I began feeling like I wanted to be a girl when I was 10. All these years
later, it’s hard to explain why. It was just like a feeling and knowledge that
came over me at that young age—feeling that I was really a girl and that it
made me feel good to dress and look like a girl, but that I had this male body
that did not match what I felt inside.
I remember when I was about 10, I was staying up late with my dad
watching Johnny Carson on The Tonight
Show. One of his guests that night was Raquel Welch, who was telling Johnny
about her new movie Myra Breckinridge,
based on the novel by Gore Vidal. The movie tells the story of a man who gets
sex change surgery to become a woman, who was played by Welch. (Talk about
successful surgery!) I specifically recall only one thing from that interview,
and it has stayed with me all my life. Johnny asked Raquel, “Why would a man
want to become a woman?” Raquel replied with a goofy little Hollywood giggle
and said something like, “How would I know?” But I recall thinking at the time,
I know… I know why a man would want to become a woman. The answer was simple…
because I want to become a woman, too! I couldn’t put into words why I wanted
to be female, but I knew I wanted to. So it was easy for me to relate to
another male who would want to do the same.
Another memory I have from when I was about 10 or 11 is the way I was
infatuated with the TV show Bewitched,
particularly the show’s beautiful, sexy, blonde star Elizabeth Montgomery
(“Samantha Stephens”). I remember thinking how wonderful it must be to be a
woman like that—she was so lovely and so magical, she wore such pretty dresses,
and she had such a handsome husband. (I mean Dick York. I never cared for Dick
Sargent, who replaced York after he had to quit because of health problems.)
Plus, she had this amazing secret! I simultaneously was in love with Samantha
and wanted to be her. This duality of being sexually attracted to women and
wanting to be a woman exists in me to this day.
As I grew up, I began to experiment with being a girl. I started wearing
girls’ clothes when I was about 12 or 13. I had a sister who was four years
older than me, and when nobody else was home, I would get into her closet and
admire and feel her clothes. Sometimes I would put them on. I especially
remember this cute little purple miniskirt of hers that I always liked. I felt
so good when I finally slipped that pretty skirt on over my legs and ass. I was
prancing all over the house in it saying, “I’m a girl… I’m a girl!”
I loved putting on my sister’s makeup, too. I remember the addictive
smell and feel and the shiny look of her pink lip gloss. It was so fun to smear
that gloss over my lips, look in the mirror, and give myself a pouty sexy
girlie look.
I took my first steps outside wearing girls’ clothes one afternoon in
fall or winter—when nobody else was home, of course. I put on my sister’s long
tan fur coat, went out in the backyard, and walked around for only a minute or
two. It felt so amazing to be out in the open dressed like a girl! I didn’t
even care if any of the neighbors saw me (and I have no idea if any of them
did). But I quickly went back in the house, just to be on the safe side. That
blissful, special feeling that comes over me when I’m in public dressed like a
woman is still a feeling that brings me enormous happiness and satisfaction.
I also remember playing with my sister’s Barbie dolls in the basement
when I was a kid, when everyone else was upstairs. I enjoyed pretending that I
was Barbie, with my long pretty Barbie blonde hair and my adorable feminine
Barbie dresses. To this day, I still love Barbie. I own quite an impressive
collection (about 20) of blonde Barbie dolls and one brunette version. I also
own one of those big, two-foot-tall Bratz dolls—not to mention my six-foot-tall
blonde “Eva” mannequin (more about her later). Barbie remains the perfect
little plastic model of my feminine ideal…. and of my dreams of being female.
One day after I had been wearing my sister’s clothes, when I was about
13, I forgot to put an item away. I think it was a frilly, lacey scarf or some
other similar item. Well, my mother found the thing lying on my sister’s bed
when she got home from work. That night, as I was lying in bed, my mom came
into my room and asked me about it… turns out it was not the first thing I had
left out that she found. She had put two and two together, figuring out that
her son was wearing her daughter’s clothes.
