Platform: Shoes - A Declaration of Advocacy

I have 99 transgender problems, and shoes make up about a dozen of them.

For every (rare) day I decide to wear an outfit, I begin with shoe selection and build around them. Every ensemble I lovingly critique, I start with choice of heels. I perk up at the sound of clicks on tile or sidewalk, then swivel around to see if the shoes (and the person filling them) are as attractive to me as they sound. My Pinterest board “Well Heeled” overflows with a seemingly redundant conveyance of every shoe I could ever dream to wear.

(If you’re curious, please feel free to drop by: https://www.pinterest.com/hollicherise/ ...y'know, if you want.)

Shameless cry for attention. So, so shameless.

I suppose, then, it would be no surprise to anyone that high heels were the first definitive form of feminine apparel I tried on as a child. How old was I? 6 or 7, perhaps? Crazy, how the culmination of three events led to that moment: my mother leaving me in the car so she could run into the grocery store to cash a check; a pair of red, strappy heels left in the backseat; my mounting curiosity about what it would feel like to wear such beautiful things. Seizing the moment, I put them on my feet, one at a time. I was shorter than my mother, but - a bit startling - they fit very well. And then… I buckled the straps around my ankles, hands trembling ever so slightly… sitting in place, feet together, feeling the spikes press up, forcing the arch, commanding my sitting posture, redefining my very character….

And then I opened the car door. And then I stepped out. I touched the pavement, gingerly. The sensation of solid ground under my newly-shod sole communicated to me a novelty, how different things were now, as I took that first step. Two feet on the ground now. I stood up. Perhaps I wobbled, but just a little. I looked around to assure myself just how alone I was, unobtrusive between all the parked cars. I took a few steps.

Electrifying. Exulting. Transformative.

Addicted!

It would only escalate from that point on.

It’s always been as though I was born to wear heels. I don’t get women who complain about them, their discomfort, how they exist to merely objectify the body, their suspicion that this is all part of the male agenda to subjugate women (forgetting that men were wearing heels before women appropriated them). On the contrary, I find they make me feel sexier, more capable, and somewhat special whenever I wear them.

In my opinion, if heels are worn strictly for the pleasure of admirers, then you’re doing it wrong. Like lipstick, clothes, jewelry or perfume, it’s down to choice, which is an expression of self, no matter how you dress it up. High heels are the essence of dramatic interpretation, or costume theater if you will, as much a part of feminine exotica as an alluring smokey eye or elaborate gown.

No, heels aren’t the end-all/be-all of forward footwear fashion.

Yes, they make you less likely to escape from a charging tyrannosaur.

No, you aren’t less of a woman if you don’t wear heels.

Yes, I'm a little partial in my appeal for high heel celebration. Then again, I don't get to wear them very often, so I'm not the one destroying my knees in them every single day. (Then again, nobody should be that cruel to themselves. "All things in moderation," as the old adage goes.)

"Stop trying so hard to stand out, Susan!"
is probably a less-popular axiom.
(But no less valid.)

In conclusion: Life is short. Go climb that mountain. Eat the chocolate mousse pie. Wear the heels. (Just, not all at the same time.)

-- HCP

The Fault In My Stars

I wonder how many people remember their childhood. More so, how much do they remember? How far back? I think about this because even at 43 years of age I have deep, distinct memories from before my first birthday, which run like crisp celluloid through a projector when I take them out to examine them. I've been told it's impossible to retain memories from such a pre-developmental age, and yet there they are...

My parents fighting. A small animal, possibly a squirrel or chipmunk, running straight at me. Birthday balloons tied up around the house. Not many moments, but enough to prove to myself how I gleaned more from my surroundings than the adults believed I would, or could.

Funny, how most of the photographs we have of my first few years come with zero recall. I know it's me, where I was, who was on the other side of the viewfinder, but there's no live feed. In a picture of me on a swing, I go back and forth, smiling widely. Only there's no wind, no forceful hand pushing from behind or in front, no sound of joy, or the crunch of autumn leaves. It's just a picture of me, gripping my bottle, laughing my head off. I can guess what that sounds & feels like, but it's not a memory. It's only an image, a testimony that I was there.

I remember the first time I whispered that I wanted to be a girl. I was perhaps 5 years old (no more than 6 or less than 4). The night was crisp, clear skies dotted with scattered stars. On my back, in the rear seat of my mother's blue Volkswagen Beetle - no seatbelt fastened; this was the 70s, you see - I stared upside down out the window as we drove homeward. I watched the stars as the car meandered over twisty roads. Dark branches swept across the view, but the stars didn't move. They seemed to follow us, watching me back for all I knew. I picked out a bright one, the brightest one, and became fixated. My mother had told me about wishing stars, how you only wished on the brightest ones. I might have wished for anything, being so young and full of wonder. But...

