and the gods that made me this way. I knew I was smart and had a good job, but at age 20, I was still driven by urges I never had any control over, no matter how hard I tried. I often felt the urge to dress as a girl, but each time I did, and then looked in the mirror, I saw a clown instead of the woman I wanted to be. Including my makeup, I was merely a parody of the woman in my dreams. My frustration at my inability to achieve any semblance of the woman I felt I wanted to become had driven me into silent secrecy when I did try to dress up. That night, in my robe, I munched snacks as the television played in a muted tone. The young women on the screen were a constant reminder of what I wanted to be able to look like, and equally, my inability to either conquer my desires, or forget it, or become the woman I had so many dreams about. In my heart I knew I was going to do it, because even though I had secretly tried on my sister's clothes many times when I was growing up, and always felt like a clown, this time I would have my mother to help me. My mother's tacit approval lifted the veil of frustration and I felt as if I was soaring. I knew, in my heart, that this time, I would look good. Since Claire was just a year older than I was, most of her clothes fit me pretty well, and I was sure that with some help, I could look pretty nice. My biggest concern was how everyone in the office would react to me dressed as a girl. The next morning, when I told mom about my concerns, she told me that in her mind, the best way, if I was going to do it, would for me to be perfect. Since I didn't want to come off as a clown or one of those freak of the week people, I agreed. "I'll get a few things today and we can see how you do tomorrow. If you like it then you can stay dressed as a girl until Monday." Someone once said that tears are merely a reflection of the soul, whether its fear, joy, or sadness. All those years of hiding, frustration, fear, and secrecy came to a head all at once, and I started to cry. Why are you crying Michael? This is what you want isn't it? To live and work as a female?" My head popped up, and out came, "What!" "I'm sure its true Michael, based on the number of times you wore Claire's clothes!" Shocked that mother knew about my dressing up as a girl, and afraid of what I might blurt out, I kept my mouth shut. "I said I would help you if you let me Michael, and I think that you should practice dressing every day after work, and each weekend from now until the day when you go to work." I started to say something, but mom held her hand up and said, "You did say that you wanted to be perfect didn't you?" "YesÉ" "Well this will give you a few weeks of practice before the party!" I could find nothing more to say about it, swallowed my pride, nodded my head yes, and quietly went to my room. That night I decided that mom was right. I would do the best I could or not at all, and if she already knew about me dressing up and wanted to help me then no matter how I thought I looked it wouldn't matter.


    On Saturday morning right after breakfast mom told me to go to my room. I have everything you'll need. I'll just show you how to use it and you can take it from there." As far as my mother was concerned it was a done deal, and that combined with my natural desires made it easy for me to stay silent in my agreement. Mom gave me the stuff, which I recognized as a popular hair removal cream. As soon as she left the room I stripped and quickly had a coat of the cream all over me, from the eyebrows down. After a shower and a close shave I stepped out and patted myself dry. I had never yet shaved my body or used hair removal cream before, and I was surprised at just how smooth my skin felt. My beard, while not what you would call light, was a light color and only moderate in growth, and after I shaved I had nice soft skin. With the towel wrapped around me I went into Claire's bedroom and closed the door, hesitating for just a moment because I was pretty sure that as soon as I was dressed and stepped out of the room I was not going to want to quit. Ignoring that thought I forged ahead, opened her dresser and selected a pair of lavender colored cotton panties and slipped them on. When Claire was younger she had a shape like a pencil and used a padded pantybrief and some breastforms to give her some shape. I had found them while I was in her room dressing once, and made sure I left them right where I found them. I slipped on the pantybrief, adjusting the pads to suit me. The pantyhose went on easily, but the nylon against my now naked skin was like an electric shock as I slid them on. I went to the vanity and sat down facing the huge mirror. Makeup was the only thing I had managed to almost master simply because that was all I could do on so many occasions. I applied the foundation using a powder to set it, brushing away the excess as soon as it dried, leaving my skin looking soft and smooth. On my eyes I used a mint green with copper and gray highlights with deep black eyeliner both over and under my eyes. A bit of rose blusher on my cheekbones and black mascara on my lashes. My naturally curly hair was thick, and as it was drying the ends started to curl, so with a brush I was able to create a modest if messy pageboy that framed my face. The curly ends added just the right touch to the style. I didn't even need a curling iron. I heard mom knock on the door, and when she came in the room and saw me, she told me that my makeup was fine. "Let me help you with your nails." I opened the small drawer and pulled out the box of fake nails. Using the glue in the box mom attached one to each of my nails and filed them into an oval shape with rounded tips. The polish I selected was one shade up from pink. It took a while for the polish to dry, and while I waited I stood in front of the closet and tried to select what I was going to wear for my first public debut. As soon as my nails were dry I slipped my arms into the lavender bra and settled it in front after I fastened the single front hook. The breastforms were flesh colored, filled with silicone to a small 'B' cup, which was perfect on my frame. The waist nipper was beige with eleven hooks and a zipper, and once I had it on it made my waist a trim 25 inches. Unable to decide on what to wear, mom picked out a light blue floral summer dress for me to wear. She said it would 'go with' my bra and panties. I wore off white sandals and a matching blue jacket. Mom redid my hair a bit and it seemed to flow around my face. I looked in the mirror and was floored! The reflection in the mirror I saw that I did look like Diane Benson in a way and I stood before the mirror in a dream like state looking at the girl standing there. I loved the image I was seeing. The girl that I had only dreamed of stood in front of me, not perfect of course, but I did not feel like a clown this time. The image I saw in the mirror burst all of the illusions I had about my maleness! Inside, in that private place we all have, I knew that I would never again be happy again unless I was able to become this young woman more than once in a while.


    The girl, me, was looking back from the mirror, and like my sister, she is stunning. Her large blue eyes with their long lashes look deeply into me. She has wide, pouty lips highlighted by sensual reddish pink lipstick. Her soft brown hair falls a few inches above her shoulders, styled with bangs, gently brushed without a single hair out of place. White button earrings and a thin white necklace merely enhance the simple blue dress. The simplicity of the dress draws my eyes to my face. Without any fanfare at all I turned to face my mother, and when she looked up I heard her gasp. "Damn!" Mom stood up and had me turn around for her. "If I did not know it was you I never would have guessed that there was a boy under that dress!" "Thank you mother." I sat down facing her, my knees firmly locked together and my hands in my lap. "I can see that you know how to do makeup and get dressed, but how are you in public?" "I've never been out of the house mother." "Then it's time that you experience things all women enjoyÉ like shopping, having your nails done and your hair styled." "Like this!" "Of course dear! How else?" "ButÉbutÉ" I started to sound like a car that needed a tune up, but mother had made up her mind! "Michael, you and I both know that you want to go out and make people think that you are really a girl, don't we? Lets stop pretending that you are so attached to your macho self and admit that you love being a girl." Why did she always know? Are all mothers able to read their children's mind like this? Without waiting for an answer she said, "Get a purse and put your wallet and some lipstick in it and I'll get cleaned up a bit before we go." As I waited for her to get ready I knew that mother was right. I no longer had any reason to use excuses or delaying tactics. The time had come; I had to step outside wearing women's clothes. I had to, and wanted to, act enough like a real girl to convince everyone that would see me that I really was a girl. I had to act in a way that everyone who saw me would believe I was a female. The very thought of being a convincing girl made me feel weak and vulnerable, yet fear was attacking every nerve in my body, and the longer I waited the more my fear grew. Mother finally showed up, but before we left the house she asked me what my girl name was. "I never picked one mother!" "Then why don't we use the name of the actress you look so much like?" I agreed, and from that moment on she called me Diane. The first thing that I became aware of was how the breezy air felt on my nylon covered legs. That same slight breeze also kept teasing its way up and under the hem of my dress. It was a new sensation, but I have to admit that I loved it. I found that wearing high heels made my hips sway, and I had to walk with a better posture just to help me to maintain my balance. It wasn't long before I began to hold my arms up at my sides bent at the elbow instead of putting them in my pockets like I normally did. Mother saw the way I was reacting to the clothes, but instead of saying anything she just smiled at me warmly, with approval written on her face. I wondered about that, and finally I asked her about it as we drove to the mall.


    "You would have done this sooner or later anyway Diane. If I help guide you then you'll have an easier time of it and I get to have another daughter who is a lady to her core." She glanced at me and saw the worry on my face. "Diane, you are a boy, that's true. But only on the outside I think. Inside, where it counts the most I think you're a girl. That wasn't clear to me until I saw you for the first time this morning, then it was obvious, to both of us I think. Am I right?" It was my moment of truth, and without even thinking about it I nodded my head yes. "I don't think that you feel you're much different from any other girl at this moment Diane. I know that you want people to think you're a girl, and you want them to treat you like a girl, so we'll have to make them think you're a girl, won't we?" Again, I nodded my head yes, but this time I knew I had a smile on my face. "You'll need panties and bras of your own Diane, so why don't we start there." It was a statement of course. We both knew I would do whatever she wanted. I walked right beside my mother, keeping step with her, noticing how she held her hands and like her shadow, I began doing the same things. In the lingerie department we bought a dozen panties and three new bras before we moved to the junior department where I tried on several skirts and dresses which we bought along with two suits. In the shoe department I tried on shoes and found that Claire and I wore the same size, so I only bought a pair of beige flats. "Let's put the packages in the car Diane, and then we can have some lunch before your appointment at the salon." "My appointment?" "While you were in trying on that nice pink suit I asked the girl to call ahead and get you an appointment. You do want to look your best on Monday don't you?" "But I thought I was going to do this on the weekends for three weeks before I went to work as a girl!" Mom was pushing me to see how far I would go, so in a fit of bravery, I one upped her to see what she would do. "Of course! Maybe I'll get my hair colored and a nice perm at the same time." "That's probably best if you're going to work as a woman. Maybe they can pierce your ears at the same time." Mother was not about to be one upped by me, and had even raised the stakes a bit higher. Unfortunately I had nothing else to offer and my bravery made it firm. I could only smile in my acceptance. I had walked up to the cliff and stepped right off so to speak. After lunch we walked to the salon in the mall and a woman named Betty took me to a chair. "This is Debbie, she'll be your stylist." I looked at her and smiled. After some discussion about what I wanted, Debbie concluded that I didn't have a clue, and she simply told me that she would do a 'modest' amount of work on my hair before she started on me. I simply let her do her work with a minimum of chatter. When I had to move to the dryer another girl came over and started in on my nails, removing the ones I had put on that morning then made them slightly longer and used a light red polish on them. While she was doing my nails another girl pierced my ears and added small gold hoops! When Debbie was done and I looked in the mirror I was stunned at just how much a simple hairstyle can make a person change. My once soft brown hair was now blond, done in soft waves on top that terminated in sharp curls behind my head. My hair was just below my ears, brushed out to frame my face with bangs that were swept to one side. In my ears sat small gold hoops. I looked so different that it was hard not to keep looking in the mirror!