Since I always tried to be a good kid, I told the truth. I admitted to my
mom that I was wearing my sister’s skirts, dresses, blouses, shoes (if only she
knew how much I loved those white go-go boots!), makeup, and jewelry. And I
told my mom I felt very guilty about it (which was true), but that I couldn’t
stop it. My mom was obviously extremely upset about the whole thing. She told
me in as calm a voice as she could muster that what I was doing was sick and
abnormal—and that I had better stop doing it! She told me that if I didn’t
stop, I would have to go see a psychiatrist.
All these years later and with the experience and knowledge I have gained
about crossdressing and transgenderism, it would be easy to criticize my mother
for being ignorant and intolerant. But I’m not going to do that. My mom was a
product of her times and environment, raised in an old-fashioned, working-class
family, with no college education or mass media to tell her that crossdressing
or transgenderism are OK. Based on everything she knew, such things were sick
and abnormal for a young man like me. And at that time, I agreed with her… and
I promised to stop. But, of course, I could not stop.
Ironically, perhaps what I should have done at that time was to pursue my
mom’s threat of sending me to a psychiatrist. Depending on the particular
psychiatrist, maybe I would have been diagnosed at age 13 as being a
transsexual. And maybe that would have opened doors for me to pursue gender
transition when I was a teenager. Perhaps that would have been the best thing
for me… I really cannot say for sure at this point of my life. But instead, I
never got the professional help I needed when I was young, and I spent the next
37 years of my life in denial of my female feelings. That denial caused me much
mental anguish and confusion until I finally accepted my femaleness when I was
50 and began going out in public as a woman on a regular basis—an initially
liberating behavior that eventually led to other anguish and confusion.
When I was a kid, I had no close friends. Sure, I played baseball with
some other boys in a field across from our house. I was always the last one
picked for a team, because I was never any good at any sport. I also collected
baseball cards and toy cars like Matchbox and Hot Wheels, and I had G.I.
Joe’s—all normal boy-type things. But I never felt like I was part of any close
group of friends, and I always sensed that I was different than the other boys.
I had no girl friends, because little boys just didn’t have girls for friends.
The older I got, the fewer and fewer friends I had.
By the time I entered high school, I had become a very lonely and
withdrawn kid. I had no friends, including no girlfriends. But I did like
girls—very much. I liked girls for two reasons. First, I desired them sexually.
Second, I wanted to be one of them. So I liked pretty girls at the same time
that I wanted to be a pretty girl. Needless to say, I was far too confused
about my feelings and far too intimidated by real girls to ask them out on
dates. I thought of myself as a very unattractive and awkward male that no girl
would ever want to date. And I was too different from other guys to have any
guy friends. So I spent all of my high school years—supposedly the best times
of one’s life—inside an isolated shell all by myself.
During that time, I liked to dress up whenever I could. For about a year
or two (when I was 15 or 16), my parents were divorced. (They later got back
together and remarried.) After the divorce, I moved with my mother to live with
her sister in a semirural community about 50 miles south of our house. My aunt
had a collection of shoulder-length black wigs, which I loved wearing. For the
first time, I saw myself in a mirror with women’s hair (as opposed to my short
blonde guy hair). I thought I looked very pretty and feminine! I was better
looking as a girl than as a guy!
But in the new high school that I transferred to, I felt even more
isolated than I had felt at my old high school. I was a total stranger to
everyone. I not only had no friends, but I didn’t even know anybody! I remember
the other boys making fun of me because I refused to take off my underwear in
the locker room during gym class. God, I despised gym class! I couldn’t do
anything… I couldn’t do pull-ups, push-ups, rope climbs, nothing at all. And I
certainly wasn’t going to be stark naked in front of all those strange guys!
The guys used to laugh and say, “Ha, he doesn’t want to take his underwear off
because he doesn’t have a dick.” I didn’t say a word, but I remember sometimes
thinking, “Oh, how I wish that was true!”
