Tag Archive | Self-image

Hit on me

14380031_1820764894825556_4160875774869280156_oI was hit on in a Walmart parking lot two Saturdays ago! I dressed up to go out to The 212 Club, which I’m increasing finding abhorrent, but that’s a topic for another time, when I decided I had had enough. We decided to leave but wasn’t quite ready to go back to the apartment. I asked my friend if she needed anything, and so we went to the Walmart on Amarillo Blvd.

It was uneventful, for the most part. We walked around, and I took the opportunity, since I dressed as Stef and it was late and the store was relatively empty, to look at clothes. We spent maybe half an hour looking at t-shirts and yoga pants before checking out and heading to the car.

I had just stepped into my car and started to back out when someone parked beside me and waved me down. Thinking I had left a bag on the roof of my car, I drove back into the parking spot, got out, and checked to see if there was something I forgot. Seeing nothing, I turned and looked inquiringly at the the guy who flagged me down. He was a skivvy looking man, with a handful of bills. He said he had noticed me walking around and the asked for my name. He had to repeat himself when I asked what he had said, thinking I must have misunderstood him.

I was stuck dumb. I stood there for a moment, mouth agape, in stock at what had happened. I’ve never been hit on. No man or woman has ever given me the time of day, so I admit that I didn’t know how to handle it. I came out of my shock and immediately got into my car and locked the door. The man, angry at my rejection, backed out and raced out of the parking lot. I waited to see where he was headed so I could leave. My friend beside me thought it was amusing and laughed at my discomfort.

Had it been a decent looking man instead of someone who looked as though they were using drugs, I may have played along. I’m not above wanting the attention of another man. I’m single and available, and though I would prefer a woman, sometimes I think having a boyfriend would be nice.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have an opportunity like that again, but I kind of hope I will. I would prefer it to be a clean cut man, with pride enough to have a job and enough money to take care of himself. I’m not asking for some Greek Adonis, a god in stature, though I wouldn’t say no to it, lol. My biggest fear is contracting some terrible disease from someone. Though the hysteria of the late 80’s and 90’s has subsided, HIV and AIDS is still a grim reality, and one I want to avoid. Am I being paranoid?

I don’t think so.


Lost time

20150803_203347When I think about all the time I lost, I get depressed. I can’t remember the last time I treated myself for a nice outfit and got dressed up before now. I know it was some time before I got together with my ex-wife, and that was in 2005. I want to say that I had “quit” years before. So it’s been ten to thirteen years since Stefani made an appearance. The best years erased in a futile hope that I could just be a normal guy.

No wonder I was so depressed.

I think I look okay now, but I’m still over-weight, and I have the upper torso of a 40-year-old dude. It’s amazing what lighting and camera angles can achieve! I have made a few changes lately, the main being cutting out sodas completely. I lost a pant size as a result. I would like to lose a little more, especially around the belly. I may have to cut out sugar, or gasp! start exercising!

Oh the horror of horrors! Exercising is the bane of my existence. I hate it. I get enough of a work out at work, but I know that I have got to start, if nothing else for my health. I also need to do some strength training, but not so much that I bulk up. That’s the last thing I want to do! Well, maybe bulk up my legs and butt. They could totally use it.

When I was in my early twenties, when my best friend first started showing me the ropes about doing make-up, it didn’t take much. My skin was flawless, I didn’t have much in the way of a beard, so covering it up wasn’t much of a hassle, and I was thin as a rail. Seriously, I could pass as a woman (I think) and I would go out sometimes, even during the day! It felt so good to be out, wearing shorts with pantyhose and a sleeveless shirt. Now, were you to look at me in public, it’s so obvious that I’m not a woman. Damn my advancing years!

I guess I could continue whining and moaning about the lost years during which I kept Stefani locked securely away, unknown and unseen. In the end, I grappled with a feeling of loss, of anger, and depression. It took me a long time to realize that I couldn’t keep me locked away, safe from prying eyes. I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m not a man, in the same way I’m not a woman. I’m somehow neither and both. Call it transgender, call it gender fluid, I really don’t care about defining myself with arbitrary terms. What I do care about is being faithful to who I am as a person.

Above all, and I want to be crystal clear about this, I am a human being, and deserve the respect thereof that I’m entitled to. I am both male and female, and I made a mistake of trying to narrowly define myself as one to the exclusion of the other, and I suffered for over a decade, in denial that half of myself was missing. With all this talk about gender and transitioning – thank you Caitlyn Jenner! – we have been thrust into the glaring light of public opinion, and the amount of vitriol coming from those who believe we chose to be this way is astounding. What bothers me is the amount of vitriol coming from our side!

Maybe I’m naive in hoping that we can move past this. All I want is to respect and to be respected. I want us all to respect one another, even if we’re not altogether comfortable with the other. I have no desire to “push” my lifestyle onto others, whatever the fuck that means. I need to make the best use of my time going forward to be myself, to blossom and welcome the sun’s warming glow illuminate who I am. I am Stefani, and I love this part of me.

Looking forward

0517ed60af8bf43586449cb8c93679e18131e9-wmMea culpa! I haven’t been on in so long. I have no defense to offer you other than some lame excuse of being so busy in my real life. It’s pathetic, to be honest. I’ll try to be a better hostess and at least write once a week, both for you and also as a salve for my own soul. I need an outlet to just be me. I’ve missed that lately.

