Let’s get one thing straight: I am not a transvestite. And I am certainly not a transsexual.
A transsexual is somebody who wants to BE the opposite sex to that which they were born. I do not want to be a woman. You would not catch me forking out £20,000 for some very painful surgery in a dubious clinic in Dubai. And anyway you can’t be sure it will be successful, can you. And if it wasn’t – then where would you be! Talk about not knowing your elbow from your arse… that would be the least of your worries.
And as for being a transvestite: that is someone who gets erotic pleasure from cross-dressing. I do not get any erotic pleasure from dressing as a woman - well, hardly any.
Why do I do it, then?
Well it is not because I am effeminate. I could have joined the Marines, you know. I passed all the tests. But then it occurred to me that I might have to kill someone! I couldn’t do that! I’d much prefer to discuss the matter in a civilised manner. I mean most things can be sorted out over a cup of tea – don’t you find? But then, I suppose that’s more the job of the diplomats than the Marines. And I failed the Civil Service examination. Well no, that’s not true: I passed the exam but failed the interview. And you know why that was? I’ll tell you: it was because I had not been to a public school. (For the benefit of any foreign readers – for example Americans – our ‘public schools’ are actually private schools. And very elite private schools at that.) And believe me, the ‘old boys network’ is still going strong in this country.
And that brings me nicely to why I do dress as a woman: it is a protest: a protest at the unfairness of everything. You don’t choose the family you are going to be born into. We are thrust arbitrarily into this world, without so much as a ‘by you leave’, ‘kiss me Hardy’, ‘Mind the step’ – and have a set of genitalia thrust upon us, which we did not choose. And so we are forced into a gender role. Well, I am protesting against this ‘luck of the draw’ stereotyping.
I dress as a woman to show that I can do so – if I choose. Because choice is what it is all about. Of course I do not don the attire of the female sex every day: it depends upon how I feel. I mean, I may wake up one morning and think: what a lovely sunny day. I do not wish to be constrained by trousers – I shall wear a dress. Having so decided, it seems obvious to complete the ensemble, including shoes, wig, make up, nail varnish (I have lovely nails).
Equal opportunity is the watchword. And in pursuance of this I insisted on being allowed to join the Sisterhood. The only person to vote against my acceptance was my dear old step-mum. There’s a family loyalty for you! Of course, she is mad at my dad for going mad. But that’s not my fault is it?
I’ve been thinking: I may re-apply for the Marines. The uniform would really suit me.
1 comment:
Join the Marines! Are you mad, Sydney? They'd send you to Iraq. What yer gonna do when some great, hairy al Qaeda noggin thrusts his you-know-what up yer jacksy? Offer 'im a cup o' tea?
The best thing you can do, my lad, is go and have a talk with your father. And, while you're there, try and get him out of the place so he can sort out this shower of lesbian thugs who've high-jacked his blog. Mad, my arse! George is just taking the coward's way out - hiding in that place to avoid confronting all the women in his life. It's time he took control.
Post a Comment