My mom and I eventually moved back to our old town and into a small
apartment, and I returned to my old high school for my junior and senior years.
After I got a part-time job cleaning the cages and feeding the dogs and cats at
an animal shelter, I began to open up a bit and to become a little more social.
I became pretty good friends with a couple guys from the job. I had learned to
play guitar, and we mainly used to hang around and play music together—in a
very amateurish way, but it was fun. And it helped get me emerge from my shell.
As I was growing out of my shell, I made a conscious decision to stop
crossdressing and to stop thinking like a girl. I wanted to finally have
friends, to “fit in” a little bit, and to have some fun. And I thought the only
way to do that was to try my damndest to be a regular guy. So I did my best to
act and think like one. I grew a full beard, modeling myself after my two new
macho musical heroes—Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. Most importantly, I
became very determined to ask girls out and to get some dates!
A new world opened up for me in
1978, when I started college at a commuter state university in the city,
majoring in art. As happens with most kids in college, I met lots of new and
interesting people from diverse backgrounds. But I was still no social
butterfly. I became good friends with a couple guys at school, and we sometimes
used to pal around on weekends, too. We had similar tastes in music, similar
interests in art, and similar bad luck with women.
Ironically, I think one or two of my guy friends during my college years
may have had interests in crossdressing—though we never specifically talked
about those interests. Instead, the subject would kind of sneak itself into
discussions. For example, during some of our drunken BS sessions, we would talk
about the skits where the guys dressed in drag in Monty Python’s Flying Circus. And we would make jokes about guys
wearing pantyhose. In fact, we used to joke about pantyhose so much that one
time I bought my friend Dave a pair of them for a birthday gag gift. I always
wondered if he ever took them out of the package to try them on.
While making those kinds of jokes, I was always thinking about how much I
enjoyed wearing women’s clothes—though I never told my friends that. And—based
on certain verbal and visual clues—I tried to guess if maybe my friends were
thinking the same thing. I never knew for sure, but I had my suspicions. One of
those suspicions was confirmed when a non-college friend of mine—a long-haired
Mexican guy named Diego—showed me a photo of himself wearing his mother’s dress
and makeup. He claimed that he and his cousin were just screwing around one
time and he did it just for fun. But he also admitted that he was jealous of
women because they got to wear such pretty clothes. I never told him that I had
similar feelings. I was too determined to deny those feelings and to be a macho
guy.
Looking back, I’m sure that Diego was a crossdresser, though I have no
idea to what extent he may have been transgendered. We never talked about
crossdressing again after he showed me the picture. In fact, we never talked
about much after that, because he shot himself in the head with his father’s
gun when he was 19, putting an abrupt, shocking, heart-breaking end to his
young life. I was a pallbearer at his funeral, and I could not stop crying
while I was carrying his casket. I cried so much that I probably embarrassed
the family. I had thought of Diego as my best friend.
I do not know why Diego killed himself, but I suspect that gender
confusion may have played a role. I have read that, tragically, many young
people who are confused about their gender identity do commit suicide.
Back at college, I was still trying to work up courage to ask girls out
on dates. There were so many pretty women in my art classes, but I was too
afraid to approach any of them for dates. I finally broke free of that fear in
1981, thanks to a surprising interest shown in me by an attractive, sexy, older
blonde woman named Pat. This long-sought success with a woman happened after I
switched my major to biology and began taking classes in which there were far
fewer good-looking girls than in my art classes! Perhaps I found the limited
sample size less overwhelming. Ha!
Pat was 23, and I was 21. She was a nurse, she was divorced, and she had
an eight-year-old son, though she didn’t admit having the kid at first. After
dating her a few times—with no mention of a kid—all of a sudden she’s got this
little boy with her in the car on one of our dates. The kid kept calling her
“mom,” and she kept scolding him, telling him that she was not his mom, that
she was his aunt. The kid started crying and pleading, “Why are you saying
that? You are so my mom!” Finally, she admitted to what was painfully
obvious—the little boy was indeed her child. But she said she was afraid to
tell me because she thought I might dump her.
