Halloween, Aka: Tour De Force

My name is Paul Nether. I am a 25-year-old Caucasian man. I am currently employed as an English language teacher. Not my dream job by any means, but it will have to do. I wish I could just open a portal to a better world, but this is not going to happen anytime soon.

Also, forgive me for not adhering to the, "show, don't tell" rule. I hope you can understand.

In 2010, I decided to do something special to celebrate the enchanting time of the year that is Halloween.

With jack-o-lanterns and other phantasmagoric inventions, with the haze enshrouding the trees, the Halloween of 2010 was shaping up to be even more climatic than usual.

I wanted to do something special. Something thrilling. Something for which a pied-à-terre would come in handy. After careful consideration, I decided to test my female disguise in the real world. Enough with those closet training sessions involving heel-prancing on wooden floors.

I bought everything I would need long in advance. I had a curly blonde wig; Pleaser heels; and eight white tassels.

Finding the wig and heels was an easy task. With the world at my fingertips, I effortlessly located every store. I then constructed cognitive maps to get there.

A "cloak and dagger" approach was necessary, and I am sure you can understand why. After all, socially-ordained norms tell us in no uncertain terms that male pride is the sine qua non of manhood.

My cognitive map had served me well. I entered the first store and a smiling lady handed me the marvelous collection of hairs which would soon become my main weapon of perceptual manipulation.

"This one's great for little girls, but you'll look awesome in it as well," the woman said emphatically.

The heels were trickier. I entered one heel store physically and said I lost a bet and had to walk in heels for a day or so as a result. The girls scanned me with "WTF!?" written all over their faces.

Then they were trying, desperately I might add, to find the proper heel size for me. Alas, my feet were just too big.

The next step was obvious: I had find a store selling less conventional heels.

As always, the web proved to be irreplaceable. I sent an e-mail to a store, detailing my "bet-time" story.

Our correspondence was swift and their virtual conduct was definitely professional.

I was told the best choice for me would be "Pleaser" heels. I had to trust their judgment on that one. They wanted to call me but I told me we should stick to e-mails.

The transaction was about to be concluded.

Dingdong.

"Yes?" I could hear what sounded like a Southern accent.

"I'm here for the Pleasers," I muttered.

Buzz.

"You can try them on here if you like," the woman told me as she was holding the door ajar.

"No, thanks," I kept looking down on the floor. "Here's the money."

I handed her the money, turned around and strode off, making sure she could not see my face.

I then decided to buy a make-up kit. I came up with a simple story for that one.

"I want to buy a present for my wife," I told a shop assistant. "Yes, her hair is blonde."

The assistant showed me the pros and cons of each product. Finally, the girlish monologue ended and I was left holding the bag. Literally.

I came home and shaved my face first. I then tested the make-up.

"Damn," I muttered to myself. "My face is burning!"

The unpleasant sensation dampened my initial enthusiasm. I was never an aspiring drag-queen, so I decided to stick to scarves covering whatever masculine traits might have been left on my face - and making sure it was as realistic as possible. Fortunately, one of the most important factors - the weather - was on my side.

In case you were wondering, I did not forget about the most important attribute of femininity. I did not intend to become the freak show central by parading around with a flat chest. A belt, two soccer socks, and a coat to accentuate the would-be breasts was all I needed to create a convincing illusion.

Finally, I decided to test my disguise in practice. I was not sure what to expect. My digital recorder made sure every single second was immortalized.

I quickly found my heel-walking skills were good and sidewalks were not a problem. I pranced around in them, shaking my derriere, looking ahead. My conditioned mind could not believe I was actually passing myself off as a female. It almost felt like a dissociative identity disorder for a while.

I could not utter a single word for obvious reasons. I was not an aspiring "tranny" by any means.

That was my only concern: what if some stalker decided to follow me? What if a police officer stopped me? Fuck it. Mind your own business. And your own pants.

Overall, I was happy with the results. And disappointed. Disappointed with the outcome, i.e. how easy it was for me to dupe people.

What a dichotomy, wouldn't you say?

Catcalls. Whistles. Honks. Even pick-up strategies. My curly blonde wig was serving me well. My white cap made sure people did not see the top of the head.

The gloves eliminated the problem of claws.

The experience of putting myself in women's shoes was definitely a rewarding one. Nothing is free in life, however: I was really tired after the exercise in femininity;

First time's a charm.

Forget about the third. Your feet won't survive it.

The End.