Transgender Girl Dancing the Night Away

Hello everyone! I’m Lynda Martini. I grew up in Westfield, New Jersey, home of the Blue Devils, so I am a card carrying, big-haired Jersey girl. I’m about to get my name legally changed and so I will soon be permanently trading pockets for purses. Now I live in a Philadelphia suburb and take the train to work in Center City Philadelphia. Taking the train everyday means I have lots of time to kill. I like to ride in the quiet car and usually I read or catch up on the never ending blur that is Facebook.

Back in the day, I relied on the personal ads in magazines like Tapestry, LadyLike and Transformation to find like-minded crossdressers. I would pen letters to girls hundreds of miles away to trade fashion tips and fantasies. These days I write little blogs on Facebook about bicycling on the Schuylkill River Trail and the trials and tribulations of transitioning. It’s a one way ticket to paradise. Writing is a bit of a lost art. I actually like to write long hand as my mind wanders far and wide. A couple of weeks ago, Angela Gardner asked me to write a column for TGForum. “Write something fun”, she said. Perhaps I am on my way to fame and fortune. Well, here goes.

Of all the things that I like about being a woman, the one thing that give me the greatest pleasure is dancing. As a woman, I have the right to spontaneously dance to the beat, whenever and wherever I chose. The world is my dance-floor. As a teenager, my parents enrolled me in dancing lessons given by Barkley Dancing School. The Barclays were an elegant couple who would travel up and down the East Coast giving dance lessons to 7th, 8th and 9th graders. I was painfully shy and terrified of asking girls to dance. Of course, I wanted to be one of the girls. I wanted someone to ask me to dance. I hated going to those classes. I would develop imaginary sore throats as an alibi. Didn’t work. One time I went so far as to deliberately rip my good pants, so I could get out of going to class. Didn’t work. My mom just sewed up my pants in a jiffy. I learned how to Waltz, Foxtrot, Lindy and Cha-Cha in spite of myself, and little by little, I got to know some of the wallflowers.

These days, whenever the music suits my taste and I feel like dancing, I simply step out on the dance floor and do my thing. The other dancers will be watching for the moment it is safe to head out on the dance floor. And more often than not, other dancers, typically female, join me on the dance floor.

My philosophy has always been “Why do when you can overdo? So when I am out on the dance-floor, I just keep dancing as long as the DJ keeps the flow going.

Dancing to live bands is a special treat. About a year ago, I discovered a bar called the Rib House in Bridgeport, Pa. that features live bands. It’s your basic lil ‘ol honky tonk and the dance floor is right up in front of the band, which makes me feel like I am part of the entertainment. The Rib House is your basic middle American Melting Pot with a slightly older clientele than the 20-something crowd. A cross section of Americana, date nights, girls nights outs, guys out on the prowl, and watering hole regulars. The ribs are really good by the way. The bands play cool rock and roll tunes and rhythm and blues standards from the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s that are perfect for singing along and letting it all hang out.

I love high heels. I love them so much I have 230 pairs of shoes. Pumps, platform pumps, sling-backs, booties, shooties, calf boots, and high heeled sandals in all the colors of the rainbow, plus animal prints and metallics. But when I know that dancing is gonna be part of the mix I always stick dancing shoes in a tote bag. If you can dance like Ginger Rogers in high heels more power to you. Me, I prefer low heels or flats, so I can spend as much time on the dance floor. I even keep a band aid or two in my purse, just in case my shoes decide to bite back.

While the United States Government does not require you to obey the dress code and wear a dress on the dance floor, I personally think it ups the fun factor. As in “Are we having fun yet?” “Are you listening to me? Just checkin.” As I was saying, my girlfriend from Michigan, the lovely and talented Amy, likes to twirl the night away in a full skirt or dress with a full lining of crinolines, which she color coordinates with her dress. When she twirls, the centrifugal forces lifts her dress revealing her crinolines and she looks just like a ballerina on a music box. Oh-la-la! Beyond a fashionable sheath dress, second choice might be a tunic and leggings. Or perhaps you would prefer to rock some skintight curve hugging jeans that accentuate your booty. Those jeans just might get you the attention you richly deserve. Especially if you “shake it like a polaroid picture.” Leave your turtleneck at home and go with the low cut Connie look, or perhaps the cold shoulder look which is particularly flattering for us broad-shouldered gals. Of course, what you choose to reveal and conceal is nobody’s business but your own. However, the guy who invented Spandex® deserves a Nobel Peace Prize.

One thing I like about dancing is that it gives you a chance to survey the crowd and keep an eye on your friends while you are scoping out the talent. And, of course, you can get a close look at your fellow dancers. Alliances can be formed without a word, and you can avoid the whole trauma of asking someone to dance and being shot down. For festive songs you can join the love train that is circling the dance floor. Guys rarely line dance, but as a woman you can enjoy this tribal ritual of paint by the numbers dance steps.

One important consideration is what to do with your purse while you are out on the dance floor. If you have got a wing girl or a posse, you are all set. You can take turns watching each other’s purses and drinks. When I know I am going to be out on the dance floor I always pick a small crossbody bag and carry just the essentials: money, ID, spare clip-on earrings in case you lose one out on the dance floor, lipstick, and last, but not least, a cell phone for selfies (remember if you don’t take a selfie, it didn’t happen… dance floor selfies are particularly festive and posting them will give everyone the impression that you are the life of the party, mix them in with bathroom selfies and impromptu shots of you and your friends).

Plan B is to set your purse a on a table or the floor next to the dance floor, where you can keep an eye on it. Ten bucks says are going to walk away from the dance floor and suddenly come to the realization that you have left your purse behind with your credit cards and your cellphone. Carrying your drink with you onto the dance floor? Do you want to be the girl who spills her drink on the dance floor and leaves a sticky mess? I didn’t think so. Sticky dance floors remind me of the basement of my fraternity. Let me remind you that we are not in college anymore.

So you say you don’t like to dance. Relax, we can still be friends. “Hey can you watch my purse and drink? Just remember, I’m easy so you only need to put half a roofie in my drink.” And remember, always dance like no one is watching.

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Tags: dancing, featured, Identity, Out & About

Category: Out & About, Transgender Body & Soul