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Image Credit: Picture from PublicDomainPictures.net. Free for commercial and personal use with restriction. Girl in Red.

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Chapter 1: My Childhood Wishes Unfulfilled
 
I can picture, quite clearly, the first occasion that I was conscious of wanting to wear a dress. It was in the early summer of 1994, when I was approaching four years of age. To some people, this may seem an odd desire for a little boy, yet even then it didn’t come as a complete surprise to me and so I now wonder if the wish had been gradually forming in my mind for some time even before this date. It would be nearly fifteen years before my wish was fulfilled and in the meanwhile I knew instinctively that I must keep my desire a secret. Even as a three-year-old I was conscious that I would never be able to explain how I felt to my parents, to my big sister, and above all, to my contemporaries in the village and later at school.

The realisation in question came as my mother was helping my grown up sister, Carol, to get ready for her end of school prom (there was a thirteen and a half year age gap between us). The door to her bedroom was open and I peered into the room to watch as Mum helped Carol fix her hair, feeling a mixture of admiration and envy about the lovely clothes my sister was wearing and how beautiful she looked. Carol must have noticed in the mirror that I was staring at her.

‘What is it Nick, what do you want?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ I replied, guiltily, turning to leave.

My mother turned to look at me.

‘When you are grown up, Nick, you’ll be able to escort a young lady wearing a beautiful dress like this to the school prom.’

I grunted in agreement and left, knowing that I couldn’t possibly explain to her, or to anybody else, that it was me who wanted to be escorted to the prom, wearing a beautiful dress with perfect hair and make-up.

I never forgot that incident, nor lost my secret desire to dress and be treated as a girl and I would use the time between going to bed and falling asleep each night to invent situations and scenarios involving myself that for the time being sought to fulfil my private longings.

~o~O~o~

Carol left us to go to Oxford University later that summer, before I’d had much chance to get to know her. She proceeded to do extremely well, won prizes in economics and got invited to attend and later help to organize summer schools overseas. Thus we didn’t see a lot more of her after that year, apart from occasional fleeting visits at Christmas. Ultimately, at the age of twenty-three, she was head-hunted to join the trading floor of an investment bank, and has been living in London ever since. My parents’ marriage also began to break up round about the time that Carol left home and we saw less and less of my father until one day Mum announced that he had left for good. In retrospect, I can see that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Their marriage had been on the rocks before I was born and once Carol left Mum transferred all her attention and affection to me and gradually froze him out. At the time I was too young to understand what was happening.

Thus I grew up living a fairly isolated and sheltered life in our village of Brome, on the border between the East Anglian counties of Norfolk and Suffolk. Although I was not, strictly speaking, an only child, to all intents and purposes I might just as well have been. It was a moderately happy childhood, but I always kept in the background and with my head firmly below the parapet. There were a couple of other lads in the village of my age, but unfortunately no girls for me to have as friends, as I would have preferred. I suppose I became something of a ‘mummy’s boy’ but managed to avoid making any enemies and was never bullied at school in the way that some kids were if they were perceived as being different. I knew instinctively when to keep my mouth shut and that there were certain feelings that you must never admit to in any circumstances. In other respects I coped with school although I never shone in the way my sister had done before me. I was not exactly in my sister’s shadow at school, but I was in the shadow of her reputation.

~o~O~o~

I had turned eighteen before I ever came across a man wearing a dress, although no doubt I‘d passed transgendered individuals in the street without being aware of them. One has to say, though, that cross-dressing is not exactly a common feature of East Anglian village life - at least not out of doors. Of course I’d seen various entertainers on television or in films - but that doesn’t count — they’re not real people. My first encounter with a ‘real live’ drag artiste and indeed other men who made their living dressed as women was just over a year ago when my cousin took me to a club in Soho. But before I embark on my story, I’d better fill you in with a little more background.