    Mom and I drove home and at mom's urging I moved into Claire's bedroom. I put the clothes away and started to move things from my old room to the new one, moving some of Claire's things, like underwear, to my old room. Later that night I went on line and found a site I had visited before. They sold things to help make men look like women, even if they were naked. I had visited this site many times in the past but had not yet bought anything. I saw that they had improved everything, so I used the on line ordering system to buy a few things I knew that I would need. I did not tell my mother. That night we watched television, mom in her flannels, me in a nightgown and robe set that was not much more than a diaphanous swirl of light blue The next morning I got up, brushed my hair, did my makeup and dressed in a skirt and blouse before I went to the kitchen and started the coffee. Mom came in shortly, and as we had our breakfast, she asked me what I had in mind for the day. "I have a few things I want to do on the computer, but I would like a picture of me first." "I'll get the camera!" Mom snapped the picture as I stood in front of a blank wall, handing it to me when it popped out of the camera. I took the picture and in my room I scanned it into the computer so I could clean it up a little. Then I scanned in my college ID, drivers license, and work ID. With the software it was easy to cut my old picture and paste the new one in its place. Changing the name was harder because I had to match the font, which was different on all of the items. When I was done, I printed out one of each on my printer, in full color, and other than the picture and name, I had exact copies of each piece of my ID. My name on each was Diane Michelle Grant. My dad had used a laminating machine quite often, and it was still in his office, so I went in and laminated each one. I was so elated at being able to dress as a woman that almost could not stand it. I fixed up a wallet that I had found in Claire's room with all of my new ID, moved my pictures, credit cards, and money to the new wallet and put it in the purse. My image in the mirror kept my attention, which was narcissistic I suppose, but I loved the way I looked and did not want to give up being a girl any sooner than I had to. At three that afternoon the things I had ordered arrived. Their ad was correct! Next day delivery! Mom signed for them, and as soon as I saw her she gave them to me. "What is this?" "I'll show you in a little while mother. Right now I have to examine them to make sure everything arrived undamaged." Of course nothing was damaged. It's hard to damage latex just by shipping it. I eagerly opened the package, and right on top was the panty with the artificial vagina. I set it aside and pulled out the box containing the breastforms. Each of the breasts was made so real looking that it was scary! I eagerly stripped my blouse and bra off, read the instruction sheet carefully, and using the enclosed adhesive, attached them to my chest. As soon as I smoothed out the seams they seemed to become one with me as only the almost invisible seam remained. The vaginal panty was harder to put on, but again, following the instruction sheet, I managed to slip it on, removing all traces of my manhood. Naked, I looked in the mirror and saw a young girl from head to toe. In my reverie I failed to hear the door open; when my mother gasped I turned to see her ashen face.


    Without a word she walked up to me and touched the breastforms, assuring herself they were fake I guess. She knew for a fact the vagina was a fake. "I see that you have become a girl after all! Do you have to take that off toÉ" "No mother, but I have to sit just like any other female." "Well, since you're so much a girl now why don't we go out tonight?" Without waiting for an answer she told me to wear the same blue dress and walked out of the room. After shopping, and a trip to the salon I knew that I was not a clown at all. I was now able to present myself as a female and make people believe it, but mom had posed a challenge of a sort, so smiling I went into the bath and after washing the old makeup off, I shaved as close as possible. I was not yet able to make myself over into the various 'types' girls, but I knew what I wanted to look like. I wanted silky soft skin, full, sexy lips framing a radiant smile, a gorgeous outfit, and perfect hair. I did not want to be a girl with a sweet childlike look, but instead I wanted to look pretty, like the proverbial girl next door grown up into a sexy woman. I went to the dresser and pulled out a corsolet and tossed it on the bed, then added black panties to the pile. I was going to wear black, not the same dress I wore earlier in the day. I found one I liked better. This one was also a sheath dress, but it had a plunging back with a low cut front and was a very hot mini dress. I had seen Claire wear it exactly once, for a dance she had gone to, and spectacular does not describe how she looked in it. I hoped I would look half as good! Sitting at the vanity I did my makeup, and with the new cut, my hair seemed to fall in place with a minimum of fuss. I no longer needed the padded pantybrief and slipped the black panties on. The corsolet was a lot harder to get on than I imagined. It had eleven hooks up the front with a zipper over that, and laces up the back. I was unable to tighten the laces on my own so mom came in and did it for me. Once I was all cinched in, my 'breasts' sat in the cups, the nipples barely held in. I pulled on the pantyhose and reached for the dress. The dress had a single strap that went around the back of my neck attached to the sweetheart neckline, fitted bodice and hip hugging skirt. I slipped it over my head and mom zipped it up for me. The hem of the dress was a good three inches above my knees while the bodice defined my now trim waist and my breasts were clearly displayed. Smiling I went to the jewelry box as mom left for her room. I found the black and gold chandelier earrings and attached them, then fastened the matching choker style necklace around my neck. On my left wrist I wore a thin gold bracelet, which was all the jewelry I wore that night. I did my lips in a deep red and spritzed myself with perfume. Looking in the mirror I knew without a doubt that this is what I wanted. I could not simply give her up now that I had been allowed to find her, and I made up my mind right then. Diane was going to stay no matter what.


Mom said nothing when she saw me, but I saw her smiling as she turned to get her purse, and I knew I had made a good impression on her. Dinner was at a new place by the river, and as we dined mom and I talked about the transformation that had come over me in just a few days. It was my turn to tell her the truth. "Mom, I've always felt this way, I just never had the chance or the nerve to tell you about it. When Valerie suggested it I was afraid to tell you. When I did, I was sure that you would be angry at me. But now I know that I have to dress this way, all of the time, even at work. I have to become Diane all of the time or I think I will bust!" Mom reached out and took my hand in hers, and told me she knew that the first time she saw me. "If that's what you want, then I'll support you of course, but you have a lot of catching up to do if you want to be a real lady. Starting now, I'll teach you all you have to know to become a woman." I spent all day Sunday getting ready for my debut at work, which made mom just shake her head. "You don't have to do anything special Diane, you look very nice right now!" But my concern manifested itself in an obsession to be better than just okay. I used the hair cream again then shaved every inch of my body that I could reach until my skin was as silky smooth as any woman. I washed and cleaned the vaginal panty and breastforms before I put them back on. This time, rather than rely on pressure to hold the panty in place, I used glue to secure the seams in the crack of my butt. The breastforms were pert with no sag, and made me feel very feminine once I had them secured to my chest. Somehow they felt natural, like I should have had them all along, and I could not, or did not, want to visualize myself without them. Mom had given me an aloe based skin lotion, which I rubbed in all over, making my skin softer to the touch and smelling of flowers. I slipped on some panties and a bra then some shorts and a tee top and began to select my wardrobe for the next day. In my heart I knew that the only thing I was going to wear was the new pink suit mom and I had bought on my very first outing as a girl. It had a straight skirt that was above the knee a little, and a fitted jacket with no lapels. Both were lined, which meant that I didn't need to wear a slip with it. For a blouse I selected a thin gray pullover blouse that had a single button at the neck, in the back. The blouse was mom's but because of the vagaries of women's sizes it fit me perfectly, and I wore a size 12 to her 10. Claire had a pair of gray shoes that I borrowed, size 8 by the way, and in my mothers jewelry box I found pearl earrings and necklace set. I already had a gold watch and two rings. Once I had everything ready, I relaxed and made a late lunch. With the vaginal panty it looked as if I had rounded hips and a natural taper in the front, just like all women did. Mom even commented on it once. "You might want to call Valerie and tell her how you'll be dressed in the morning Diane. I'm sure she won't mind, and at least she'll be prepared when she sees just how pretty you are." That made sense, and right after lunch I called Val and told her that I would be dressed as a woman when I showed up for work. Her only comment was that she would look forward to it!


