The Primrose, December 2008
My wife always chides me for how long it takes me to get ready when I’m going out as Greer. Of course she doesn’t have to remove hair from face, arms, chest and legs before even thinking about makeup and dressing. Anyway, after taking (mumble, mumble) hours to get ready, I was on the freeway and late for my meeting with some new friends for a Saturday night on the town. To top things off, I realized that one of my newly attached fingernails was missing. Sigh.
Lisa E was going to be in town that Saturday from downstate Illinois, and she got the ball rolling for a “Girls Night Out”. I should mention that Lisa E is a Goddess on the Transformations Forum (www.transformationsbyrori/forum). This title was earned as a result of posting 896 messages (and still counting). I myself am proud to have reached the level of Duchess, but I digress. After much back and forth, and great persistence by Lisa, it appeared there would be 7 of us for the evening. The plan was to meet at her hotel and carpool to Boys Town for dinner at the Kit Kat Lounge.
Arriving at the hotel late and with a missing fingernail (oh goody, I found it on the floor of the car!), I hurried to get out of the car and go find the others. As I crossed the parking lot, I realized that my skirt, which was short by design, had further shortened itself while entering, riding in, and exiting the car. I’m not certain just what was showing at that moment, but there were 3 men on an overlooking balcony that were either entranced by my delightfully feminine walk or by my pink panties, garters and stocking tops!
At the designated room, I met Lisa, Teri and Jeanette. Diane and Nina were to meet us at the Kit Kat. Everyone was very understanding of my tardiness and dismissed my abject apologies. A few more minutes were taken while I reapplied my errant nail, fussed with my hair, and tried to catch my breath (a bit of a challenge when wearing a corset). Then we were off. By virtue of having the newest and coolest car, Jeanette was elected to drive.
During the drive from Arlington Heights I found that my new friends had all met each other before that night. They had also all been to the Kit Kat and other venues in Boys Town before. For me, everything was new! I had never even heard of Boys Town until a month or so before. At first I thought it was a sly reference to the area, but it even shows up that way on Yahoo! Maps.
We parked next to the police station and made our way through the neighborhood. It was a bit before 8:00, and there were lots of people on the street. It felt very festive. Those who had been to the Kit Kat Lounge were surprised to find many open tables when we were seated. Apparently the place is usually packed on Saturday nights. That soon changed as other parties arrived. Diane joined us before too much time passed, but Nina never arrived.
By the time we had drinks and appetizers the place was full and the entertainment had gotten underway. The main entertainment is provided by the Kit Kat Lounge Divas who are professional female impersonators. Angelica performed for us. Her act was very good, but mostly we hated her because she was slender and gorgeous. (meow)
At the table on one side of us there were 3 guys (a committed couple and a friend). Apart from them and our group, I think everyone in the place was part of a bachelorette party! There were at least 4 separate parties going on. By the time we finished with dinner, we were chatting with the 3 guys and with members of the two nearest bachelorette parties. It was great! Everyone was friendly and enjoying the atmosphere. I had a special chat with the mother of one of the brides-to-be, and gave her some very good advice. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I think it had to do with drinking heavily until after the ceremony.
After dinner, we were planning to go to Circuits to dance, drink, mingle, whatever. In talking with guys, I was informed that there was probably more action down the street at Sidetrack, or possibly at Roscoe’s. We paid the bill and moved outside to the sidewalk. There we chatted for a while longer with some of the people we had met before walking down Halsted to Sidetrack. Diane was having high heel problems, so she decided to drive down and park closer. Her instinct was good as the 4 blocks must have been about 140 miles in heels. Sadly, she had difficulty parking and we never did meet up with her again that night.
