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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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



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

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A Cross Dressing Story

  They were the "volunteers" enlisted into the various concert parties which were used to keep up morale amongst the troops. Many of them were probably closet trannies anyway, glad of a chance to slip into a frock, but even those who weren't at least learned a trade they could use in civilian life. One far more useful than killing people. And use it they did, taking their feminine tricks of the trade onto theatre stages throughout the country in all-male revues that were highly successful into the 1920's and beyond. One of the most celebrated wartime concert parties had been called Les Rouges et Noir in France, but changed its name back to splinters back in Britain. The cast of cross-dressed ex-soldiers played to full houses in Shaftesbury Avenue and the London Coliseum before launching a provincial tour that ran with various changes of company for another twenty years.  
  The success of another concert party has been uncovered by researcher Peter Farrer for a recently published book. He found a review of their show in the British Army newspaper The Balkin News, which listed seven men playing girls' parts. The star part of Lizzie was played by Private T Wardle who "has a future to be envied", the paper reported, "with charming manners and soprano voice." The paper continued to gush: "The costumes must have been one of the many surprises. One hardly expects to find these things in a troupe from "up the line", but they were splendid, espacially Lizzie's who had to reveal the contents of her boudoir more than once." On the whole, it sounds like Private Wardle had a bad war. As well as a third-party review of the concert party, we have a first hand account of what it was like to be a male actress in those days. For luckily one member of the cast wrote to the newspaper "Bits of Fun", which Peter Farrer has used as reference for his collection "Confidential Correspondence Part II 1916-1920" Regular readers will remember that the first part of this collection was reviewed in our last issue. Peter Farrer has now followed it up with another batch of letters, almost 300 in total, which provide further fascinating information about cross-dressing in that period. The writer of the letter was a sergeant in the Mechanical Transport section, who had been a closet TV since he was a small boy. Suddenly, the war had given him the opportunity to wear his fantasy clothes in public for the very first time.  
  "For the past 18 months I have shown almost every night ....dressed up in women's clothes", he wrote. "I wear the tightest of corsets (23ins), high heeled boots and shoes, long, tight fitting black or white kid gloves, silk stockings, ladies' undies, a wig and above all, long heavy earrings, for which I had my ears pierced." Signing himself simply as JEH, the sergeant follows up his letter with a second a month later when he writes about attending a weekend houseparty as a girl, and staying undiscovered throughout. Peter Farrer's research identified the writer through a review in The Balkan News as a Sergeant Howard. He was in the same party as "Lizzie" Wardle playing a fairy called Fifi. It's such attention to detail that makes Peter Farrer's collection so interesting. These are real men writing of their experiences in dresses at home and at war, some voluntary and some forced to take on female roles that nature never intended.

