Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Ghost Girl (In the Machine)

Pinch yourself... it's not a dream! Look, real proof that I'm still alive!

I offer no apologies for my month-and-a-half-long absence, and yet that's exactly what brings me back to cobble together another soliloquy.  I'm beginning to see a sociological niche that's ripe for observation, you see, namely the online habits of the modern transgender soul-searcher.  For example, just recently I was granted the epiphany that I'm not the only one who pulls disappearing acts on the internet.

Look for yourself.  There are oodles of personal blogs out there that haven't received updates in months - years, even - which lately has made me curious to know why.  I could make a dozen guesses.  I could put together what I know about myself, and about people in general, and come up with the same thing that anyone else would:

  • We're not all natural-born writers. In fact, coming up with something new to say on a frequently regular basis can become quite a chore, a mentally exhausting feat that we weren't actually prepared to embrace.

  • The work we put into our blogs exceeds the reward.  None of us get paid to ramble on about our thoughts on gender, and even if we did we would certainly feel discouraged if people rarely or never responded.  Few people can literally inspire themselves to create.  Personally, what drives me to launch these missives into the webiverse is the hope of stirring up interactivity.  Without feedback, why bother?

  • Eventually the thrill of baring our soul to the universe dwindles.  When you've sat on a mountain of repressed desires and stoppered a sea of bottles full of confusing, conflicting emotions, there's nothing like letting it all out.  The internet allows us to share our most secret selves in a [relatively] safe and [mostly] anonymous social environment.  But after the fourth reiteration concerning the reasons you started dressing as a child, or another pro/con argument listing the ways you'd come out to your family if you could just build up the nerve, the experience just tastes stale.  And, if we're honest, we miss the rush of probing the uncertain waters of ultimate freedom with our freshly-painted toes.  At this point, talk ≠ walk.

  • The online transgender experience just isn't enough.  Face it, there's no substitute for getting out and about in a new dress, new heels, and a new hairstyle.  It's a straight-up fact that most of us are here because we have nowhere else to go.  Still, even fans of the Travel Channel get fed up with watching other people living their dream of seeing London, Paris or Australia, enough to get their asses off the couch and onto a plane.  After staring at hundreds of photos of other people having a good time, can you blame them?

 What'd I miss?  I guess there's always plain boredom.  We as a species easily grow out of our new toys.  Speaking of human fallibility, laziness could also factor in.

Oh, and that most cunning demon that plagues the textual communicators of the world: writer's block!  Right now, some poor T-girl has rings under her eyes, trying to summon just the right words to express her limitless admiration for 50s style halter dresses.

It's so hard to write when "At the Hop" won't stop playing in your head.

As I mentioned, mere conjecture is the name of my game today.  I've seen plenty of abandoned blog sites and message board identities this past year, but when they're as scarce as they come I really don't have any way to ask them, "So where have you been?"

All that said... What's my excuse?

Summer vacation, darlings.  I've been off since early June.  And I don't go back to work until mid-August.  What with all the back-and-forth goings on that summer demands - beach, movies, friends, house cleaning, etc. - my time anywhere near a computer has been limited.  Also, the other lady of the house (snicker) also has time off, so I haven't been quite as "in touch" with my feminine identity as I'd like.  Anyway... hey! Now that I mention it, I've overlooked a really great reason people abandon the internet:

  • They have a life.  Hey, it's been known to happen.


Friday, June 1, 2012

Holli Cherise's Day Off

I don't know what floats the rest of your collective boats when you get a day (and the house) all to yourself, but as for me there is absolutely nothing equal to being able to wear whatever the hell I want. Sure, I can lay flat on my back and eat nacho cheese straight from the can, or play video games until I've worn down the batteries in the Wii controllers, but as a cross-dresser I only want to wear myself out by wearing whatever goes with a hot pair of heels.

Typical, and that's no joke. If I had the place to myself for a month, I'd likely spend the entire time en femme.  True, I'd go berserk with depression and loneliness, but that's neither here nor there.  The point is opportunity.  And that's what I've seized today.

So far, my day can be described up as follows:

  • Leaned up from my comfy spot in bed to kiss Erica goodbye.  Off she went to work, and up I jumped to shower, shave, moisturize, and manicure.

  • Threw on some frillies and a white Frederick's dressing robe, then stuck my head into the internet for an hour to see what was new.


  • Stared at my lovely wardrobe, trying to decide what to start with.  Decided that it'd been ages since I tried most of these outfits on, and so initiated the process of modeling everything I own in front of the a mirror.  (I couldn't help it...!)

