Living in Suffolk has its drawbacks, not the least of which is that, while the rest of the world is busy preparing itself for the 21st century, we've only just left the 19th. And for trannies, the situation is particularly bad - Suffolk has just a couple of tranny-friendly establishments, and definitely no tranny clubs! As a point of interest, I remember wearing a sarong to Ipswich last summer - even though I was otherwise 'conventionally' dressed, I got abuse hurled at me, and one man even pulled his kids aside so that they didn't get too close to me! This small-town mentality is the reason I prefer to do my tranny shopping elsewhere nowadays, especially when I'm dressed. So the following experience last month was a real breath of fresh air.
For some time, I'd been considering going to Ron Storme's Club Travestie Extraordinaire in East London - it'd been recommended both in written reports and verbally. I thought that Easter weekend seemed like a good time to try it, since the bank holiday on Monday gave an extra day to recover from what amounts to an all-night party, once the two-hour journey home afterwards has been taken into account. So Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed at 8.30, had breakfast, and began getting ready. Yes, I know it's early, but it's a real luxury to be able to spend a whole day pampering myself! By 4pm, I was ready to start the serious stuff - having a close shave, showering and making up - and at 7pm, wearing a copious blond wig, a sleeveless white t-shirt, a 14-inch red kilt, clear shiny tights and high-heeled strappy shoes, I was ready to leave.
I'd arranged to meet by pal Rikki on the west side of Ipswich at 7.45. Rikki was to be my navigator through London while I drove. I think she had the hardest task of the two of us! As I turned off the A12 and headed towards Ipswich, it began to rain. It was then that I passed a young woman in her late teens sheltering under her coat by a bus stop, awaiting an Ipswich-bound bus. Her appearance caught my eye - white face, striking black and mauve eye make-up, mauve lipstick, and long black hair. She looked totally miserable. I looked at the clock - 7.25. "Now, do I have time ...... ", I wondered. "Yes - for this, of course I do!" So I hung a 180 at the next roundabout and went back, turning around in a side street so that I could drive past her again. She was still there, and still looking miserable, so I pulled into the bus stop, and pointed my finger in the direction of Ipswich. She came to the window, and I asked in my best male voice if she wanted a lift into town. "Oh, yes please!", she answered, and got in.
I should stress here that I'm not in the habit of picking up women at bus stops, especially when I'm dressed, and I told her so. But she was happy to have gotten a ride, and obviously felt totally unthreatened by my unusual clothes and appearance. "I hate taking the bus into town", she said as I drove off, "especially dressed like this. Some people are really nasty." I agreed, recalling my foray into Ipswich wearing a sarong. I ventured the opinion that it was only Suffolk which was like that, and if she ventured outside the county, people probably wouldn't bat an eyelid.
During the ten-minute ride into Ipswich, we talked about where we were going and what we were doing for the evening, about Ipswich clubs, and about our mutual desire to dress unconventionally. And, of course, we discussed make-up and hair! While it had taken me much of the day to get ready (admittedly I wasn't exactly hurrying), she'd managed to produce the amazing image I saw beside me in just one hour! "Ah, but you don't have as much to do as me", I smiled, listing the procedures I'd gone through earlier that day. She seemed surprised when I mentioned setting my wig - did she seriously think that the blond locks tumbling down my back were natural? What a sweetheart! And her long black hair? Extensions. OK, so we were both fooled - it shows just how easily it can be done!
Then suddenly, we'd arrived at the town centre where I'd agreed to drop her off. As she got out, I mentioned that, if she happened to be in the vicinity at around 3.30 the next morning, I'd be happy to pick her up and take her home. She laughed, and said that she'd be in bed long before that time! A final wave to my new-found soul-mate, and I headed for Rikki's, with a feeling that tonight was going to be good!
With Rikki's expert map-reading, we arrived at Ron Storme's at 9.45. The club doesn't have a car park, so we were forced to leave the car a couple of hundred yards away, and walk to the entrance wearing our party outfits and high heels. I guess the locals know what goes on at Ron Storme's, although we had a couple of tranny-watchers whistle at us as we strode confidently along the street. The club was great - what more can I say? It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. But then I live in Suffolk.
After dancing the hours away, we left the club a few minutes before 2pm, catching our breath as the freezing air hit our damp clothes and skin. The journey home was unmemorable, and we discussed when we were going to fit return visits to this new venue into our busy social calendars. I eventually dropped Rikki off at about 3.30, and drove back past the place where I'd left my young friend eight hours earlier. But the centre of Ipswich was deserted.
From personal notes.