Two trans girls were enjoying each other in a Brighton pub last night. It was very hard not to look, because they were standing up, and nearby.
One was a bit younger than the other, and this younger girl was distinctly pretty. It's always difficult to guess at ages, but I'd definitely put her under twenty-five, and therefore a person who'd had a fighting chance of acquiring a feminised body very similar indeed to an ordinary girl's. She had lovely, smooth, very rounded legs and arms, free of all blemishes and any suggestion that they might have been boyish at one time. A body so feminine in fact that any man (or lesbian woman) would notice her at once, and probably lust after her. A man (or lesbian woman) would notice her anyway, because despite the November evening being damp and chilly she was skimpily dressed in a silky, clingy, dusky-pink dress that only just came below her black knickers, which were perfectly visible when she sat down. If I were being objective, I would say that her legs were her very best feature; but all of her was eminently touchable and caressable, and this is exactly what happened, the two girls ending up in a clinch that went on and on, with hands gently exploring each other all the time. They didn't go so far as to take anything off.
Did I mind this in-your-face sex? Of course not. Not in a Brighton pub. It's only what I'd expect to see. Putting it in another way, defenders of 'proper' or 'conventional' behaviour cut no ice in Brighton, and have no right to criticise the locals.
Good luck to those two girls, I thought. And how nice it must be, to be young enough to have not only the chance of such intimacy, but the confidence (or unselfconsciousness) to make the most of it! And they weren't actually making any noise, nor were they actually invading my personal space. (I can't speak for the other people with me)
Would I do the same? Ah, that's a different matter. Although my old inhibitions and conditioning have had a drastic shake-up in the last few years, I still wouldn't feel comfortable about being groped in a public place. I'd want it to happen in private. A clinch on a nice sofa inside a quiet, comfortable house, just the two of us, and all alone, would be much more my cup of tea. Partly it's because I don't want our intimate moment to be a public peep-show. Partly it's because I am older, and feel more vulnerable - and potentially ridiculous. Fresh-looking, attractive young people can be bold and daring and carefree, and it looks right. The mature, the fat, and the flabby of this world are best advised to find a quiet corner to kiss in, where no-one can stare at them.
The question of what I'd do is of course entirely hypothetical. I am still a post-op virgin, never been kissed, and not even looking for love. It's the HRT - it's made me rather indifferent to sex in any form. Sex has become a theoretical pursuit only: something to talk about at length, but not to actually indulge in. I'm not saying I couldn't be awakened - one should never say 'never' - but I'm not going to set anything in motion myself.
And to be honest, if I were avid to get myself some sex, I'm not sure who would be my target. A man or a woman? I'm not at all certain which I'd prefer. Being female, the social pressures are on me to try a man. That's the expected thing, so far as ordinary people are concerned. It's the easy, straightforward, uncomplicated way forward. And the two offers I've had in the past week have come from men.
I told you last week about the man who ambushed me with an offer of a drink. Well, at lunchtime yesterday a builder chappie knocked on my front door, to tell me that my roof tiles were loose (I already knew they were). Even when I explained that I had no money just yet to have the work done, he kept the conversation going. In fact he wasn't in any hurry to leave. Somehow he managed to ask me directly where my husband was. I said I'd split from my partner some time ago. We then discussed the pros and cons of my being a retired single lady. That seemed safe. But then he said oh yes, I could do this, and have that - but what about love?
As you can imagine, I quickly nipped this in the bud. Not that there was anything wrong with the chap. I just didn't want to let the conversation go further. He had creaking bed-springs on his mind, for sure. I discussed the encounter with Theresa (my cleaner) shortly after. In fact we discussed men and their attitudes quite a bit, as women naturally like to do.
So it's two definite offers, two unequivocal refusals. Will it always be a refusal? It's clear that speaking with men at length doesn't throw me, and indeed it has so far been a pleasant pastime for both of us - until they overstep the mark and start making suggestions.
I'm amazed that they try. Clearly the Melford face, the Melford voice, the Melford cheerfulness, the Melford boobs, and the Melford curves and bulges and sags, all have a combined allure for some men of fifty or more. God knows why, but there you are. Friends point out that it's highly flattering, this occasional attention. Yes, but it's also awkward and no part of my life plan. I like to be in total control. I don't want random, unpredictable approaches that may lead somewhere I don't want to go!