    I spent the night in curlers, getting up early to do my hair and makeup. As I slipped the panties on and saw the cleft in the front a feeling of calmness came over me and I relaxed and got dressed. A soft, lace trimmed demicup bra in white, nude pantyhose, and a white waist nipper. I pulled the skirt on, then the blouse, stepped into the shoes and pushed the earrings into the small holes in my ears. I pulled the jacket on and used a soft reddish pink lipstick to outline my mouth, added perfume, the necklace, watch, rings, and bracelet. Looking in the mirror I could see no trace of the man I was just a few days ago. Once unleashed, Diane had taken over and consumed me, and now, I was Diane Michelle Grant, inside and out. My purse was filled with my wallet, lipstick, tissue, and car keys. Drawing in a breath I left the house for the biggest event in my life. Whatever happened today, a spectacular success or a colossal flop, everyone would know that I wanted to dress and work as a woman, and there would be no going back. Strangely, the fear that had consumed me before did not cross my mind as I drove into the parking lot. I locked the car and walked to the door, showed Walter, the guard my phony ID and walked in. It was no longer a maybe, and I walked into the office and straight to my desk, and the first thing I saw was the nameplate. 'Diane M. Grant' etched in white on a blue background sitting on my desk! I stashed my purse in my desk and went to get a coffee, returning just as Valerie walked in. She took one look at me and broke out in a huge smile. "I was right! You look spectacular Diane!" She went to get a coffee, returning to my desk quickly. "I'll introduce you around today Diane. The way you look, nobody will believe it if we told them who you really are, so I'll let them assume you are a new hire and we can go from there okay?" It really was the best way, so I agreed. As I was introduced around the office I saw a lot of different looks that I had never seen before. From the men it was mostly an evaluating look and each time I felt as if I had been mentally stripped. From the women it ran from indifference, (from the pretty ones), to envy (from the older ladies). Valerie motioned me to join her in her office, and as soon as I was seated she asked me for my ID. I gave her the one I had made up, and after a quick look made arrangements for me to have a new one made. "You'll have the same duties Diane and the same rate of pay of course." Then she explained the looks I got from everyone. "All men are on the make all of the time Diane, and to them, you're fresh meat so to speak. Ignore them and they'll relax after a few days. The older women are jealous of the way you look while some of the younger girls see you as competition. You can ignore them as well, or play it as you see it." Then she had me go and have my picture taken for my ID card, assigned a new computer sign on, and I went back to work, doing the same exact job as before. During the morning I settled in and finally relaxed as I discovered that everyone accepted me for what I appeared to be; a woman, about 20 years old or so. At lunch Kelly and Beth asked me to join them, and we sat together at one table. I got an earful as they discussed the single men that worked in the office, in graphic terms, and some of the older women who they thought were ready for the retirement farm. It was a very educational lunch!


For my part I paid close attention to what the other girls wore and so on. My new ID card arrived at two, just as I had my first phone call. In person mom and Valerie both told me that I looked like the actress I had taken my name from, but I sounded like Kathleen Turner. On the phone I had no idea how I would sound, so I was relieved when the male caller addressed me as a woman. That night I collapsed on the couch from the stress mom said. After that it got easier each day, and at the end of a month it was as if I was a natural born female. I hated shaving close every day because my face became sore and very tender. That's when I saw an ad in the paper, showed mom, and she agreed. I made an appointment by phone, and that Saturday morning at eight I was at the clinic. I was shown in to see the doctor, and was surprised to see it was a woman. I had to tell her my true status of course, which was hard because by now I did not look like a male in any way. She sat there quietly while I told her all about myself and the dilemma I found myself in. When I was done I fully expected her to toss me out, but all she did was ask me some medical questions, my medical history and so on. Then she asked me if I would like to have my own breasts! "Of course, but I'm not taking any hormones, so that seems out of the question right now." "Maybe not Diane." When she told me how she could do it, that day, I was all smiles and agreed to it right then. I was out for the entire procedure, but essentially, she used a laser to remove my entire beard, then Liposuction to draw fat from my waist and used it to make breasts, the same size as my fake ones. When I awoke I was sore, but not bad, and I had a few small stitches. But I also had a 23 inch waist and two perfectly formed, completely natural breasts. I was in heaven as I got dressed and then drove home. Mom knew I was going to have my beard removed, and when she saw my slightly swollen face she started clucking like a mother hen and immediately wanted me in bed. I was just too sore to argue with her and let her help me get undressed. When I removed my bra and she saw me, a common occurrence in our house, she saw my brand new boobs and narrow waist for the first time. "Those are real!" "Yes, they are! Aren't they nice?" Then I explained how the doctor did it. Mom helped me get a nightgown on and I went to bed, staying there until late the next morning. In the shower I felt my new breasts, washed the stitches in my navel carefully and wearing just panties I slipped on a top and a skirt, which fit a lot better now that I had a smaller waist.


    During the next week I became used to having sensation in my breasts, and loved every minute of it. On Friday Valerie invited Kelly and I to her home for a barbecue on Saturday afternoon. She failed to mention that both of her sons would be there. I picked out a tan floral summer dress, and wore tan sandals with a thin, short sleeved jacket. My hair, now trimmed, flowed around my face like a halo. I had a small brown leather purse to complete the outfit. I examined myself in the mirror. My hair was longer now, cut and styled in a more business like way, but still casual. My shoulders, accented by the short sleeves of the jacket, were trimmed with brown piping. The top of the dress did not have a deep neckline, but it was low enough to allow a hint of my cleavage, and that was accented by delicate gold locket suspended from my neck. I wore a minimum of makeup, just a hint of eyeshadow, a soft red lipstick and my best perfume. As soon as I arrived at Valerie's her youngest son, Mike greeted me and showed me to the patio. Unlike Valerie, who was my size, Mike was huge! He stood at least 6'3" tall! I had to look up to see his face! Kelly was already there, sitting with Douglas, Valerie's other son. He was also quite tall. Both of her sons had dark hair, Mike with green eyes and Douglas with blue. Her husband was not as tall as his sons, but he had the same build. He was wide, with a barrel chest, and dark hair. It was immediately obvious that Valerie had arranged this little party so Kelly and I could meet her sons! While I had been living and working as a woman for almost four months now, I had never had a date nor had I ever looked at a man like a woman would. I had known that sooner or later some man would hit on me, and now, it seemed, was the time. Mike almost, but not quite, doted on me, and I often saw his gaze drift to the top of my dress; I knew he was not admiring the material my dress was made of! When I looked up at him I could see that atypical look of male superiority on his face. I felt so feminine right then, and it was a wonderful new feeling. I now knew what my mother had told me about men was true. They had a magnetic appeal to women that simply could not be denied. I knew that there could be a lot of joy to be had in being so attractive to a man, and the thought of being Mike's new girl friend ran through my mind. I was flattered that he thought I was pretty enough to make him come to me, yet in the back of my mind I wondered why I felt this way. Until I had started to dress as a woman I had never had a sexual thought about another male in my entire life! Now I was thinking about Mike in ways I had never dreamed of before. We sat at the table side by side eating, and even though I held up my end of the discussion, I was thinking about the way Mike had looked at me. Thinking of Mike, as my boy friend did not turn me off at all, instead it had just the opposite effect. I was a girl and I had a real live male catering to me, like a boy friend would. Not only that, but I was flirting with him the way girls do to their guys. I began to feel hot inside as my thoughts drifted to more erotic places. That scared me momentarily, because up to that moment I had never had an erotic thought about a maleÉ ever! As our food was eaten and just the drinks were left, I felt his hand on my leg half way up on my thigh! Right then Valerie started to clear the table and Kelly and I jumped up to help her. It saved me from making a decision whether to let his hand stay there or ask him to remove it.


"My sons seem to be taken with you girls." That was obvious, but it was Kelly who stated it. "Like you didn't arrange this Valerie! I'm certainly not complaining mind you, Douglas is very nice." They both looked at me, and all I could do was smile. Nobody said anything else, and we filled several pitchers and rejoined the men. Mike asked me to take a walk with him, and took my hand in his as we walked along the waters edge. We rounded the point and as soon as we were out of sight he spun me around, held me close, and kissed me. He was gentle but urgent as his tongue probed against my mouth and I opened so his tongue could enter me. I was unable to pull away, not because he was so big, but because I didn't want to. He asked me out for the next night, and I agreed. By the time I got home I had become like a young girl in my anticipation of this date. I know mom saw it, and when I told her about it all she did was remind me what good girls did, and did not do. Big help she was! I had chosen to wear a skirt that flared slightly at the hips with square cut pleats in a dark green. A simple white blouse, and black two inch heels. I added jewelry and perfume. My makeup was for evening, darker eyeshadow and a dark red lipstick this time. I was nervous as I waited for him to arrive, but when he did I calmed right down. He took me to dinner, and later, he drove to a secluded spot by the lake. As soon as he kissed me all of my mothers admonitions went out the window, especially when his hand found my breast. Every nerve ending was on edge as he manipulated me like a musical instrument, making my body play his tune. When he took my hand and placed it on his member I felt myself shudder, not in revulsion, but in lust. I wanted this man to take me, love me, make me love him back, and he did. Unbidden my hand began to stroke him and I felt the buttons of my blouse come undone and his hand found my naked breast while I unzipped his pants. He popped out all engorged and hard, throbbing in lust as my hand again found him. The skin was like velvet, yet hard like iron beneath my hand. I was stroking him when all at once he gushed, filling my hand with goo. "Sorry about that Diane." He gave me a hanky and I cleaned up. "This isn't the place for two people our age Diane, why don't we go back to my apartment?" Common sense kicked in and I asked him to take me home, and like a gentleman he did.