Pat was a total trip, in a rock ‘n’ roll kinda way! I loved her—not in a
serious relationship way, but rather in a hey-I’m-finally-having-fun-with-a
girl way! We used to cut class a lot and go to bars or other places to hang out
together, including her apartment in a north suburb. We spent a lot of time
getting naked together and making sweaty passionate love. She often told me how
“big” my cock was, saying that any woman would love to have sex with me. We
went to rock concerts together. She and I were both big fans of Debbie Harry
and Blondie, and she resembled Debbie a bit and liked to model herself after
the sexy singer. Pat loved her little speed pills, but they seemed to do
nothing for me, so she was usually flying solo when she popped them.
I had so many crazy, wild experiences with Pat! I remember the time we
stole a mattress from an outdoor display at a store and carried it up the
stairs to her apartment in the middle of the night, stumbling, falling, and
laughing in our drunkenness along the way. One time, she took me to meet her
ex-husband at the factory where he worked. Seemed like a nice-enough fellow.
Another time I met her dad—a total drunk—at some family function that we
briefly peeked into before heading back to her apartment for more sex.
But the craziest thing Pat ever did was drive down to my south suburban
area to visit me—bringing her other
boyfriend along for the ride! I didn’t even know she had another boyfriend. But
she called me up one night to say she was coming down with him. She claimed
that she wanted to dump him but just couldn’t get rid of the guy. I thought,
“Well, this should be another interesting experience.” We decided to meet in
the White Castle parking lot…
I don’t remember who got there first. But I do recall that as soon as
Pat’s other boyfriend saw me, he came charging at me like a wild raging bull—to
my complete shock and amazement. I was naively not expecting to get into a
fight with the guy. After I regained my composure a bit, I started trying to
defend myself, punching and wrestling with this crazy drunken guy who was a lot
bigger than me. I must have done pretty well (probably because I was not drunk
and he was), because after about 10 minutes of trying to kill each other, we
both just stopped fighting. It ended in a draw. Then all three of us went out
drinking together for the rest of the night like the best of friends!
After Pat and I dated for several months, she moved to Arizona to go to
the state university in Tempe. We said our friendly goodbyes over the phone,
and I never saw her again.
Despite all the craziness, Pat gave me the confidence in my maleness that
I always lacked. She made me think that I could get any woman I wanted. And
that’s exactly what I proceeded to try to do. I managed to have brief,
enjoyable, sometimes sexual relationships—ranging from a date or two to maybe
three months of dating—with several women I met in my college classes. In 1982,
I even had a bit of a reputation around campus as an infamous “Don Juan,”
hitting up on all the pretty girls in every class and casually dating any who
were willing. I loved the reputation—because it was in such stark contrast to
everything that happened before in my life. (It was also in stark contrast to
what would happen the rest of my life.)
Why were my relationships always so brief? I really do not know. After a
short time, either the girl or I just seemed to lose interest. I admit that
there were one or two of those girls whom I now wish I would have tried harder
to keep as my girlfriends. If I had achieved a serious relationship with a
woman back then, I assume my subsequent life would have been drastically
different. Perhaps I would have become a regular-type guy with a wife and
kids—a happy Beaver Cleaver ending that is now pretty damn impossible.
After two years of majoring in art and two years in biology, I quit
college because I was totally confused about what I wanted to do with my life.
I then spent about four years in a series of graphic design jobs, none of which
I liked and none of which I was any good at. I continued having brief
relationships with women—such as coworkers or friends of coworkers—but none of
the relationships meant much to me or to the women. And as time went on, I
found myself dating less and less frequently—and thinking more and more about
wanting to be a woman. All the old feminine feelings came back—stronger than
ever—despite my attempts to fight them.
