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My life as a woman – in the begining
Source: SMH http://blogs.smh.com.au/allmenareliars/archives/2006/10/you_dont_even_k.html
So it happened, whether you like it or not. Whether you think it was pathetic, tabloid, pointless, brave, curious, sick, stupid or inspired, I spent the long weekend dressing, acting, talking, eating and peeing like a woman and guess what? It was far, far more seismic than I could have imagined. As I said in an earlier blog, I never expected I would pass myself off as a woman the majority of the time and, truth be told, I made a rather unconvincing female. “You look like a bison in a wig,” said my flatmate after his second day of living with my alter-ego, Samantha. Nonetheless, I did get to experience a tiny slice of the aggressive male attention women receive, the sometimes torturous beauty treatments they undergo, the frustration of not being able to find clothes that fit and, on more than one occasion, was almost reduced to tears by the assumptions and cruelty flung at me by strangers. In short, it’s been one of the most profound experiences of my life …
In the days leading up to the big weekend, I had already spent some time looking for outfits with stylist, Sofia Fitzpatrick, herself somewhat of a specialist when it comes to cross-dressing. (She makes quite an impressive Keith Urban, wouldn’t you say?)
Unsure what our budget would be, Sofia and I were originally forced to buy clothes that were very cheap and hit a Chinese import store on George Street, Sydney.
This was a mixed blessing because, being a women’s size 16, it would have been close to impossible for me to find clothes at pricier boutiques. Most chic designers simply don’t make larger than a 12.
This got me thinking about how this must make bigger woman feel – they may not necessarily be overweight, perhaps just rangy, tall or broad across the shoulders, yet they’re essentially told they don’t exist by large sections of the fashion industry.
The frustration I felt when I found something that appealed to me, only to be told it wasn’t made in my size was fleeting but I imagine it would be a lifelong drudgery for larger women.
The other thing I realised about women’s clothes is they are damn sexy; the fabrics and textures are completely different to the practical fibres of men’s clobber.
Almost every experience I’ve had touching women’s clothing has been taking them off a female body – a sexually charged situation – so the act of putting them on my own body was, ummm, somewhat arousing, but you don’t need to hear about that.
After about half a day’s shopping, Sofia and I were able to find some serviceable pieces, one of which was featured in the test pictures that accompanied my earlier blog.
That diagonal stripe wrap dress ($19.95) and my appearance were criticised by a good hundred of you in postings such as this: “Pink’s not your colour, your eyebrows are a disgrace and the stripes on that dress make your arse look at least a size bigger,” said blogger Kelly on The Age site, adding, “just helping you get used to being judged on your appearance, Ms Sam.”
Welcome to the world of women. And it’s Ms Samantha by the way, bitch.
Finding a wig proved a little easier. After a few near misses with blonde rugs, curly dome doilies and riot-grrrl fringes (I wanted so much to be a Tsubi rock chick), Sofia firmly suggested I go with a darker, conservative number with long bangs to hide my jaw line.
“You’re an older guy, just accept you’re not going to look like Britney Spears,” she told me as I sulked in front of the mirror.
Strangely enough, after checking out several upscale wig retailers, Star Wigs at Paddy’s Markets proved to have by far the largest and cheapest range and we settled on a burgundy piece that I like to think was a little Catherine Zeta-Jones in the right light (pitch darkness).
Bra shopping also proved problematic but, in the end, we located a Dolly Partonesque 40DD that the shopkeeper found after burrowing through boxes for 20 minutes.
This little episode was worth it just for the look on the face of a tattooed, doo-rag-wearing homeboy who walked into the shop and saw me, dress around my hips, struggling to get into the biggest boulder-holder you’ve seen in your life.
Homeboy’s expression went from confusion, to disbelief, leap-frogged anger straight to disgust and settled into deep wariness as his blonde girlfriend shopped for crotchless panties nearby.
He was to be the template for masculine reaction to Samantha for the weekend.
