OK, so Richmond at last.

So after I picked up the motorcycle on Saturday (June 6),  I had time to ride it shakily around the neighborhood for 15 minutes, noting that it idled rough, but ran smooth — suggesting some congestion of the idle jets in this carb’d classic.  I’d have plenty of time for riding later, plus I needed carb cleaner, fresh gas, a helmet, riding gear, some proper boots.  I packed my things quickly and headed out for Midlothian, Virginia wherein my younger sibling and his lovely wife and new baby, my niece,  reside. 

I was semi-femme, wearing under jeans my spandex nude boy shorts because they wick sweat, and a dangly earring in my left lobe, and I had a spandex camisole on underneath my T-shirt.  I’ve lost a good bit of weight now, an honest 23 pounds, and I’m looking really good compared to my more abundant  self.

It’s nearly a four hour trip, no matter which way you slice it, and I opted for the less-traveled 29 to 58 to 360 to 288 route, rather than 40/85 to 85 to 95 Interstate path — too much traffic for my tastes.  I had a fat baggy, then recently procured, and I packed a glass bowl for the trip.  I was pretty high before I left Greensboro’s outer limits, and was able to maintain a nice buzz for the entire trip, which is, as they say, pretty much the point at least for me. 

Upon my eventual arrival all up in the Midl’n, I found my beautiful niece in the care of her maternal grandmother, who I’ve missed dearly since I last saw her.  The sweetness was sleeping, then Gama burped her a little, fed her a little, and it was the sweetest thing you ever saw.  I love that little baby already, and I just met her!  I held her, and she smiled a little smile among her random facial gestures (she was about 7 weeks old that weekend).  I wish I had children, I really do.  But wifey and I are on the rocks again, since the bike purchase she’s been highly disrespectful to me, so I leave her be when she’s like that.  I really, truly do not think that she loves me.  I’m pretty well convinced.

 

Kisses.

Asheville, cont’d. (SLP version)

I don’t know whether the SLP reference is too arcane or not, but I am of a certain age, darlings, and I love functional classics like the VCR, and the non-digital DVC camcorder.  Of the latter, I have a wonderful Panasonic PV GS320 with the 3xCCD video elements.  The only thing it’s missing is a microphone input for higher fidelity recording to take advantage of the CD quality sound – it has a mic zoom feature that is cool, and I think the GS300 had a stereo in, but there wasn’t one available on the ‘Bay when I was looking.    They’re not real expensive (mine brand new for under $300 Ebay), and the picture quality is probably close to HD, it also is a 3.2 Megapixel still camera, although it’s a handful to lug around just for that when you have a smart phone with a 5.0 MP still that will do video also.  But the video, especially the zoom, is really spectacular.

Okay, so where were we?  Oh yes, time to kill in Asheville, cash money to spend, some dope – I have a small wooden pipe, about the size of my little finger, that I carved from the crook of a branch that I removed from a pink flowering Weeping Cherry tree at the house we left in Virginia when we moved to North Carolina.  I loaded it as soon as I hit the road, that and a glass bowl with a little shotgun on the side.  I am a very cautious driver anyway, and well-trained, having grown up around the Washington Beltway in the 70s-2000.

Tonight’s state of mind: Light headed

Tonight’s drug of choice:  hacheech, at the moment

Expectations: dressing, high, writing

Soundtrack: Donald Fagen – Snowbound (Kamakiriad) on continuous (love the guitar solo, and it’s monotonous enough it fades into the background a little as I write).

Outfit: Sleeveless grey evan picone short dress, black hose, silver and black cat charm bracelet, silver 24″ add-a-bead chain, black 3″ heel boots, black corset bra with my “bust enhancer” elastics to give me some boobage – check the link out: http://cgi.ebay.com/Brand-new-black-bust-support-body-shaper-34-36-XL_W0QQitemZ300322000174QQcmdZViewItemQQptZUS_CSA_WC_Hosiery_Socks?hash=item45ec960d2e&_trksid=p3286.c0.m14&_trkparms=65%3A12%7C66%3A2%7C39%3A1%7C72%3A1205%7C240%3A1318%7C301%3A1%7C293%3A1%7C294%3A50

I usually use two, for extra mushing, as is the case tonight.  Underwear?  Boy shorts, in black – one of my favorites as you probably have guessed.

