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All settled in to my wide awake, lifelong dream come true, finally wandering around looking at least a bit like the beautiful women I’d always wanted to emulate, feeling exactly the way I knew it would feel – light and floaty outside, light and floaty inside. Talk about living the dream – this is exactly what I mean.
There was only one thing to do right now, and that was to get some lunch!
Sadly, I had worn down the battery with Google Maps, so I couldn’t locate the Mad Cucumber on this occasion. Somehow, the name didn’t fit the occasion, and I felt drawn to the cool shade of the Central Gardens in the midday heat.
To think that the forecast, even this morning, was 90% thunderstorms! Even now, my app said 75% chance – but the clouds stayed away, the sun shone, and I could hear music.
Busker music, admittedly, but tuneful and mellifluous – it was “Sit Down” by James, being sung nicely in tune, although a bit wavery on the lower notes.
What could I do?
I went to the Picnic Park Deli, a delightful cafe/coffee bar with seating on terraced levels, and I ordered a Proud Mary (Brie, avocado and sundried tomato toastie), and an iced latte float, and found an out of the way seat near the back to kick back, listen, and plan my afternoon.
I was quickly joined under the large gazebo in the corner by a party of 8 teenage girls, who hardly seemed to notice me, some wearing the most delightful little summer dresses, and their happy chatter mingled pleasantly with the music, which was mainly aural wallpaper to me – although I did listen intently to the rough cover of “Mardy Bum” (Arctic Monkeys), which reminded me that yes, in drab, I can have many moments of pointless anger, just like any other man.
The busker wrapped up with “Creep” (Radiohead), a song which, although overplayed, and a rip-off of “Air That I Breathe” (Hollies) somehow never gets old or loses its freshness. The lyrics and emotion speak to my soul somehow, and bring tears to my eyes as I identify with the deep truths therein.
It was time to leave the cafe, so, getting up carefully from the bench, in order not to show my underwear to the world, I got up, popped the cardboard containers in the bin, and swished my way through the now crowded cafe, and out into the main road, which I needed to cross in order to buy some souvenir sweets for the children.
I like to get chocolate pebbles from Brighton, and make the same tired joke each time, that the reason I am so tired is that I was up half the night looking for these rare chocolate pebbles on the beach. The younger ones love that. Doesn’t work so well for Bournemouth, which is miles and miles of sand, with nary a pebble in sight, but still…
The road was very busy, and I located a crossing, bracing myself for the inevitable cat calls and clever comments – I’d had absolutely none so far – where were all the idiots?
Where the super-conditioned old people? Bournemouth is absolutely full of retired folk, surely some of them have something to say about it?
Why weren’t freaked out children shrieking “Look, mummy, a man in a dress!!!”?
What about the young men in their 20s and 30s? “I don’t think much of yours, Steve?”, “Oi, mate, you’re not fooling anyone!!” – and so on. The amazing inventiveness of those who wish to pick on someone who is different to them.
The plain truth is that there was none of that.
Not a hint of disapproval or disgust – and I have come across all manner of reactions, so I recognise disgust on a scale of quite mild, “Ugh!” to outraged “Who do you think you are, pervert???” – and there was none of that.
I crossed the road, with other folk who wanted to cross the road – I caught the eye of a young man with a beard, who smiled, open-mouthed, like he liked what he saw, but wasn’t going to act on it, and the eye of a lady in her 60s, who looked away, smiling coyly.
I do believe people liked my appearance.
I want to believe it – it would be awesome if they did!
But yet, here I was, in my light blue leaf-pattern summer dress, opening my patent nude handbag with little studs around the edge, to eke out my face mask so that I may enter the sweet emporium safely.
There were quite a lot of people in here, browsing the huge varieties of unusual, old-fashioned and downright wierd sweets, in rows and rows of jars, coloured wrappers and strange, exotic designs.
I couldn’t quite take it all in, so was relieved when an assistant asked “Can I help you,dear?”
“Ooh – Yes, please!” I almost breathed, in my softest possible voice – not deliberately, but it just felt right that someone who looked the way I did should talk like that. “Do you happen to have chocolate pebbles?”