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DIANE'S FIRST DRESS

  I was 10 when I first discovered the joy of donning a dress. It was white satin, the bodice trimmed with white feathers; it was long and strapless. The year was 1938. Since age 5 I had many times rummaged through my older sister's dresser drawers for 'soft and feminine' things to soothe my aching mind and body - I had sorely wanted to be a girl, and experiencing the feel of silk panties and slips was intoxicating. My favorite place to play was the attic where there were two, large cedar closets. The one at the top of the stairs was for seasonal clothes like heavy jackets and my father's WWI uniform; the other was tucked away in a far corner for clothes waiting for my younger sister and me to grow into. Since there were 10 years separating my sisters' ages, there were only winter coats and leggings for my younger sister; feminine fashions changed constantly even 'way back then,' so there was little of the 'feminine' there for me. For years the only feminine attire that held any interest for me in the 'seasonal' closet were my mother's skirt-suits and dresses, none of which felt 'right' on me. My mother was very small and ultra-conservative, having come upon the planet before the turn-of-the-century. I remember the day, wet and blustery, when my best friend and I were in the attic playing. He had discovered my father's uniform and had put it on - I never had. As he paraded around the attic he came upon the other closet and opened the door. Something shiny-white inside caught my eye, so I went in and turned on the light. Lo-and-behold, the closet was now filled with my older sister's evening gowns. I could hardly wait to try them on, but I was afraid at the time of what my friend might think of me. I knew that I wasn't 'normal.' The following day was a schoolday, and I had nothing else on my mind for the entire day but those pretty dresses. The energy rampaging through my body was exhausting, and the run home and to the attic did little to ease the excitement. Besides the cook who was preparing the dinner, I was the only other soul in the house so I raced to the attic, went into the far closet, turned on the light, closed the door and locked it from the inside. I had found a New World to hide in. Moments later I was naked except for my socks which protected my feet from the wooden floor.
I looked at the array of long dresses for what seemed hours but could not have been more than a minute, trying to decide which dress I would try on first. Is that a 'feminine' trait? I first noticed that the shiny-white dress that had caught my eye the previous day was strapless, and I took several moments wondering what it was that was going to 'hold it up.' I came to the conclusion that it was the breasts that would hold it up, and since I didn't have any, I should forego that dress and try the others first.   That was a painfully disappointing moment, coming-to-terms with the fact that I did not have breasts and probably never would. To me, that dress epitomized what it would feel like to be a girl. One-by-one I stepped into or let fall over me every one of those dresses, closed the zippers as best I could - most were in back - and marveled at the luxurious feelings of femininity. As time passed, and I knew it would soon be time to appear before my parents and the dinner table, I arranged the closet as I had found it and then stood there eyeing the one dress I had yet to put on. I knew intuitively that, if I did not satisfy a most powerful inner urge to at least step into the dress, I would never forgive myself. I unzipped the back of the dress, held it in front of me and stepped in. As I eased the dress up my body, I became very aware that it was the smoothest and most delicate of all the dresses I had put on. I managed to get the back zipper all the way up, but I had to hold the dress up and close to my chest lest gravity pull it down to my knees. Holding the top of the dress up at the sides, I looked for a mirror to see how I looked in the dress, and how the dress looked on me, but there was no mirror; there would be the next time I came. I swished and twirled and curtsied and danced to the music in my mind, reveling in the most powerful feminine feelings I had ever experienced. Rather than let the dress fall so that I could step out, I dutifully unzipped the back and stepped out of it, put in on its hanger and returned it to its proper place on the clothes rack. As the weeks and months passed and my body grew larger, I would periodically go to that far closet in the attic and see how that white gown would fit me. I still believed that it would be my 'breasts' that would hold up the dress, and I could see no way of making that come to pass short of putting on one of my sister's bras and filling the cups with her silk stockings (nylon had yet to be invented). But that would not be what a strapless dress was all about; it was going to take real breasts, and I promised myself that some day I would have my own. I was as yet unfamiliar with the phenomenon known as the 'strapless' bra; it would be more than a year before I would.
    When I finally did become more familiar with bras, I would go to the attic with a 'proper' bra, panties, stockings and a garter belt in order to dress 'properly.' By the time I was 12, the dress almost fit me and the strapless bra had finally come into common use. Now the dress would stay up if I used enough padding to fill the strapless bra cups, but it felt awkward; there was something unnatural about having to use padding. Girls my age were beginning to develop their breasts, and here I was with the prettiest dress imaginable, and I had nothing of my own to hold the dress up. I would look down at my flat chest and feel diminished. I remember about having had quite a dilemma wondering how I might be hurting myself by continuing to indulge myself by 'dressing up,' but you, Reader, know why I did not and could not stop. By the time I was 14, the dress was fitting me perfectly except for what I had always believed was intended to 'hold it up;' the trauma of seeing the other sex blossom with what I thought was rightfully mine was excruciating. Most of all, I was now going to formal dances myself - in a tuxedo - and wanting with all my heart to wear that pretty gown hanging in that faraway closet. Envy of the girls in their pretty gowns was near-all-consuming. In my bed later, I would cry to vent the hurt. I was at a dance one evening when I finally came to realize what was actually holding strapless dresses 'up.' It was by observing girls who I knew were small-breasted that I finally understood. It is the depression of the female waste above the widened hips that 'holds up' the strapless dress by supporting the top from underneath. I smiled, but I really wanted to cry; I lacked not only the breasts, but the shape of the lower torso. Once again I was reminded of what my mind said that I was, and of what my body said that I was not. It is now many years later, and that dress continues to be the most elegant and feminine article that has ever draped my body, including all the lovely nighties and undies that fill my dresser drawers and adorn my body every day. Best of all, though, is that feeling of wholeness and completeness that I have today of being able to now hold the top of that dress up the way I had originally thought it should have been... by my very own bountiful breasts. Thank you Transformation! dianemorrill@juno.com