    Mike called me every day at work and each night at home. Valerie told me he was so in love he could hardly stand it. Kelly asked me if I had slept with him yet, and when I did not give her an answer she assumed that I had. On Friday night Mike and I had a date, and I knew in my heart that I was going to have sex with him, so I packed a small bag to take along. Mom could hardly miss it, but this time all she told me was to be careful. "That vaginal panty is very good Diane but this can lead to disaster if your not very careful." "I'll be careful mom, but this is the last hurtle isn't it? I have to do this even if he finds out." Later it turned out I was right, because right after dinner he drove us to his place. As soon as he had closed the door he was all over me, and I once again became like warm bread in his hands as he massaged my nipples with his fingers. I felt the zipper of the dress going down, and when it did I stepped out of it and tossed it aside. Mike watched as I removed my bra and tossed it aside as well. I reached out and began to unbutton his shirt, then his pants. He stepped out of his pants and just stood there. I ripped his briefs down in a single motion leaving him naked in front of me. I sat on his couch and removed my pantyhose and shoes, leaving my panties on as he grabbed my hand and took me to his bed. He found every single spot that turned me on and some I didn't know I had. I wanted him to be mine and pushed him on his back. His erection stood tall and proud as I went to my knees, bent over, and kissed his member. It was not unpleasant, and when my mouth opened I took all I could in a single motion. His hands held my head as I bobbed up and down, until I felt him starting to tense up. I straddled him, and helped him find the opening in the vaginal panty. He slid in and I began to rock back and forth, watching his face the whole time. His eyes closed and he was moving his head, but his hands remained firmly on my breasts as I pumped him. I was now in charge of this man and I loved it! Finally he released and filled my panty. Spent, he fell back as I went to the bath to clean up. He was still naked in the bed when I returned, also naked as his hand reached out and pulled me to him. I lay next to him, my hand on his manhood while he kissed my breasts, renewing my excitement. He grew hard once again and once again my mouth found him. This time I wanted to taste him, and did not move as he swelled and released his seed into me. I spent the night with his arm around me firmly cupping a breast with his hand. I woke before he did, dressed in the skirt and blouse I had brought along, brushed my hair into a ponytail, and started the coffee. It was a very domestic scene for sure as he woke up and saw me. Naked, he went in and took a shower, returning in shorts and a tee. I put both of my hands on the cheeks of his butt, and tried to keep him from moving to far away. I wasn't surprised to find that he was rock hard once again. I genuinely hoped it would not be too long before he wanted to take me out on a date. Then Mike kissed me again. "Eat your breakfast Michael, you'll need your strength for later." I know it was coquettish of me to tease him, but I simply could not resist. After breakfast he helped me wash the dishes, and then his hands found my breasts again.


He had the stamina of a bull and it was another two hours before he took me home. Valerie was there talking to mother when he dropped me off. "By the look on your face I would say that Mike is a very happy man this morning!" "A polite woman never talks about her conquests Valerie, even if it is the bosses son!" "He's going to ask you to marry him Diane, probably this week." "Diane, I think it's time that you told him about yourself, and made arrangements to make yourself into a woman, don't you?" Mom was right, Mike deserved more than a lie. "Okay mom, but maybe you and Valerie could be here when I tell him." They looked at each other and nodded their heads yes. "We'll be by tomorrow Diane, around six." The next day was hell as I wondered how I would tell Mike about myself, and Valerie was no help either. All she said was that Mike and I would have to find a way to overcome this minor obstacle. After dinner mom and I did the dishes and I sat, waiting for Mike and Valerie to arrive. Promptly at six the doorbell rang and I admitted them into the house. "Mom says that you have something serious to tell me Diane, what is it? Valerie and mother had mysteriously disappeared, leaving me alone with Mike. Direct is usually the best approach, so I drew in a breath and told him. "Mike, I'm not a female, but I love you and want to be your girl, and hopefully, your wife." "What do you mean your not a girl? You and I slept together, and I think I would know a girl when I saw one, especially when she is naked!" "I'm sure that's true Mike, but none the less, I am not a female. I will be shortly, but not now, right this minute. I wear a special kind of panty that lets me have the look and feel of a woman Mike. These are my boobs of course, but the rest is all latex." By the look on his face I was sure he was going to hurt me and started to back up. "I'm angry that you weren't honest right up front Diane! You tricked me, and that is wrong!" "Yes I tricked you Michael! What would you have said if I told you, "hey fool, I'm a man just like you!" You would have dropped me like a hot rock and you know it! But it wasn't deceit on my part so much as my desire to be your woman, or your lusting after me, panting every time you looked at me. No Michael, this goes both ways. I love you, I really do, and I will make you a fine wife if you let me. I just need time toÉ become that woman you want me to be!" By then I had tears running down my cheeks and ran out of the room straight into my mother's arms. "He hates me mother!" My tears ran down my cheeks because I was ashamed of what I had done. I was not a woman, I was a pile of latex trying to be what I was not. I tried to tear myself away but I felt Mike's hand on my arm and in a rush of emotion I fell into his arms. "Oh Michael, what are we going to do?" he said nothing as he picked me up like I was a feather, and carried me to my room, slamming the door behind us. "We," he said very forcefully, "are going to make love again and then we are going to talk about this problem we have." Then he unbuttoned my blouse and began to undress me. I stood very still as he slowly ran his hands all over me, making me tremble in delight and lust. Then he stood there as I undressed him, ran my hands all over him until I reached his manhood when I began to stroke him. As he purred I slipped into bed and lay there, naked and smiling. He took me quickly but forcefully, and then later, slower and with a methodically slow tempo which drove me crazy. Unable to quiet his lust, I rolled over, got on my knees, put my head down and allowed him to take me. We were both panting when he completed and lay there for a moment. Then I got a warm washrag and cleaned him up so that I could use my talented tongue once again. He stayed in my room that night and we talked about the future. I told him how it all began and why, and in the end he asked me to marry him. "You have a year Diane, after that we get married!" The he went back to being forceful again, but I said yes and that night I slept like a baby. Less than a year later I was a woman, and on our wedding night he found out just how much of a woman he had married.



