I’m not sure at what point I lost all sense of femininity.
It started slowly; catching my reflection in the window of Ethel Austin, bounding down the high street like a WWF Bushwacker, being unable to fit the trotters into dainty bridesmaid shoes or cursing like a navvy in the presence of the ground floor workforce…
Then BOOM! It hit me like a sledgehammer.
When the post room guys ‘guff’ in your presence, that is the MOMENT. Right there. No ‘pardon me’ or ‘Sorry Miss Jones’, just a wrinkled up nose and the stench of dog shit.
It was a moment that I floated outside of my body. (That hasn’t happened since I whitied at Uni). I raised up and saw it; sat legs akimbo in a swivel chair, a beer wedged into my spade hand.
The blonde hair and big jugs were a fair disguise but really, I am less womanly than Trish; the work Tranny. I knew it, Trish knew it and the guys in Facilities knew it. I was one of them; a stig. An affable, but quite undeniable stig. Leafing through Heat and eating a Snickers in two bites…
This realisation has coincided with my lapse of sexuality. A-Sexual doesn’t even cut it anymore. I’m a bona fide, born again virgin.
But strange things have been a-happening. The universe is trying to get me laid.
My I-phone has been spontaneously calling people. OF ITS OWN VOLITION. Not just anyone ‘though: boys. Boys that I have a history with. (I have only ever slept with 12 people so it’s a bit weird).
Old Flame no.1 text me at midnight:
“I missed your call. Are you OK?”
I read it in the dark of a cabaret night, peroxide locks stuck to my face with sweat and pinot. I was drunk and confused, struggling to press the touch screen with my scarlet, satin gloves. Check call history…yep.
“Sorry. I must have sat on my phone and my ass called you”.
“Not for the first time”. He goes.
A good point. Sadly he was in another county so I ordered a flaming Sambuca and perved on a hairy gay guy. (God bless hen parties).
Two days later…Old Flame no. 2 checked in:
“Hey Lolly. Long time, no see. What’s up”?
This time, I was in a curry house with a couple who’d just returned from Paris. They’d become all suave and skinny, dropping in French phrases like a hiccup or casual racism. As I chowed down on a poppadom, I checked call history…FFS!
What are the chances ‘though? Seriously? These guys aren’t in my life anymore. They’re in the past like padded headbands or the sacred Tamagotchi.
My phone is always locked. It’s like my ovaries have their own IP address: “Call someone. ANYONE with semen…CALL THEM”!
Next, as I caught rays in Golden Square, it called ‘Al Ca-Bone’. No one needs that clown back in their life.
Finally, the great Universe pulled out its ace card: Donna. The bird who used to wax my foof. (She also did my bum hole but that’s by the by).
What is this telling me? Is this an exorcism of the past? Or is my moo moo speaking to me? (She hasn’t seen any action since Lauchlaine Harte dry humped her, post-Dolphin back in early Spring).
It is only a matter of time people, ‘til my ass calls someone who is interested. And man! Will there be trouble! Oh my! It might just spark the new world order.
So in preparation, I am becoming more ‘feminine’. I exchanged the beer for Cava in a flute and dressed more like a lady (with a few style tips from Trish). I even took to drinking on the Palace steps for some added viveur:
But three bottles of fizzy later, I was skinny dipping in the Royal lake.
I suppose sometimes you just have to accept who are.