Thicker Than Water

Good News!

My wife came home yesterday after almost nine weeks in the hospital and rehab. Now my work begins taking care of her, so I'm shopping for a nurse’s uniform in size 16 Tall!

Anita, 25 and 75 Years Old

Stuff 9

By J.J. Atwell

Hello again

There seems to be no end to stuff. This is the ninth installment and I’m grateful to Stana and especially those that follow her blog, for the feedback that I’ve received. Today’s topic is one we can all relate to.  

Boobs

It’s probably obvious, but I’ll say it anyway, when presenting as a woman, boobs are an important part of our look. I know some of my readers have basically grown their own. Stana has commented several times that she has always had enlarged breasts. But the rest of us need to create the illusion of boobs. In keeping with the theme of this blog, we need to “stuff.”  :) 

There are so many things to consider when pondering boobs. Let’s talk about size first. 

Some of us go for the largest size they can get. While my guy side is a “breast man,” my femme side prefers a size that is proportionate to my body, so I’m usually in either a B or C cup. Of course GGs wind up with breasts in a wide range of sizes and have limited options.  Sure they can get implants or even breast reductions, but that’s a big decision requiring surgery. As CDs, we have some much simpler options.  

Bra sizes

Let’s talk about bras. How do you decide about size? Several possibilities. A good first step is to find your bra band size (that’s the number part of the bra size). That’s pretty easy. If your guy side wears a suit/sports coat, you can start with that size as your bra band. In other words, if your sport jacket is a 38, then start with a bra band that size. Buy one in any cup size and wear it for a while, several hours at least, to see how comfortable it is. If it’s too tight, go up a size. Just remember that the band is supposed to be snug, but not tight.  

OK, so now what about cup size? Most of us decide by trial and error. Now that you have a bra in the right band size, grab one with a cup size that you think might be right. Perhaps a C to start with. Put some “stuff” (socks will do) in the cups just so they hold their shape. Then put on a top and look in the mirror. Look straight on and sideways. Do they look “natural?”  Try a larger or smaller cup size and repeat. Be honest with yourself, do they look realistic? Of course, we might decide to be different sizes for different occasions!

In a future installment I’ll talk more about boobs. I’ll cover breast forms and alternatives. I’ll also ponder what GGs think about their breasts. Or at least what I think they think. Yes, that’s the stuff!

I’ll be back

I’d love to read your comments about boobs. Comments are welcome either here on the blog or by email to Jenn6nov at sign gmail dot com.  

JJ is always looking for more stuff!

Wearing Alice + Olivia.

Boy meets girl in the 21st Century

Missed the Boat

I missed the boat!

My high school did not have a womanless beauty pageant or a gender swap day like the schools that the lovely lads in lace above attended. The closest our school came to approved crossdressing is when the boy’s basketball team performed in 1920’s flapper drag for the annual school musical. Their femulation was nothing to write home (or here) about, but I was jealous nonetheless because given the opportunity, I knew my presentation would have been more authentic than the basketball men in dresses. 

Men wearing earrings became a thing while I was in high school. I recall our principal warning the boys that if anyone showed up wearing an earring that boy would also begin wearing the Catholic school girl uniform that the distaff side of the student body wore. 

I thought about borrowing a pair of my mother’s clip-ons and wearing them the next day, but I did not want to give the class bullies the satisfaction that they were correct in electing me “The Boy Most Likely to Change Sex.” So I just dreamed about wearing a navy blue jumper, white blouse, nylons and penny loafers to school instead of my boring sports jacket and trousers. 

Instead of being a closet crossdresser, what if I was more open about my crossdressing back then? I am certain that my parents knew what I was doing when I was home alone and I like to think they would have supported me. And I’m sure that my mother, an excellent seamstress, would have sewn me confections that would have made the other girls jealous. 

Living full-time as a woman would have been delicious, but not only did I miss the boat, but I was too scared to even buy a ticket for the journey. But back then, I did not know about womanless pageants and the like. I knew I wasn’t alone, but I did not think there were many others like me even though my best friend in grammar school practically came out to me as a crossdresser. What were the chances of that if crossdressing was as rare as I thought? Nevertheless I was not prepared to take the journey solo.

Today, looking at the thousands of the Internet images of girls like us, I wonder if there are any guys who haven’t crossdressed! There sure are a lot of us! There probably always were, but today we are more open about it, so it seems like there are more.

If I could to do it all over again... but I can’t, so why beat myself up about it. Instead, I will continue to be the best woman I can be or rather, the best old lady that I can be and enjoy my femininity as often as I can.  

Wearing Boston Proper

Kristin and Jean, 21st Century son and father

TV in TV Land

 

Wearing Bebe

@ungendered-01

A Box of His/Her Treasures

By Paula Gaikowski

The old Maine farmhouse stood silent in its corner of the world. Its hidden treasure lay dormant, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world, forgotten by those who had once cherished it, the box, a piece of personal history lost to memory.