In the mid- to late 1980’s, I was back at school—at an adult-education
state university about 12 miles south of my parent’s house (where I was still
living)—to take the classes I needed to complete my bachelor of science degree
in biology. Every time I drove home, I would pass by a large shopping mall, and
I would often be tempted to stop in and buy some women’s clothes for myself.
But I had never bought an item of women’s clothing before, and I was too
embarrassed to do it. What would the salesperson think? Would she know I was
buying it for myself? I was afraid that she would think that.
One night as I was driving home after a particularly long and rough day
of classes, I found myself turning into the shopping mall parking lot. Then I
found myself walking through the women’s clothing sections of various stores,
getting increasingly exciting by seeing and feeling all the pretty feminine
dresses, skirts, blouses, and hosiery. Oh god, I was in heaven! All I had to do
was pick something out, pay for it, and it would be mine! I finally found a
sexy animal-print dress that I loved and that I could afford. But I had no idea
what my dress size was. So I picked a dress out and held it close to my body,
trying to judge if it would fit—all the while looking around to make sure no
one was watching me. I was naively oblivious to the ever-watching eyes of
security cameras. I decided it would fit.
I carried my precious girlie item to the cashier and nervously told her
that it was for my “wife.” She said, “Oh, you have great taste. This is a
beautiful dress. I’m sure she’ll love it!” Hey, she believed my lie! I paid for
the dress and then hurriedly ran out to my pickup truck with it so I could take
it out of the bag and look at it, feel it, and smell it. This was my very own
first dress! I was so excited… I drove home as fast as I could to try it on and
see how I looked in the mirror.
After sneaking the dress into the house at night, when my parents were in
bed, I took it out of the bag and carefully cut the tags off. With my heart
pounding, I slipped the dress on—and it fit perfectly! And it felt so good
against my skin… sooo soft and feminine! I looked in the mirror and I thought I
looked pretty good—for a balding guy with a beard wearing a dress.
I still remember that first dress, which I later threw out in one of my
recurring, emotional, guilt-ridden purges of all my female belongings. It seems
funny now to recall how scared I was buying it and how ignorant I was about
women’s sizes and other such feminine fashion things. Today, I am quite the
fashionista, and I have bought uncountable women’s clothes in stores, feeling
totally comfortable and knowledgeable browsing through them, selecting them,
and trying them on—whether I am in my male or female guise. I still find
shopping for new women’s clothes very exciting and titillating. I am admittedly
a shopaholic—one of my many addictions.
So after a few months, I had accumulated a small collection of dresses,
pantyhose, makeup, and a cheap blonde wig—all of which, of course, I had to
hide from view because I was still living at home. I used to like to dress up
as pretty as I could make myself in the privacy of my bedroom, and then stare
at myself admiringly in the mirror.
Now, this is where I would like to interrupt my storyline and bring up a
sensitive and controversial matter—labels. Specifically, the labels that
certain therapists and other “experts” tend to assign to people who have
transgender or crossdressing issues. Labels like crossdresser, transvestite,
transsexual, drag queen, shemale, or just plain transgender. Experts give each
of these terms distinct definitions and then pin a particular label on any
given individual, based on that individual’s behaviors. There are, needless to
say, overlaps among these labels, as well as disagreements among people
regarding precise definitions.
Generally, according to my understanding, a crossdresser is a guy who
likes to dress as a woman for fun—to go out (or stay in) and enjoy the special
feeling of being female for a while. A transvestite is a guy who dresses in
women’s clothes to get sexually aroused and, sometimes, to masturbate. A
transsexual is a “guy” who dresses like a woman because he feels that he really
is a woman. A pre-op transsexual has not yet had surgery to physically become
female, a post-op transsexual has had surgery, and a non-op transsexual has no
plans for surgery. A drag queen is a guy who dresses like a girl to sing,
dance, or otherwise perform in front of a crowd. A shemale is a chick with boobs
and a dick, which could be the result of surgery or a unique congenital
condition. The term transgender is a general label that can refer to any of
these conditions of mixed male and female characteristics or feelings.
