Breasts

My long time fantasy is to have breast implants. Cross dressing is fun in a dress up kind of way. A mundane repetitive activity is improved on by wearing a skirt.  I am aware of my entertainment value. The old guy in a dress. A bit of a Monty Python, Benny Hill meets Eddie Izzard.  A lazy cross dresser. A kind of quiet radical.  I rarely am stared at and frankly find it rude. 

I love children’s stares by contrast. 

“Daddy, that man is dressed like a lady!” A little girl, three or four, pointed me out.

‘Yes, dear,” the father answered smiling

I felt much as I did when I tried nipple piercings for a while and had children at the beach, shouting, “Mommy, the man has rings in his chest.”

“Yes, dear,” the mother had said smiling.

Occasionally an oriental frowns, staring hard at me and appearing to talk to the Lord about the abomination I am. I’m okay with Jesus.  I know that God has bigger matters on his mind than whether I wear a panties and bra and a skirt. I don’t even think God cares what old people do sexually.  Most of us do nothing and our collected self centered ness and personal hedonisms is probably more offensive than the odd ball that gets out and about. 

I fantasized that I’d retire one day and give up the masculine role.  I saw myself flying to Thailand where there’s a very good clinic and having breast implants. I’d not recommend SRS to an older person as risks increase with age. Frankly these matters can be taken in stages. There’s never a rush.  If there’s a rush there’s other matters pushing it. I might die any day and come back reincarnated as the female self I’d be today.  

I argue biblical scholarship and science with friends.  300 ad at the Nicea, Constantinople, outlawed the idea of reincarnation.  We die and are in heaven on clouds playing harps for eternity.  Mark Twain’s, Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven is more my idea of heaven. It’s like C.S. Lewis’ musings and T.S. Elliots play about the afterlife.  I like the mystery that the Catholics espouse.  When I find the spiritual arguing I remember the debates from history of the Churchmen disagreeing on how many angels can fit on the tip of a needle.  

I imagine today that I’d go to Thailand and have breast implants and get a face lift. I’ve had the idea for enough years that the latter has been added in recent years.  It’s an adventure, this adoption of another gender. I feel politically castrated as a man and see no future for myself here.  I was once the wild man that Robert Bly so elegantly described in Ironjohn. I stole the locket of the lady’s hair and listened for decades to the silence of mothers as the daughters condemned all things masculine while themselves imitating all things males.  It was just a change of heads for tails. All the promises of a better world, the rewards of transparency and letting one’s defences down.  Silly for a man to do that. Everything he says in secret shows up in divorce courts and other public forums.

I feel sensual and relaxed in nylons.  Jeans and jackets are for work and war.  Silk is the fabric of relaxation.  I love my Scottish kilts but they are heavy and a bit martial.  The cotton skirts are lighter and more relaxing. I’m just as comfortable in sarongs and shorts. I don’t go to work in the conventional sense, dressing in uniform.  Now I’m happy to dress as a woman would for the office.  Women’s clothings shouts freedom.  Men’s clothing for me has always spoken of work and duty.

I admire mothers.  I don’t feel they’re collectively able to get over their inherent competition on behalf of their own sons.  I miss the Pieta.  So much abortion.  I feel the constant screams in the ether of children turned back by knives and pills.

I don’t believe a man can be a woman simply because the possibility of becoming pregnant, giving birth or having an abortion is never there.  DNA is binary with exceptions. Mutations that are positive are rare.  I’m interested in the Other.  I’m the Twin Spirited one of my native brethren.  We were healers in the ancient tribes.  Our lot are noted for neurosis and high intelligence. I’m the Celtic Druid, poet.  This Celtic class was like the Brahmins of India. I feel stuff. Being empathic is overrated.  Peoples emotions are always shouting at me like a cacophony of sounds. The duplicity is voluminous.  

I’m waiting now at the gateway to passing over. I’ve done my four score and seven and then some.  I contributed. I worked in the areas of greatest need.  I tried my best to be conventional, to have a family, to fit in.  I did my duty ,and then some. I’ve fulfilled my promises only to see the authorities break all theirs.  

The communists kill the men and rape the women.  The old are left to die in poverty.  They are offered MAid or nursing homes with bed bugs and covid, bedsores and  overworked staff. We are already seeing the redistribution of wealth. The workers of this era are punished as their pensions and savings are taken to be given to the politics of the fringe, those who have already given their freedom for a free meal.

The old man, a sniper and survivalist, would have to campaign and fight his final years in protests and rallies, shouting against the rank dismissal and abuse of the loyal elderly whereas as a woman I can take delight in little things.  Like King Lear I can sit with girls and chat about court things. I love to write poetry, compose songs, cook. I’d like to exercise more and get rid of this office chair waist. I can sit in offices doing the work I do in silks and satins. I don’t need to wear cammo.  I like the idea of serving and helping but I’d also like to play more and take things less seriously. I don’t want the worries of mothers, grandmothers, fathers and grandfathers, watching their childern’s futures being taken by the minute and hours and days and years. I am single and alienated and alone.  I would rather be with the girls and be gay.