I know, I know.  Some of you are screaming “Get the fuck down to it already!  Focus!  Asheville!”  When people talk about an uneventful trip, that is really exactly what I had.  I literally rolled on to Asheville without stopping, didn’t see the first local representative of Johnny Law within a mile of me during my drive — about a 2.25 hour trip from when I really got out on the highway.  I got to town, I checked into my hotel room, unpacked my essentials, hit the head, and then I knew I had to scout out some dinner.  One place my wife and I had not had the chance to try the last time we were in Asheville was Tupelo Honey, a nouveau Southern cuisine place where I was fortunate enough to eat a lunch while in town last autumn on business.  So it was a natural choice for vittles.  The meal itself was good, but they had a pumpkin pie creme brulee that is worth thr trip if only for that.  So, decadent and well balanced between custard and delicate sweetness, and the pumpkin pie spices were applied prudently so as to be delectable, but not to overpower. Call ahead, check the online menu.  If you are ever fortunate enough to try it, drop me a comment.

More next time.

Kisses!! KM

A new addition to the household.

More about Asheville, next time, promise.  It’s a story worth telling.  But now, I’ve got an itch.  Sorry, writers’ prerogative.

The weekend that I was to have the great honor and pleasure of welcoming Anna Cecile to the family with a visit to my brother’s house (in the greater Richmond metropolitan area) turned out to be the weekend that I did “it” again.  Well, not exactly it – I told her beforehand this time.

A little prologue.  In 2001, I became enamored of shopping for motorcycles online.  Ebay, Cycletrader.com, and Craigslist hadn’t really arrived on the scene yet – certainly not in or near Danville, Virginia.  So one fine day, I saw the perfect bike, and I bought it.  Found it in dealer inventory in Rhode Island, I think, fresh from the crate (NOS) with 125 miles on it – not even broken in.  The delivery fee was less than 400 clams, it was a great deal on an essentially new 1996 Yamaha Virago 535, red v-twin cruiser with a nice windshield, and a fringed Mustang seat with pillion and backrest.  I didn’t tell my wife what I’d done until the bike was due at my house the next day.  “Honey, I think I did something bad,” was how I started the conversation.  I’d been muttering about doing so for some time, I have friends who ride, and I thought I was quite coordinated enough to do it quite well.  I’ve always been very athletic, good eye/hand coordination, and my last moving violation was in 1987 when I was 47 in a 35, and probably should have been thrown in the clink considering how much alcohol my girlfriend and I imbibed that night.  She was fresh in AA for (not alcohol) substance abuse, and I was out dining fancy and drinking with her, all the eve the both of us barely able to keep our hands off each other.  And who could blame me, as this young lady had a gafurchin like a lima bean in a tiny little hoodie.  Indeed, the guilt sort of straightened me out in a lot of ways for a good long while.  But I digress.  This little bike was so pretty, the 50-year-old lady next-door mentioned to me that she thought it was “beautiful”.  I recounted said encounter to my raconteur brother-in-law and he views her attention to the bulbous curves and gleaming metal between my legs as a come on:  “Yeah, I think she wants to fuck ya.”  I’m telling you, this guy has dragged in some nice talent to the annual Thanksgiving dinner at mom-in-laws, he knows something about what motivates women.

I will tell the full tale on another occasion, but suffice to say for now that I had an accident with the beautiful motorcycle wherein an elderly lady could not keep herself from running me down right in front of my house one evening in November 2001.  I purchased said motorcycle in September 2001.  Neither the accident, nor the bike purchase to begin with, was exactly how this was supposed to have gone down, but no use any of us crying over spilt Chopin.