Sidetrack was crowded when we arrived. We hung out near the door for a time hoping that Diane would find us, or that we would get lucky without having to wade into the crowd (definitions of “lucky” vary by participant, individual results may vary, see store for details). Eventually, Jeannette and I ventured into the main bar area to see what we could see. The first thing I noticed, apart from the sea of men, was what I would call the “buyer’s rail” somewhat above the main floor. Along this rail a patron can stand and have a nice view of the whole bar area. The second thing I noticed was that none of the men along this rail were at all interested in the gorgeous t-girls that had just walked in. Oh well.
The third thing I noticed in the main bar area was a pair of very attractive GGs. We were almost immediately accosted by these ladies (why does this only happen when I wear a skirt?) One was a very nice and welcoming young lady. The other was also very nice, but she was also very blasted. Turns out she was from Wales. Have you ever tried to understand what is being said by an inebriated woman from Wales? (Catherine Zeta Jones excluded due to extreme hotness) Anyway, we danced a little, and after we chatted for a time, the non-blasted member of the pair explained that they were part of (are you ready?) a bachelorette party! She told us that their party was moving across the street to Roscoe’s and that we should come over and join them. The incomprehensible member of the duet said something like “fljooeruy sklrul snrowio!” Of course I agreed, and we promised to gather our group and relocate to Roscoe’s.
We gathered ourselves together and headed across the street. At the door to Roscoe’s, we ran into the 3 guys from the Kit Kat Lounge. It was great! Like running into long lost friends! Inside Roscoe’s there was another crowd of people, although this crowd seemed to have a larger proportion of women (still a small minority though). While waiting to order a drink, I saw a guy across the bar area whose t-shirt proclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry, Unf**ck you.” It was a beautiful sentiment, and I was moved to tears.
We circulated through the various rooms of the establishment until we found the dance floor. The floor was crowded, and not as voyeur friendly as Hunter’s, but we gave it a try. Unfortunately, the heat and the crowd caused the experience to be a bit much, so we retired to the front bar area and met up with the ladies from Sidetrack. “Pytwtr hwlitr gflandy!” exclaimed the still drinking lady from Wales. We were introduced to the entire bridal party and hugs were shared all around (I just love the hugs part of being a girl!).
The ladies of the wedding party seemed to really enjoy chatting, drinking and dancing with the ladies of our party. We certainly enjoyed spending time with them. I think we became very close to the lady from Wales. At one point, with great seriousness and gravity, she asked me, “kjlerul worhhtaar hsgew?” I mean really, what can a t-girl say when asked a question like that? So I smiled, gave her a hug and suggested that she dance with Lisa.
After much standing in heels time, and very little sitting on fanny pads time, we decided it was time to call it a night. Hugs and kisses were again shared all around before we headed out the door. Once we hit the street, we began what shall forever be known as the Death March of Boys Town. The 4 blocks back to the car took us about 34 hours. Jeannette took off her boots and walked in her stockings (cheater!), but the rest of us just walked slower and slower until we drifted off into a blissful walking unconsciousness. Ah, yet another sacrifice for our art!
Thus endeth the saga of Greer’s Saturday Night in Boy’s Town. I may be the only t-girl in Chicago who hadn’t been there, but if there is anybody out there who hasn’t tried this exciting part of town, it’s time to make time!
Hugs,Greer
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Secret Handshake
The Primrose, December 2008
I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not very observant of people details. Sure, if I walk by someone with 3 heads, my curiosity will probably be alerted. Wearing a gorilla suit in July? My keen sense of observation will pick it up in a flash. But the more subtle things? Mismatched socks? Different colored eyes? (I actually have those.) Prominent adam’s apple? No, no and no. In this way, I suppose I am the everyperson that many of us hope to encounter in our times out and about. All those people who go about their business and don’t notice us as we strive to be happy in our skins, even if those skins aren’t quite as we feel they should be.
As a consequence of my rather myopic view of the people around me, I don’t often run into the situation where I spot a sister t-girl in the wild. Of course it’s not too hard to spot us at a place like Hunter’s where we’re generally the only ones in skirts (including the GG’s), but at the local grocery store, library or coffee shop, I’ve probably walked by hundreds of sisters without knowing it. Rejoice ladies, the majority of people out there are probably just like me in this way. Your secret is safe with us, because we are clueless.
