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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

Metamorphosis
8:44 a.m. -- 2008-07-09

I have previously described how my body belatedly abandoned its skinny, largely hairless appearance, and set about making me irrefutably masculine. Hair ceased to grow uniformly on my scalp, and started positively sprouting from my nose and ears instead. Body hair was also more of an issue than it had been before.

Maybe it's all related to the increased weight; bigger bodies produce more hormones. Also, well-fed bodies replace their cells more often... so effectively you age faster. Maybe I shouldn't have had quite so many biscuits.

I should say, in my defence, that I've never weighed more than 75 kilos (at 1.85m tall) so I'm hardly obese... but it ain't the best self-image for a part-time girl. Perhaps it mattered to me less, however. Unlike a lot of transvestites, I've never dieted.

I was about to get a lot fitter, although it never reduced my weight. About 2004, I took up a martial art. Not the girliest of pastimes, you might think! But then, I'm only a part-time girl. Actually, I wouldn't have stuck with it, but for the fact that a reasonable number of girls were also learning. You see, many martial arts clubs run on testosterone and macho bullshit, and that wouldn't have been my scene at all. I was fortunate to find a club that emphasised self-defence rather than aggression, and the result was a good vibe. It was fun to learn, and nobody ever resented a bruise or a bloody nose.

The most important thing, for me, was learning how to take a beating. To get knocked to the floor, kicked in the head or punched in the nose, and to get back up, and try again. Certainly, some of the techniques that can be learned make the martial artist very dangerous, but most of all I just wanted to be more robust. The funny thing is, now that I'm more capable I find myself in danger a lot less. The confidence, or quiet menace, or grace (or something!) that I exude keeps trouble at bay, somehow.

I've never felt anything but respect for the people who learn with me. (Which is to say, I don't fancy the girls, despite the close proximity we find ourselves in at times.) I am awed by the apparently effortless abilities of some of them. That's one of the good things about my chosen fighting style; it's based upon technique, not brute force.

So, perhaps you'll understand that it's not a rejection of all things feminine in favour of a macho bullshit pastime... but it has come to mean a lot to me, and there's not a suspender belt in sight! But then, if you translate the Japanese name for my martial art literally, it means 'The way of harmonious spirit.' Perhaps I'm finding a new equilibrium, through sport, that offers me a healthier and happier self-image.

I'm actually pleasantly surprised that in all the time since I started this series of articles, I have yet to receive any nasty notes or emails. Transvestites normally attract all kinds of homophobic hatred. (This is a bit harsh, because something like 85% of us are straight... but are you really going to debate the finer points of transgender sexuality with a beered-up thug?) Anyway, I'm their worst nightmare, or I ought to be: a tranny who can cripple an attacker with one strike.

Admittedly, I've never tried it in heels.

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