Close Calls, Part Two

We who are frequently classed as transgender are a wide and diverse group. We can be classed in one big envelope or divided into a whole bunch of smaller envelopes. 

The big envelope? You are born to one gender but associate in some way with the other gender; that makes you transgender.

The multiple envelopes? They are labelled from transvestite–those with a desire to wear the clothing associated with the ‘other gender’, usually for some form of sexual arousal- all the way across the spectrum to post-op transsexual–those who identify so strongly with the other gender that they go through a tough regime of testing and surgery to change their sex organs to match those of their identified gender. It also most often includes breast augmentation or removal as appropriate.

There are lots of envelopes in between. Pre-op TS, Non-Op TS, Part time CD, full time CD, are some that come to mind.

I classify myself as a part time CD. Sometimes I try out the non-op TS label but I keep coming back to the reality that there are things about my male life that I just do not want to give up. I enjoy crossdressing when I can and I prefer to keep friends from the male part of my life in the dark about my life as Linda.

It is not always easy to keep my ‘Linda life’ secret. I have had some close calls where it all could have been exposed. So have many other closeted crossdressers. At one TG conference I met up with a group of CD sisters as we were by chance seated together at the banquet.  We shared stories of our close calls. Last time I told you several of those stories. Here are some more.

“On the Streets of Boston”

I remember Barbara because I think she was a Canadian, like me. At least I think she was Canadian because she mentioned being a hockey player. She played on some old-timers’ hockey team.  That’s a pretty Canadian thing, isn’t it, eh?

I never found out for sure where Barbara was from, but the story involved Boston and hockey. She knew her team was going to Boston for a hockey tournament. She had intended to join them but at the last minute backed out. She was still going to Boston but would stay on her own and planned to spend one evening at Jacques, the venerable gay/drag bar located on one of the smallest streets in Boston, ironically called Broadway. I mention that because once I had a heck of a lot of trouble finding that street. But this story is about Barbara.

We traded stories about our adventures at Jacques and then Barbara continued her story, “I was so wrapped up in my opportunity to get out en femme that I totally forgot about the rest of the guys on my team and that they were playing in Boston.”

“Did you meet some of them at Jacques?” was a reasonable question from one of the gals.

“No, worse,” responded Barbara. “I was driving in heavy traffic, hardly moving. I was on Stuart Street, about to turn into a parking garage when four guys I recognized came out of the hotel next door. They were on my hockey team. They passed across the street right in front of my car. I could see them as clearly as if we were in the team room together. It is a miracle that one of them did not recognize or read me or note my out-of-state license plate was the same as theirs.”

“How did that happen?” I remember asking. “I’m always noticing oddities in my surroundings.”

“I’m not sure,” she replied, “if they had looked my way they would have seen me with a look of shock on my face. I think they were too intent on flagging down a taxi. They might have been in a hurry to get to the Combat Zone or perhaps it was the tournament banquet or a Bruins’ game. Whatever it was their attention was not on me and I liked that just fine.”

Stopped By the Police

“Have any of you ever tried street hustling?” said one of the other girls. I’ll call her Sandra because I remember her looking a bit like Sandra Dee.

“You mean like prostitution,” I asked with a bit of fake innocence. The gals all shook their head ‘no’.

“Yes,” she replied. My advice is don’t try it. She went on to tell how she was in an area of town she was visiting where one of the streets was known for the ‘street queens’ that would work there. She said she was just passing through, checking out the queens and heading for a nearby drag club.

Of course, she had no intention of turning a trick. She knew enough not to try to take business from the regulars but when a guy in a car motioned that he wanted to talk with her and one of the queens said something like ‘go for it’. She went for it.  Sandra and the guy apparently talked for a while with her leaning seductively into the car window they way she had seen in the movies. Apparently, he just was looking for someone to masturbate him with her stockinged feet. That was easy enough, she thought. He did offer a nice bit of money so she agreed and got in the car. She tried to do up her seat belt but he told her it was jammed, not to worry.

Well, she should have worried. They had just started to drive when a police car pulled in behind them and turned on its lights. He approached the driver, not for soliciting but for not having the seatbelts secured. He took the driver’s license and Sandra’s i.d. Sandra expected the officer to return and arrest her for solicitation. At that moment he was probably checking with her hometown to see if she had a record.  At the least he was getting her into their database of known working girls.

To her surprise the officer returned, handed her back her i.d., gave the driver tickets for the faulty seat belts and let them go on their way.  For some time, Sandra was worried at home that somehow word of the incident would leak out. A few months before, a guy she knew had been hounded out of his job with a public agency after it was revealed that he had approached an apparent street prostitute to discuss sex for money.  The prostitute had turned out to be an undercover female officer.

Not only did nothing come of it, concluded Sandra, but the ‘john’ had still wanted to go through with their arrangement.

He came, he saw, he quickly left

“I don’t know what happened here but it happened,” said the last gal before it would be my turn. Lisa told us how she does go out at home and her wife supports her going out to the local transgender support group meetings. After the meeting some of the members go to a nearby singles’ bar to chat and listen to the live music. Apparently, they are not bothered by the younger crowd and safety in numbers keeps the potential cougar hunters at bay. Lisa was confident that no one in that setting would recognize her male self under her makeup and feminine finery.