Years turned into decades and the farmhouse continued to guard its secret. Perhaps it was stashed away in a dusty attic concealed in the darkness of an abandoned room or relegated to the depths of a basement corner. As the seasons changed and generations passed, the box's significance faded into obscurity, its story locked away waiting for the right moment to resurface.

Then one fateful day, the farmhouse's secret was revealed. The box, once cherished and hidden, found itself amidst the bustle of a church yard sale. Tossed aside as just another forgotten box of stuff, it waited patiently for someone to recognize its value beyond its worn exterior. And that someone, a person who understood the emotions and struggles behind the box, would breathe life back into this long-lost treasure, ensuring that the story it held within would be told once more.

In a small Maine town, I was volunteering at out Labor Day yard sale. This annual event draws donations from across the community and it was here that I discovered an unusual vestige of the past, tucked away amongst the numerous boxes of items on display.

Among the treasures and memorabilia, my eyes were drawn to an old wooden box, its weathered exterior hinting at years of stories held within. The box had once been secured with a padlock, a safeguard for its precious contents. As I opened it, an assortment of women’s clothing, large sized high heels, foundation garments, stockings, old lipstick, makeup brushes, and most notably, a wig, greeted my eyes. 

As femulators, many of us have had creative hiding places for our clothes and feminine accessories. To coin a phrase, it takes one to know one. Other persons, my fellow volunteers, just saw an old box of clothing. But to me, it was a guarded collection that seemed to whisper secrets of a life lived in shadows, far from the prying eyes of the world.

The clothing, perfectly preserved from the 1960s, was a heartbreaking testament to the struggles and the identity of its previous owner. As a transgender person, I couldn’t help but feel an immediate connection, a sense of camaraderie with the individual who had cherished these possessions. It was as if their silent history resonated with my own journey of self-discovery and acceptance.

The 1960s in Maine, like much of America, was a time of established social conservatism. For transgender individuals, it meant navigating a world filled with secrecy, guilt and fear. Each time this mysterious figure slipped into these clothes, applied makeup and donned that wig, it must have been a courageous act of self-expression, a defiance of the norms of their era.

What went unsaid within that wooden box was the incredible courage it took to maintain this hidden collection. I pictured this person in the solitude of a cold and dark Maine winter night  seeking solace and identity in the sanctuary of her secret world.

Though separated by decades, I felt an undeniable connection to the owner of these belongings. I longed to reach back in time and offer a message of understanding, support and acceptance. Regrettably, all I could do was silently pledge to remember to honor and ensure that the memory of this mysterious figure endured.

In a world that has made substantial progress in embracing diversity and inclusion, this discovery served as a poignant reminder of how far we have come. It also underscored the importance of continuing to advocate for the rights and dignity of transgender individuals today.

As I reflect on this noteworthy encounter, I am reminded that history often speaks to us in whispers. Sometimes it takes something as simple as an old box of clothes to bridge the gap between generations, kindle empathy and ensure that the struggles and triumphs of those who paved the way are not forgotten.

In this silent connection, I find hope and a solemn promise that our collective journey toward understanding, acceptance and love for all will persist, leaving no one behind and preserving the memories of those who, against all odds, dared to be themselves.

Wearing Rue La La

Sam Brown and Darren Trumeter femulating on a 2007 episode of television’s The Whitest Kids U'Know.

Bachelorette Again

Last week, I was told that my wife would be coming home today. Yesterday, I was told that she needed more therapy and will not be coming home today. I agree with the therapists that she is not good to come home yet and more therapy will help, but we are all disappointed that she is not home by now. Thus, I am a bachelorette for another week.

UPDATE: After my first cup of coffee kicked in this morning, I noticed the facial similarities between the Femulate Her Rue La La model and Femulator Gail below. I wonder if they are related. Maybe the model is Gail’s grandson!

Wearing Rue La La

Gail from New York, circa 1961

Tomboys and Janegirls

By Cathy Laura Peterson

As I read Paula Gaikowski's “Tomboys and Sissies,” it was so true for me as well, but also quite poignant. Growing up in the ’50s, ’60s and into the ’70s with two older sisters, a younger sister, our divorced mother, all living with our twice divorced Aunt Catherine, let’s just say I was dressed up a lot as my older sisters decided (dictated?) all of our playtime at home.

My earliest memories are about age four and being in dresses and slips but with my own boy underwear. Our mother worked Friday-Saturday-Sunday as a grocery clerk, so dress-up games occurred after she left.  

Our mother’s bedroom was plain and boring. But all four of us dressed up for elaborate games of beauty pageant, school, hospital, beauty parlor or house including going to our Aunt in her lavish, ultra feminine bedroom (think Victorian British country home, flowers, lace, doilies, rugs, lamps, China tea sets, chest of drawers, three-mirror vanity table, elegant four-post bed).

Her response seeing me in dresses was always positive, so along with my three sisters, all I knew was this game is “okay.” And it was Aunt Catherine who first noticed I didn't have on lace tights like my sisters and emphatically said I should and also have “pretty panties” with tights like my sisters, who were happy to do oblige and of course, I simply complied. Again, it was confirmed and was “okay.” 

