A bit of fun... or downright weird?
Simon Johnson who likes dressing like a little girl
Monday 23rd July 2007
The beautician in the salon sniggered as I walked through the door.
'You poor devil!' she gasped. 'Your mates have stitched you up good and proper.'
'Too right,' I sighed.
It wasn't every day a 34-year-old man dressed as a little girl booked into their salon for a manicure. How would you feel if you saw a 5ft 8in, 12st bloke wearing a frilly, knee-length dress? Sounds like a comedy sketch, right? Something off Little Britain.
But the truth was, my mates hadn't done this to me and it wasn't for a dare either. Dressing as a girl was my deepest, darkest fantasy and, whereas most people locked their fantasies away, mine was finally breaking free.
It all began when I was in my early teens. My parents Pat, then 37, and Gerard, 41, had divorced and I lived with Mum in Brighouse, West Yorkshire. I was a normal, happy lad, into football and hanging round with my mates.
I'd never had a girlfriend and although I fancied girls, I appreciated them in a way
my friends didn't. I admired the way they styled their hair, and accessorised their uniforms with jewellery. It felt normal to me.
When I was 15, I walked into a newsagents and bought my first girl's magazine, Just 17.
'It's for my sister,' I lied to the shopkeeper.
Back home, sprawled on my bed, I lost myself in the fashion and beauty pages. A couple of weeks later, I used the wages from my Saturday job at a butcher's shop to buy a girl's navy school skirt, a white blouse and a pair of black, buckled shoes.
A couple of months later, Mum came home early from work and walked in on me dressed in the uniform and reading Just 17. Luckily, I was under my duvet so she didn't notice my clothes. But as for the magazine?
'Isn't that for girls?' she snapped.
'Y-yes,' I spluttered. 'I found it at school.'
She walked out, puzzled.
A year later, mum got another shock. One day, when I thought she was out, I walked into the kitchen with a black shoulder bag.
'Why have you got a handbag?' she gasped.
'I like women's fashion,' I shrugged.
'Why?' she gasped.
'I don't know,' I mumbled.
It was the truth. I couldn't figure it out myself. I knew I wasn't gay and I was happy being a man. I just liked girly things, simple as that.
I was 18 when Mum finally twigged properly. We'd been to a New Year fancy dress party, and I'd gone in a bridal gown with ribbons in my hair. Everyone thought it was a joke. Apart from Mum.
'Do you like dressing up as a girl?' she asked.
'I love it,' I admitted.
She wasn't shocked, didn't cry. She just accepted me the way I was.
The ironic thing was, now it was out in the open, I stopped dressing up so much. I left home, enrolled on an IT programme and wore boring suits. I had a few girlfriends and a normal sex life, but nothing was serious. How would they react if they knew what I was like behind closed doors? I was reluctant to find out.
But when I was 30, I logged onto the internet and found a helpline for people who were confused about their gender. They put me in touch with a counsellor.
'Is there something wrong with me?' I asked.
'No,' he assured me. 'You're what they call a transvestite.'
I thought of drag queens with big wigs. That didn't seem like me.
Over the next few years, I returned to my fantasy. Before, I'd always dressed in teenage women's clothes. Now I fancied dressing in pretty, frilly little girl's dresses. But where was I going to get one of those to fit a bloke like me?
I'd have to have one made. So I drew a picture of my ideal dress — a white, knee-length number with lots of petticoats and a Peter Pan collar.
'I'm going to a fancy dress party,' I told a dressmaker. 'Could you make this for me?'
'Sure,' she shrugged.
It cost £100.
After work, I'd slip out of my suit and into my dress. And boy — or should I say girl — did it feel good. I'd read magazines or watch the telly in it. Just wearing it made me feel good. Over the next year, I had a few more dresses made, all pink, white and frilly.
Then one night, out clubbing, I got chatting to a lady called Carole, 40, and after a few too many beers, out popped my secret.
'I love dressing as a little girl,' I admitted. 'I just wish I didn't have to hide away.'
'You don't have to,' she said. 'Come over on Saturday. My friend Hazel and I might be able to help you.'
I was intrigued, so I went for it.
That Saturday, I sat nervously in Carole's living room as she told me her plan.
'If you pay us you can come here and we'll treat you as a little girl,' she said.
She wanted £400 per visit. Pricey but I could afford it and I could stay as long as I wanted.
So a couple of weekends later, I turned up at Carole's house, handed over the money, and slipped into one of my frilly dresses. First Carole and Hazel got me to pick a girl's name.
'Claire,' I said.
'OK, Claire,' Carole replied in a singsong voice. 'First we're going to paint your nails.'
Afterwards, Hazel gave me a blonde wig and styled it into bunches and did my make-up. It was worth every penny.
I'd been visiting Carole and Hazel for six months when they encouraged me to go out dressed as a girl. My heart was racing as we walked into a newsagent.
'It's for charity,' Hazel laughed as the shopkeeper gawped.
It was so easy to get away with it. Which is why they decided to take it one step further and book me into a salon to have a manicure. I had the time of my life.
I still hope to find a girlfriend and settle down. Maybe even have a family one day. But I know she'd have to be a very special type of woman to accept my secret fantasy.
Want more bizarre stories from Pick Me Up? Check out:
The fattest girl in the world
The world's smallest mum