“Oh, yes – just a minute, Dearie!”, and off she went, to the far corner, weighed out a decent amount, and charged me a lot less than I expected – so I added some beautifully moulded jelly dragons to the cache, and happily paid, using the card I keep in my handbag’s special card pocket – a requirement I picked up from previous trips, when I discovered that if anything could get lost in a handbag, it will – especially payment cards and room keys – no matter what size the handbag is.
I went around a few more shops for sundry items – I was quite tempted to look in a clothes shop with big reductions on summer dresses, and stared through the window a short while, but I wanted to paddle in the waves in my turquoise swimsuit, and spend some time on my makeup for the show tonight, so in reality, didn’t have too much time to spare for shopping.
Again, it didn’t matter where I went, people were civil, shop assistants were helpful, and everyone I noticed seemed to be smiling. It really was the most comfortable, beautiful experience – just doing ordinary things, en femme.
I know there are plenty of lucky ladies who get to do that anyway, but for those of us who rarely if ever get the chance, this is the dream, and if you get the chance, don’t waste a second of it worrying about other people – they’re OK, and if you smile, people smile with you. Even if it’s at you, they’re still smiling, and you’re responsible for the moment of entertainment that they might not otherwise have had.
So.
Back to the hotel room, into my swimsuit – my goodness, did I even dare do this?
What’s so daring?
About 20 years ago, I used to go to the gym regularly, and use the spa facilities afterwards.
One day, a guy came into the spa in a bikini. Apart from myself and him, the place was full of women – it was a mixed spa – and the women were stifling back the giggles at this hairy man in a bikini.
He looked awful to me – but I couldn’t help admiring his bravery, and wishing, really wishing I had the guts to do that.
Listening to the sniggering from the women, I knew why I wouldn’t dare, and yet how silly and horrid they were being.
I’ve seen women who look awful in the particular swimsuit they were wearing, but didn’t snigger openly.
Back to my room, and I found the smallest sundress I possess.
As it’s covering a swimsuit, that’s OK – that is the rule.
You can get away with anything in the right context, and I slipped my trainers back on, and headed off to the beach.
The warm air hit me when I left the hotel. Sauntering gaily down the hill, past the busy bus stop, noting the women in even smaller dresses than my own, barely twitching in the still air, I felt right. Like I was born to be this way. Like I am supposed to be this way, and to return to the world of drab… no, I didn’t want to think about that right now!
I could see the pier, I could see the golden beach, I could both see and hear the waves swooshing impressively and playfully onto the joyous people, happily jumping the waves, body-surfing, or turning their backs on the waves and shrieking with surprise at the bigger ones.
The swimsuits of many of the women seem far skimpier this year – so much exposed flesh!
Several women of different shapes in bikinis made for someone much smaller wandered around completely unconcerned, and I felt a deep, somewhat embarrassingly patronising pride in them for doing so – for wearing those tiny scraps of fabric and to Hell with what anyone thought.
Right on, sisters – I love your attitude, and will learn from it!
I was nervous about doing this, but now it is a mission.
It’s something that I have to do, in order to fulfil myself, be myself and earn some self respect and esteem.
Not finding a spot to sunbathe and maybe paddle is no longer an option. Not for me something I would quite like to do, but I am now stepping onto the sand, now removing my trainers and feeling the soft grittiness between my toes.
A spot well away from others, with a clear run down to the waves presents itself right in front of me.
I take the towel from my bag, spread it down – then grab my handbag and pop to the nearby kiosk for a mint choc chip ice cream and a bottle of ice cold water.
3 women in skimpy swimsuits are in the queue ahead of me, and I feel quite overdressed.
They chatter happily, and, after ordering their treats, stand aside and offer me the place at the till while they wait for their orders to be prepared.
No-one is judging me.
But I do feel hot!
Can’t wait to get the dress off, and feel like those women do…
But I will have to wait until part 4.
😁😍😍😍😍😍😎😎😎❤
Great read Laura, I felt like I was right there in the action. Can’t wait for part 4.
— Abbie 🥰
I will say that I can’t help but imagine myself in this magical story of adventure and discovery. I cannot see the sand and ocean as you did but I do see in my minds eye the beach and ocean at Myrtle Beach SC, where I have been ,in drab, so many times. I am enthralled in your adventure and crave more. Such detail and imagery as to put us, the reader, right there with you. Great, just great. Mooooorrrreeee please.
Trisha
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