Why write this small novel about just another weekend?
Sometimes it’s interesting to me just to read what the rest of you are doing during a regular day, whether enfemme or not—it’s a little slice of life. I also note that I never stop thinking about my dual gender life; there are constant reminders of it everywhere I go, and this narrative shows that.
Last, I accept the reality that some weeks this same dual lifestyle will put me in for a bumpy ride down the so-called 'road of life'—and this was one of those times.
Friday night I was invited to a surprise birthday party for the 16 year old daughter of a couple I’ve known for years. Now, I have no illusions about 16 year olds—I know that hormones are working overtime at that age, and cause all kinds of mischief to happen. But these boys and girls were all dancing to a DJ on the outside deck, and seemed so happy and natural doing so. They didn’t pair off into couples—they all just clustered around each other.
The five adults that were there were looking down from a higher deck, and we weren’t noticed. It brought tears to my eyes watching that scene, and I’m not sure what those tears were all about. I had not been around that many teens for years. It made me wonder how I would have dealt with living in both genders at such a young age. My crossdressing at 16 was strictly private, with no idea that anyone ever went ‘out’ that way. I also didn’t identify with being a girl, at all.
As I mentioned in another thread, I found myself frustrated as I talked to the three women who were also guests. We were having a good time, I suppose, but I was continually aware of the stronger connection that I’m able to make with women when I present an appearance that’s also womanly.
That barrier that I was experiencing may partly be in my head, but I know that it’s also part of our culture. Married men and woman, especially in group settings, have to keep a certain emotional distance to the conversation. Now, I’ve been part of exceptions to that rule, but they don’t happen very often.
If I’m appearing as a woman, I have more allowance for being personal without being seen as inappropriate. And believe me, as a business owner who deals with customers every week, I’m very fine-tuned to what the culture thinks is inappropriate.
So I was experiencing these barriers, for whatever reason, and it drove me a little crazy. I had things I wanted to say as the conversation rolled along, and there was no convenient way to say them.
The next day I had an unusual assignment. My sister and brother-in-law were paying me to check out a luxury car that they wanted to buy. It looked great on the Internet, and it was a 2007 with a warranty. So I didn’t need to do compression tests on it, or check the brakes—all I had to do was inspect it for appearance, and drive it around the block. If I liked it, the dealer would drive it to Nevada and sell it to them there, where the tax is much, much less.
How did my femme self come up in this context? Well, I was in the area below San Francisco, which is called the Peninsula. Lots of cities, side by side, for fifty-some miles between SF and San Jose. There’s a main boulevard called El Camino Real, that runs through most of them. It parallels the freeway. But what I didn’t realize is that it diverges the further south it goes. By the time I got off the freeway and went searching for it, I realized I had to go in a lot further than I had thought, and the city traffic in Palo Alto was terrible.
I wasn’t running so late that I couldn’t make it, but the thought crossed my mind that I’d be down there again the next day, dressed femme. The thought of my femme self showing up to test out this car made me smile. The dealer would have something different to tell his wife and kids at dinner that night!
I made it in plenty of time, though, so the dealer had a ‘normal’ transaction. I liked the car, and gave it a green light. Then I headed home.
I had another choice at this point. I’m getting ready to hire out as a fill-in guitarist again, and I needed to check out the clubs that I used to frequent. It was time to do a tour of the local classic rock scene again. What were the bands doing these days? My band hardly ever plays clubs.
So, do I go as a man, or as a woman? I already knew that I was going to help a TG friend with a cleaning project on Sunday, so I had some girl time lined up. I wanted to do my research without any hassles, so I decided that it was simpler to go male for the night.
I made some calls, and lined up a series of clubs to go to. Then I headed out to Martinez, which is the county seat for the neighboring county. It is a blue-collar kind of town, in a county where much of the farmland has been turned into multi-million dollar home lots.
It was St. Patrick’s day, so the clubs were packed more than usual. I’d forgotten to wear any green—just the opposite; I had on a bright red long-sleeved shirt. Oh, well—no one gave me a hard time. I was at Ferry Street Station, and the band was OK. The crowd was in their 40s and 50s, with a sprinkling of younger people. The band was doing “Rocky Mountain Way,” and “Superstition.” One woman came up to me and gently squished my hair in on the sides of my head. My ponytail doesn’t catch all the side fuzz. I grinned at her and said something that couldn’t be heard over the music. I’d say alcohol was involved in this transaction—it was 9:30, and most people looked like they were well settled in with their drinks at that point.
I was ready to move on down the street, but the band launched into “I Saw Her Standing There,” and I stopped for a moment. Just then a woman broke off from her two companions and motioned at me to go up and dance. I smiled and nodded, and we went up front. I hoped she wasn’t driving, as her alcohol intake seemed to be high. But it was fun to move around and watch the band. As soon as the song was over, I said a quick “Thanks, Hon,” and went out the door.