After I published the blog telling you about my plan to dress as a woman over the grand final weekend, there was a stirring of media interest, with A Current Affair finally coming on board to film the experiment and Fairfax Digital Productions agreeing to cover Samantha’s costs (the video will be very special, so stay tuned).
Armed with a budget, Sofia and I were then able to aim a little higher in the fashion stakes and convinced upmarket Sydney designer Charlie Brown to let us film in her store.
From a designer’s point of view this was a risky move – the upside being minimal (Wow! Your clothes look good on a man!) and the downside being that journalists and bloggers could mock her creations, so thanks again Charlie for your bravery.
When we arrived at her Paddington store last Friday morning, the Current Affair crew had already set up lights and eyed me off with the caginess of men who’ve seen every tabloid oddity and got it on tape.
“I’m not a horses hoof*,” I said by way of introduction, to which the cameraman, Mitchell Bailey, a 16-year veteran of the Burke’s Backyard freak show, just nodded and said “whatever you say sweetheart”.
Pixieish producer Alissa Warren also nodded patiently as I outlined my ethnographic pretensions for doing the story and I again tried to convince myself ACA would take the weekend seriously.
Mitchell’s direction for the shots once again renewed my respect for people who work behind the camera; he shepherded Sofia and I through blocking, suggested funny lines and visual gags, all the while juggling the technical aspects of framing, lighting and flirting with the cute Charlie Brown salesgirls.
Thankfully, it didn’t take us long to find two outfits that somewhat hid my Neanderthal shoulders and, yes, Charlie had them in sizes 14 and 16. After a small tantrum about a low cut, waisted dress I really, really wanted, but couldn’t afford, we moved on.
Now things started to get weird.
I was determined to experience some of the more traditional beauty treatments women undergo and was booked in at the stylish Darlinghurst health spa Millk Studios for a full leg wax, Brazilian and manicure.
Being crowded into a room with a camera crew, while dressed in a woman’s G-string is not a normal thing for me to do. However, my therapist, Anthony, a sleek fella who’d once been a centrefold for Australian Women’s Forum put me at ease with tales of his own drag exploits as he paddled warm, blue-coloured wax on to my legs.
Then, pressing down on the goop with a strip of calico, he said, “I want you to take a deep breath, then exhale,” and he ripped my GODDAMN HAIR OUT OF MY LEG.
“That was all right wasn’t it?” said Anthony.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I replied certain my shin bone would be visible.
Two days before the waxing I was zapped with a Taser stun gun; hit with 50,000 volts of electricity for five seconds.
If I had to chose between a Taser and getting my legs waxed again, I wouldn’t even hesitate. Give me the juice, baby. Shoot me in the freakin’ face.
“You’ll never say ‘stop acting like a girl’ again, will you?” said Anthony as he ripped another strip of fur from my inner thigh and I whimpered like a grand final loser.
As the hair came away, a strange thing happened; it was as if a woman was appearing, my legs transformed from hairy, shapeless stumps to these tall drinks of water. Suddenly my pins were tingling, I felt colder, exposed, vulnerable.
By the time Anthony had finished both sides of me I felt genuinely discombobulated. So, when he told me to get on all fours, naked, for the dreaded Brazilian, and applied hot wax to my bum crack with an oversized paddle pop stick, it didn’t seem that strange.
“I have no dignity left,” I mumbled before realising the overzealous ACA cameraman had zoomed in for a money shot.
“Mate, you can’t shoot my ring,” I said to him.
“I thought you wanted this for the internet?” said Mitchell.
“Digger, it’s the SMH and The Age not HardcoreJunky.com, they can’t stream shots of my date.”
The sound guy, Johan Zwart, who was positioning the boom mike so he’d capture my screams, looked like he was watching an autopsy. When I said, “I reckon we might not film this”, he disappeared out the door quicker than a shoplifter.
Ten minutes later I could recognise nothing below my waist. I resembled a plucked, raw chicken left on a kitchen bench to thaw.
“You know my body better than any man in my life,” I whispered to Anthony.
