Our Man in a Dress: Out of One Closet, and into Another. . .

It was the Summer of 1999. The small Felixstowe Girls crossdresser support group — FXG — held its monthly meetings in the local headquarters of a mental health drop-in centre (much to the amusement of its members) in the English seaside town of the same name. This building had limited parking facilities out-front, and it wasn’t unknown for members to turn around and drive straight back home if they were unable to get a space, especially when the evenings were light. Being one of the more confident members, therefore, I habitually left my car in the supermarket car-park just across the road.

Graham as Sally “The Tart” with blue hair.

On this particular evening, however, I was taken aside by the meeting’s co-ordinator, Mary, who raised concerns from a couple of members that my very short skirts and big hair — which was frequently coloured a shade of emerald green or electric blue — was drawing unwanted attention from the public to the fact that there were crossdressers in the building. “Our members rely on the fact that they can get in and out of the building without being seen.” She went on to say that I wasn’t presenting an appropriate image for a crossdresser — specifically, that I wasn’t making sufficient effort to “pass.”

This wasn’t by any means the first time I’d been accused of being “improperly dressed” (sic). That honour was reserved for an incident the previous November. I’d driven to a “tranny weekend” organised by the UK’s Beaumont Society in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, wearing a short pleated skirt and opaque tights, with painted nails and some light make-up, but without a wig. This had been my first time out presenting as mixed-gendered, and whether or not anyone believed it, it had been a completely innocent action on my part. I naïvely thought that the journey might be a bit dangerous, but that I’d be on “safe ground” once I reached the hotel, which was closed to the public for the duration of the event. However, later that evening, Mary informed me that the Society president, Janett Scott, had spoken to her concerning complaints about my earlier mode of dress from several attendees — apparently, they were angry that I might have been seen in public “half-dressed” (sic) on my way to the hotel. I asked Mary to tell Janett that, while she may have the final say about what constituted suitable apparel in the hotel, how I choose to dress in public is no-one’s business but my own, and that I wasn’t going to be lectured to anonymously by cowards.

Several things about these criticisms set me thinking over the following months

• I’d been seen in public on many occasions sporting hair which might just possibly be construed as belonging to a real woman … that is, had she spent hours in a salon having it spiked and dyed an unnatural colour. But my unusual clothes, conspicuous make-up, and male body-shape — tall, thin, amazing legs, no backside, no hips — would have drawn attention to the fact that I certainly wasn’t a woman. Yet contrary to the dire warnings from other crossdressers, I’d rarely been harassed and never assaulted.

• One might expect crossdressers to understand the trauma of one of their kind growing up with an irrepressible desire to wear women’s clothes, and to be tolerant of alternative presentations. Yet some were claiming — albeit on behalf of a public that in my experience was pretty-much unconcerned — that my appearance was “offensive,” and that I should “dress properly” (sic). Why is one type of presentation deemed acceptable while others aren’t? Who decides, and on what basis? And why can’t my critics be honest and admit that it’s them who are offended, not some hypothetical members of the public?

• The idea that the average crossdresser could put on a dress and a wig, and instantly look like a woman, is absurd … as is the belief that they might be fooling anyone but themselves. The FXG meetings, the Beaumont Society weekend, and all the parties and clubs I’d been to, were full of what can only be described as “men in dresses,” yet we were all supposed to lie through our teeth and say how convincing they looked as women.

• It didn’t seem to matter to the tranny hierarchy that most crossdressers can’t pass so long as they made the effort — very few were overtly criticised for trying, however alarming the result. But someone like me — who, incidentally, always took great care to look immaculate — came under attack because the image I portrayed wasn’t mainstream, and could never have led to me being able to pass.