This was the first social contact I’d had with real live, breathing women in months. It used to be a common ritual to go out to clubs and meet women. The older we get, though, the less we feel like going to bars to meet people—that’s the drift I get from reading Internet ads on Craigslist. Since I ‘retired’ from male/female relationships some time ago, I really don’t have much contact with dating, dancing, and many other things I used to take for granted. It was nice to get some attention again.
Second bar, Le Beau’s, was right down the street. I hadn’t been in there for years. Here the band had a female vocalist, who was good. She had charm, and was very comfortable up there. The band played an AC/DC number that was….not so good, with her reading off a lyric sheet! Then, they did a Pink Floyd song, but on that one they redeemed themselves, for me. I don’t even care for most Pink Floyd any more, and they made it sound better than the original. Something like, “I need a magic woman”—it’s a familiar song on classic rock radio, whatever it was.
I didn’t really connect with anyone at that bar. I was on the road rather quickly, and headed to Concord, a few miles up the road. Concord is a big city, over 100,000, but it’s more like groups of suburban streets linked by strip malls. There is one downtown area with a nice park, and stores and shops on all sides. That’s where I headed, to a club called Vinnie’s. I had played it years ago, when it was under different owners.
Vinnie’s was very lively, with people packed in there—it was a bigger club than the other two had been. The band was very professional, and played some funk along with the rock. They did “Brick House” while I was there, along with two Lynyrd Skynyrd hits in a row. Call me a rock snob, ‘cause I am, but I liked the raw side of Skynyrd in songs like “The Hunt,” more than I did “Sweet Home Alabama.” Their other rock songs didn’t do much for me, either, so I watched the crowd.
I was looking around to see how people were dressed, and I didn’t get much fashion advice by doing so. Women were in endless variations of jeans and a t-shirt or blouse. I might have seen three skirts the whole night. I already know how I look in jeans and a T. I’ve got to say that San Francisco is much more interesting in terms of how people dress, even if I don’t care for all the fashions that are represented there. I was deep in the suburbs on this evening.
I was very happy to remember that I while I might be a spectator on this night, I was still very much part of the rock scene. Rock music was almost a religion for me in younger years, and I had very definite ideas about how it should be written and presented. I’m glad that I’ve stayed true to many of those ideals. I used to encourage women to play hard rock guitar, since there were few around who were doing it. I never imagined that I would recruit myself to play that role in future years.
My last stop was at Pine Street bar and grill, in Livermore. Livermore is where part of our nuclear arsenal was developed , at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, outside of town. Pine Street actually has a stage, (as does Vinnie’s), as opposed to the two bars I call “Floor bars,” where the band just sets up on the floor in one corner of the room.
Pine Street was having a benefit for a guy who had become disabled, lost his job, and had four kids to support. The crowd was way younger—mid 20s to mid 30s, so that was refreshing. The band I saw was playing Red Hot Chili Peppers style, with a very personable dreadlocked singer. He was ready for MTV, as far as I was concerned.
Sunday I was looking forward to getting ‘girled up,’ but the reality was not so fun. I realized I needed work clothes to help my TG friend clean up her apartment. (She had a custody inspection scheduled with the mediator in her court battle with her ex-wife). I did not really have any work clothes that I wanted to spend the day in as a gal, for one thing. I can wear my Ben Davis work pants any day of the week.
I also could not come up with a look that I wanted for making the trip itself. Bad hair, no blouse looked right, pants or skirt?, all these questions and no satisfying answers. I changed several times, including once after I’d gotten in the car to go! Ugh. That’s extreme—really don’t care for days like that.
I enjoyed the fact that I was helping my friend, but I didn’t feel very good otherwise, the whole afternoon. There was a cloud over my mood that I couldn’t shake. It could have had to do with my friend heading for transition at full-speed. Every once in a while I have to compare our lives, and see where I am in relation to her type of agenda. Having just felt like a guy in a dress during my getting-ready phase, I wasn’t up for continuing to think about it at LeeAnne’s. Living fulltime as a ‘male’ woman—que cosa!
Some of our talk was interesting enough that I stayed longer than I had planned to do, and it was after 9pm when I set out.
On the way home a Sheriff pulled me over for one taillight out. Turned out my billfold had fallen out of the new purse somewhere at LeeAnne’s, so I’m worrying about my billfold, dealing with the sheriff’s reaction to a different kind of woman, and trying to be calm while I searched everywhere for the billfold in the light of the Sheriff’s flashlight.
I didn’t care for being called ‘sir,’ and that was a minor annoyance that I noticed in the back of my mind. I was already feeling way too much ‘guy’ the whole day, so this was just more of the same. I was a tired gal by the time I drove 20 miles back where I’d come from, and then started out again. I was also hoping that I wouldn’t have to deal with some bored Highway Patrol stopping me yet again for the taillight. It didn’t happen, and I got home safely.
If you’ve read this far, I thank you.
See the guy would have said, "screw it!" and just drove on home, but the girl went back after her billfold! That's my girl!