“You’re one of many,” he replied.
I was now aware of bits I had fastidiously ignored most of my life: my legs sang against the insides of my jeans, my jobblies felt like they’d been blanched by Bernard King and my fingernails glinted like Aztec sacrificial blades after being buffed, gooed and glossed.
I almost floated into our next stop, the Castlereagh Street studio of the deportment and etiquette queen June Dally-Watkins. There we were met by the self-possessed corporate training and development manager, Anna McPherson.
An avowed All Men Are Liars fan, Anna had volunteered to give Samantha a crash course in the niceties of walking in heels, stifling belches and the deft application of euphemisms.
“If you need to use the facilities, they’re just around the corner,” Anna told me as I stepped into my pantyhose for the first time. I assume she meant the dunnies.
Inside this fortress of femininity, a professional make-up artist, Stephanie Tetu, was also waiting, having set up a vast array of paints and powders.
A former French-Canadian model, Stephanie exuded the inner peace of a woman who is as beautiful inside as out, and clearly enjoyed bringing rough nuts like mine closer to her level.
As she laid foundation, mushed blusher and whipped on fake lashes, she explained the process I would have to follow over the next few days to recreate my “face”. I tried to follow, but a pulse had started in my brow as I stared at my reflection.
“I wanted to be sexy and I look like a matron. I’ve got crows feet,” I said and the three over-30 women within earshot cheered with joy.
It was slowly penetrating my bison skull that the female grooming we men take for granted is hard won and time consuming. The half hour men wait as the magic happens in the bathroom is the price you pay for your girlfriend to look good.
Deal with it, guys.
Finally, as Sofia clipped some gorgeous gold earrings on me from Paddington’s Sarah Vintage, Stephanie settled my wig on me and Samantha was born.
She was big, over 6’2″ in heels and, dressed in black, with dramatic amber flicks, she looked like a rather broad-faced Italian beauty who’d been hitting the chianti and human growth hormones for 20 years.
Worse still, she clumped around like a truck driver in her high heels.
“Imagine you’re walking either side of an imaginary line,” said Anna, in her clipped JDW tone that had me wondering what she was like after a few drinks on her day off.
“Place your feet either side of the line, shoulders back, butt in. Yes, that’s it.”
By George, that was it. I don’t know if I should admit this, but I was a natural walking in high heels (well kind of). A few laps around the Dally-Watkins enclosure and this filly was set for her maiden at Flemington. I was ready to go public.
We said our goodbyes and then Sofia and I walked into the Friday night. The first group of men we passed turned to stare at Sofia’s trim figure but said nothing about her big butch mate.
Turning into Park Street and the evening crowds, I began to notice the looks, the casual remarks to companions. I tried to kid myself people weren’t staring at me, but it became quickly obvious I was as convincing a woman as Hugo Weaving in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (not very).
I drew myself in, tried to make by body smaller and shivered as the night air played over my stockings. There were so many things to concentrate on. Keeping my hair out of my face, holding on to my bloody purse, balancing in those God awful heels.
We searched for a taxi but none came. When I saw one across the busy expanse of Elizabeth Street, where I’d have run for it was as a man, I was now rooted to the curb, incapable of dodging 7pm traffic in pumps.
“I feel weird,” I said to Sofia and my voice was soft, almost apologetic.
Finally a shuttle bus gave us a toot and we climbed in. The Asian driver seemed happy to see us and I could see him searching the deep shadows of the van through his rear view mirror.
“I’ve seen you before, you’re that singer on Channel Seven,” he said to me and, after several attempts trying to dissuade him, I realised he thought I was one of the contestants on It Takes Two.
I’d like to think he’d confused me with Kate Ritchie, rather than Wendy Matthews, but my gut said he’d mistaken me for Kate Fischer.
For a moment I considered the possibility of shagging James Packer, then shook the thought off like a bad pre-nup.
Whatever the case, Samantha had arrived.
For a follow-up article look here:
http://forum.tgr.net.au/cms/forum/F132/1048-048 -
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