On the other hand, there are those of you who are very observant. You have a keen eye for detail, and a killer fashion sense. It takes you only moments to scan the room when you enter. Immediately you pick up the little things that tell you, “Ah, she is one of us!” You elegantly sway across the room, smiling and brightening the day of all that you pass. When you reach the sister t-girl you stop and offer your hand in a ladylike way. “Hi,” you say in a well-practiced, feminine voice. “I’m . . . (insert your name here).”
If it is me that you have approached, I’ll figure I’m the luckiest guy in the room because this beautiful lady just came on to me. Wait a minute, that’s wrong, tonight I’m a lady myself. I attempt to do a quick change back to feminine mental mode. “Hi, I’m Greer. Nice to meet you.” I might have gotten the first couple of words out in my up-register femme voice, but by the end I’m back down in male voice range. From that point, I’m busy trying to make a good impression, because I’m still clueless.
What I needed was a secret handshake! The unobtrusive sign that says, “hey, I’m trans, how about you?” This matter of recognition of other members of the community has come up several times recently in message forums. For those who aren’t as observation challenged as I am, there is a real concern about how to approach a sister or brother that you spot out and about. There are several things that must be considered. First, if you let them know that you spotted them, will they be crushed to know they were clocked? Second, how do you let them know that you know without letting anyone else know what you know? You know? Fourth (just seeing if you were paying attention), might you out yourself if you approach this person?
So how should we handle this situation? Honestly, the answer in most cases is simple human contact and courtesy. You politely approach and introduce yourself when circumstances permit. You converse politely for 5 minutes (keep an eye on your watch), then you dive into questions about tucking, hair removal methods and preferred fetish attire. OK, I’m just kidding about the last part (well maybe not the fetish attire part, that’s always a good ice breaker).
The point is you don’t have to base your approach to someone on the basis of mutual transness (did I just make that up?). It should just be a person-to-person contact. You see someone interesting, and you decide to try to get to know them. Sounds great. Of course that never worked for me at dances, bars or even church socials (that was before I became a practicing heathen, but that’s another story). I’m much more comfortable introducing myself as Greer than I have ever been as what’s-his-name, but it still feels like an unnatural act. And that brings me back to the secret handshake.
I’m not really suggesting that we have a secret handshake. If you get to the point of using a handshake, secret or otherwise, you’ve already cleared the main hurdle by making contact. No, what we need is a secret recognition signal. Something that can be flashed across a room when you catch the eye of a brother or sister. Something that will be meaningless to those who aren’t part of the community, but carry full meaning to the rest of us. Something that says, “I’m trans, I’m fabulous, and so are you! Aren’t you? If you’re not, please disregard this signal.”
So what kind of signal could we use? We could be very subtle, like tugging on an earlobe. Unfortunately, that might cause half the married couples in the room to go for their coats. Oh, that isn’t your signal for “I’m bored, take me home now”? Oops, forget I ever brought it up. On the other hand, something like jumping up and down while holding a breast in each hand is probably a bit too obvious, especially if the target of your attempted communication across the room returns the signal. Interesting to imagine though isn’t it.
How about this, you look at the recipient of your signal. When you make eye contact, you touch a pinky finger to your temple. It’s fairly subtle, but it’s unusual enough that your maiden aunt probably won’t do it accidentally (oh the repercussions of that!). Note however that you definitely don’t want to use the index finger for this signal. Your recipient is likely to conclude that you have decided to shoot yourself or them, and this isn’t the message you’re trying to convey, at least not until you’re sharing a bank account.