Then it happened one evening that one of her neighbors came into the singles’ club. He was married and their wives were close friends. The guys were not that close but they did socialize together a bit. Our gal kept a close watch on her friend as he moved in on a group of young women there. He joined their table as the next set of music was about to start. It seemed they all knew each other.

About then Lisa felt the call of nature. She just HAD to go pee! The way to and from the restrooms was right past the table where her neighbor was sitting. He couldn’t miss seeing her if she walked by and if he was interested. However, he seemed only to be paying attention to the women at his table.   

For extra security Lisa recruited one of her companions to go with her to the restroom.  All seemed to go well both going to and from the restroom. Lisa thinks her neighbor looked up to see her but he didn’t seem to pay any particular attention.

It was just when she got back to her booth that it happened. The guy bolted up from his table and quickly left the club. He seemed to make sure that he did not have to pass by where she was sitting.

What had happened, she was left to wonder. Had he belatedly read and recognized her? Or was it something totally unrelated such as a phone call from work or home? She never found out. For some time she avoided any chance of meeting that neighbor and apparently soon the other family was gone from the neighborhood.

“Oh brother, wherefore art thou?”

Marie had the strangest story. Apparently, she lived in a large sprawling urban area with several TG support groups, all somewhat related so members of one group were in the habit of attending meetings of other groups. Besides living in a large city Marie came from a large family of brothers and sisters who did not see each other all that often but she felt they stayed ‘connected’. Each knew what the others were doing, or so she thought.

As I remember Marie telling it she was at her group meeting which, due to the guest speaker, had drawn several visitors from some of the other groups. All was going well.  The speaker was interesting and there were lots of questions. Marie said she liked it when the other ladies got up to ask a question as she could study what they were wearing and how they were presenting.

However, one questioner caught Marie’s particular attention and caused her to leave the meeting earlier than she had planned.  It didn’t take long for Marie to fixate on the ‘pretty young thing’ asking the next question. It was her voice that made Marie take a closer look and then recoil in shock. “That was my brother,” I remember Marie exclaiming, “no doubt about it. That was my youngest brother. He had such a distinctive voice that I had listened to for some 20 years. I always thought he had a sort of girlish voice but I never suspected him of crossdressing.”

Marie said it was a large meeting and when sitting her ‘brother/sister’ was not looking in her direction. She was tempted to go introduce herself but then thought better of it. Why not? She told us it was self preservation. In those days a person could get in some trouble socially and work-wise just by being known as a crossdresser. Let’s say someone is outed. Their defence might be, ‘well maybe I am a crossdresser but so is this judge and that business owner and this brother. She didn’t want to be the ‘this brother’. So she slipped out of the meeting.

Did she ever ask her brother about his dressing?  She said up to that point she hadn’t. I guessed she was leaving the ‘door open’ on that one.

Texas ‘T’ Party

Now it’s my turn. I don’t have to tell you the story as I remember telling it. I can freshen it up.  As many of you know I live in Canada. I lived then in a small city where I was somewhat well-known, not as Linda but in my male role in life. Back in the 1990s it was a big deal for me to be planning a trip to the Texas T Party. No this was not the political party that came along later, not the annual gathering of Model T Ford owners and their cars. T was a big ‘T’, for transgender, gathering that took place every year for several years in San Antonio. Each year our ‘T’ party attracted over 1,000 attendees. I think the year I went there were some 1100 delegates and all the best merchants and plastic surgeons serving the TG market. 

It must have been a massive undertaking to organize the registration for this event. They may have had computers and word processing for some functions, but they didn’t yet have the Internet. All our registration had to be done by what is now known as snail mail.

While filling out the registration forms, I came to one asking for my usual (real) name and address. I think there was a legal requirement for them to give it to the hotel for room registration.  ‘I don’t want to tell them that,’ I said to myself. I’m going to be Linda all day every day that I am there. I wrote my name as Linda Jensen and my address as the postal box I was using at the time. Then I thought nothing more of it.

Move forward to the ‘T’ Party. One afternoon I was resting in my room when the phone rings.

“Hello,” I answered with surprise as I was not expecting any calls.

“Is this Linda Jensen from XXXXX,” said the voice on the other end. After I acknowledged it was she continued, “this is Karen. I’m also from XXXXX. I’m volunteering here, helping on the registration desk. I came across your registration application and saw that we are from the same town so I thought I would say hello.” It took a little time for it to click with me that if I had filled out that registration form as they had requested that perky volunteer from XXXX would have my male name and address. WHEW!

We talked about the small world and we agreed to get together for cocktails and dinner. Karen turned out to be really nice and she showed no sign of prying about my other identity and she offered nothing about hers.  She wasn’t a neighbor and certainly wasn’t one of my brothers. She told me of some of the interesting people she was meeting while working the registration desk. I could see her telling the same stories once she got back home. I was very glad that one of her stories would not start ‘You will NEVER guess who I met at the Texas T Party. . . ”

Bonus: A History of the Texas ‘T’ Party written by Monica Roberts.

Tags: crossdressing, featured, Out & About, Transgender

Category: crossdressing