I’m sure some readers will have nitpicky disagreements with these
definitions. And I apologize for framing all the definitions in terms of
male-to-female, because there are also female-to-male transgenders (though, I
believe, fewer than male-to-female). But I’m male-to-female, and this is my
story, so these are my definitions.
The main point I want to make here is this—to elaborate on a point made
in this book’s introduction—I have never felt that I fit neatly into any
categories. I’ve always felt that I am my own unique, complicated mix of a
number of different labels. Dressing like a woman has always been fun and
exciting for me. Appearing as a woman in public is so wonderful and
intoxicating that I cannot adequately describe it. And I will admit that I
also sometimes get sexually aroused when I look into the mirror and see a
beautiful, sexy female staring back at me. Those feelings sometimes lead me to
masturbate (usually the day after I dress, as I’m remembering what I looked
like), or to get so sexually aroused in a female way that I need to have sex
with a man to “verify” my femaleness.
So those things would make me a crossdresser and/or a transvestite,
according to the expert definitions. And a crossdresser/transvestite is how I
usually refer to myself when I need to put a label on my situation to help
people get a quick grasp of what I’m talking about.
However, I have also sometimes felt that I really am a woman, and I
almost always identify with women much more than men. There have been times
when I’ve desired sex change surgery, though, for whatever reason, those
desires are always temporary, and I go back to being more-or-less comfortable
with my day-to-day maleness. But then the female identification might return
for a while. That identification might mean that I’m a transsexual.
Nevertheless, as I indicated in my introduction, a renowned therapist
whom I saw a couple times in 2011 told me that I could not be a transsexual,
because a true transsexual starts feeling female when he is about five years
old, while I did not start having femme feelings until I was 10. That therapist
also told me I could not be transsexual because I was worried about
possible adverse effects from hormones, and I hesitated when she suggested that
I get an orchiectomy (surgery to remove the testicles). Apparently she never
met my friend Malaya, a very feminine transsexual who prefers to keep her penis
and testicles because of the sexual satisfaction they give her. I have heard
that there are many transsexuals who have had the complete genital surgery and
who deeply regret it. Lots of things can go wrong in that kind of surgery. So
you can be transsexual and keep your male genitals.
To add to the complexity of my situation, I have always been sexually
attracted to women—despite my frequent drunken sexual experiments with men
while I’m dressed as Jacquelina. I only feel like getting horny with guys when
I’m dressed as a woman. It’s like the female hormones magically kick in when
I’m Jacquelina. But when I’m a guy, I find the thought of being with another guy
repulsive and disgusting. I believe that women are the most beautiful, most
sensual, most intelligent, most intuitive, most compassionate, most caring,
most graceful, most perfect creation in nature. (However, I must admit that in
our modern society, more and more women seem to be developing the unattractive
and unappealing traits of bitchiness, selfishness, coldness, and hardness.) I
love women, and I worship women, which is why I am so attracted to them—and why
I’ve always wanted to be one (or at least dress like one and feel like one).
The bottom line for me is
this: I hate labels and please don’t try to label me. The best, most accurately
descriptive label I have come up with for myself is “bigendered,” as I
previously mentioned and as I will more thoroughly discuss later. Here is my basic theory: gender identity and sexual
orientation are each broad spectrums, and each of us falls at our own unique
places within these spectrums. The spectrums (or scales), as I see them, are as
follows:
GENDER IDENTITY (scale of 1 to 10):
1. I am 100% female.
5. I am 50% female and 50% male.
10. I am 100% male.
SEXUAL ORIENTATION (scale of 1 to 10):
1. I am sexually attracted only to men.
5. I am sexually attracted to men and women equally.
10. I am sexually attracted only to women.
In
the gender identity spectrum, I would rate myself as a 5 or 6. In other words,
I identify fairly equally as male and female, but my male side may be a tad
stronger and more dominant. In the sexual orientation spectrum, I would rate
myself as an 8. I’m always attracted to women much more than men, but I do get
in moods—only when I’m dressed as Jacquelina—when I desire sex with a man.
