Spirited Tina

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Call me Tina, or Martina

     It sounds better, that’s all. I don’t become someone else when I get dressed. Lucky me - I have to decide what to wear every morning (and evening). It’s who I am. The real me. Only the clothes change.

     I have only one regret: I grew out of it (put it on hold) by the time I was sixteen, so I’ve missed out on forty of my best years - when I could have looked really good. On the other hand, I don’t have to worry what the neighbours might think and I now have the time and the money to do what I like. I love the “girlie” shopping, painting my nails, shaving my legs, taking half an hour to put on eye make-up - I adore false eyelashes. Deciding what will go with what today. I ask you: Where’s the fun in being a man?

     A couple of years ago I started with Alice in Wonderland, the Walt Disney version. My first purchase was a flouncy white apron. My ex-wife says, at my age, my wig should have more grey in it. My now-wife - who does have an hourglass figure - loves my undies, tries on my dresses, can’t remember where she put my white patent leather cinch belt.

     Then I discovered Petticoat Pond, Ker-POW - That’s the look I want! Do an eBay search on Square Dance and a whole evening’s gone. But I have to remember that, at sixty, some clothes are too young for me . . . and the clock’s ticking.

     It’s no good longing to be Doris Day or Debbie Reynolds at my age. I’m getting on but that doesn’t stop me finding clothes that look . . . well, as a UK Size 12, I’ll settle for nice. (But, oh to be young enough for blue gingham . . .)

     When this generation grows old - we’re mostly ladies of a certain age - our idea of glamour might disappear forever. Women pretend they’ve abandoned it. Oh yes? So how come there are so many Brides magazines then? Someone - us - has to keep the dream alive (for them, for everyone).

     For me, it’s the best of both worlds. No thank you, I would definitely not want to be a woman, because only as a man can I know how it feels, wearing a pair of white hold-ups, bra and petticoats (and no knickers).

     Martin Harrison wrote two (adult) books, that tell a story we know all about: The Judgement of Paris and Too Much Information. The guy’s called Robert, and almost every part of his tale has been written by someone on Petticoat Pond. We might not dare tell someone in the next office all about it but I’m with Robert all the way, saying: “Tell the world - try it. (And try it on.)” There’s those of us who know and there’s those who don’t know. We aren’t missing out. They are.

     My pictures aren’t yet as petticoat-oriented as everyone else’s, but give me time. I’ve got twenty years of catching up to do. Now, let’s see if I won that pink taffeta petticoat on eBay. To die for - and life’s too short, so I’m making the most of it. Shamelessly - but oh, darlings, the shoes I could wear if only I had smaller feet.


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