  • Discovered a) some dresses I used to hate have now grown on me, b) some dresses just don't flatter my plain frame, and I have no idea why I've hung onto them for so long, c) I really, really need some sun on my arms and shoulders, b/c my face and neck look like they go on someone else's body, and d) it's almost 11:00! Why am I wasting time playing fashion show when there's so little time??

  • Settled on a tight mauve crochet top (to go with the 5" heels) white tights, and a black suede mini. Did my hair up nice in a black bow scrunchie and adorned myself w/ a li'l bling.  Marched myself into the kitchen to paint my nails and have a bowl of cereal. (Hey, 11:00 a.m. is technically morning... breakfast still applies!)

  • Sat down to write new blog for adoring fans.

Exciting, n'cest pas?  Well, mostly.  If I can push away all the more interesting possibilities: friends, a real manicure in a nail salon, a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe under an umbrella, movies, girl talk, shoe shopping...

"Please, ladies, no gang signs... just kidding, throw 'em up there."

Or how about the scenario where I spend all that closet time picking out clothes for the weekend, tying my hair back, making myself up, packing a snack bag, then jumping into the car for a lazy weekend with friends who call me Holli because it's who I am?  Maybe getting some actual sun by somebody's pool, earning myself a cute little bikini line, giving in to peer pressure and getting my ears pierced.  Or letting them pick out a tattoo.

"You all said 'pirate skull' right? How does it look? Badass?"

Great.  Now I'm jealous of alternate universe Me.

Ah, but still... life is good. Even in small doses.


Thursday, May 31, 2012

Lovin' the Day

I never know if the sudden appearance of one of my posts brings new joy to your lives, but sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion that the space between new posts is a bit of a bother.  Or not.  I dunno, I don't get much feedback.  But I'm prepared to err on the side of love.

At any rate - Good news!  Last week I passed up the chance to take a much-needed mental health day away from my exhausting, thankless day job, then waded through several days worth of excellent reasons why I should have run when I had the chance.  All Friday, therefore, I'm collecting that personal raincheck.  And I'm girling it up by my sweet lonesome.

I've been anticipating a day like this for awhile.

I went shopping.

I added a little pink to my wardrobe, and a new pair of shoes to match.

And I've been harvesting a few ideas for some fresh new blogs.  So if you're one of the faithful (up to 8 official followers now!) or a brand new reader, watch this space.

See you in a few hours!


Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Phallic Wars

   If I am to report faithfully on my life as a cross-dressing girlie-wannabe, I'll faithfully describe the marvelous contradictions that define me.  And if I make mention of contradictions, then inevitably I'll have to blog about something that garners tremendous love & hate, regarding my kaleidoscopic sexuality.  I'm so repulsed by this thing I'm even loathe to speak its name; yet I need it more than I care to admit, and I'm prone to committing acts of surrender, desperation, and even idiocy for its benefit.  If you haven't realized what I'm talking about by now, I'll summon the word which is anathema to me:


   Ugh.  I don't even know where to start.  Just reacting to the sight of it in text form repulses me.  I assure you, if my brain had bells attached to it that rang in accordance with how many scrambled emotions this subject evokes within me, I should be the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  I shall explain, and to make it relevant but clean, I'll include images such as this:

Intentional entendre.
   I'm very attached to my genitalia.  Ever since I was a child, curious of its purpose yet always taking the blamed thing for granted, there has never been a problem.  It's always been very useful, what with the discharging of useless, harmful waste (most often at a time of my choosing).  When puberty arrived, it let me know how I could pay it back for all those years of benevolent service.  And when the time came, even Erica was taken in by its charms.

Though not enough to be enticed to wear this for me.

   For the most part, ours is a mutually beneficial relationship.

   (Note - just because I'm referring to it as though it were a character doesn't mean I've bestowed upon it a unique, wholly independent persona, nor do I ever hold conversations with it.  I'm simply saying it has its place, and I intend to never give it up.)

   Still, it vexes me... mainly because it so readily turns on me. It harbors an awareness of how much I wish I were a woman, and over the years it has managed to turn nearly every transgendered thought that crosses my mind into an erotic suggestion.  It totally digs the dual-gender lifestyle, always egging me on to push the limits of what I'm capable of to satisfy its ceaseless quest for sensual fulfillment.  I deny these requests, practically daily, because I don't believe in letting such a small percentage of my nervous system do the thinking for me.  If I were to let it have its way, I'd have long ago sold myself to a sex-centered identity and traded my freedom for numerous wild - albeit short-lived - pleasures.  All of this considered, it probably resents me.