"I wish I was a girl." This was the only request I even considered. At so young an age, did I feel every other need had been granted? Did I sense that having two parents who loved each other was a fool's hope at this point, or that my toy box had reached capacity? Or did I know even then, deeply, simply, that something was intrinsically... amiss? [Insert pun appreciation here.]

"Thank you for your call. Please hold. All stars are busy fulfilling the destinies
of thousands of customers ahead of you. Your wish is important to us. Thank
you for choosing the Milky Way. Please stand by... Thank you for your call..."

I'm not incredibly quick on the uptake, as the saying goes. Sometimes the most obvious concepts take me ages to grasp. I'm often the last to realize changes or receive epiphanies, in whichever society I roll with. Sometimes it's charming (and occasionally a burden, depending on who you ask). So when I say that as a child I knew without question that what would make me happier than anything would be to change my gender, it's not to impress upon you that I was confused. It's to insist that I've always known there was more to my identity than boyhood.

I couldn't call it a mistake. I didn't know how to petition for an appeal to my assignment. I just knew I was... different than other boys. I wanted an alternative to everything I'd been led to believe I was, and what I was allowed to become.

And so, forty years later, I'm still wondering what I'm supposed to do with these feelings. The only difference is, I know it's okay to ask the question out loud... under the right circumstances, inasmuch as my instincts tell me.

Still no real answers, though. Just a calling to keep asking questions, and to keep the mission grounded in love. On both counts, I think I'm holding up. (No thanks to the STARS, I might add!)

--HCP

A Bite Out of Reality

One summer, six years ago, I told myself that I needed to face reality for a little while. So I left blogging. I abandoned chat rooms, message boards, and emailing strangers from far off places who shared my frustrating passion for self-discovery as an unconventional woman. I left a vague indication that I was alright, that this sort of thing happens all the time to online dreamers, and for the most part I didn't feel I was missing much anyway.

"Funny, I don't FEEL more like myself. Hello? Is this thing on??"

Reality was marriage. Reality was my job, my church, my friends, the yard animals that keep digging under my shed. Also, there's been my other passion for self-expression, through ink, paint, and other artistic mediums. I chose to make time for this kind of actualization, admitting that my female identity had no place in the real world. No regrets; I've been doing well, on my feet, getting things done with the energy I used to reserve for lengthy declarations regarding the finer points of my personal femininity.

But I'm not right, either. I haven't been right in forever. The kind of right that's not about being correct, but feeling well-adjusted, or in place. I do have a life, sure, and it will always need my attention, but the part of me who is woman (and it doesn't have to be a physical part, not really) is wholly unsatisfied with her role in all of this. Feeling denied, perhaps. Feeling less than actualized. Wanting to do something about it, even if I'm reluctant.

Well, that sort of conflict can get out of hand, especially since, more and more, I don't feel the need to consult with outsiders like I've felt was necessary in the past. I want to be woman in the presence of loved ones, to be loved in return as Holli. I've always wanted acknowledgement, to be the "she" when someone points to indicate they're talking about me, to be the "girl!" in their friendly greetings without the slightest twang of irony. I don't get to experience these things, and may never, but suddenly I've decided to clear out a bit of room and let my girlside just exist.

Fine, I've said, with the heart of St. Compromise, the Practical. I won't drag my loved ones into the places they're uncomfortable. But I will be, for the sake of my soul, in one form or another.

I'm the sort who can eventually accept compromise, given enough time, but I'm also blessed with imagination. Those who tell me "you can't" soon realize that I've discovered fine print at the bottom of their airtight reasoning. Reality insists that we must abide by its wishes; it often neglects to point out the escape clauses.

It's really so simple: I never said I can't come back to this.

And so, I am. Just like that.

I plan to write. I plan to answer questions, even if I have to ask them myself. This is the new plan, see, where I don’t rely on people to help patronize me (even though sometimes that’s all I desperately wish for). I refuse to be the helpless maiden in the tower, as it were, awaiting rescue. So, chat with me, if you like. Invite me to enjoy something. Show me your own world. Let’s become acquainted in that limited yet indulgent way the internet affords us.

I’ll be honest. I promise.

I won’t be punctual, but I’ll be frequent.

Maybe I’ll write stories, and let you get involved with the telling.

I don’t really know what I’ll write next. But I need this. Voice. Presence. A sort-of reality in its own right, a peculiar sort. A universe where I am me, you are you, and we are (somewhat) together.

Hopefully yours,

-- HCP

"Rapunzel doesn't know how good she had it!
... God, grant me a long enough ladder."

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 "Lollipop" 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.

~HCP

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 Wii batteries, 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 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...!)

• Discoveries: 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 alternatives: 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 instead 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.

~HCP

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!

~HCP

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:

   Penis.

   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 weird 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.
Or vice versa.

   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 a 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]

grrrr...!

   *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.

~HCP