Assuming that the recipient of your signal hasn’t decided to call the police or a large gentleman with strange bulges under his jacket, AND if you have correctly identified the recipient as trans, AND if you appear to be in control of your faculties, AND if you haven’t committed an unforgivable fashion mistake (remember, it is now permissible to wear white year round), then the recipient may return your signal. This indicates you may feel free to approach the recipient for self-introductions. Of course discretion is still expected. Shouting, “Here I come honey!” and doing some broken-field running across the room will not be appreciated.
It occurs to me that establishing a recognition signal is just the start. Any secret organization worth its salt will also have other signals to allow clandestine communication between members. To close this article of dubious literary work, I offer some additional signals that we should consider adopting. I also welcome readers to pass along their ideas for other signals.
The signal: With your arms at your sides, turn your hands so the palms face to the rear. Touch your thumbs and forefingers together (like an OK sign), then repeatedly bend your wrists so your fingers move back and forth.
The meaning: Your panties are slipping down and you’re in danger of tripping. (Of course this is a warning to another sister in a skirt or a dress. If your own panties are slipping, pull the darn things up.)
The signal: Stand in one spot while wearing high heels, sway your upper body while displaying a pained look on your face. (The last step is necessary to avoid confusion with dancing.)
The meaning: I can no longer stand in my heels. Please bring me a swooning couch and a Mint Julep.
The signal: Hike your skirt up and run like mad to the serving area.
The meaning: The buffet line is now open. (OK, this one isn’t strictly limited to our community, but we girls can put away the food like a bunch of guys, so you don’t want to be late getting in line.)
The meaning: Thank you for being yourself, and for helping me be myself.
The signal: A hug and air kisses.
Hugs,
Greer
I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not very observant of people details. Sure, if I walk by someone with 3 heads, my curiosity will probably be alerted. Wearing a gorilla suit in July? My keen sense of observation will pick it up in a flash. But the more subtle things? Mismatched socks? Different colored eyes? (I actually have those.) Prominent adam’s apple? No, no and no. In this way, I suppose I am the everyperson that many of us hope to encounter in our times out and about. All those people who go about their business and don’t notice us as we strive to be happy in our skins, even if those skins aren’t quite as we feel they should be.
As a consequence of my rather myopic view of the people around me, I don’t often run into the situation where I spot a sister t-girl in the wild. Of course it’s not too hard to spot us at a place like Hunter’s where we’re generally the only ones in skirts (including the GG’s), but at the local grocery store, library or coffee shop, I’ve probably walked by hundreds of sisters without knowing it. Rejoice ladies, the majority of people out there are probably just like me in this way. Your secret is safe with us, because we are clueless.
On the other hand, there are those of you who are very observant. You have a keen eye for detail, and a killer fashion sense. It takes you only moments to scan the room when you enter. Immediately you pick up the little things that tell you, “Ah, she is one of us!” You elegantly sway across the room, smiling and brightening the day of all that you pass. When you reach the sister t-girl you stop and offer your hand in a ladylike way. “Hi,” you say in a well-practiced, feminine voice. “I’m . . . (insert your name here).”
If it is me that you have approached, I’ll figure I’m the luckiest guy in the room because this beautiful lady just came on to me. Wait a minute, that’s wrong, tonight I’m a lady myself. I attempt to do a quick change back to feminine mental mode. “Hi, I’m Greer. Nice to meet you.” I might have gotten the first couple of words out in my up-register femme voice, but by the end I’m back down in male voice range. From that point, I’m busy trying to make a good impression, because I’m still clueless.
What I needed was a secret handshake! The unobtrusive sign that says, “hey, I’m trans, how about you?” This matter of recognition of other members of the community has come up several times recently in message forums. For those who aren’t as observation challenged as I am, there is a real concern about how to approach a sister or brother that you spot out and about. There are several things that must be considered. First, if you let them know that you spotted them, will they be crushed to know they were clocked? Second, how do you let them know that you know without letting anyone else know what you know? You know? Fourth (just seeing if you were paying attention), might you out yourself if you approach this person?
