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� In this diary, I record my life as a transvestite. Perhaps it will help somebody else, who finds their lifestyle doesn't quite match that endorsed by the 'tranny mafia'. Well, I've been there... and survived. The debriefing starts here.

�loves: All kinds of stuff that society thinks I shouldn't.

�hates: Microsoft. Obviously.

�reads:
secret-motel
artgnome
enfinblue
stepfordtart
ten-oclock
boombasticat
lawliiet
annanotbob
fifidellabon
my-serenade

Lynn Jones
Becky
Samantha

Submarines
11:57 a.m. -- 2008-06-29

Uh-oh... I have readers now. I have been commended by some of them. Apparently I'm charming and witty, amusing... which is kind of a problem, because it means I'll feel obliged to be witty from now on. What started out as an anonymous "deal with it!" to the world now leaves me feeling obliged to be not only nice, but also entertaining.

So, um...

A transvestite is a lot like a submarine.

No, really.

The transvestite moves through life the same way a submarine moves through the sea. Neither looks for a confrontation, and they are usually happy to remain undetected.

Of course, sometimes a submarine's periscope is spotted by a patrolling aircraft. And sometimes the submarine surfaces, revealing its submarine-ness to the world above the waves. At such times, the patrolling enemy don't have to look nearly as hard. They dive-bomb the submarine, and destroy it.

The transvestite's periscope is a plucked eyebrow, a hairless shin, or accidentally saying he's a "size 14"... when he should have said was "34 inch waist". Sailing on the surface instead of under the water is like those occasional outings that a tranny enjoys, going to a trans-friendly club, or whatever. And instead of dive-bombings, trannies get a kicking from a gang... but the effect is much the same.

Remember those old war films about submarines? Where you're sympathising with the people sheltering in the submarine, who have bombs and depth charges raining down all around them? To make the enemy go away, they use a trick whereby they put out an oil slick, a mass of air bubbles and any oddments that will float. Seeing all this flotsam appear on the surface, the attackers think the submarine is destroyed, and they move away.

I put out an oil slick of my own, once. It was the week I moved out from the house I had bought with Lucy. We'd stopped being an item months before, but I'd been slow in finding a new place, and making arrangements to turn ownership of the house over to her. To be honest, I hadn't wanted to.

Lucy was getting on with her life. She had a new boyfriend (although thankfully, she hadn't invited him back to the house) and in fact she married him within two years. It was time for me to leave my spare bedroom existence, and move on.

As I packed my life into cardboard boxes and suitcases, I abandoned many of my girlie things. Not everything... but quite a lot. Why? Because I still loved her, and I wanted her back. But things had gone beyond the point where words would be enough. I sent a message by other means.

I wonder if Lucy, the patrolling enemy, registered the significance of the oil slick that my crippled submarine sent up. The bottles of nail varnish, the bras, the dresses, the perfume... all artfully placed in the rubbish bin, where I hoped she'd find them, a day or two after I'd left. Not everything, but as much as I could afford to lose. Like the submarine sending up air bubbles, but saving enough air to keep the crew alive for a while.

It was done to suggest that the submarine was destroyed. No survivors. You killed it. And as in the war films, it was a trick. Having suffered some losses, and learned to be more careful about staying submerged, the submarine slunk away in silence... never to be seen again.

Did the enemy see through my ruse de guerre? I'll never know. Maybe it was too subtle, and maybe the opposite. It didn't achieve the desired effect, though, and Lucy's part in our story ends here.

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