From my earliest memories, I’d always had the impression that the British public was indeed hostile to crossdressing; my parents had certainly been hostile to my crossdressing when they first caught me, aged five, wearing my sister’s dance outfit. This had resulted in the creation of the one-man closet in which my crossdressing resided for the next three decades. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, knowledge, and a newly-found confidence in a female persona of my own creation, it occurred to me that FXG, the Beaumont Society, and all the other crossdresser support groups I knew of were simply extensions of their members’ personal closets. It made perfect sense — few “outside” people knew of the existence of these groups, members were frequently sworn to secrecy, attendees dressed like women and used women’s names to avoid being recognised, few released their male names, surnames, addresses, telephone numbers, or any other means of identification unless you got to know them really well, and so on. What other explanation could there be except that they were hiding from the public and from each other, and maybe even from themselves? It didn’t take much of a leap of imagination to work out why “passing” is the crossdressers’ highest achievement: it’s the ability to blend in so well as a “real” woman — in other words, to hide behind a physical disguise — that one can go out in public supposedly without being detected.

So … having spent thirty years hiding in a one-man closet denying to everyone — including myself — that I had a “feminine side,” I was now expected to join the ranks of crossdressers hiding in a larger closet denying to everyone — including myself — that I had a “masculine side.” This was a far cry from the enlightened step that I’d been looking forward to taking, and I quickly decided that I wasn’t prepared to go down that route. In any case, all my friends knew that I crossdressed — it was a badge I wore with pride rather than embarrassment. So there was no need for me to be concerned with blending into the background — I wanted to have fun doing what I’d been unable to do for nearly forty years. Electric-blue spiky hair may not have helped me to pass as a woman, but I already passed amazingly well as a crossdresser having a great time; this was in stark contrast to my critics, who passed amazingly well as crossdressers being miserable and judgmental.

Based on my emerging political beliefs, and the inability of the crossdressing community to respond convincingly to my philosophical arguments, the essential elements of my female persona soon became superfluous. I’d already decided, on an unusually warm night in Blackpool in March 1999, that a bra and false breasts were uncomfortable … so they’d remained in my room while I went clubbing. It had been liberating, and I never wore them again. My female name fell out of use in the latter half of the year — Sally “The Tart” Watson had served her purpose — and shortly after that, the wigs went too. During this time, I was continually experimenting in my everyday life, looking for a presentation with which I was comfortable — in effect, this meant mixing male and female, masculine and feminine, in various combinations. I wore unisex items such as sleeveless vests and sarongs, while keeping my jewellery, perfume, and a modicum of make-up. However, crunch-time came in the form of two Millennium Concerts at Ipswich Town Hall on 28th and 29th January 2000, and being a musician, I was told at the eleventh hour that I’d have to wear a dinner jacket. It was too late to pull out, and the experience — as I’d feared — made me physically ill. So it was that on Sunday 30th January 2000, I vowed to never again wear male clothes, and particularly trousers … and with one subsequent exception to help an old friend, I’ve honoured that promise ever since. I’m convinced that it’s kept me from self-destruction.

I “femmed-up” for a few tranny functions over the next couple of years, but with decreasing conviction. The last time was as a maid for a non-tranny themed party in 2005, but it felt fake and uncomfortable. Do I miss it? Not really … now that I can wear whatever I want any time of the day or night, indoors or outdoors, I no longer have the craving to crossdress in the way that I used to, and “being Sally” doesn’t hold the thrill that it once did. But I still love my lacy lingerie, short skirts and stilettos, and wear them whenever the mood takes me … much as any woman might. And the response from the real world? While I occasionally get abuse from yobs in the street, the trick is not to “play victim” — most people will leave me alone if they think they’re going to get the shit whipped out of them in public. However, my friends in amateur theatre, my neighbours, my colleagues in the Police, my professional business clients … they all accept me for what I am. Most have never seen me wearing trousers. Most have never seen me wearing a wig except in photographs. And while I make it quite clear that my mode of dress shouldn’t be regarded as “off-topic,” most of them aren’t even curious enough to ask.

The crossdressing community has got it wrong: its members don’t have to “pass” as women to be able to wear the clothes they like in public — I’ve proved that beyond doubt. That’s because passing isn’t about false tits, make-up, and a feminine gait, but simply about self-confidence … if you have that, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. As for “coming out,” very few crossdressers get to experience that for real because they’re too concerned with jumping between their male and female closets, and hoping no-one sees them in transit. True “coming out” means demolishing your closets — all of them.

Tags: featured, opinion, passing

Category: Style, Transgender Body & Soul, Transgender Opinion