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On the night of the winter solstice in 2014, there was to be a parade of lanterns from the town centre and along the seafront, followed by a bonfire on the beach, and fireworks. I decided to go along cross-dressed, not in a fancy costume, but in something respectable. So I chose a grey jacket and skirt, black opaque tights and my chunky pink Mary-Jane shoes. With a long coat and a hat, I felt snug and secure as I stepped into the winter night.
Blending with the crowds, I followed the fiery torches and watched the fireworks from a seafront bench, away from the main throng. Then I wandered further to a nearby bar, daring to enter for a drink – a half pint of ale, which I often have when cross-dressed. A pint looks a bit excessive! Someone asked what it was, I said it was nice and I think they bought the same. Someone else said I looked stylish.
Heading home, I saw a figure wandering towards me. It was an old man, in a state of confusion, who asked where he could buy some slippers. Given that this was late at night in a residential area, the request was both strange and impossible to satisfy. Concerned, I decided to see him home.
The old man lived nearby, though he barely recognized his front door. I asked him to try the key and thank goodness, it opened! I went inside, seeing him upstairs into his flat. Relieved, I stayed for a chat. The man clearly had some kind of dementia, though his brain was clear at times. He said he had been a press photographer, and there were fine prints on the wall of foreign locales. I advised him to have a cup of tea and get some well-needed rest.
Not once did the man question my looks or the truth of my femininity. In his eyes, he had been helped home by a well-dressed, concerned woman. Thinking back, would I have dressed that way if I had known the incident would occur? Perhaps not – though I was proud to have dealt with a crisis and kept, at all times, in character as ‘Polly Jocelyn’.
As I drifted away from Brighton’s Pride events, a smaller version called Trans Pride had begun. This offered a calmer experience for anyone who identified as ‘trans’ in any of its myriad forms, although it was not particularly aimed at cross-dressers.
The first couple were modest occasions, with just a few stalls on a grassed area, but it began to grow in size. One year, I went as a man during the day, speaking to one of the stallholders – a transgender woman called Natasha, whom I knew from a trans group that I attended occasionally. Feeling dull at my own presentation, I arrived at the evening disco rather better prepared. This was held at an arts club, once a venue called The Harlequinade, in an unfashionable back-street.
“Just look at you now!” said Natasha, as I bopped around in the black & white dress bought in 2011. It became stained with spilt beer, sadly – a worthy ‘battle scar’.
I threw myself fully into Trans Pride in 2017, wearing a short lace dress and chunky heels by day. It was good to meet my old cross-dressing friend Sam, an infrequent but welcome occurrence. The event was held with the misplaced optimism that characterises the English summer. Alas, the rain started to pour and a gale-force wind whipped around the tents. One gazebo was literally raised off the ground. We retreated to Sam’s hotel, having a long chat about cross-dressing over cups of tea.
I popped home before the evening event, though this was held in a hyper-crowded bar and was no fun at all. I spent the whole time jammed up against a wall, and ended up minding coats. I never even reached the dance floor and missed Sam entirely. Luckily, there was a chill-out session at another pub next day, where we were able to meet again. One of Sam’s friends, another cross-dresser, said how they had come by train. They had an ‘A’ plan and ‘B’ plan for getting back safely, very sound advice.
Next year, 2018, I donned my blonde wig again for an event called Traumfrau. One of a series of club nights in different venues, it was held in an old church that was now a centre for the arts. I wore a pink blouse with a short black dress, carrying a small velvet shoulder bag. I also had small-mesh fishnet tights layered over grey opaques, with four-inch black stiletto heels.
The venue was wonderfully Gothic, though the girls running the show yelled into a microphone in what was already an echoing venue, making for an ear-piercing time. Still, I had a nice chat with a trans girl from America and a bit of a dance, before slipping quietly away.
Wanting to round out the evening, I lolled on some white sheets at home, and snapped myself in my glamorous outfit. Indeed, these were some of my best-ever girl-self portraits.
Around Midsummer, a friend was having a birthday picnic in some ornamental gardens in a country village. Taking the bus there, I arrived in a purple pencil skirt and white blouse, with opaque grey tights and chunky heels. A pink hat completed the ensemble, as I was determined to cross-dress despite a heat wave that had dried the grass to dust. Though she had not known of my other self, my friend accepted it perfectly. One of her other guests was a transgender woman, in any case.
On the way home, an unexpected gust of wind whipped the hat from my head. I groaned as it flew into the private gardens of a smart apartment building. There was no way I could climb over the fence in a pencil skirt. Would I have to return as a male and risk it in jeans? Wandering along, though, I found an open gate and decided on the civilized approach. I simply walked in and picked up my hat. Then my eyes met those of an observer, enjoying the sun from his back door.
What could I say? “Had to get my hat!”, I chirped. He smiled, not suspecting the true nature of this glamorous trespasser.
That was almost it, as I had a large art commission to work on that summer and I was already behind schedule. ‘Polly’ would have to rest for a while, but first I needed to have my fill. So I dolled up the next day too, went wandering round town in a ra-ra skirt, and loved every minute.
A lovely picture of life as a girl about town with all the trials and tribulations associated with going out. A nice piece of reality and some lovely adventures too.
An enjoyable read, thank you.
"A day in the life" Good onya for being out and enjoying yourself.
Lovely experiences. Thanks for sharing xx
That was a real fun read Polly. It sounds like you do like to have fun. Good for you.
Life is for living and living should be fun.
I wish you all the best for the future and keep those outings going. Enjoy life my friend. Ellie xxxx
Enjoyed reading your adventures as a lady