Auntie was usually smoking a cigarette and reading in her big wingback flowered linen chair wearing foundation garments under a sheer, lacy flowered floor-length robe. She would also dote on each of us at her gorgeous three-mirror vanity table, where we could each choose clip-on earrings from her vast collection. Then she did lipstick for us and a spritz of perfume from a crystal decanter with the beaded spray bulb. She or my sisters put my hair up in a pony tail or pigtails with ribbons and plastic clip-in barettes. Again, all positive reinforcements, so I got very comfortable being dressed almost all weekend. 

Catherine always warned I must be “back in your boy clothes before your mother sees you,” so that’s what we always planned for. But I clearly remember the day our mother left work early and walked into our kitchen around noon to find the four of us all in dresses eating lunch with our Aunt. Her reaction was quite negative, she used the word “sissy” and “pantywaist” in her outrage and took me by the wrist to the living room where I was derided with words like “embarrassing,” “prissy,” “wimpy,”  “humiliating” and “Why are you doing this to me?” It was no longer “okay.”

Thankfully, Catherine intervened. My sisters sat with me as we watched and listened to a heated debate between these two women and it was our Aunt who seems to have won the argument with words I remember: “It’s harmless,” “Let them have some fun,” “Why should you care,” “You could use some fun in your sad life,” “There’s not much else to do at home,” “They’re all so happy when they play like this” and of course, “He likes it” and “Look at how cute he looks.” Were we back to “okay?”

That particular day ended with an uneasy truce between us kids and our mother as our Aunt  reminded our mother “remember, I took you and your kids in and you’re living in my house.” From then on dressing up was always okay, mostly when mother was at work, but now there was license to be dressed up when she was home, too.  

Our Aunt would say, “She’ll just have to deal with it.” Our mother was already quiet, depressed, solemn and distant since her divorce. From then on whenever she saw me fully dressed, she just had a blank expression, no emotion and I guess she tolerated it.

Catherine continued to be an active supporter of dress up all the way through my elementary school years and into junior high school. When she hugged me after earrings, lipstick and perfume, I can still see her smile and say, “Are you my little Cathy?” or “How’s my little Cathy?” as I’ve been since.

Like Paula, I knew very well that the kids at school, my teachers and neighbors would never approve of me looking and being so feminine. And I also wondered why two girls I knew were allowed to be classic tomboys very much like Scout in the Atticus Finch home. It seemed unfair that they could be very boyish not only at home but also out in public and there was seemingly nothing very negative they had to deal with. So if there were tomboys, why were there not also janegirls or something similar? 

Many cold-snowy winter nights, all four of us were in flannel nighties with fuzzy slippers eating Jiffy Pop watching TV and that was “okay.” 

In my school, I used to imagine being in a reading circle with a few girls and wearing a cute dress like them with a full slip, panties and tights, and everyone would be “okay” with that just like the two tomboys wearing jeans, sneakers, boyish t-shirts, maybe a ball cap and very short hair in what was called a “pixie cut.”

The contrast of tomboy and sissy continued into junior high school as I moved right into my older sisters’ training bras and shorter skirts and dresses, old garter belts with stockings or those new pantyhose, as I grew out my hair into a classic “shag” style for teenaged boys, onto my shoulders with bangs, which could easily look very girly/sissy. 

I still saw all kinds of tomboys freely out and about at school and in town, but society circa 1975 still had no place for sissies like me, who were publicly derided as “transvestites.” So I continued to dress at home, even without my older sisters, but with my younger sister and our Aunt seeing me and our ambivalent mother just had to go a long with it. 

Now in 2023, I go out into public all the time as Cathy, a middle-aged appropriate woman and societal norms in LA provide lots of freedom, acceptance and understanding 50 years after being a “sissy.”

Wearing Nanette by Nanette Lepore

Andre Vasha

Good News

I love high heels, but high heels don’t always love me! I can wear certain high heels all day long without any complaints from my feet. On the other hand (or should I say “foot”), there are other high heels that start hurting an hour or two after putting them on my feet.

Years ago, I discovered that the Janine pointy toe and Karmen round toe pumps from Payless were very comfortable. So I passed that information along to Femulate readers and many ladies bought those shoes and had happy high-heeled feet. So I recently discovered another very comfortable high heel that I want to tell you about.

I needed a pair of white heels and last week, Nine West had a sale on their Sorts pointy toe pumps ($40 a pair). I ordered a pair in white leather and after they arrived, I wore them for about five hours and my feet were none the worse for it. I was so satisfied with the 3.35-inch heels that I ordered two more pairs, one in “barely nude leather” and the other in “black leather” at the same sale price.

And now the real good news: my wife is coming home this week after almost nine weeks in the hospital and rehab center!

Wearing Cynthia Rowley

Willem Dafoe femulating in the 1999 film The Boondock Saints.
Thank you Lynn Jones for this femulation alert.