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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

My secret, not Victoria's
7:53 a.m. -- 2008-07-05

Last time, I recorded a little of my early days with Victoria. I don't recommend courtship that involves 5+ hours of travelling, but I'll make an exception for an exceptional person. She was great in every way, and I was quite besotted.

Victoria made me feel good about myself, in ways that I hadn't before. Perhaps because she made me want to be worthy of her... and perhaps because she did that girlie thing whereby she treated me as her pet project, to be improved upon. I'd never really been very interested in boy-clothes. I dressed smartly for work, and when I came home, I slobbed out a bit. My look was almost always jeans and a tee shirt, with a fleece, Berghaus jacket and walking boots when going out.

Through a series of gifts, hints and being almost dragged into shops, I was introduced to the hitherto unknown business of actually trying to look attractive, as a male. I can't say that I enjoy shopping, even seven years later... but I am much more aware of how I look. I feel under-dressed if an urgent errand causes me to have to dash into town without a freshly-ironed shirt. And for a number of reasons that will perhaps become apparent in later articles, I learned to strut - and enjoy it.

At the same time, my girlie side took a few knocks. Suddenly, as my 31st birthday approached, my body seemed to wake up and notice that it should be more masculine.

I started putting on weight. I didn't become overweight, but I was no longer the willowy thing I had been. Size 12 camisoles began to feel a bit tight. My waist increased by two inches, and there was definitely a bit more 'jiggle' when I ran downstairs.

Jiggle is good, right? Wonderbra, maybe a bit of surgical tape... boobs!

No. My chest decided to get hairy. Not massively so, but enough to foil any notion of feminine cleavage. Unless I wanted to explain why I was shaving it...

My stomach got in on the act, too. Hairy tummy; no more bare midriff.

Perhaps worst of all, I was starting to go bald. That hit home really hard. First of all, like any male, it gave me a sense of my mortality. When I'd hit puberty a little later than some of the guys I knew, I'd allowed myself to believe that my body was just taking its time. That I'd stay young-looking for longer, maybe live longer? But no, it seemed that I was mortal after all. My body was no longer repairing itself quite so well as it used to. Bruises stayed longer. I needed to warm up before exercise... I was getting old!

From the tranny viewpoint, hair loss is a particularly cruel blow. Male pattern baldness. "Hey look," my body seemed to say, "You're a male. You're not fooling anyone."

To be honest, I made a lousy girl. I'd always been too tall, with ridiculously broad shoulders and quite large hands and feet. Now, the results were more unsatisfactory than ever.

I still had a fascination for lingerie, but I had to admit it looked better on Vicky. Although at the same time that I needed (and continue to need) a bit 'Trinny and Susannah' when I'm going out of the house, Victoria needed some help to learn what constitutes sexy nightwear. Fortunately, I was on-hand to instruct.

I remember an old cartoon in which a bunch of guys are hanging around, under a banner that reads 'wet tee shirt contest'. The contest is over, and the ground is covered with puddles and discarded tees. One of the guys is saying, "Maybe next year, we could put some girls in them!"

I was learning, at last, that lingerie is much the same: it's more fun with a girl inside.

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