TV Dreams

Despite continuing to be very careful where my dressing up was concerned the odd awkward moment would arise. There was the time I thought my mother was busy down stairs, and so one of many raids to my sisters’ make-up bags was in progress when she walked in. I leapt onto the bed and stared out of the window, with my back to her.

Obviously sensing something wasn’t normal she came towards me and tried to turn me round to face her.
Tell me, do you know where you get the strength as an eight year old to resist a grown woman? Well, I do! I was terrified of being caught, and eventually she let go and I ran to the bathroom, locking myself in and removing all traces of bright orange lipstick.

Looking back, my mother was a strong willed individual and so could have interrogated me to the point where I confessed what I’d been up to, but she didn’t pursue it further and didn’t mention the incident to my father, as far as I’m aware. It has to be said that there have been times when I thought she might raise the subject, but she has always ‘backed off’. In part because she had an instinct for not pushing too far when it came to her children’s personal feelings, and that I am very grateful for.

She’s dead now, and neither of my parents ever knew from me that I cross-dressed, nor my two sisters. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. My father would have been devastated, although my mother could have coped with it, but there were very strong victorian values handed down to them by their parents, so it would have been a burden.

So, I continued to be careful, but now the feelings of guilt started to encroach on the pleasure, and even more careful strategies were put into place to avoid being caught; this was the start of learning ‘the art of deception’ in its true sense. Being secretive and withdrawing into myself to avoid being caught started to lead to a sense of isolation.

At about the age of 14 the family moved up North and my parents went into business. They did alright for themselves - they deserved it, working very hard to achieve what they did.

Girls were becoming much more interesting, and as a result my dressing desires were being curbed with a degree of success - I even thought these juvenile feelings I’d been having were a development stage I had been going through, and with my growing sexual awareness I could see the sense in not pursuing my crossdressing habits. A couple of girlfriends tried to put make-up on me, but I was too scared to let them in case they realised I was enjoying it too much!

A levels took over my life for a while for all the good it did me, and I ended up going to Catering College, because I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do. This I started in September 1975 and on New Year’s Eve I had a party and invited most of the ex-sixth form and a few of my old friends from down South. Having parents who ran a hotel meant we had the run of the place and even if I do say so myself it was bloody good one if only because I met my future wife, who gate crashed and promptly registered her disgust with my new haircut - it’s funny how you take to folk. After that she latched onto me in order to get rid of the lad she’d brought along!

Catering wasn’t my thing and with my new found girlfriend away at college I found myself with spare time and thoughts of sexy underwear and other feminine accoutrements appeared on the horizon. But now I was living away from home. Of course it doesn’t take a genius to work out where things were going again.

Although money was tight I bought a lovely pale blue basque with suspenders. It wasn’t a real corset job, but in those days my tummy didn’t really need restraining - aah, fond memories. Now, where was I?

As the college years went by I dressed occasionally, guiltily and with a half-promise to myself that I would have to give up these pleasures once my girlfriend and I got married. But that was a while away yet so I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind.

During my time at catering college I worked part time in Nottingham at ‘The Old English Restaurant’ on Mansfield Road, usually evenings at the weekend. Two girls who were sharing a room in the same old house as me were doing another catering course and so put me in touch with the owners, hence I was gainfully employed.

To be honest it wasn’t far short of Fawlty Towers standards, what with dinners ending up on the floor and frozen melon balls cracking the jaws of diners it was a fun place to work.

And afterwards, we’d get taken out for a meal on the Saturday night to about the only place that served decent food at that late hour - it was a Gay Club. And it was here, for the first time, I saw a Transvestite out in public.

She was wearing a cream coloured evening dress, blonde wig, superb make-up and faultlessly manicured and polished nails. Perhaps the only giveaway was her height and those oh so long false eyelashes. She was sitting on her own and looking a bit lonely, but for all that she was a vision - I just wanted to go over and talk to her, but that would have given the game away.

However, my interest didn’t go unnoticed by my crowd, but diversion arrived in the form of an invitation by the nightclub owner to take me to India for two weeks on an all expenses paid holiday - now did I mention it was a Gay Club?

Eventually, I gave up catering as a bad job and ended up in London working for a law firm for five years (litigation, insolvency). I loved it, the buzz, dealing with household names and being privy to what was going on ‘behind the scenes’ in high profile legal cases.

Six months after I started there I got married, and that’s where “Married Life” starts…