So how should we handle this situation? Honestly, the answer in most cases is simple human contact and courtesy. You politely approach and introduce yourself when circumstances permit. You converse politely for 5 minutes (keep an eye on your watch), then you dive into questions about tucking, hair removal methods and preferred fetish attire. OK, I’m just kidding about the last part (well maybe not the fetish attire part, that’s always a good ice breaker).
The point is you don’t have to base your approach to someone on the basis of mutual transness (did I just make that up?). It should just be a person-to-person contact. You see someone interesting, and you decide to try to get to know them. Sounds great. Of course that never worked for me at dances, bars or even church socials (that was before I became a practicing heathen, but that’s another story). I’m much more comfortable introducing myself as Greer than I have ever been as what’s-his-name, but it still feels like an unnatural act. And that brings me back to the secret handshake.
I’m not really suggesting that we have a secret handshake. If you get to the point of using a handshake, secret or otherwise, you’ve already cleared the main hurdle by making contact. No, what we need is a secret recognition signal. Something that can be flashed across a room when you catch the eye of a brother or sister. Something that will be meaningless to those who aren’t part of the community, but carry full meaning to the rest of us. Something that says, “I’m trans, I’m fabulous, and so are you! Aren’t you? If you’re not, please disregard this signal.”
So what kind of signal could we use? We could be very subtle, like tugging on an earlobe. Unfortunately, that might cause half the married couples in the room to go for their coats. Oh, that isn’t your signal for “I’m bored, take me home now”? Oops, forget I ever brought it up. On the other hand, something like jumping up and down while holding a breast in each hand is probably a bit too obvious, especially if the target of your attempted communication across the room returns the signal. Interesting to imagine though isn’t it.
How about this, you look at the recipient of your signal. When you make eye contact, you touch a pinky finger to your temple. It’s fairly subtle, but it’s unusual enough that your maiden aunt probably won’t do it accidentally (oh the repercussions of that!). Note however that you definitely don’t want to use the index finger for this signal. Your recipient is likely to conclude that you have decided to shoot yourself or them, and this isn’t the message you’re trying to convey, at least not until you’re sharing a bank account.
Assuming that the recipient of your signal hasn’t decided to call the police or a large gentleman with strange bulges under his jacket, AND if you have correctly identified the recipient as trans, AND if you appear to be in control of your faculties, AND if you haven’t committed an unforgivable fashion mistake (remember, it is now permissible to wear white year round), then the recipient may return your signal. This indicates you may feel free to approach the recipient for self-introductions. Of course discretion is still expected. Shouting, “Here I come honey!” and doing some broken-field running across the room will not be appreciated.
It occurs to me that establishing a recognition signal is just the start. Any secret organization worth its salt will also have other signals to allow clandestine communication between members. To close this article of dubious literary work, I offer some additional signals that we should consider adopting. I also welcome readers to pass along their ideas for other signals.
The signal: With your arms at your sides, turn your hands so the palms face to the rear. Touch your thumbs and forefingers together (like an OK sign), then repeatedly bend your wrists so your fingers move back and forth.
The meaning: Your panties are slipping down and you’re in danger of tripping. (Of course this is a warning to another sister in a skirt or a dress. If your own panties are slipping, pull the darn things up.)
The signal: Stand in one spot while wearing high heels, sway your upper body while displaying a pained look on your face. (The last step is necessary to avoid confusion with dancing.)
The meaning: I can no longer stand in my heels. Please bring me a swooning couch and a Mint Julep.
The signal: Hike your skirt up and run like mad to the serving area.
The meaning: The buffet line is now open. (OK, this one isn’t strictly limited to our community, but we girls can put away the food like a bunch of guys, so you don’t want to be late getting in line.)
The meaning: Thank you for being yourself, and for helping me be myself.
The signal: A hug and air kisses.
Hugs,
Greer
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