Now, on with it.  So about Tuesday, I spied an ad on Cycletrader.com – an online motorycle and motor sports vehicle classified service.  A lot of dealers put their used inventory up online here and it will sit there until somebody looking for one happens upon it, and boom, dealer hasn’t put in much work to try to sell it.  That is how I found the pristine Yamaha.  This time, after 8 years of thinking about it, and after reflecting long on my accident and the lessons I learned, I’ve been yearning for, searching for a Honda VFR 750 in the 1993-1997 (version 4, FV) era.  I was emailing people and calling about bikes from California to Maine to Michigan, to the panhandle of Florida, trying to find just the right bike.  The right one popped up only 35 miles from home, and it had all the right stuff.  I called the guy, a private owner (!), and we chatted about the bike.  He offers to email me some photos, but I told him we were so close I’d just come by and see it in person.  He seemed to like that.  He had a no-haggle deal – you pay the price, or you add an extra $1000 to the price and try to haggle him down.  So on Friday I pulled out $2400 in cash from the bank, and had some walking around money, bitches.  I went to see the man about the horse, so to speak, it was a fine steed as advertised, and he agreed to ride it to my house for me, since I haven’t been on a bike in 8 years, and I wasn’t licensed or insured.  I gave him an extra $100 and a ride home for his trouble, he seemed to enjoy the last ride on his VFR, at one point on the highway he blasted past me going at least 90, so that I could see it accelerate like a scalded dog, and so I could listen to the aftermarket D&D slip-on can.  So it’s mine, mine, mine all mine now, and can I just tell you – this is one helluva machine.  I’m hoping to have some really good times aboard that bike, and to stay safe and keep the rubber side down.  I’ll tell you about my plans for riding safe in a future blog.

I promise I’ll tell you about Richmond next time.

Sleepy kisses, KM

not to buy the boots? (or, ’something of a fundamental question’)

My apologies for being late on getting this up, and it’s condensed at that.  Let’s make a rule – I promise never to promise to do anything “tomorrow”.  That may seem downright lawyerly, but you can’t be disappointed ever if I promise to get to something “next time”.  I’ll keep that promise.  But promising to do something “tomorrow”, in cyberspace, seems rather pointless.  This is the only space in which we have some control over at least the forward movement of time.  The past is the past, of course.

Okay so I’m in Asheville, hippie-town western NC, with a nice little dimebag, some girlie underwear and makeup, and some time on my hands before an amazing musicfest known as Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam.  What does a girl do .  .  . hmm . . . oh yeah – we go shopping!  I actually looked at high-heeled boots in ShoeCarnival while on a earlier business trip to Asheville.  The saleswoman there that afternoon actually offered to let me use the dressing room if I wanted to try anything on.  That was an unsettling moment for me, as accepting her offer required an admission that I was not yet ready to make.  That was a pivotal moment for me, especially in terms of making progress toward accepting that I am transgendered, a crossdresser (CD).

More about Asheville, next time.  Not wanting to turn this into another boring southern confessional pretending to some facsimile of the ”great american novel”, I’m going to take some breaks in the storytelling for some current events.  I’ll usually have a thread or two running through these entries, keep things spicy.  It’s how my mind works, it’s a little easier that way.

 Til then, kisses!!  KM

To buy the boots, or . . .

My trip to Asheville in December to attend the Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam was something I looked forward to for months – I thought about it all summer, and I purchased my ticket() the day they went on sale.  I asked a number of friends if they were interested in coming along, but the economy of September 2008 was just scary enough that all of my concert-going buddies begged off, having expended their concert funds already on a steady diet of jam bands and music festivals, and in the case of one musician friend, regular troubadoing sessions in bars and at festivals across the Commonwealth, playing in a working band.  He was, until he entered rehab in August after a twenty-five year marijuana and hallucinogen binge that claimed one marriage, nearly another relationship or 3 along the way, including raising a young boy in that environment.  I deleted a nonsequiter here, as there’s a lot here to tell and I don’t want to get side-tracked.

So up until my impending trip to Asheville, I’ve never had the opportunity to be on my own, with a wardrobeI plan ahead for, and in a place where no one knows who I am for a weekend of music, makeup, a wig, a little weed, some fine dining, great surroundings and other peace-loving people.  Yes, it’s like that, a very free place.  So you can imagine the testosterone was running wild that whole week, knowing I had Friday off for my trip to Asheville from Winston-Salem.