~o~O~o~

By the age of seventeen I’d decided that University wasn’t going to be for me, but that was the only concrete decision I’d made about my future. Unfortunately, there were no jobs available in the vicinity of our village, other than casual agricultural labour. The only options seemed to be hoeing beet in the open fields in the springtime, fruit picking in the late summer or plucking and gutting turkeys in drafty, foul-smelling factories in the run up to Christmas. Such jobs paid the legal minimum wage, but didn’t even provide steady work. I therefore considered the possibility of working in either Ipswich or Norwich, which were at least accessible by rail from where we lived. Mum worked in an office in the town of Diss and could give me a lift to the station each morning. It was a half-hourly service but the fares were expensive, the trains unreliable and getting home was still going to be a pain in the neck, particularly as Mum was at last beginning to rebuild her social life. I did my best, but in 2009 most employers were trying to find ways to circumvent the labour legislation by offering youngsters, such as myself, unpaid or very poorly paid ’trial’ periods and then getting rid of us as soon as we asked for the minimum wage. After a few weeks at work I found that the money I’d earned as a so-called ‘trainee’ hadn’t even covered my travelling costs.

Ultimately, my big sister Carol came to my rescue, no doubt feeling a little guilty that she and her banker colleagues had helped to flush the economy down the pan and condemn my generation to prolonged bouts of unemployment. Despite the banking crisis she could still afford to live in a smart two-bedroom flat in Willesden, north London, and offered to let me stay in her spare room, rent-free, until I could find a reasonable job to support myself. She worked long hours at Canary Wharf and often stayed after work for a drink with her colleagues. She also occasionally stayed out all night, but never explained where she’d been. She tended to be scandalously wasteful of the food that she had delivered to the flat each week. I was therefore invited to help myself to anything she had in her kitchen, which also reduced my living costs somewhat. I willingly accepted her offer and did my best to repay her kindness by keeping the flat clean and tidy, and preparing meals for us both, although I often ended up eating them by myself. Otherwise I was pretty much left to my own devices after I arrived in London in early September of that year.

I wasn’t entirely without funds however: Mum had recently put five hundred pounds into my bank account as an eighteenth birthday present, and I’d found a couple of short-lived casual jobs through an agency. When I wasn’t working I also qualified for Job Seekers Allowance as a NEET (an 18-year old who is ‘not in employment education or training’) which just about covered my absolute basic needs. I was not going to starve but certainly would not have enough money to be able to fend for myself without my sister’s generosity.

The only other person I knew in London at this time was my cousin, Lucy, who began her third year as a psychology student at University College shortly after I arrived there. Lucy lived in Hornsey in a room in one of those large Victorian houses, now converted in to Bedsits. It is a cosmopolitan area and she had a number of interesting housemates including Randi, a drag artiste. Randi, was in his (or her) late-thirties and worked as the MC at a nightclub in Soho. (Lucy told me to use either the male or female personal pronoun to refer to Randi according to how (s)he was dressed at the time). Randi could be outrageously funny and was also very personable. (S)he would occasionally treat my cousin to complimentary tickets to the club. Lucy realised that I’d only recently come down to London, knew no-one and was pretty broke. She was between boyfriends at the time and was also some weeks away from submitting her first University assignment. She therefore persuaded Randi to give her a couple more free tickets and offered to take me out for the evening. I was happy to spend an evening away from the television set and at least to have some company for once.

As I said, I’d never been to a drag show before and had very mixed feelings when we entered, expecting it to be tacky and in some ways a mockery of the secret fantasies that went on in my head. The venue was certainly very popular on Friday nights, and I was both intrigued and embarrassed at the same time. Before the evening’s entertainment began I noticed that some of the bar staff and the waitresses were tall enough to be men, even if they did not exactly resemble them in looks. Others were so good looking that I assumed they must be women, although, given the environment in which they were working, I could not be absolutely sure. The floor-show was introduced by Randi, who was wearing a glamorous long dress, high heeled boots, a blonde wig and immaculate make-up. There was little doubt that Randi was a man, but ‘she’ looked fabulous all the same, and was a great compere. Some of the stand-up performers were quite funny, others were a little bit coarse for my taste (although Lucy seemed to enjoy their performances). One of the performers was quite sexy — one might even say beautiful - and I would have given anything to change places with her. Another would never have passed as a woman in the street in daylight, and realised as much. One or two could sing and dance creditably; but the remainder just relied on their looks and their costumes to get by. All in all, it was an enjoyable show and nowhere near as tacky as I’d been expecting.

