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Susie Jay
Sometimes I'm Susie, mostly I'm not.
Sometimes I'm Susie, mostly I'm not.


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Has anyone tried any of those home DIY hair/razor bump removal recipes that are posted up in Pinterest?
They seem to be based on various combinations of lemon juice, honey, baking soda and even coffee grounds. It seems to be a sort of bleaching  and exfoliant recipe.

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A few more drawings
As a couple of you asked, and I'm immune to everything but flattery, I've posted a few more drawings found in long-buried files while I try and get my drawing hand (the left one, if you're interested) back into practice and have another read of Betty Edwards' classic Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain.

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If Facebook had restooms
Struck by the idea the FB reportedly has nearly 50 different categories for gender identification.

Quick question: has anyone seen  the film Peacock, starring Cillian Murphy?

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The Road not Taken
Have you ever made a decision, or shied away from one, that you have regretted the rest of your life?

Thirty years ago I was given the perfect opportunity to discover the person I wanted to be. Unfortunately it came at exactly the wrong time. Through a combination of cowardice and self-hatred, I rejected it at the time, and what I lost has haunted me more and more over the years.

In December ‘83, my first serious head-over-heels in-love relationship ended horribly when my girlfriend finally decided that she couldn’t live with someone who wanted to cross-dress and moved out while I was away abroad on a business trip. I rather went to pieces. To cap it all, my landlady decided this was her opportunity to ask me to leave and gave me notice to be gone by the New Year. All in all, it was a pretty miserable Christmas.

I moved into a flat that might best be described as a half-way house for trans-people. It was accepting, private, and, I thought, the perfect place to sort myself out. I could be who I wanted and no-one would judge me. I overlooked the fact that I was my own worst judge. I was a freak and a failure. The thought of dressing would bring back the memory of those devastating last months of our relationship when despite all our promises, everything went rapidly downhill. And so I chickened out. I threw or locked away my femme clothes. For the next five years that I remained there I stayed resolutely in male mode, while trying to quash the fantasies in my head. I even entered into a rebound relationship, largely platonic, with one of the T-girls there, a confident, striking redhead (I used to help her dye it every month). I helped out with the domestic chores: shopping, cooking, cleaning. When someone commented once that I would make someone a nice housewife, I brushed it off with a glib reply, but secretly I realised I so wanted that.

During that time, there were frequent visitors and parties. I particularly remember one young TV in her late teens or twenties who borrowed my room to change and then sat shyly in a print dress and blonde wig though the evening. I was desperately torn between wanting to put my arm around her and to be her.

Then, as things do, that period came to an end. Relationships started to get a bit strained and it was time to move on. This time it was largely my decision; I had already met L and we had an offer of somewhere else to move into.

For a long time after, when I thought back on that place, I thought about it as a refuge, a place to hide and put myself back together. In recent years, as I start to worry about the future, and what it is I really want when I will no longer be able to distract myself with work, I have started to regret it more and more as a missed opportunity to find out who I really wanted to be.
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