I'm including this image just to mock it.

   Despite my attraction to perversity, I'm really such a prude.  Ever since the halcyon days of adolescence, my "mini-me" has been nearly starved for human contact - not because it never gets it, but because it's insatiable!  It carries the burden of belief that it's actually more important than other people seem to let on, thriving on the hope that one day someone (ideally Erica) realizes she can't get enough of it and devotes more time to its care and well-being.  The bounds of reality are no match for wishful thinking.

   It's a monster, I tell you.  Nearly everything about my personal character that makes up my "selfish" side can be traced to this stupid, single-minded, unflattering appendage.  God help me, most of the time I want everything that it wants, too.

   Speaking of monsters, I must opine that it's just awful to look at.  At any given time, it exists in one of three states, each perfectly pathetic: rigid, waxing, and deflated.  I sometimes feel I'm the only one who thinks none of these are anything to be proud of, although the former seems to award men a sense of accomplishment.  Unbelievable.  To paraphrase Stephen King: Is there anything that looks as silly and out of place as a dude with a full erection?  It looks more like a balloon animal than a symbol of sexual prowess.

The only thing more silly looking? TWO of them. Doing this.

   I should also mention that it's a terrible reminder of why it sucks to be male - like all good real estate, it lacks the three most vital qualities you need in a vulnerable hunk of anatomy: Location, Location, and Location.  Not only does it seriously hamper my ability to pretend it's not there (I hate how difficult it is to tuck and stay tucked!), but even when I'm not en femme, it's prone to all manner of physical confrontations, against which it has no hope of defense.  So thank you, Mother Nature, for a) replacing that which I most want with that which leaves me most susceptible to the elements, and b) punishing me for being born in this body... which, by the way, was also your decision (but at least I was spared from regular menstrual cramping, so I guess we're even).

Everyone loses.

   I should also say that of all the male sex organs out there, mine is the least offensive... to me, at least.  That is to say, I also hate every single one of yours.  Seriously.  I don't want any part of seeing them, hearing about them, and above all I don't want any kind of physical contact with them.  I don't "do" porn, because inevitably a phallus will appear on screen, and if I were into porn then the scene introducing another guy's wood would be the LAST THING to get me in the mood, and the first thing to rob me of satisfaction.

   That said, I recognize that the phallus is one of the favorite components of the "feminine actuality" fantasy among the more libidinous members of the crossdreaming community. There's no denying that the penis is popular among a whole lot of us.  Fellatio is often employed as a grand symbol of womanhood, or even anal penetration, in subservience to a dominant partner or controller.  Whether or not any of us would actually do such a thing, it's nonetheless a popular fantasy.  Personally, I can see how the submissive factor in this scenario is somewhat appealing, but the legendary "quivering member" doesn't enhance my fascination with being a woman to this degree.  While I might fantasize about being required to grant an intrusive object access into my person, if the object in question is purplish, veiny and loosely wrapped in wrinkly skin, then I should rather eat hissing cockroaches than allow it to make berth in any orifice of mine.

I just killed your stiffy, didn't I?

   Before I wrap this up, I have one more complaint, and this takes issue with the word itself...

   Penis. Bleah.

   What a stupid sounding word.  As far as I'm concerned, those letters were strung together to keep people from taking their sexuality seriously.  It's a ridiculous word to say. It may well contribute to self-esteem issues.  And... and... it only rhymes with Venus. (Sorry, I have this thing about listing things in threes and I was reaching.)  And speaking of my favorite gender, could we get different term other than "vagina?"  Seriously.  If I'd never heard the name before, this might almost make me scared to meet one... say, on a dark road winding through the forest at midnight. "Bewaaaare the VAGINA, foolish traveler!" [cue ominous howling]


   *sigh* Anyway, in summary: I hate the penis, in name, concept, and appearance. Yours. Mine. Genitals overall, really. Unless they're being taken advantage of in their proper context: in the dark. *wink*


Monday, April 16, 2012

Holli's Hiatus

Now, I know what you're thinking:  "Where have you BEEN, girl?"  (And if you're not thinking that, then I'm not as popular as I thought I was, you just hurt my feelings, and now you have to make it up to me.  Contact me to get the link to my Amazon gift registry!*

Well, I've been off gallivanting around Florida on a family vacation for over a week, and it was fun and I'm so very happy someone else paid my way, since I wouldn't have gone otherwise.  But now I'm back.  From outer space.  So wipe that sad look from off your face!