During the interval Randi, stopped by our table to acknowledge my cousin.

‘So Lucy, my darling, what did you think of our little show tonight?’

‘It was truly gorgeous throughout, a work of art, especially your commentary, sweetie,’ she replied adopting the same OTT style.

Randi made a small girlish hand-gesture, as if to demur and in doing so displayed a set of beautifully manicured and lacquered fingernails and a large fake diamond ring.

‘That’s so kind of you to say so my love. The show may have been ok but I’m afraid I’m getting a little long in the tooth to be performing.’

It was probably true, for although she looked glamorous and might once have been fairly convincing dressed as a woman she was no longer one of the true beauties in the show.

‘You’re good for a few years yet, Randi; a paragon of loveliness, who can teach us youngsters the meaning of the word,’ my cousin answered. ‘But tell me what does a drag queen do once she gets too old to perform?’

‘She either becomes a dress designer, a hairdresser, an impresario, or a street-walker. Of those, only the impresario holds any attractions to me, my dear. That’s why we’re organising our drag debutantes’ contest tomorrow week to look out for some fresh talent.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘It’s a talent competition for youngsters who have never appeared professionally in drag before.’ She looked across towards me then added: ‘You can bring the boyfriend along if you like, he might just do alright.’

‘Oh, this is Nick, and he’s my cousin rather than my boyfriend,’ Lucy replied.

‘So much the better,’ she said. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance young man,’ she said giving an exaggerated curtsey whilst flashing me a nice smile. She held out her hand to me. I wasn’t sure whether she was expecting me to kiss it or to shake it. I did the latter.

‘I really enjoyed the show,’ I managed to say, beginning to go red as I did so.

‘What a sweet boy,’ said Randi to Lucy. ‘How old is he?’

‘Eighteen.’

I blushed to the roots of my hair.

‘Well Nicholas, how would you like to come along as Nicole next Saturday? With your looks you might do quite well in our competition’ she said, inspecting my facial features as she did so.

I continued to blush.

‘I’m afraid I have absolutely no performing talent,’ I replied.

‘I’ve never let a lack of talent hold me back in show business, my dear. Good looks are just as important as talent for any budding drag princess.’

I smiled and looked away not knowing what to say in response. Randi could see I was getting embarrassed, so she turned instead to Lucy.

‘I’ll even let you both in free again next week if your cousin comes in drag.’

I blushed even further at the idea of a ‘drag princess.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s not for me.’

‘Such a pity,’ said Randi smiling.

She said goodbye and left us to go and talk to another table. I said nothing, half-hoping that Lucy might raise the subject with me again and perhaps even try to persuade me to change my mind, but after a minute or two of silence she started talking about something else.

Lucy and I stayed for the second half of the show, but didn’t remain at the club for long afterwards as neither of us could afford their drink prices. We walked with one another to Oxford Circus tube station where we were about to go our separate ways home.

‘Thanks Lucy, I’ve enjoyed my evening,’ I said, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

‘Good! It has been nice to see you again, Nick. So what did you think of my neighbour Randi?’ she asked.

I smiled.

‘She’s certainly different from most housemates you’re likely to come across, but she seems quite friendly and I’d imagine she’d be good fun to know.’

‘Have you had any further thoughts about her proposition to you?’ she asked.

I’d been thinking of nothing else since she’d spoken to me.

‘I don’t think I’ll take her up on the offer,’ I answered, hating myself as I said so. ‘In any event what would I wear?’

Lucy didn’t respond to my question, and we’d now reached the point where I had to follow the tunnel leading to the Bakerloo Line and she needed to make her way to the Victoria Line. So I said goodbye once again and we went our separate ways. All the way home I held my mobile phone trying to pluck up the courage to ring Lucy and tell her that I’d changed my mind and would really love to go dressed as Nicole next week, and to ask whether she might help me to do so. But I never did.

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