Amanda's World - The Wedding Dress

It was the only thing in the window. That is, apart from a paper banner in bright red with gold lettering proclaiming 'SALE'. It was the window of the dress shop specialising in wedding wear and normally filled with half a dozen wedding dresses, page boys' outfits and smart, uncomfortable looking dresses or suits for the bride's mother. And, of course, in the background to contrast with all the feminine finery, a tailor's dummy dressed in a morning suit and grey top hat. But this morning there was just one dress, the sale bargain of the week, with a discreet price tag: £349... I paused in astonishment. Before I had even seen the price tag I had been quite taken with the dress itself. Perhaps because it stood alone in the window, it had caught my attention as I hurried by and drawn me to the window to loook closer. My breath was taken away by its beauty - it was of cream satin, with a demure round neckline beautifully embroidered, and the design carried on down over the bust to the waistline. The puff sleeves carried a similar design with a delicate lace edging at the cuffs. Below the waist, the gown billowed out fully, but plain, to the scalloped hemline at the front, while at the back it was gathered into a full bustle from which masses of material descended into a wide flowing train, yards long, with delicate embroidery. I could readily imagine how beautiful it would appear as it was held by pretty bridesmaids following the wearer up the aisle to the wedding ceremony, and afterwards as she walks on the arm of her groom - the hem rising and falling with each slow pace to the sound of the wedding march, and the swish of the satin skirt along the floor of the church.
The only other item in the window was a matching headdress, a hoop of artificial orange blossom with a full veil attached to give a hint of mystery as she entered the church, and to be flung back after the ceremony to reveal her beauty and happiness as she led the bridal procession from the church.   I stood for some time admiring the dress and dreaming. I felt the excitement of the wedding morning, the last minute preparations to ones hair by the attendant hairdresser, the beauty treatment and the make-up, the careful adjustment of the new bra specially bought for the occasion to fit under the dress, the feel of the new expensive sheer stockings as I rolled them on to my freshly smooth legs and fastened them to the suspender belt (not new, but worn in compliance with the old adage about something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue). I would have borrowed my sister's lovely earrings and tucked a pale blue handkerchief away out of sight for emergency use. I could imagine the giggles of my bridesmaids - hiding their nervousness on this great occasion - and, taking my father's arm, I would have sailed down the aisle to be given away by him to the man of my choice, to love, honour and obey him as commanded in the words of the age-old service. I could have afforded to buy it to live my dream in the privacy of my own home, but I knew as I asked the assistant that the dress was at least two sizes too small. She offered to show me other dresses, but this was my dream and I fled the shop, but not without a backward glance at the dress in the window. I passed that way again about a fortnight later. The dress had gone from the window, presumably sold. I wonder who the lucky girl is? I would have liked to have met her. From the bottom of my heart I wish her all joy in the wearing of my dress, and all the happiness for the future.