So what have I been doing that has kept me so distracted? I’m just trying to survive at work. There’s been a lot of craziness with new supervisors, a new store manager, and it looks like I may have a chance to move up myself! I haven’t offered a lot of details about my everyday life as a male. I work at a home improvement center mixing paint. It’s so exciting! Okay, it really isn’t, but it’s a job, and having been unemployed for a year, from 2012-13, I’m loath just to give it up.

I’ve worked retail much of my adult life. I’ve worked my way up to supervisory positions, going so far as to become a salaried assistant manager at a huge national retailer. I’ve put in the hard work, I earned the experience and knowledge, hell I even went back and earned my Bachelors, but that hasn’t helped me one iota. It’s all about kissing up, at least it has with my past two store directors. This one seems to care about productivity, and I’m putting in an effort to prove myself. I’m tired of working hard for so little. I deserve more!

The reason this is important to me is so that I can earn enough money to move out on my own. As much as I love living with family, there’s something disempowering about being a person in their late thirties – almost forty, ouch! – and living with mommy and daddy. I worked so hard to be on my own, got married and within a year I lost my wife, my house, my job, and even my car. I lost a lifetime. It’s taking me years just to get back to this!

So I want to move out on my own. I want to have the freedom to let me, Stefani Lara, out again. I want the freedom to sit in my living room, in a pretty dress or skirt, or even in a pair of exercise shorts or yoga pants, anything feminine, anything that lets me relax. I don’t have that know.

The closest I got lately was putting on a pair of panties and pantyhose under my male clothes as I drove down to the Dallas area this past weekend. It felt good, even if I had to do it under cover of my clothes. I could indulge myself for a while, enjoying the feel of knowing I could be Stefani to myself, though I had to show otherwise to the world.

That’s okay, for now. My hope is to move up and have my own place by the end of fall. I hope to translate that to a move down to DFW within a reasonable time frame. I think I’ll have more freedom to explore my femme side than I have up in the Panhandle of Texas. That is my plan. I just hope I can make it happen, the sooner the better.

The Mask

I’m awake, dressed in boy mode, and ready to go work. Sometimes I feel my everyday life is a sham, that I’m playacting through life, wearing a societal-approved costume. I envy those women who can make the transition and live fully as the person they truly are. They have more courage that I ever will.

So I put on my mask, and hope no one can see through the facade, and live another day pretending to be the man everyone believes me to be.

Embed from Getty Images

I am not me

I look in the mirror
and see a stranger looking back
He is not who I am
He is not who I’m supposed to be.

I am not me
I am what the world sees
I am not who I feel
I am defined by expectations

I feel lost and broken
beyond repair of man
I am neither man or woman
I am damned to suffer
to see myself only as someone I can never be.

Who/what am I?

My Broken Mirror by BrokenInsanity

Who am I? Should the question I ask be what am I? How am I? Sometime I don’t know what to ask, much less do I know how to answer. I’m a mystery even onto myself. I guess this phenomenon isn’t unique to myself, or other people struggling with gender or sexual identity issues. I very much doubt most people take the time to look in the mirror and wonder about the stranger staring back through the looking glass.

This can be confusing, especially as a young boy going through puberty. On the one hand you want to grow up to be a man, but then there’s this small part of you that really wants to be a woman. It’s very much like I’m two people, not really a personality disorder per se, but…it’s hard to explain since I haven’t been able to fully understand it myself!

I look in the mirror, and I see a man nearing middle age, alone, with no prospects of ever finding love again. I look puffy and old, although a cute girl at work said I only looked 28. She’s adorable! But in my eyes there is a prevalent sadness, one that was born out of years of infidelity from my ex-wife, the broken promises of my ex-girlfriend who swore she’d treat me better. There exists layers of disgust, stemming from my belief that I was not man enough, in every connotation of the word, to keep them happy. The little confidence I possessed is gone, and in its wake the only thing left is a husk, devoid of substance.

So I ask, who or what am I? We so often define ourselves by the relationships we have. I’m so and so’s husband/wife, boy/girlfriend. I’m a parent, child, sibling or friend to someone. Then we also see ourselves through the prism of our jobs, our hobbies and other activities. We label ourselves Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal or libertarian. We’re White, Black, Asian, Mexican. Then there’s religion affiliations, or lack thereof, and the list can spiral easy out of control.

Who am I?

Am I the old man staring back at me in the mirror? Am I the young confused boy not knowing what I am? Am I the woman that prays to break free from this testosterone prison? The harsh truth is that the answer to all of these questions is yes. I’m not one or the other, I’m all of them, and more. There is no simplicity in life. People are complex, and with age it gets even more complicated. Add questions about one’s identity and it makes one ready to give up.

But I trudge alone through this world. No one bothers to ask about my misery, probably because they are too busy trying to make sense out of their own pain. It is here, in the context of my bitter realization, that I have to confront the truth. I am both man and woman, and as such I am neither. I am just a pretender. How many women are strong enough to walk with me, secure enough with themselves to allow me to be me? How many can accept the man that I appear to be, and the woman that I need to be?