Saturday night was invited by the Wizard to go to a cross dressers club, London's 'premier' transgender club, no less.
There were a handful of biologically born women. One of them had a birthday and was given an enormous cake with a huge erection and large breasts covered in pink chocolate.
The club is run by Vicky, wearing a fetching silken babydoll dress, who has been doing this for 15 years. She is undoubtedly providing a much needed service. I recently had a date with a cross-dressing male "Don't worry, for the first date I will come dressed as a man" who made his living out of giving dinner parties for men who "like to be comfortable". No sex, just dinner and dresses. He has an email list of 2000 men who like to be 'T girls'.
All of the 'ladies' at the club looked pretty grotesque. I'm sorry. I totally understand why men would want to dress up as women. Why not? It's fun! Make-up and heels.
But dressing like a woman, even getting your bits changed to resemble a woman is not, I'm afraid, the same as being a woman.
The ladeez tottered exaggeratedly on their heels, skittering about like nervous race-horses, flicking back their hair untold times. Others looked like butch female characters from Otto Dix paintings.
My 'date' was so turned on by his stockings and suspenders and rubber mini-skirt, he could not stop preening in the mirror. I was the invisible drip-feed to his narcissism.
"You look so pretty" I told him, experimentally.He sighed with satisfaction. He then told me about his new love, a whispery hippy girl. Inwardly I seethed. Surely it is the prerogative of the dumpee, not the dumper, to confess to meeting someone new.
"Why didn't you ask her here tonight then?" I snapped.
"Oh she's not into this, she's terribly fragile. You can hardly hear what she is saying." he replied. "Unlike me, she has no dark side. She's into yoga. I love her energy. She's really submissive."Knowing this guy is a power-tripping, game-playing sexual pervert par excellence, with a thin veneer of hippydom, all drawstring trousers and dreadlocks, it was all I could do not to scoff. In fact I don't think I managed to hold back.
"It's like all those men who fancy Thai women, thinking they are so docile. What rot! Those women are hard as nails" I commented.I stood around bored out of my mind. It was the opposite of sexy. The vulnerability is so evident, wafer-thin under the pancake foundation.
"I don't know who to fancy". I complained to another bio-female."The ones that look like boys are probably gay, the ones that look like girls could be either way, 'gay' (depending on whether they have had the op, which would mean they fancy women), or 'straight' (if they were pre-op and fancied women) or ...well it's all rather confusing."A female impressionist did a performance, miming to Cher (black Charles I wig), Kylie (blonde wig), Dusty (tight lurex evening dress). Her spandex leotard barely contained the bulge in her groin. Her face was odd, huge eyes and grin, no hips.
The birthday girl was hauled out to the dance floor and asked to lick the penis of the cake.
The wizard said "She looked so embarrassed."
"Well that's the difference between a real woman and a trannie" I shot back.
Perhaps I am being cruel. There was warmth. I accept them. I do. Just don't tell me you are a woman.