TRANSVESTITES AND FASHION

  Why do so many transvestites enjoy dressing forty or fifty years behind the times? Why do we choose what style of clothing we wear? Petal Jeffrey goes in search of the answers. Her skirt brushes her calves as she steps onto the dance floor. Quite demure, really. Then, to the pounding rock 'n' roll beat, her partner sets her spinning. As the skirt spins, its hem flies upwards revealing stocking tops and a glimpse of suspender. She could be a 1950s teenager, hair fastened in a pony tail. Her mother probably thinks she's elsewhere. She could, equally, be a transvestite forty years on... In that case, she probably has no pony tail - it's not a hair style well adapted to a tranny wig. Not that the presence or absence of pony tails is the best clue as to whether this is the fifties, or a dance attended by present day transvestites. f686_1160gnrsfeatoftransfashpage1.jpgToday, the TVs will almost certainly be wearing a greater variety of styles than real girls gathered together at any age. They are likely to be dressed for a variety of occasions: debutante ballgowns rubbing hems with rock 'n' roll skirts. There will be fashions from different eras - the calf-brushing styles of the fifties swirling cool air about the thigh-high minis from the late sixties. Those minis notwithstanding, an email from Rosalind (Leeds) would have surprised few when it began: "Let's have more 50's pictures... I have fond memories of those fabulous starched petticoats we used to wear." Nor are they just memories, as "you only have to go to any transvestites party to see acres of petticoats worn by the men, underskirts that real women haven't been seen in for years and years." What Rosalind sees in Leeds seems much the same as I see in London. There are, however, some who feel uneasy about this living in the past, whether apparent or real. Neither are the fifties the most reassuring decade for transvestites to choose. The most serious unease stems from the position of women in society during the fifties. First, though, a glance at the forties... The very full skirts and masses of petticoat in which many transvestites like to luxuriate in were, in part, a reaction to a period of austerity. During the war, and for some time after, clothing was rationed. Styles had to conform to severe utility standards. Every inch of cloth was precious, and there was little to spare for frills. Nor were just frills in short supply. I have close at hand, for example, the Daily Mirror for January 12th 1946. The war had been over for five months. There is a brief story headlined: "THE SWIM-OUT-OF-IT SWIM SUIT" "The Moonlight Buoy swim suit, which the swimmer can easily shed in the water and which will float by itself, made its appearance in the New York shops yesterday. "It consists of gaberdine pants and brassiere. The brassiere is tied to the pants and both are kept afloat by a cork buckle." Interesting as the Moonlight Boy swimsuit may be, the remarkable and significant part of the story is relegated to the final paragraph. "British manufacturers have no plans for putting out these 'moonlight buoy' swimsuits. In fact, they say, British girls will be lucky if they can get hold of any kind of costume." No doubt, the public had to put up with a great deal because of the war. Probably most were unsurprised when rationing continued a few months after the end of hostilities. But, when the months of peace turned into years, and clothing was still rationed, few can have been content with the situation... So, when the restrictions were dropped a new look with masses of petticoat was surely inevitable. Nor is it surprising that that such a mass of frills appeals to transvestites. Feminine is what we like, and what could be more feminine? With that, however, we approach the area that makes some of us uneasy.
    f686_1162gnrsfeatoftransfashpage2.jpgSo, when the restrictions were dropped a new look with masses of petticoat was surely inevitable. Nor is it surprising that that such a mass of frills appeals to transvestites. Feminine is what we like, and what could be more feminine? With that, however, we approach the area that makes some of us uneasy. The Second World War brought a tremendous burden of suffering, in which clothing restrictions were the least of peoples troubles. However, in spite of restricting peoples freedom, the war was paradoxically liberating for a lot of women. Pre-war, it was virtually unknown for married women to be in paid employment. Many employers, such as the civil service, simply did not employ married women. When a girl got married, she left - it was as simple as that. A single girl was, in any case, lucky to have a job. In Britain, only one in eight of them were earning even a small wage - of course, it would only be a small wage, as girls weren't given jobs with much prestige, promotion prospects or pay. Whether or not they were actively unhappy with their lot, women didn't have a lot of choice. There was precious little option for a girl but to marry, as seven eighths of them were without even poorly paid work. Once married, she was obliged to adopt the role of housewife. With the wage packet in her husbands hands, all the important decisions were his - or at least, open to his veto. There was little refuge from domestic tyranny, where it was applied, or even from violence. Then came war, and more often than not the man had gone. Millions of men were conscripted into the armed forces, and all over Europe women were taking their place in factories and ship yards; on farms and railways; almost everywhere. They had their own pay packets. Even with wartime shortages and restrictions, women were exercising more choice than most of them had known in peacetime. Other women were putting on uniforms. Female branches of the armed forces sprouted from nothing, and expanded. In Britain, unmarried women under the age of thirty were made liable for military service in December 1941. Their roles were not always nursing, cooking clerical or administrative work. Women served as the crew of anti-aircraft guns and searchlights. It is interesting to note that, even in the most masculine of roles, women clung to the more enjoyable aspects of femininity. Soviet aircrew defied regulations, growing their hair long and dying their white silk under-helmets in pastel shades. They put on light make-up, with pale lipstick, before taking off on combat missions. Like transvestites, they sought to combine femininity with masculine roles. The fashions of the fifties were not only a reaction to wartime and post-war austerity, but part of an endeavour to remove women from their newly found place in the workplace, and relegate them once more to the home. This brings us to what makes some uneasy about transvestites' enthusiasm for fifties fashions. Transvestites, above all people, must acknowledge that the way we dress is no trivial matter. For us, it can wreck marriages, and often does. People do not sacrifice their families and homes for something that is not important to them. Clothing makes a big difference in at least three ways. The first is practical. Clothing can protect us, or expose us to danger. It can constrict us, or give us freedom of movement. A tie, for example can be a dangerous hazard when working with machinery. Typically, in a factory or warehouse, the foreman wears a tie while the workers do not. A corset makes us vulnerable, high heels are ill-suited for running. At least as importantly, clothing makes a great deal of difference to the way other people perceive and treat us. Someone whose business takes them into a factory is likely to accord much more respect to men in ties than to men without them. A woman is likely to receive completely different treatment if she goes out in a mini skirt and see-through top, in a smart business suit and discreet blouse, or in dungarees and Doc Martens. Transvestites who have gone out dressed will know that people react differently to their femme selves than they would do to a male presentation. Indeed, this is one of the more enjoyable aspects of stepping out en femme.
    f686_1163gnrsfeatoftransfashpage3.jpgTransvestites are by no means the only ones to have fun manipulating the way others see them. There was, for example, a business woman in the seventies who held conferences sat at her desk in a plain blouse and sober jacket. It was only when the business was concluded that she stood up to reveal suede thigh boots and pink hotpants. No doubt the reactions she got were interesting... Perhaps most importantly of all, the way we're dressed affects the way we feel about ourselves. It may often be difficult to distinguish this from the way in which dress determines how other people see us. After all, if we're treated with respect our confidence increases, and the more confident we are the more respect we're likely to receive. The two things feed into one another. However, if our clothes made no direct difference to how we feel about ourselves, it would make no sense for transvestites to dress in private. Almost all of us pass through a phase of doing this, and many continue - never receiving a second person's reaction to their fmeinine presentation. We all know that we feel very different in lingerie and a skirt from the way we are in masculine things. When transvestites emerge into the public gaze, many people fail to understand why the feminine presentation is primarily for its own sake, rather than to seek a reaction from others. Even looking (and feeling) like a tart, the transvestite does not necessarily welcome male sexual advances. Another example which demonstrates the importance of dress in the way that people see themselves is the the association between uniforms and good order in schools. It is unlikely that it makes much difference in the way that teachers view their pupils. Rather, I strongly suspect that uniforms affect the self-image of the school children. All of this being so, it is not surprising that fifties women's clothing contrasts with that of the forties not only in terms of austerity, but with respect to the role that women were expected to fill. After the war, it was widely expected (especially by men) that women would return to more or less their position of the thirties. Indeed, many of them did just that. Those who managed to remain in work generally found that it was more humble - and worse paid - than their wartime occupation. A capable woman who had served as a WAAF Aquadron Leader might find that she was now considered fit for nothing more demanding than typing. In retrospect, it seems not only monstrously unfair, but a strange waste of national resources during a period of reconstruction. Even on an entirely practical level, a woman was limited in her activites by those full skirts and masses of petticoat. They were certainly not well adapted to minding machines. And the pencil skirt, fashionable in the late fifties, could be almost as restricting as the Edwardian hobble skirt. Little white gloves surfaced as an accessory. One doesn't often see them worn by transvestites in fifties styles - perhaps they represent too much bother with too little reward - but there was a time when women did not consider themselves properly dressed without the gloves. Unlike the sexier long opera gloves, the little white ones were very demure. All gloves restrict what we can do with our hands, and white ones are also apt to show any trace of dirt. More likely to appeal to transvestites is the corsetry which underpinned the New Look of the nineteen fifties. Not since edwardian times had strait lacing for a tiny waist been so much in vogue. On the effects of this I quote from A History of Corsetry elsewhere on this site: "There can be little doubt that imprisoning and often embarrassingly restrictive corsets, when really tightly laced, put the wearer into an extremely vulnerable physical position - a position that demands a submissive and placatory response towards threatening or aggressive behaviour from a male - or in the case of a TV, another male. To attempt to 'stand up' for yourself in such a physically handicapping situation would be little short of foolhardy. Indeed, one cannot help asking oneself to what extent corsets have played a part in ensuring that women have been conditioned to accept a submissive role in society..."
    f686_1161gnrsfeatoftransfashpage4.jpgVictorian and Edwardian ladies, no doubt, had been conditioned to accept a submissive role in society. For women in the 1950s, things were rather different. They had, in wartime, assumed a degree of independence which would have astonished most of their grandmothers. Perhaps the corsetry felt good for a while, but it's not surprising that it didn't last. By the end of the decade, strong elastic had replaced the boned corset. The era of the girdle had dawned. By present day standards, a girdle seems restrictive - but it does not entail the extreme vulnerability that many obviously enjoy. The girdle continued its reign well into the 1960s. While I was slipping into my youngest sister's clothes through the first half of that deceade, she must have worn a girdle for most of her waking hours. She had no suspender belts as such, relying on the suspenders at the hems of her girdles to support her stockings (tights lay in the future). This was in spite of her trim and youthful figure. Indeed, it may have been the advent of the mini skirt in the second half of the sixties which expelled girdles from from many girls' undie drawers. Of course, one may as easily wear a girdle below a mini as any other skirt, it wouldn't show beneath the hemline. But as hemlines ascended in 1966 and 1967 stockings became more and more impractical. The girdles often went out with the suspenders which now dangled uselessly from their hems. By that time there were a large number of women - both married and single - back in paid employment. A buoyant economy through the 50s and 60s ensured that employers needed women as well as men. Since women often worked well for less money than their male colleagues, many firms preferred them. The women's liberation movement was not launched until 1969 - the idea of equal pay for equal work was still in the future. There was an idea that the mini skirt was a liberating device - it certainly didn't imprison the legs, and gave girls an opportunity to display their sexuality. There was a lot of talk of erogenous zones. The fashion for coupling mini skirts with kinky boots was said to have pushed the erogenous zones up to the thighs. The late 60s were supposedly the years of the sexual revolution. The pill had given girls more control over their sexuality than ever before. Or so it was said - living as I was amongst drug taking students, the sexual revolution thing seems an exaggeration. It failed to touch a lot of people, even in the group that was supposedly most affected. Gay liberation - launched in 1969 like women's liberation - was slow to develop. Many lesbians and gay men would agree that it still has a long way to go. In the late sixties, few of them were prepared to come out - no doubt there were excellent reasons for their shyness. As for transvestites - whoever heard of trannies' lib?? Sexual advances were not for everyone, and they still aren't come to that. Pundits of the day pointed out that it was possible to run in a mini skirt. Yes, it doesn't physically restrict ones' movements, but it's very difficult to run in one without flashing ones' knickers. While there's certainly pleasure in displaying undies to selected eyes, few girls enjoy doing it in the street. Wearing a mini with decorum is as physically restrictive as the fashions of the early fifties - in some respects, this fashion was the reverse of liberating.
    f686_1164gnrsfeatoftransfashpage5.jpgIn the second half of the fifties, teenage girls had skirts offering the best of both worlds - decorous or outrageous by turns. This (as we used to say in the pictures) is were we came in. With a rock 'n' roll skirt, a girl's knickers were well under wraps until she spins on the dance floor. If freedom is choice, this was surely a liberating fashion. The 'jive', the fifties knicker-flashing dance, was not new. It had been very popular in the war years, when it was known as the jitterbug. After the sedate dancing of the early fifties, reclaiming this wilder dance must have come as a liberation - it is especially fun for the girl. More transvestites should try it, but remember that it's wasted on too tight a skirt. It is right that we transvestites should have fun with our clothes, it's a small enough compensation for the trouble and heartache which transvestism causes all too many of us. Growing up as a trannie, trying to hold down a transvestite marriage, these are not easy. In my experience, employers are less than delighted when one turns up to work with traces of make-up. This is true even when everyone knows what we are - they don't like to be visibly reminded. Among the transvestites I know, there is a very high rate of broken marriages - including mine. Admittedly, I'm more likely to meet transvestites who are no longer married than those who are... there can be no doubt that it's easier to go out clubbing if there's no wife about :) Two come to mind as having had marriages that have survived, at least as far as the world in general is concerned. In both cases, Mrs Tranni stumbled on clothes carelessly left about. One is now forbidden to dress and is only seen on rare occasions when wifey is away. In the other case, the marriage is so nearly dead that the wife doesn't care, as long as the neighbours don't find out. While, to be fair, a lot of people seem more sympathetic than one might expect, the degree of hostility transvestites can arous is frightening. I've had my head bashed against a wall and then been kicked as I lay unconscious. It was a dreadful thing to do simply because those responsible didn't like the way I was dressed. Worse, perhaps, I strongly suspect the attack to have been premeditated. It can be a bad idea to allow unsympathetic people to predict where and when one is likely to be seen in a skirt.
    f686_1159gnrsfeatoftransfashpage6.jpgAll things considered, if cross dressing were simply a matter of fun, we'd be fools to do it. The more transvestites I meet, the more I am convinced that our reasons for doing it are complex, and that we are a diverse bunch. However, I hesitated to write "reasons for doing it", as - with all my transvestite friends - it seems significantly more a case of being rather than doing. Of course, we do something - dress in women's clothes - but this stems from the fact of being what we are. There is a degree of choice in the doing, but not in the being - we are what we are. And the choice in doing is no more than a degree because the pressure of being a transvestite can make feminisation an almost physical need. Our degree of choice is often a matter of no more than when, how often, and in which outfits. Clearly, in all of this, self-image is important to transvestites. We may not do it as literally or irrevocably as transsexuals do, but in dressing we assume a female identity, and selecting fifties fashions surely says something important about those female identities. That something has to do with submission, subservience and dependence. This is another aspect of something we may observe when transvestites wear uniforms. They are more likely to reflect submissive, subservient, dependent roles than those of such authority figures as policewomen. The 2 most popular are undoubtedly the schoolgirl and the maid. No points for spotting that neither represents female power! The same story is told by the transvestite interest in corsetry. There is some connection between this and the fifties look, but for many transvestites the attraction is for Victorian or Edwardian styles. Those were eras during which women in general exercised far less independence than their grand-daughters of the 1950s. Many transvestites feel that they are 'on the same side' as women. Some of the reasons why women do not often feel the same way should be clear enough. Few women, perhaps, would go as far as Germaine Greer who descibed transvestism as 'another form of rape' but the strong emphasis on submissive roles is sure to make many women uneasy. Indeed, the same unease extends to transvestites. Paradoxically, closely allied to a transvestite's view of herself as submissive is an attraction to dominant women. The submissive oartner obviously needs a dominat one. Since most transvestites are sexually attracted to women, that partner should ideally be a dominatrix. This considered, there may be an argument that submissive transvestism allows a lot of openings for liberated ladies. Most women would not - and do not - agree. Role playing can be fun, but we should not confuse reality with fantasy. Nor should we equte femininity with submissiveness. In these matters, there is surely a balance to be struck, a middle path to follow. Back in the 70s, when women's liberation was advancing, many of us must have feared that femininity was under threat. Twenty years on, however, one can still see women on the streets with adorably feminine presentations. Pretty skirts, shapely legs in sheer hosiery and high heels are still very much with us...