I enjoyed a lovely spin around Disney World and the Harry Potter land at Islands of Adventure, and desperately wished I had an excuse to never come back.  I love, love, love Orlando; the only thing that would have made it better was if I could have spent the trip en femme.  But then that's why I have an imagination - if it's anything Walt Disney ever taught us, it's that nothing's possible without one.

Though he never mentioned the debilitating vertigo... seriously, Walt?

So, my anonymous fans, I'm back, and hopefully I'll get some worthwhile entries typed up and posted some time later this week.

Love  ~HCP

*Which I'll be happy to pass on as soon as I ever get around to creating one.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Isolate Beauty, pt. VIII

    The door was locked.
    Why would Jason would lock the door while he was home?
    Maybe he was taking a nap. But why? How could he be tired? Lazy man! Oh well, Marianne mused, more’s the fun in waking him!
    She let herself in. The whole house was dark. She put down her bags, took off her coat and hung it on a chair.
    The first steps on the tile were loud and telling. Her heels clicked sharply, unlike any sound her regular, more comfortable shoes had ever made. Her spine tingled with energy and excitement. She could get used to this!
    Down the hall she paced, feeling like a tiger about to discover prey. The wispy nylons clasped to her black garter straps rubbed between her legs when she moved. As she breathed, her chest swelled behind the satiny teddy wrapped around her body. Marianne suddenly became eager, quickening the pace.
    The noise of her footsteps was loud. She reached the bedroom...
    ...but saw the covers undisturbed.
    Where was he? Was he out?
    Bad timing.
    Or... maybe he was just out on the porch...

*       *       *

    Marianne’s footsteps were as the ticks of a time bomb in Jason’s ears. He could hear her all around the house, and he knew it was her walking around inside. Something like paralysis had committed him to the seat of a plastic chair. He felt ridiculous. He was helpless.
    Julia failed to offer some good advice or an encouraging word. She sat just as still, just as fearful of the events waiting to unfold.
    The footsteps stopped just behind the door.
    The knob rattled, then turned.

*       *       *

    Marianne looked at Jason.
    She saw Julia.
    One second, she only saw her husband. The next second, there was a woman. The blink of an eye changed perspectives, but failed to reconcile the images as one.
    In a moment, during which nobody moved, intuitiveness caught up with Marianne’s racing train of thought.
    “Jason?” she managed to exhale, stupefied.
    “...uh... hi...” said Jason, with a half wave.
    “What are you...?” Marianne stared at him, up and down. “You’re... um... so, what are you... doing out here?”
    Jason gulped, suddenly very dry-mouthed.
    “I think I’d like to answer that question... but... I don’t know... how?”
    “Hmm,” Marianne acknowledged.