The weekend really began when on my day off for the trip I got the call from the friend of a since-abandoned acquaintance met through Craigslist.  Yes, people really meet other people on Craigslist who don’t (or haven’t) kill them.  His connection hadn’t come through yet, but they were getting together to jam, so I went over to the studio, listened to some singing tracks, and smoked a little, and then scored enough crystal-laden bud via gift to make it an interesting weekend, and headed for Asheville from there.  In my luggage I discreetly packed a few pairs of my panties, maybe a blouse and skirt, some shoes I picked up at Goodwill – black suede 2-1/2″ heels, as well as some ordinary male drab, my not at all sexy, but quite necessary cpap machine so I could sleep, and my stylish Dooney & Bourke kit bag.  My wife at the time was aware of my dressing, we’d had the talk, and she didn’t bat an eye.

I hate to do this, but it’s way past my bedtime, I will continue this tomorrow . . . swear to god.

 

Kisses!!!! KM

The, um, “situation” takes a whisker, and a turn

First, the turn.  While my wife of now 17 years initially was somewhat accepting of my cross-dressing, we’ve hit a few potholes along the way.  For example, one night while dressed up in my “man-cave” room above the garage, I felt like having a cigarette.  I don’t smoke in the house, so that involves me walking down the main staircase in the house, and out the back door to the screened-in porch.  I walk down the stairs in drag (no makeup, no wig that night) and spousy says, “ohhh, why are you doing this?”  And I am thinking, uh honey, we just had this conversation a couple weeks ago, and I told you I don’t really understand why this brings me comfort and excitement, but that it does.   She also has vocalized a concern that I not “flaunt” it, but I remind her that I’ve been hoarding my women’s clothing for more than a year, and she didn’t even know. 

But then I asked her to pick up some skirt hangers next time she’s in a store that has them, and what do you know, she does!  Brought me five skirt hangers for my femme wardrobe.  And she stopped snickering about my choice of underwear in the morning now – most of the time I choose panties to wear beneath my very conservative suit, dress shirt and tie.  I really enjoy the consciousness I have of my underwear throughout the day.  I have very comfortable panties, for the most part – still sexy to me, in that they fit me well, and I do own some very cute ones that are a little skimpy, but nothing shocking.  Oh, and if you didn’t miss a detail, I needed skirt hangers because I was out shopping recently, and I picked up some nice finds at the local Goodwill.  I’ll tell you about my haul some other time, but let’s say I made a killing, and purchased some killer threads for a song – yaay!

So that brings me to the whisker.  I’ve begun experimenting with shaving various parts of my body, including my armpits, the small of my back (furry, otherwise) and my chest down to my nipples.  I wanted to shave my legs in their entirety, but for now I am satisfied with having one thigh, my left thigh as a matter of fact, shaved smooth.  I want to shave most of my manly hair off because it is a little unsightly when I’m dressing well enough to otherwise “pass”, but I have hairy legs, back, chest or underarms that show under, through, or around my outfits.  I could wear something less revealing to be sure, but I am 5′7″, and I have lost a lot of weight on my way to an athletic body, and I have the potential to look like a very nice looking woman.  When I get my body where I want it, I want what every girl wants — to be able to dress in a way that I enjoy, to wear clothes that are fun, and to feel sexy and dressed up when I’m, well, dressed-up.  So this fall, when short pants are put away for a month or two, well, we’ll see if I have the guts, won’t we?

 Sorry it’s been a while since I wrote, so many things to write about and so little time.  Tonight, for the curious: black cotton elastic bikini bottoms – bits tucked under, black argyle hose, cleavage-maker and black corset bra (to hold up my little tiny squeezed-together manboobies), ankle-length black leather skirt (Goodwill, $5), 3″ black leather heels, grey microfiber t-top, and a silver/onyx and tiger-eye earring in my one piercing – left ear (of course!).  I’ll try to let you know when I’m stylin’ if you’re interested in what’s in my closet besides me.  Mwaaah.

Kisses – KM