OSCAR WILDE AND TRANSVESTISM

  f688_1148gnrsfeatofoscarwildeI have nothing to declare but my genius' said Oscar Wilde on his arrival in America in 1882. But what more he could have declared, if only he dared... Wilde was a bi-sexual, as the world came to learn through the celebrated court case that ended with his barbarous gaol term. But he was also a transvestite. His mother, Jane Francis Agnes Wilde, was a formidable woman, nearly six feet tall, big-boned and with a strong profile. Oscar was her second child; her first was a boy - she had hoped, almost presumed, that Oscar would be a girl.oscarwildeandmother It was at first a great disappointment to her, but she compensated for this in his early years by virtually bringing him up as a girl, sending him out to play in pretty little dresses with ribbons in his specially curled hair, and banning him from rough, boyish pursuits. A third child was born, and this time it was a girl, much to Mrs Wilde's relief. Oscar slowly lost his dresses but kept to his feminine style of clothes, preferring to play the dandy. Even as a 13 year old at school he wrote complaining that his mother had sent him his brother's grey flannel shirts by accident, instead of his own in scarlet and lilac. But then his sister tragically died at the age of ten, and Oscar - a gentle dreamy boy - was the most distressed of all the family. He wrote a poem that ended "All my life's buried here. Heep earth upon it." As a man, Oscar's love of dressing was confined to very small, intimate circles - transvestism was more than just frowned upon by the hypocritical Victorians. However, there are more than enough reports to realise that here was a man who continued to live out his mother's fantasy of his early years. During his trial the Crown used Oscar's appreciation of cross dressing as a sign of his moral degradation, despite the support of his friends. As the writer Max Beerbohm acidly pointed out from the witness box, an earlier crown witness, an army officer, had been "wearing Her Majesty's uniform, another form of female attire." One of the few occasions when he was actually seen in drag was when he posed for pictures as Salome, the lead role of his play which starred Sarah Bernhardt in Paris but which was banned from the London stage. He himself would have loved to have performed the dance of the Seven Veils in the long skirt and Oriental headdress, but the world wasn't ready for that...oscarwildesalomi Although he knew he could never play the part for real, it didn't stop him from dressing up as Salome and posing for the photographs. A fantasy, perhaps, that we can all relate to.

Advice how why you are a transvestite, transsexual, transgender, transwoman. Help and advice from Transformation

You only have to walk down the local high street to realise that not all women take the same degree of pleasure in wearing feminine clothes as others.

 

So it is that not all mothers will introduce their children to their allure, and again not all children are going to be susceptible to the allure of clothes. This in turn can mean that not all wives or partners will have the same feelings for clothes as our own mothers and may, indeed, have less interest in them than we have.

 

It has been noted by some authorities that a proportion of TVs have an above average sex drive. Moreover many of our ideas about sex and love start in our earliest years and the relationships of that time. Consequently a young man with a strong sex drive – which is probably something we are born with – when combined with a powerful and glamorous mother figure, may well link the process of making love with the sort of glamour that he saw in his youth.

 

Glamorisation

 

Later, in his married life he may look for the same sort of glamour in his partner and if he finds it, will probably be unaware of the underlying need for it.

 

Unfortunately not all couples share the same level of sex drive or interest in the physical expression of their love. If this is the case and the man is disappointed in this part of his life, subconscious urges may push him to find glamour and even sexual release by creating it around his own person.

 

The glamourisation of oneself can be quite simply done by wearing distinctive clothes, or adopting a personal style of dress that satisfies ones idea about oneself. Interestingly, changes like these may help to bridge the gap in the relationship and create a masculine figure that the partner finds more attractive and hence more acceptable as a lover. When this is not the case the sex drive may lead to a search for other female company either for the occasional fling, or for a permanent change.

 

Sexual

 

The fling can be enjoyed with another woman, in the form of an affair or one-night-stand in which there is grave danger of causing hurt to the other party or to oneself.

 

It would not be a conscious decision to turn to feminine things but more likely the result of frustration from a lack of sexual outlets that leads to the classic moments of early TV discovery.

 

The seconds spent lingering over the wife’s clothes when she is not around soon develop to a snatched moment donning a dress or some undies while she is out. At any point the level of satisfaction may prove to be adequate and the process to full trasvestism can stop, equally the relationship may improve so that the frustration goes away and the sex drive finds a more usual outlet.

 

There comes a point for many who cross-dress when the urge to do so becomes important in itself and leads to the next major step – the possesion of ones own wardrobe. This may start in a clandestine manner with the purchase of some special items which are enjoyed and then thrown away, but soon this is not enough and more complete adventures may be tried.

 

A night away on business gives one the chance to spend several hours dressed in the hotel room and afterwards the garments may find a home in some hiding place in the car or the attic.

 

I have heard of TVs who have had an entire wardrobe in the attic under the pretext of having a model railway up there. This is fine and allows many hours of cross-dressing right in the heart of the home, but surely discovery is also inevitable? But that’s another story.

 

What I have described here is a route that frequently leads to the TV way of life, but many would be able to put in different details that round out the story in their own case, and many have only the need to go some of the way to feel an acceptable level of contentment.

 

For some, the joy of wearing feminine clothes is enough in itself and it doesn’t worry them if a beautiful wedding gown, for instance, is set below the sight of a scruffy beard. For others the frequency of episodes of cross-dressing can be low, perhaps just once or twice a year, and the manner of it can vary from the outrageous caricature of femininity to the well known cliches of schoolgirl, tart or nurse.

 

Encounter

 

These may all relate back to images from youth, close friends in primary school perhaps, or a hauntingly romantic but brief encounter with some one who was clearly a whore at heart.

 

They provide the satisfaction that is good for the particular individual and at each stage the process towards further changes may stop, frustration satisfied, or the price of carrying on to high.

 

The image of self may be too upsetting because we are not necessarily proud of our secondary personae. Alternatively the challenge to our family life is too great – it’s ironic really because cross-dressing may have its origins in an attempt to find a compromise for one’s sex drive without placing family at risk.

 

Another critical point in development may soon crop up; the wish to create a truly womanly image of oneself. It may start as dissatisfaction with what has been achieved so far. A bra stuffed with tissue, or a pair of stockings, soon seems a poor alternative when compared with the almost natural feel of prosthetic breasts or the possibility of growing ones own with hormone creams or pills.

 

To feel for the first time the weight of prosthetic breasts moving as a part of ones body is an unbelievable thrill. To wear an entire ensemble with frothy petticoats, undies, high heels and a pretty frock can open the door to more possibilities, although again there is a price to pay, and there is a risk that such exhibitionism can be damaging to ones social standing.

 

It is a lucky cross-dresser who has a partner who can be happy with his personal passion. Too often the drive to dress can also lead to a move to live alone. In some ways that is very sad, for there are not many of us who really enjoy being alone, but then under these conditions loneliness can give way to spending much more with one’s alter ego.

 

Of course if the step to live alone has been taken, then another series of vista open up. It may be possible to consider living full time dressed as a women, either in the outside world, within the confines of the house or only at times when one is unlikely to be disturbed.

