Unready to Wiggle

Femmes are the ones who wiggle, goes one old saying.

I sat in the car for an hour watching women go into the LGBT Spring Fling at the Elk’s Club.  I knew I would be safe inside, that no one would attack me.

But would I feel welcome, unleashed and fluid?  Would I be able to wiggle, that damn broomstick removed from my bum?

Ava knew a trick or two.  Wear a skirt, she told me.  I was already in slacks, with a tank and a sheer ethnic print overshirt with just a few bugle beads, which turned out to be way overdressed for the crowd I watched enter, but not dramatic enough to unleash me.  Ah, if I could only still wear my heels.

I watched.  The gals carrying handbags?  Clearly the femmes.

I never was allowed to drive like a woman.  So many women came meandering around the lot, after I took the back route and just got  a good space.  It reminded me of what my training denied me, that chance to make woman choices and have them seen as appropriate or cute.

But I got dressed and went out for the first time in two weeks, and when I spent my $11 at the liquor store rather than the dance, I was seen as just another woman on a Saturday night.

TBB had a lovely time last week when she showed up early for a bike ride and found a woman who found her fascinating.  They went out to dinner the next day, as she wondered where TBB had been for the past nine months as she looked for someone worth chasing.  It was good she chased TBB, because TBB has learned it is unseemly for her to chase people who are not yet ready for her.

Maybe, maybe, if I was able to have a few drinks, maybe if I was there with a friend who could have my back, or even drive after I had my cocktails, maybe if I knew that….

Too many maybes.   I judged myself unready to wiggle.

Even if I do look rather nice, and, as I realized from tonight’s Nashville based Prairie Home Companion, that the music of George Jones played with pedal steel makes me wanna make out.  Western swing has always made me hot; my past life as the owner of a 1940s roadhouse has always bled trough.  (Transpeople have such convoluted origin myths; why not reincarnation bleed through?)

Reminds me of classic Saturday nights, where I would do my face pretty, have a drink and party with myself.   At least I know I am good company.