    They stared at each other some more. Then Jason finally noticed something besides his wife's disconcerted expression.
    “Mari, what are you wearing?”
    “Shouldn’t that be my question?” she countered.
    He looked down, finally rid of the numbness, only now it was being replaced with warm humiliation. His bright red toes winked back up from the ground.
    “What are you wearing, Jason?”
    He could hear the anger in her voice, but was even more afraid to remain silent. What could he say?
    “N-Nothing as nice as what you have on, I can assure you.”
    Not good enough.
    “Oh? You like this? Well maybe you can try it on when I‘m done, would you like that?!”
    “Well, no, Mari...”
    “Well why not? It’s not your style? Oh God, tell me you don't have a sense of fashion all of a sudden? Is what I’m wearing not 'in' this season in Paris? Well, I’m sorry, Jason, I thought this was perfectly acceptable to wear home for you, because I thought you’d like a little company, sitting here all by your lonesome self.  Last time I checked, you like it when women strap on all of... this...” she gestured frantically around herself. “I mean, don’t you? Am I wrong?
    “No, Mari...”
    “Am I stupid for expecting... what, exactly? Expecting what? I don’t even know what to think! Could you please tell me what to think of this, Jason? Because I had a completely different idea about... our marriage... I felt really sexy wearing this for you, only... am I just a really stupid woman or WHAT?”
    “If you ‘No, Mari’ me one more time I swear you’ll lose the one thing you have that draws any distinction between what you look like right now and what you really are! Jason, you give me an answer!!
    The first of the long night’s tears spilled down Marianne’s cheek. Jason remained seated, only trembling as he watched. She closed her eyes. Though too terrified to be aroused, he saw how beautiful and exotic she had taken the time to become. Guilt seized his heart, though it also ached to even begin thinking how to tell her about everything that led to this moment.
    “I love you,” he said softly. “There’s no question about that.”
    Marianne looked at him. She leaned, weakened, against the door frame. The birds were quieter as the afternoon went on in spite of this unforeseen conflict. Their music contributed to the burgeoning surreality of recent events. Shellshock had set in.
    “Okay,” she said at last, continuing to watch him from the door, unable to decide what to do next. She believed that a sort of initial forgiveness was possible, but the unmistakable conflicts seemed impossible to approach. They would also be difficult to ignore.
    Neither one of them could help usher out the awkwardness.
    “Jason... why...? Why this?” She waved up and down at him, trying to communicate what words failed to.
    “It’s somewhat ironic,” said Jason, trying to smile, “and maybe unbelievable, but today I was actually thinking about how this could possibly go on without you knowing.”
    “Did you plan this?”
    “No, Mari. It was an accident. Purely accident.”
    Marianne’s eyes closed. Jason felt the same chill he felt only moments ago drifting past his exposed thighs, through the gaps in his pullover.
    “I guess I should go change,” he said weakly.
    “No, no,” Marianne said absently. “That’s alright."  She groped around for some optimism, found her grip, and tried not to let go. "I have some more questions. And this is probably the best way to face them. We’re both pretty vulnerable, and we’re both pretty... um, pretty."
    Marianne let out a breath that sounded like laughter, only without the vital element of sanity.
    "I would rather... I want to know about this, uh... this side of you. Only I can’t do it without some wine.”
    “Okay,” Jason nodded. He got to his feet and followed his wife inside. She poured them each a glass and left out the bottle.

    “A toast,” Marianne said, raising a glass. She looked expectantly at her decidedly feminine husband, who hastily followed her lead. “To smoothing out the new waves in our quiet little pond.”
    She smiled with a certain deliberate craziness, then drained her glass, poured another round to herself, and tried to prepare for the long night ahead.

~ End

Friday, March 30, 2012

Isolate Beauty, pt. VII

    Julia’s bright red nails reflected the small dots of sunlight that shined through the screen. Her fingers rested on top of a shiny brass doorknob, which also reflected the light in small slivers. The whole image looked surreal, like a painting. She could only stare. At the moment, she was grappling with shock.

    She tried the knob again.
    “Locked,” she said plainly.
    “What?” asked Jason, fully aware of the answer but unable to respond in any other way.
    “Tell me you left the front door unlocked.”
    “Why would I do that?” he whispered sarcastically, half to himself and... well, mostly to himself.
    The state of panic rose quickly. Jason tried to think of every possible way into the house without a key. The best idea he had was through the chimney, which was not only stupid, but of course impossible.
    “Should I break a window?” he asked, but Julia calmly pointed out that there was no use getting cut on glass if they were trying to keep their divine secret. Spilled blood led to questions, which led to idle comments during explanations, which led to slips of the tongue that didn’t taste very good once they’d been burped out...not to mention Julia’s white pullover would stain for good if blood got on it. (By now she was very good at covering all the angles when it came to not getting caught.)
    “What do I do?” Jason cried out, high on fear.
    “Stop,” Julia reasoned. “Sit down.”
    They did.
    “Now... let’s think. It’s only about two in the afternoon. Marianne’s not due for at least three hours, so we have a little time to think this through.”
    Jason agreed, but shivered as if the sun had set. Julia felt a chill too, but tried to remain composed. Apparently she was the stronger of the two in rough circumstances. Despite herself and the situation, a part of her relished the satisfaction of possibilities. Wouldn’t it be lovely, she thought, if Marianne came home and saw her, Julia, sitting pretty as she pleased on Jason’s back porch? At least he’d be forced to confront the problem. But Julia knew she was in this as deep as Jason was. So she tried to imagine what to do next.
    "Let’s see... nobody to call... nowhere to find another key, because you don’t keep a spare outside... not even a pair of slippers or sandals to make a run for it..."
    "So, no options at all. Dammit!"
    The sound of a car pulling up killed their repartee.
    A door opened, and someone stepped out onto the gravel driveway. Jason was suddenly plagued by images of Julia’s whole “meter reader” scenario coming true, but tried to remain calm. Whoever it was would probably ring the doorbell once or twice, wait a few seconds, then leave.
    ...Best case scenario, anyway.

End, pt. VII