Dealing with the Change

Anonymous

For the next couple of days I would be working down south. I set out around noon to drive from Edinburgh to the Black Country, a journey of 4.5 to 5 hours. After passing Penrith, I left the M6 and drove on the A6 instead until, shortly after 3 o'clock, I pulled into car park of a rural pub, and taking my grip with me, went inside.

I ordered soft drink and a sandwich, and sat down on a bar stool to read the Scotsman. When the sandwich came I ate half of it immediately.

Leaving my food and drink on the bar, and the paper on my stool, I picked up the grip and went to the Gents, where I entered a cubicle and locked the door behind me. Quickly removing my socks & shoes, trousers and shirt, I was left standing there wearing only the black lace panties I had selected this morning.

From the grip I took out my change. First was an 8 strap suspender belt, which after I had hooked it up, had to be adjusted to be under the panties. Only then I was able to attach the Barely Black stockings. Next I slipped on a matching black lace bra, (matching the panties not the belt), followed by my 2" kitten heel sandals.

Now I have been dressing for years and still nothing beats the sensation of standing up in high heels and the effect they have on my posture. I always feel so slinky and sexy when I put on my heels. In reality, I know I'm a 16 stone middle aged bald rugby player, who at that moment looks totally ridiculous, but that thought is never allowed to spoil my special moment.

I donned a powder blue strappy top and dark blue miniskirt and finished off by loading my bra with home made falsies.

While I folded my male clothes neatly in the grip I heard the door to the loo open. A visitor used the facilities, washed and then left again.

I smoothed myself down and, unlocking the cubical door, stepped out into the general toilet area. Standing before the mirror, I quickly applied some bright red lipstick (similar to the colour I had used on my toenails earlier that morning) and attached a pair of 'Pat Butcher' clip on earrings. Both were deliberately selected to look trashy and cheap. Now I was ready for that delicious and slightly dangerous moment.

When I'm dressing in public, I always try to select safe locations. Places like this, a remote pub in the middle of the afternoon where the chances are that the clientele will be middle aged or older couples. I try to avoid groups of youths or rough men and out of a sense of fairness, young families. I don't think I would have liked the 'Daddy why is that man wearing a dress?' question.

But no matter how careful I am in selecting a location, no matter how benign it was when I went to the loo, there is always some apprehension in that moment before I step out.

I opened the door and stepped back into the bar. A quick scan revealed that there were no newcomers. A middle aged couple of barfly's chatting to the barmaid, and two old coffin dodgers, sitting on opposite sides of the barroom, nursing pints to avoid having to go back home.

My heels clicked on the floor as I walked back to my stool at the bar. As I crossed the room I was aware of the barmaid making frantic gestures to the couple to turn round and look at me. One of the coffin dodgers stared at me without displaying any interest at all.

The barmaid gave me her 'winning' smile and the man of the couple turned round to look at me. I hoisted myself back onto the stool taking care to keep my knees pressed together. I wouldn't want to look silly.

'Fancy dress is it?'

'No' I told the t***. 'I just like wearing a frock'. I fiddled with my bra strap which was twisted and once straightened, let it snap back against my shoulder.

'Very nice too' responded his dim witted companion. When I first encountered banal comments like this I would get irritated, but then I realised that they were simply masking their own embarrassment. Now, I just try to field the comments but on occasion, if the individual seems particularly inept, I camp it up and try to increase their discomfort.

'Oh do you really like it', I asked, addressing myself to her. I slipped off the stool and provocatively smoothed my clothes, from just below my bust and right down over my skirt, never taking my eyes off her.

She blustered and the barmaid tried to come to her rescue. 'I like your tights' she said, desperately trying to pretend that this was a normal conversation.

'Gotcha!' I thought. Suppressing a wicked smile, I lifted up my right foot and rested it firmly on the top spar of the bar stool next to the couple.

'Do you like them?' I asked. 'I haven't shaved my legs for a while. Does that spoil the look?' I said to her.

She was speechless. Meanwhile, Twat was verifying that what I was wearing was not in fact tights, but stockings secured by an array of garter straps.

I tired of the game and returned to my own stool to finish my sandwich and drink, and received no further cretinous comments.

The rest of the journey was undertaken in female dress, and was entirely uneventful. When I arrived at my hotel, one of these lodge type places, I knew I was about to experience another first. Tonight, would be the first time, I had actually arrived at a hotel en-femme and gone through the whole check-in thing, dressed. The car park indicated the hotel was pretty busy.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.