Short Story  - The Realisation of Michaela - A Transvestite

  I suppose that some of us 'Girls' are more lucky that others and that a very lucky few are luckier than most when it comes to being able to realise our Dreams, but not one of the many 'Girls' that I have ever met seems to have had my enormous amount of good fortune down the road to total feminine release. Which only goes to prove that being in the right place at the right time is probably the Fate that you rightly deserve, if only once in your lifetime, and is the 'lift' that you are dying for, to bring you out of the Closet and into the open, rightly and properly. Here is the story of one very lucky person: Michaela My name is Michaela Jane and I am a totally fulfilled Transvestite. By total, I mean that, at last I am able to live the complete life as a young woman with my own Home, Bank Account, Car and Job - All registered under my 'Femme' name, which must surely be the object of fullfilment for most serious Babes wishing to make the change. Of course, none of this came easy and time seemed to run away with me once I had really started on my 'conversion', but the perfect opportunity arose when my Wife discovered my 'Secret' - A neatly hung selection of female clothing, in a smaller size than her, secreted in an hidden alcove behind the built in wardrobes in the Master Bedroom! Yes, being a bit of a DIY freak, I had made part of the back of our unit slide across to give access to the hidden alcove behind the main unit, and fitted it out with Drawers and a Hanging Rail - That is until the fateful day that I forgot to close the hidden door and my Wife decided to change her daytime outfit for an Evening Dress prior to our going out to a Dinner Dance on that fateful day - Febuary 14th Valentines Day! I will not bore you with the details of the upset that followed when I told her the truth about my 'desires' and my 'feminine' side, except to say that, unlike the other wives that I read about - you know, the ones that fully understand and end up 'going along' with the wishes of being a transvestite husband - She totally 'flipped' and insisted that I left our home, there and then - and that is how it has been to this day.... Well, one can't win all the time! (But one can in the end). I'm writing this, just having emerged from a long, hot scented Bath where I have been lying in for a very long while thinking how wonderfully relaxing being a fully fledged 'girl' really is - Admiring my long smooth legs, narrow waist and almost totally hair free body. (I find it so much cooler to be into almost total depletion). I have had a Heart-Shape tattoo outline done around a small pubic area, and depleted only up to that outline and shorten the pubic hair within the outline to a nice close crop style. But no hair left anywhere else on my body exceept for my own natural auburn head of hair, which is now down to shoulder length and professionally 'done' once a week. Anyway, now I must emerge from this Bath and proceed to apply some scented moisturer to the whole of my body to take away the slight male feel of some areas of my skin. Whilst I am doing this, I will tell you how I am going to get dressed and what I am going to wear whilst I tell you more of my 'story'.
    I always treat the phrase 'What am i going to wear?' as meaning a total look and feminine 'aroma,' as perfume is so very important and must be treated as an 'overall' sensation to bring out the best of the female attributes. So, starting with a light talcing all over my body, I begin to feel and smell my female self. Next I apply the wonderful matching perfume between and under my breasts, around my neck and behind my ears, before venturing down to the more intimate places, finishing with a final squirt down the bottom of my back and between my tight little bottom cheeks. It's really surprising how very feminine one can feel just 'dressed' in a quality scent. So I pause a while just simply breathing in the delicious aroma of my all-ready female self, whilst looking in the Mirror that I am about to watch myself getting dressed in. Before I explain what I am wearing as I complete my dressing process, I should explain that it is now some 5 years since I became totally female, and my body has changed physically to a great extent, due to various drugs and some physical manipulation during my story, but more of that later. I am fortunate that, having had cetain treatments to my