 

There is also the chance to live with someone who is like-minded or accepting a man who wishes to be seen as a women. In this situation the experiences of ones childhood that sowed the seeds seem far away.

 

The warmth of the mother’s love may be in the subconscious; the sneaky masturbation that accompanied early essays at donning female garments will be just an embarrassing memory, for now the joy of feeling and looking feminine and beautiful will have become a reason in itself.

 

At this stage one turns away from the extremes of exhibitionist garments, the bulky petticoats, the extravagent skirts and blouses, and wears the more truly feminine clothes that you see on other women.

 

Where, then has the man gone? Is he totally rejected? Certainly he is in most cases, but in others he may be still be someone on the outside looking in and getting pleasure from creating the woman he also is, knowing himself to be a man but loving the woman. Possibly a man only at his workplace, for all other times, his glamourous alter ego.

 

Identify

 

And so what started as some expression of a Freudian sexual need, established when a child, becomes in its most advanced form an art that becomes a completely satisfying lifesyle in itself.

 

Many of us have set off along this path. At any time we may realise that we have reached some specific point along it. We may know that this is enough for us and decide to be content as we are, but on the other hand we may decide to continue further.

 

Some readers will only identify with a few of the stages listed here, others will recognise much of their own experience. The lesson to learn from it is to understand what pressures lie behind your passion, to respect it and to accept it, but at the same time be considerate of those around you. They should not be troubled or offended by what can be a bizarre type of behaviour for those that don’t understand it.



UNIFORMS

  Maids in little black dresses with a froth of white petticoats, schoolgirls' white socks and gymslips, nurses in starched aprons - don't you just love them? I know I do,and not only do most of us love them but we love the idea of them, and we love being them. Or at least as near to being them as we can manage by slipping into their uniforms! In a broad sense, it is possible to argue that transvestism is all about uniform: the uniforms of the two sexes. It is only a step beyond dressing as the opposite sex to adopt dress which defines our place in the world more precisely. Genuine uniforms can be very precise indeed. A real school uniform not only identifies the wearer as a schoolgirl, but as the pupil of a specific school. More - as uniforms change, it identifies her as belonging to a particular time. Many uniforms indicate rank - most obviously those of the military and the police. Our first feeling is probably that uniforms make those who wear them look the same as each other, and in some ways they do. Paradoxically, however, some uniforms can be more individual than any other form of clothing. A good example is a Girl Guide blouse which is one of my more treasured posessions (it fits me too!). This blouse carries many badges including those of rank (patrol leader). Another badge identifies the forget-me-not patrol and the shoulder flash is of the 7th New Malden Guides. The interest badges include entertainer, sportswoman, collector, hostess... and so on. It is doubtful whether another Guide in the entire history of the movement accumulated exactly the same collection of badges. Indeed, if the original owner were to read this, she might be able to identify her old blouse from the details I've given! Gaining such insight into the original owner is one of the great joys of genuine uniforms. Considering how nearly genuine they may be, there are - as I see it - five kinds of uniform. That's not to count them by role (schoolgirl, nurse, maid and so on) - by that count there are a lot more than five sorts. The five uniform kinds I have in mind are: fantasy, improvised, authentic, genuine, and composite. Each has its own attractions and enjoyments.
    Fantasy uniforms are fun, are not difficult to find, but can hardly be mistaken for the real thing. How astonished would we be, for example, to go into hospital to find ourselves treated by women in sex shop nurses' uniforms. There is enough of the nurse to them for us to grasp the general idea, but there's no danger of us confusing the wearers with real nurses. The impression they give is of tarts indulging their clients' nurse-related fantasies. Fantasy nurses' uniforms are probably not the examples most commonly found. All, or almost all, of the available maids' uniforms seem to come into this category. Not all of these are equally removed from the things that real maids might wear. I have a lot of doubt as to whether anyone who hired a girl to do the housework ever dressed that girl in satin. But satin seems more likely than PVC, in spite of the latter being easier to clean. The reasons for PVC seeming so improbable for real maids, of course, must include the fact that shiny plastic clothing only made its first appearance in the 1960s, well after the heyday of real maids. Perhaps more significant is the way in which PVC had only a short life as a material for ordinary female wear. The fate of my youngest sister's mid 1960s PVC coat may throw some light on the material losing favour. Passing on front of a - then common - paraffin heater, a large hole appeared in the easily-melted material. Since then, PVC has been pretty well exclusively seen as fetish wear. And of course, the fabrics of fantasy uniforms are chosen not with an eye to the stuff of real uniforms, but because they are - in themselves - popular materials. Nothing wrong with popular materials of course, there is always a reason for their popularity. I referred to the 1960s as being well after the heyday of real maids. This may give a clue as to why every maid's uniform I've seen has been a fantasy one, whereas most of the schoolgirl uniforms available are better characterised as authentic (of which more later). Unless you count the likes of hotel chambermaids, I've never seen a real maid. Hotel chambermaids are likely to wear tabards rather than the typical maid's uniform Fantasy uniforms can be very satisfying, there is no reason why they shouldn't be. Essentially, when transvestites dress in uniform, they do so as part of a fantasy. If a uniform is specially designed for that fantasy, it ought to be able to support it precisely. Being a real nurse is hard work, and the uniforms reflect that fact. Being a fantasy nurse is a piece of frolicking: the fantasy uniforms reflect this in the same way.
    Fantasy uniforms are fun, are not difficult to find, but can hardly be mistaken for the real thing. How astonished would we be, for example, to go into hospital to find ourselves treated by women in sex shop nurses' uniforms. There is enough of the nurse to them for us to grasp the general idea, but there's no danger of us confusing the wearers with real nurses. The impression they give is of tarts indulging their clients' nurse-related fantasies. Fantasy nurses' uniforms are probably not the examples most commonly found. All, or almost all, of the available maids' uniforms seem to come into this category. Not all of these are equally removed from the things that real maids might wear. I have a lot of doubt as to whether anyone who hired a girl to do the housework ever dressed that girl in satin. But satin seems more likely than PVC, in spite of the latter being easier to clean. The reasons for PVC seeming so improbable for real maids, of course, must include the fact that shiny plastic clothing only made its first appearance in the 1960s, well after the heyday of real maids. Perhaps more significant is the way in which PVC had only a short life as a material for ordinary female wear. The fate of my youngest sister's mid 1960s PVC coat may throw some light on the material losing favour. Passing on front of a - then common - paraffin heater, a large hole appeared in the easily-melted material. Since then, PVC has been pretty well exclusively seen as fetish wear. And of course, the fabrics of fantasy uniforms are chosen not with an eye to the stuff of real uniforms, but because they are - in themselves - popular materials. Nothing wrong with popular materials of course, there is always a reason for their popularity. I referred to the 1960s as being well after the heyday of real maids. This may give a clue as to why every maid's uniform I've seen has been a fantasy one, whereas most of the schoolgirl uniforms available are better characterised as authentic (of which more later). Unless you count the likes of hotel chambermaids, I've never seen a real maid. Hotel chambermaids are likely to wear tabards rather than the typical maid's uniform Fantasy uniforms can be very satisfying, there is no reason why they shouldn't be. Essentially, when transvestites dress in uniform, they do so as part of a fantasy. If a uniform is specially designed for that fantasy, it ought to be able to support it precisely. Being a real nurse is hard work, and the uniforms reflect that fact. Being a fantasy nurse is a piece of frolicking: the fantasy uniforms reflect this in the same way.
    Punishment This old-fashioned air may serve as an aid to the spanking fantasies. The gymslip relates to education in the era when there was corporal punishment in our schools. The fantasy is aided by the fact that such a look is authentic for that period. Female uniforms - the genuine article - are still being manufactured, of course, but sadly they are not easy to buy. Most women's uniforms, whether for the police and armed services or for private companies, are issued only to authorised personnel and are not for sale. However, there are workwear suppliers sall over the world for catering and health care staff etc. Trannies that want to dress like a waitress, a cakeshop assistant or a veterinary nurse can be reasonably easily kitted out. There are also masses of brand new school uniforms for sale, although there can be few trannies that would care to seek these out. Most of these uniforms are obviously in very small sizes, and going to a supplier and buying the items would take a lot of nerve. It is even quite possible that the shop would refuse to sell to you. Paradoxically, it is probably easier to buy old genuine uniforms than brand new ones. Perhaps the easiest and cheapest source of all may not be very helpful, but items of old school uniform surface from time to time in charity shops. Unless you are very slightly built, you will be extremely lucky if you can find anything that fits you. Another source of genuine uniforms is the body of people entitled to wear them. One of my trannie friends has a genuine nurses uniform: a gift from a lover who was a nurse. It is of obsolete design and no longer suitable for wearing in a hospital, but has proved eminently suitable for wear as part of a transvestite fantasy!
  Punishment This old-fashioned air may serve as an aid to the spanking fantasies. The gymslip relates to education in the era when there was corporal punishment in our schools. The fantasy is aided by the fact that such a look is authentic for that period. Female uniforms - the genuine article - are still being manufactured, of course, but sadly they are not easy to buy. Most women's uniforms, whether for the police and armed services or for private companies, are issued only to authorised personnel and are not for sale. However, there are workwear suppliers sall over the world for catering and health care staff etc. Trannies that want to dress like a waitress, a cakeshop assistant or a veterinary nurse can be reasonably easily kitted out. There are also masses of brand new school uniforms for sale, although there can be few trannies that would care to seek these out. Most of these uniforms are obviously in very small sizes, and going to a supplier and buying the items would take a lot of nerve. It is even quite possible that the shop would refuse to sell to you. Paradoxically, it is probably easier to buy old genuine uniforms than brand new ones. Perhaps the easiest and cheapest source of all may not be very helpful, but items of old school uniform surface from time to time in charity shops. Unless you are very slightly built, you will be extremely lucky if you can find anything that fits you. Another source of genuine uniforms is the body of people entitled to wear them. One of my trannie friends has a genuine nurses uniform: a gift from a lover who was a nurse. It is of obsolete design and no longer suitable for wearing in a hospital, but has proved eminently suitable for wear as part of a transvestite fantasy!

