"Shit! What happened?"
We'd just come back from a holiday in Jamaica, squeezed in between my tranny weekend in Blackpool and the December TransEssex party. No, we didn't exactly plan it that way - the fact is that my wife and I both have very strong personalities, and ten days together is long enough. But since we were home in time anyway, what reason was there for missing my first ever TransEssex Christmas party? We were now on our way to collect the cat from a friend where she'd spent the last two weeks. It was early afternoon on Friday 13th - not that I'm superstitious, but when the car suddenly dropped out of 5th gear, I wondered whether my horoscope had advised me to stay in bed.
"Shit!", I repeated. "I think the gearbox has just packed up!" My diagnosis turned out to be correct. When we got home, I rang our friendly garage mechanic, who said that it was "probably" safe to drive, provided I didn't use 5th gear. Now I'll admit to taking risks occasionally when I'm dressed - it adds to the danger. But the thought of breaking down on the A12 in near-zero temperatures wearing almost no clothing (and female clothing at that) filled me with horror. Seeing my obvious predicament, my wife volunteered the use of her car for the evening. "Wonderful! Thanks!". A big kiss, and I thought no more of it.
Until about six o'clock, that is. I'd finished getting dressed, and had spent the obligatory ten minutes admiring myself in a full-length mirror, thinking how great I looked. I'd rather gone overboard with the Christmas theme, and had chosen to wear a low-cut white tee-shirt, a pale-green metallic microskirt with a fluffy hem, white shiny stockings and a suspender belt, white stiletto shoes, a large blond wig, and enough make-up to keep Boots in business for another year. My interpretation of a Christmas fairy, in fact. Yes, I know it was the middle of winter, but I always get so hot dancing at TransEssex, and anyway, I had an image to maintain. I'd just sat down to start making tinsel bracelets and anklets, and suddenly thought 'Petrol'. "How much petrol has your car got in it?" "Dunno. Not much. You can fill up at Tesco's on the way down". Oh, terrific! While Tesco's has a credit-card pay-at-the-pump system so you don't need to go into a kiosk, it was nevertheless necessary to get out the car. And on a Friday evening, 7pm, two weeks before Christmas? Oh my god - there'd be people everywhere!
Well, it turned out that my wife's car was already running on fumes, so there was nothing else for it - Tesco's it had to be. I'd faced the public only once before this, on the aforementioned tranny weekend in Blackpool some two weeks earlier. But that seemed like an age ago, and my confidence had evaporated in the hot Jamaican sun. However, I was determined that nothing was going to spoil my party. Arriving at the petrol station, a quick glance revealed that the only free pump was right at the front near the exit, thirty feet or so from the air and water supply, so I pulled up to it, put on my overcoat, and got out the car. With fake nonchalance, and with my peripheral vision working overtime, I fed my credit card into the pump and waited. A lady two aisles away smiled pleasantly and I nodded back. The man putting air in his tyres looked over and squinted, said something to his wife in the car, and then they both looked over. I was just considering the foolhardiness of my predicament when the pump returned my card, and whirred into action. I've absolutely no idea what air-man and his wife thought they were looking at, but they watched intently as I calmly filled the car, got back in and drove off the forecourt.
And that was it. No big deal. In a way, I was glad that no-one had made a scene, but I was also a bit disappointed. Although three people had acknowledged my presence in one way or another, there must have been at least a dozen who didn't seem to notice anything unusual. Or perhaps they did, and decided to pretend they hadn't, in the Great British Way. You know - "Don't look now, but there's a bloke over there dressed as a fairy. I said don't look! Christ, what does he think he looks like?" That sort of thing. Or perhaps people simply aren't interested in the fact that there's a tranny standing beside them. Maybe it's just not that important to them. If that's true, then we could be closer to acceptance than we think.
Since that day, every time I go to a meeting which requires me pass this petrol station, I drop in, just for the hell of it. Although I always take great care over the details of my appearance, anyone who pays me more than a cursory glance would probably read me from my physique. However, no-one has ever said anything, privately or out loud, and most people still don't appear to notice, despite the fact that the image I portray is distinctly provocative. However, according to a tranny friend who often accompanies me to meetings, I almost caused an accident the other day because someone was looking at me instead of watching where he was going ...... But that's a story for another time.
From personal notes, unpublished.