Hi all,
The dream: to be out and about as Christina, in town, during the day, without a care in the world.
The scene: the morning following Halloween madness.
The outcome: strange, to say the least.
Back in the late 80s, I worked the graveyard shift in a 24-hour magazine store in Montreal's Gay Village. At that time of night (especially when the bars let out, around 3:30 am) most of our clientèle was either gay or transgendered. I had gotten used to being "cruised," even though most of the customers knew that "I didn't go that way." Still, when Halloween rolled around one time, my roommate (a GG, still a good friend today) thought it would be fun for me to go to work en femme. Although I balked at first ("They'll think I
am gay!" or some such ridiculous objection on my part), I eventually thought, "okay, why not?" My roommate--who knew of my CDing but had never seen me en femme--helped bring Christina out. Well, to make a long story short, I went to work as a cocktail waitress (short, black satin skirt, fluffed out with layers of tulle petticoats; white silk blouse with a frothy jabot; black leather strappy sandals with 3" heels; black garter belt, stockings, makeup, the whole bit (no wig, as my own hair was long and full enough back then to be styled).
I don't drive, so I took the bus and subway (as I usually did) to work. Well, this being Halloween Thursday, I certainly wasn't the odd girl out in the Village. I worked from midnight to 8:00 am. I was a hit with the regulars--many of whom thought I was "hiding something from myself" as far as my gender identity or sexual orientation went, so good was my transformation. "Well, no," I thought, "I'm just hiding it from you all!" Anyway, my boss--a gay man I came to love as a friend (he died of AIDS-related pneumonia in 1994)--did a double-take when he came in that morning. He seriously thought, for a few moments, that the owner had hired a new girl. Same for the "morning girl," (who was dumbfounded enough to go get the camera in the office and snap a few pix--I still see her often as she still works for the company as a store manager and, one day, I'll ask her if she still has those photos somewhere so that I can post them here).
Well, it was a most pleasant night. I was on cloud nine. I felt good. On the way home, Friday morning, still fully dressed, my five-o'clock shadow starting to show, I didn't want this buoyant feeling to end. People stared at me on the subway, some frowning, others smiling--I didn't care. It was the tail end of the rush hour and it seemed most people were too busy to notice or to care, frankly. I kept thinking, "I want this feeling to continue... I want it to last." So, as is apt to happen in times like these, my better judgement went on vacation for the next several hours.
When I got home, around 9:30, I stared at the door with a great sadness. Impulsively, I reached into my purse, took out my key and shoved it through the mail slot underneath the door's window pane. I knew my roommie had left for work already, so that left me standing there, on the balcony, a man in his frillies, thinking, "Oh no! What have I done?" I went to the restaurant down the street from where I lived and had breakfast. The place was deserted so the waitress and the cook didn't really care about my appearance (still, they were a bit surprised to see me in this kind of getup). I mulled over my options, and finally decided to call my dad's wife; I explained my predicament (although I told her that I'd "forgotten" my key) and asked her if there was a possibility of my "changing" over at their place. She said, "Sure, come on over... but please try to make it before your father gets home for lunch; this is something he's not very comfortable with." Well, yeah, I knew
that for a fact! So I hopped onto the subway once again and headed for dad's. Now, they lived pretty far in the east end of Montreal. So, although the ride was itself uneventful (late mornings before the noontime lunch crowd spills out of the buildings being fairly quiet), it was long, almost an hour. Throughout all this, I still felt as wonderful and as excited as I did the night before. Well, I got off at the end of the line; I had only one more bus to take to get me to my dad's. It was almost noon. I had completely, genuinely forgotten that the bus route would take us close by my old high school. Yep. That's exacly what happened: the bus filled right up wih packs of animated teens, loudly chattering away! It took all of, oh, say, three seconds, for one young girl to read me (thanks to my shadow, I imagine). Soon, everyone in the bus was staring my way, pointing, giggling, and laughing. I grinned and bore it well (even though I was a nervous wreck inside); I tried to let them know by my attitude that I could see the humour in the situation as well. Anyway, the last twelve hours had been so emotionally amazing to me that I wasn't about to let an alleged teenage "cruelty" bring me down.
When we were nearing my stop, I purposefully made my way all the way to the front of the bus, my head held high (rather than taking the rear exit, slouching like some criminal). People were still laughing. "You want to laugh?" I thought, "I'll give you a reason to laugh!" Just before the driver opened the doors to let me out, I flashed the whole gang; I flipped the back of my skirt above my waist just long enough to give them a lightning view of my black panties and garters! Everyone cheered and whistled. They waved from the windows as the bus left the stop, some even blowing mock kisses my way. Well, the echo of those cheers followed me all the way to my father's house. I was beaming. To all the world I may have appeared clueless, but I was so happy inside I was fit to burst. Then came the anti-climax.
My dad's wife was happy to see me; she thought that, twelve-hour beard growth aside, I looked pretty good. I hadn't been in the house for two minutes when my dad walked in. He came to the living-room, where we were, took a long look at me, and then merely said, "You'll find pants and shirts upstairs, in my closet. Go change." He then went down to the basement to watch the news. We had lunch together, all three of us. No mention was made of my appearance or my behaviour. Lunch was a somber affair, I'll tell you. When my father left to go back to work, things lightened up a bit. For the first time since I'd known her (almost fifteen years, by then) I had a true conversation about my true self with my dad's wife. It was pure joy, pure freedom. To this very day, she enjoys this part of me (she's also the one who took most of the shots of me on the photo gallery). Later that afternoon--one of the best ones I've had in my life--I went home, knowing that my roommate was probably there, by then. And, yes, I had to explain to her why my key was on the hallway floor when she got home. Ugh!
So, there you have it. I'd always wanted to be out, out, OUT. Now, I'd done it. It felt good. I had no regrets. It was a dream come true.
For those of you that are still reading this, I admire your patience. Thanks for sticking it out to the very end.
This is a fun topic, Marda. Thanks for starting it. Anyone else out there with a dream-story?
Love,
CJ
But, you're right, it's one of the best things I ever did. Maybe, what I did that day also gave some teen out there an incentive to think a little bit more about what it means to be different. And how we need not be ashamed of our being different.
HOT 
with all that's been said
or maybe ~unhappy~ 
...
... my "ex-SO" figured that *me* doin' household chores was a *great* idea ... laundry was one of them 