LIFE OF A VICTORIAN MAID

Female domestic staff usually had to provide their own clothing. In the Victorian and Edwardian periods, this would typically have been a lilac, blue or pink working dress with a white cap and apron for the morning. In the afternoon, which was the time for visitors, servants would change into a formal black dress and frilled apron and cap. In grander houses, a female servant might have worn a white blouse, white petticoat and underskirt and then a black pinafore over the top. She would have had a white frilly cap with a coloured ribbon. The alternative, perhaps for less dirty work would have been a white blouse, black bodice and then a white pinafore dress on top. The cap would have been black with white trim. In our house, Florence wears a dark apron for dirty jobs such as laying the fires, over her blue working dress. Florence wears Julia's old clothes during her free time; for her afternoon off once a week. On Sundays, she wears a plain, sombre, black coat and skirt, with black shoes, stockings and gloves. She has a toque style of hat. In most houses, there would be too much work to allow the maid of all work to rest during the day. Jobs would include making fires, carrying the coal in, dealing with tradesmen and women, cleaning - housework including spring cleaning, washing, washing up, cooking and making tea, preparing beds, carrying hot water, running errands. And in the larger houses, managing junior staff. They would also mend their own clothes, and check the doors and windows were locked at night. By 1890, many houses sent their washing out as this was cheaper. If there was a separate cook, with other work done by a housemaid, the maid of all work would be a 'plain cook', preparing simple dishes such as meat, vegetables and puddings. Morning Florence has an early start each morning; in the summer she is at work by 6am and in the darkness of the winter by 7am. After washing and dressing, she goes round the house, opening the shutters and curtains, and opening a few windows. In each room, she takes up the hearth rug, places the fender on a cloth, and cleans and re-lays the fire. She polishes the brass and steel work. Florence then sweeps each downstairs room, collecting the dust near the fireplace. She carries her tools, including brushes, blacklead, emery paper and polishing cloths, from room to room in a wooden box. The cinders from each fireplace go in the bottom. She then dusts the furniture. One of her friends who works at a nearby house has a Bissell carpet sweeper, but Florence has to make do with a variety of brushes. She takes a supply of coal and kindling to each fireplace and lights the downstairs fires; today's March morning is chilly. A large range could burn 1 hundredweight (nearly 51kg) of coal per day, costing about one shilling in 1890. The Bush family have a medium-sized range, but together with the fireplaces, they consume about this much coal in the coldest part of the winter. Sidney pops his head round the kitchen door; "Can I have my breakfast, Florence?". "Oh, sorry sir." Sidney just has some bread so it takes just a moment to prepare things. She takes them into the dining room. Her next task is to prepare the breakfast for the children, Mary, who has just arrived, and for herself. They have bacon and cold meat for breakfast in the week, and sausages or bloaters on Sunday. As the has her first moment of rest in the day, Sidney leaves the house for his train journey to London.


  Florence quickly finishes her breakfast, and then goes upstairs with hot water for her mistress and the children. Mary is giving the children their breakfast and will help them get washed and dressed. "Good morning, Florence." says Julia. "Good morning, missus." replies Florence. She sets the jug of hot water down on the wash stand and prepares Julia's clothes. "I am going calling this afternoon, so I will need my best skirt and blouse. And Mr and Mrs Browne are coming for dinner tonight at 7." Florence silently groaned. She had hoped to have her afternoon off today, but now she would need to prepare fancy food for dinner; Mr and Mrs Browne always needed to be impressed. Florence brushed madam's hair, and helped her dress. By 8:30, Julia was ready for the day, and Florence went back downstairs and brought breakfast through to the dining room. At 9, the whole family assembled in the dining room for morning prayers. After clearing away all the breakfast things and washing them up, Florence sweeps and dusts upstairs. Her mistress's eldest daughter Constance helps Florence to make the beds and do some of the chores. She is quite a willing girl so her work makes quite a difference. Florence goes round the house collecting the oil lamps, and takes them to the kitchen. She cleans and trims them, refills them, and then takes them back. Her next task is to clean up the candle sticks; the family don't use too many as they are expensive. She then discusses the day's menu with Julia and is sent out to buy a few items, such as yeast, that are not delivered. In their road, a baker brings fresh bread each day in a basket, and the milkman brings the milk on a cart. Florence has to visit the greengrocer's, butcher, and fish shop.  


  Afternoon Returning home, Florence makes the midday meal for Mary and the children, and herself. They eat this together in the kitchen at about 12:30. Their usual lunch is cold meat; most weeks there is ham and chicken. Then Florence prepares luncheon for her mistress, who sits down to eat at 1:30. Florence then helps her mistress undress for her rest, and goes downstairs to clear away from lunch. Her next tasks are to begin preparing the meal for tonight. She has barely started when Julia calls for her help with dressing for the afternoon. The kitchen and nursery tea at 5pm is mackerel, with bread and butter and a small cake. Barely finished, Julia returns from her visiting. Florence helps her to change for evening.  


  Evening At 6:15 Sidney returns home, and Florence takes him hot water. At 6:30, the guests arrive; Florence welcomes them, and shows them into the drawing room. The dinner seems to go well; the Brownes leave at about 9:30. Once the ladies have moved to the drawing room, Florence clears the last items from the dining room, leaving the men in peace. At 9:00, after clearing up and washing up, Florence has a quick kitchen supper of bread and cheese. Florence cleans Sidney and Julia's shoes, checks that the drawing and dining room fires are safe, turns out the downstairs oil lamps, and locks the doors and closes windows. She then attends to Julia, helping her to undress and wash. She removes the slops.    



Transformation Staff



  Meeting Stephanie today, a glamorous and self-assured wife and business woman, it's hard to imagine the confused little boy from St Albans she had once been all those years ago. It may sound like an old cliché - but when it comes to transvestites and transsexuals, it really does take one to know one. Unless you yourself have experienced the mental confusion of being a boy who wants to be a girl - full-time or part-time - you really haven't a clue what it's all about. Doctors and psychiatrists might discuss it, daytime television presenters may discuss it, your wife or girlfriend might go along with it. But in truth, they can never really know how it feels. Stephanie Anne Lloyd does know, simply because she was a boy who grew to be a woman. She doesn't know why she was like that any more than you or I do - it's just the hand we were dealt. For Stephanie, it was a particularly tricky hand. Her previous male self - Keith Hull - came from a strictly religious background, was married with children he adored, and had a keith.jpghighly paid successful career in front of him. If he could just have lived his life "normally" as a man, he would have had it made. But, for some reason he couldn't understand, Keith had always just known he wasn't like other boys - he grew to look like a man and act like a man, but acting the part was the closest he could get. Inside, under the protective shell he had created for the sake of normality, was the soul of a woman. Many of you reading this might recognise his dilemma. Should Keith have carried on through life trying to play the role his parents and family expected, or should he have been true to his inner self - at whatever cost that could bring? Keith ultimately chose truth and took the path to becoming Stephanie - although the cost proved higher than even he could ever have imagined. The affluent, highly respected family man found himself overnight tainted as an outcast. She suffered savage publicity, was shunned by her parents, her wife, her children and her friends. She lost her home, her job, and all the money she had. Some things, however, did remain. Her indomitable spirit and defiance of defeat. Stephanie was determined to put her experience, however painful it might have been for her, to some good use. The result was Transformation, and a whole new beginning not only for Stephanie, but for TVs and TSs throughout the UK. Transformation was the very first business in the country to openly promote a specialist service for transvestites. Stephanie opened the closet door for us all.   Like so many transsexuals, Stephanie can't put her finger on when she first realised she was different to her boyhood pals, but she will never forget the recurring dream that filled her nights from the age of five. A dream in which the young Keith was kidnapped and turned into a girl by a couple who had lost their daughter, and who wanted him to take her place.   By the age of seven Keith had discovered the dream could cross into reality, if only occasionally, in dressing-up sessions with his friends. They put on their own private plays, with Keith taking the girls' roles whenever he could. "I had always found my strange dreams frightening and confusing," she explained. "Yet there was something about dressing as a girl that gave me a strange sense of contentment. Somehow, it seemed to feel right.   f508_1388.jpg"The moment I put a dress on I felt less clumsy, more natural and more peaceful than I have ever remembered feeling before." With the benefit of hindsight, and the more enlightened times in which we live, it may seem surprising that it took Keith another 30 years to fully understand that sense of contentment. BUt back in 1953, boys were boys and girls were girls. No seven year old could think anything else, let alone the son of staunch Jehovah's Witness parents.   And so started the long mental struggle against the inevitable, through puberty and teens, and into an early married life. Keith had always been popular with the girls, mainly because he found he could relate to them in a way that other boys just couldn't. He and his future wife Marilyn seemed made for each other from the start, and by the time he was 21 they were married and settled in a modern semi-detached house in suburban Hertfordshire. The birth of twin boys seemed to seal their future. f508_1389.jpgIn many ways, Keith appeared the perfect husband. His career was really taking off and in the office he was a shining star, but he still found time to take his share of the domestic role. Some fathers may have done it grudgingly, but Keith relished every minute. "To bath my sons and watch them gurgle with joy as they splashed around in the water was a constant delight," she said. "I was really in my element and couldn't have felt happier"