now reduntant 'testes' etc, I am able to disguise my former Male self by the wearing of a tight pair of mini-panties, which are always my basic first garment that I prefer to soak in a little warm scented water before I continue dressing as they tend to shrink to a perfect fit in all areas, as they dry out from the warmth of my body, and gives me another 10 minutes to admire myself and them! Today, I have chosen a Sky blue pair with side tie drawstrings and I have pulled them up tightly, tying a long bow just above the hip bone, which gives me a really feminine look, even before I am dressed. I add an extra little touch now by slipping my feet into a pair of sky blue Mules with a 2" heel, as I always feel better getting dressed with some sort of heel beneath me. So here I am, just that little bit taller, with a nice all over tan from my Sunbed. A scented topless Beauty. Next, I select my 36D Bra for today. This is a matching Sky blue Full Cup lacey underwired quality item i purchased some time ago. These days I usually shop in the High Street.
    My boobs are now fully grown and make a perfect fit in my Bra's - In fact, I do worry a little that they are still growing even though I am no longer on my Hormone treatment - but I digress. I prefer to put this very important item of underwear on to my body in the proper manner, as this seems to me to be a part of being feminine, so I carefully place my arms through the shoulder straps and reach behind myself, to fasten the hooks at the back and then, carefully lift each breast upwards in turn, before lowering them into the cups of the Bra. I give great attention to this method, before tightening up both straps in order to lift my breasts to the required height for the outfit that I am about to wear. So far - so good, and now for the next item. Today I have chosen to wear a suspender belt and stockings - not just any stockings as I prefer to wear Holdups with suspenders, as they tend not to pull on the suspenders so much, and give a much 'sexier' feel. Now, I slip off my Mules and gently ease the stockings up my long elegant legs and attach them to the Blue lacey matching suspender belt that is now tightly secured around my waist. I pause to run my hand down my Nylon clad legs. A really fantastic feeling! Now it is time for my shoes, as I want to look at myself in my underwear, with nice high heels. Today, I have chosen an outfit that requires a white shoe, so I select a simple pair of Court shoes, but with a fairly high heel of 4". As I slip my feet into them and stand up in front of the mirror, I am instantly tranformed in to the full woman that needs just a little pink lipstick to complete the picture and that is no sooner said than done in front one of my full length Bathroom mirror. Looking at myself, I feel that I would like to wear some further underwear today, and choose a matching blue set of silk Camisole and French Knickers to overlay my Bra and Mini-Panties, and they do make me feel so silky and smooth, that I know that I have made the right choice. Just my dress now needed to complete the outfit, and today I am going to wear my loose fitting white favourite. This has a short full skirt that 'flares' out when I twirl and a Gypsy top to expose my arms and a wide neckline. I compliment this with a tight white belt that shows off my narrow waist, without 'advertising' the actual belt. Now all I need to do is to select my accessories, including my Coat, Handbag and Jewellery, 'do' my face and Hair, and I'm ready to get on with my day - Is it any wonder that us 'girls' take so long to get ready to go out! I love long dangling earrings, so I select a pair with a matching necklace and bracelet watch, studded with red rhinestones, and put them on in fromt of the mirror. I team these with a white clutch handbag and decide not to bother with a coat, as it is a nice sunny day. Just a little 'sit-down' to brush my Auburn shoulder length hair which falls easily into place, as I only had it done yesterday! So I'm finished and ready to leave home, looking good, smelling fantastic and tasty enough to eat, I'm ready to launch myself on the world yet again, in my wonderful life. When I come home, we'll have a nice 'Girly' chat over a great bottle of Wine, whilst I tell you how by sheer chance and Lady Luck led me into my wonderful new life after being a mere downtrodden Male for far too long. Michaela. End of Part One -- Part Two is here.

