He is strong, deeply intelligent, engaged in the world, well spoken and well traveled, firmly suited in his maleness. She is beautiful in the way that stops you, and incredibly shy. All femme, she is, but for a bit of plumbing. When I look at him, I do not see her, and when I look at her, there is, perhaps, a flash of him. When I go inside the male, I feel her; when I touch inside her, I feel them each as well.
En femme, she is coltish, younger than her years. But for the shyness, she would be commanding and graceful, despite her submissiveness. Her style is hip and cheeky, as though she wants to flaunt tradition and combine several styles. The result is ... delightful. She REALLY gets makeup. He is blessed with a face that, sans makeup, is absolutely male, with eyes that are witchy in their intensity. Her makeup takes about as long to apply as does my own. Fifteen minutes to make a transition. Stunning.
I freely admit a deep interest in and fascination with cross dressers. Gender bending, androgyny, drag; the increasing fluidity with which sexuality is defined by every person who engages in the exercise is an incredible opening of our sense of possibility.
My angst is in the still institutionalized and heavily practiced misunderstanding and condemnation of those who blur up the lines. I wish everyone who has another person living inside who screams to be freed is able to give voice -- and life -- to that part of ourselves. It is my Pollyanna idealist self who thinks that every one of us can help soften up the edges of fear and misunderstanding by simply articulating our comfort with fuzzing the lines. A girl with a surprise under her skirt is ALWAYS welcome here.
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