As long as I’m trying to educate the uninitiated here,
I want to bring up something else that many people are ignorant about—the
proper way to refer to transsexuals. You should not refer to transsexuals as
“him/her” or “he/she,” as many people I know do. Transsexuals view themselves
as women. Most live full time as women. Many are taking female hormones and
have had breast implants or breast injections and facial feminization surgery.
Some have had genital surgery, and others have not. But even if they still have
their male parts, they are still women—they are “her” and “she.”
There are some rare individuals who are born into this
world with both male and female parts, and they choose to live as one sex or
the other, and people refer to them by their chosen sex. A transsexual is no
different. Transsexuals show a great deal of courage in publicly transitioning
to the gender they prefer, and that courage should be respected. Just because
some may choose not to get that final surgery down below—a type of surgery that
can be dangerous and does not always turn out well—that should not change how
society views them.
People need to become more sensitive on this issue.
There is a lot of ignorance out there. Referring to transsexuals as “him/her”
or “he/she” or, even worse, “it” is the same as calling a homosexual a faggot
or a black a nigger. It is mean, rude, and insulting and displays much personal
ignorance.
As for me and my situation, I’ve always been a “he,”
because—despite what I have thought from time to time—I am not a transsexual.
I’m basically just a crossdresser/transvestite. I like to dress like a woman,
but I’m not a woman. Still, it is respectful to call me “she” when I’m dressed
like Jacquelina—but not when I’m my regular ol’ Jack self.
A transsexual
and a transvestite are two totally different things.
In the text of
this book, I sometimes use casual terms like “real woman” or “trannie” simply
as ways to lighten the story a bit or to vary the wording—and avoid having to
repeatedly use such technical-sounding terms as genetic woman and transsexual.
My wording is not meant to be disrespectful, and I hope it is not taken that
way. As I’ve stated, I have profound respect and admiration for transsexuals.
Of course, it
took me many years of personal experiences, reflection, and struggle to learn
these things and to come to my conclusions about myself. I certainly did not
know any of this stuff back in the 1980’s, when I was engaged in my little
crossdressing experiments at home. And that’s where I’d like to return now in
this book—back to my storyline…
During one of my dressing escapades in my parent’s basement late one
night in the late 1980’s, my mother came downstairs. She thought that I was
studying too long, and she wanted to suggest that I come upstairs and go to
bed. Instead, she came down to see her son prancing around the basement in a
green dress and blonde wig. I can imagine how her heart must have sunk. Her
good son was doing a very bad thing, from her perspective. She yelled at me in
shock and disbelief, “I thought you were through with this nonsense years ago,
but you’re still doing it???” I apologized profusely and I lied, claiming that
this was the first time I had done such a thing since I was 13 (when she last
caught me doing it). I said it was from the stress of studying, and it would
not happen again. She told me that she felt like “throwing up,” and if she
caught me doing this again, she would throw me out of the house.
The next day, I could tell how
deeply upset and shaken my mom was, and our formerly close relationship was
definitely frayed. But we never talked again about what happened. Over the
course of the next several months, our close relationship gradually returned to
normal. But the mutually unpleasant incident made me realize that it was time
that I found my own place to live.
Jessica Sayyida is the author of My Transvestite
Addictions—The Story of One Individual’s Odyssey Through Crossdressing,
Alcohol, Escorts, Strippers, Sex, and Money
(ISBN: 978-1-62646-325-7), published under the name
of Jack/Jacquelina A. Shelia, by BookLocker.com.
http://jacquelinaashelia.yolasite.com
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