Magnus Hirschfeld was a prominent German sexologist who developed the theory of a third, intermediate sex between men and women. He coined the term Transvestite and was a strong advocate of gay and TV rights from the early 1900's.

  He was interested in the study of a wide variety of sexual and erotic urges, at a time when the early taxonomy of sexual identity labels was still being formed. His scientific work extended that of Karl Heinrich Ulrichs and influenced Havelock Ellis and Edward Carpenter. He often visited bars in Berlin catering to gays and transvestites as he researched the first-ever book on transgenderism, Die Transvestiten (1910).
In 1921 Hirshfeld organised the First Congress for Sexual Reform, which led to the formation of the World League for Sexual Reform. Congresses were held in Copenhagen (1928), London (1929), Vienna (1930), and Brno (1932).
Hirschfeld was both quoted and caricatured in the press as a vociferous expert on sexual manners, receiving the epithet "the Einstein of Sex". He saw himself as a campaigner and a scientist, investigating and cataloging many varieties of sexuality, not just homosexuality. He coined the word "transvestism," for example. Although he preferred to project himself as an objective researcher and scientist, Hirschfeld himself was gay and a transvestite, and participated in the gay subculture of Germany. For these activities he gained the epithet "Tante Magnesia" - "Auntie Magnesia."
In 1919, under the more liberal atmosphere of the newly founded Weimar Republic, Hirschfeld opened the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft (Institute for Sexual Research) in Berlin. His Institut housed his immense library on sex and provided educational services and medical consultations. People from around Europe visited the Institut to gain a clearer understanding of their sexuality. Christopher Isherwood writes about his and Auden's visit to the Institut in his book Christopher and His Kind. The Institut also housed the Museum of Sex, an educational resource for the public which is reported to have been visited by school classes. The Institut and Hirschfeld's work there is depicted in the documentary film The Einstein of Sex.
When the Nazis took power, one of their first actions, on May 6, 1933, was to destroy the Institut and burn the library. The press-library pictures & archival newsreel film of Nazi book-burnings seen today are usually pictures of Hirschfeld's library ablaze. Fortuitously, at that time Hirschfeld was away from Germany on a world speaking tour. He never returned to Germany, dying in exile in Nice in 1935.

 CLASS REUNION

I was nearly ready for bed when the telephone rang. Hastily smoothing my night cream, I slipped into my negligee and sat on the side of my bed to take the call. "Is that......?" a female voice asked, using the name I have long discarded. "Yes", I replied guardedly after a pause. "I don't suppose you will remember me. Elizabeth Price. We were at school together." Of course I remember her. And all her friends. Denise, Maureen, Joyce, Beryl, Margaret, Hilary and the other girls in our mixed class at the local grammer school, more years ago than I care to enumerate. I could remember the desks at which we all sat, the boys on the right facing the teacher, the girls on the left. Classes were not so large those days, only twenty five in our year. Some of the girls, now mature women with husbands and families, had got together and thought it would be fun to organise a class reunion. Elizabeth and I chatted for hours on the phone, reminiscing about old times. She gave me the date and time of the reunion and exhorted me to come and to bring me any memorabilia of school life, especially old photographs if I had any. I stalled for time, said I wasn't sure that I could make it, suggested that I ring her back in a day or two to tell her whether I could come. Truth to tell I needed time to sort out the implications of taking part in this reunion. Long after I had put down the phone, I sat on my bed manicuring my nails and thinking about those days long gone by. How I had envied the girls as I sat on my side of the classroom wishing with all my heart and soul that I could be on the left hand side of the classroom. How I would like to have joined in their huddled conversations from which the boys were excluded.
    And secretly, I used to wonder what they would have thought if they had known that on occasions, after school when I had the house to myself, I would find my secret hoard and dress for a short time in my long stockings, navy blue knickers, school uniform skirt and blouse and girl's hat worn provocatively on the back of my head. With a touch of Auntie's lipstick and a blush of powder I would gaze at myself in the mirror and wish and wish and wish that I were one of them. I even fell in love. Infatuation would be a better term. But I couldn't show it as the girls did. He was the most handsome boy in the class. And when he started to take Margaret out and I saw them walking home together from school, or standing in close conversation on the playing fields, I was insanely jealous. I could have scratched Margaret's eyes out. There were times when I thought I would grow out of this obsession. But mostly I didn't want to. And as the months and years rolled by the obsession became stronger and stronger. After leaving school I went to college in a distant part of the country and lost touch with all my old classmates of both sexes. And it was at college that I was finally able to lead a more satisfying life than anything previously, when in my lodgings I found I could dress and live as I felt my true sexual identity to dictate. So, back to the present... Before putting out the light, I got up and surveyed myself in the long mirror. Slowly I removed my negligee and smoothed my long silk nightdress over my breasts and thighs. No, I thought, this woman is an entirely different creature from the shy wistful youth who had so envied those girls their femininity. They would not recognise him after all these years and she might be an embarrassment to their spouses at this reunion. Sadly I realised that I could not go to the ball, but like Cinderella would have to stay at home with my memories.