An Allergic Reaction to Paranoia
9:44 a.m. -- 2008-09-08
As I think I have mentioned before, I haven't worn makeup for ages. I remember getting dressed up completely - going The Full Molly, if you will - a month or two before I got married. I was soon to cease living alone, so it seemed like a waste not to take advantage of the opportunity.
That's the funny thing about latter-stage transvestic urges. You feel obliged to take advantage of an opportunity, rather than feeling excited at the possibility. So you dutifully go through all the stages of the transformation. Putting on forbidding foundation garments, to crush the blocky male torso into a more feminine shape. Paying particular attention to the genitalia; squashed out of the way, beyond all recognition. This is all a part of the price we have to pay, in our efforts to be more feminine.
The foundation stage for the makeup is no less extensive. Vast quantities of concealer are trowelled into place, to hide any hint of beard growth. The effect is quite pleasing, provided one doesn't mind looking like a doll.
When I was a kid, I had a thing for the local dentist's receptionist, who always wore masses of makeup. It was well done, but the artificial perfection of her skin always made her seem a little bit other-worldly. It turned out that all the local boys fancied her, in fact. It's a look that you find in certain settings, but it's Actually Quite Scary because it's so artificial. I know many women who do not approve of this departure from what they call the 'more natural look'.
Trannies can't be natural, though. The natural look doesn't work for us, because we have too much to hide, in terms of pores, hairs, and a more pronounced jaw. I have sometimes criticised the gender-confused for having a caricature of idealised womanhood in their minds... but in this case it's simple fact: most of us need an awful lot of slap on before we look at all feminine.
So, on it goes. Maybe preceded by a bit of facial pampering. Personally, I always loved a mud pack. That feeling as the mud dries, shrinks and hardens. It's a novel, tactile sensation that you're acutely aware of... as is the feeling imparted by the clothing, to those who aren't completely accustomed to it. This is all subtly arousing. It's why we do it. I know girls who are baffled as to why wearing a bra is sexy, rather than just necessary and somewhat annoying... but for us the clothing has that fascinating taboo associated with it.
Note, though, that we're not quite wearing the girlie clothes in the same way that a genuine woman does. For one thing, I might be wearing several pairs of tights (pantyhose). Tranny protip: Start with a high-denier, dark pair, so your leg hair is rendered invisible, then add a lighter colour as required. I haven't shaved my legs for a decade or more... I thought it might prove something of a limitation in the dating game.
The makeup session continues, getting through more foundation than London Fashion Week. Powder, of course, and then on to a pondering of the eyes. What look to go for? Nice girl or slut? The transformation a tranny undergoes is not like that of a full-time girl. It's not like when you're hurrying off to work, ladies; more like when you're going on a first date, and you're deciding how to play it. Naturally, this involves more choices, and takes a lot longer.
Personally, I always went for 'nice girl', with big, brown eyes. Opened a little more widely than I normally do, and with a well-blended but distinct application of browns... yummy. (Probably a really dated look, but hey... I'm an old, faded tranny.)
I have a reasonably steady hand, so eyeliner is do-able. Ditto mascara. I remain intrigued about false eyelashes; I've never worn them, but they look like fun.
What I really never could get the hang of was blusher. Quite where to place it was always a mystery... perhaps because the artist must work with a misshapen canvas here; there are no feminine cheekbones to enhance. So that was almost always a disappointment, and sometimes forced a do-over.
Lips, no problem. I'm not one of those trannies who goes to ridiculous lengths to enhance their lips. I just go to the natural boundary, and not beyond. Bobo the Clown is not welcome in my house.
Then it's time to add a bit of jewellery (clip-on earrings for me I'm afraid), and we're done.
+++
Eventually, the time comes to remove everything. This is something that most trannies do in quite a hurry. The dressing up is to be savoured, but the undressing can be almost frantic. Transvestites watch closely as their female persona emerges as a result of their labours, but nobody I know has ever mentioned studying the re-emergence of their male nature during the disrobing process. The one follows the other as surely as defecating follows eating, but it's not something to savour.
My eyes, in particular, always used to feel terribly sore after I'd been wearing makeup. I tried a number of different brands and techniques, but I was always left with red-rimmed, gritty eyes and a general sense of discomfort the following day. With hindsight, I can see that this probably wasn't an allergic reaction at all. Rather, it was caused by paranoia.
It doesn't matter if you miss a little bit of makeup when you're cleansing, girls. You might be covering it up with a fresh application in the morning. For me, though, even the smallest hint of makeup could mean Social Death. Ditto a tiny fleck of nail polish stuck in that little ridge up against the cuticle. The undercover transvestite must not merely cleanse but positively scour away all traces of the previous night's adventure. How well I remember the repeated blotting of the lips: have I removed the last trace of lipstick? They look kind of stained... is it obvious? (And the more you scrub at them, the redder they look. Panic!) Better wash my face again (the ninth time) before I go out... and when I was at work, and I realised I'd just caught myself rubbing my (sore) eye: have I just dislodged some crumb of mascara, and spread it all over my eye socket? Better find a mirror and check! Is that co-worker looking at me funny?
I could deal with the ridiculous, old-fashioned underwear. The hour-long makeup sessions: okay. But the paranoia, the following day? That's the killer.
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