I lived with an old boy once, for six months, in Somerset, in the early eighties when I was at a loose end. I kept house for him just like a wife would have done, cooked and ironed and washed his clothes and dressed in the expensive things he bought for me from a specialist shop in Bristol. He told me he loved me, loads of times and cried when I left him for good. I could see the relationship was going nowhere in the longer term. I was more of a trophy for him than anything else.

He was the chap who first called me Vicky, a name I’ve used many times since for all sorts of reasons. He bought me a ring, which I put on the dressing table when I left and bras with moulded foam in them and flowers on a Friday so I’d agree to go out with him at the weekend wearing it and the other feminine clothing he’d bought for me. One of my dresses had polka dots, which I hate but, I was someone else then so did not complain about it. I won’t go into detail about the actual sex bit except to say there were some things he didn’t much like and some things he liked a lot. Typical of a man I suppose! When he came home he’d put his car keys in a bowl on the little table by the door if he wanted one thing and on the table itself if he wanted another. After a while I’d joke with him about it. “Coffee, Tea or Me?” I’d say, which used to make him smile.

When we did go out together we’d go to a place he knew in Bristol where no-one bothered about an awkward looking woman who was really a man trying to walk properly on the arm of her lover and who once went into the Gents loo instead of the Ladies by mistake. We’d sit and make pointless conversation in a little alcove that he liked, well there were alcoves all over, specially for that purpose and I’d drink girly things that were mostly soda water. He was sad because I never got on very well wearing high heeled shoes. I said size tens looked silly anyway, like some sort of weapon and not at all dainty, but I loved the jewellery he bought me so he was happy about that. His idea, I think, was to make other men jealous, that was the impression I got anyway. Hardly an evening went by when some acquaintance of his would come over and sit with us, their eyes always on me rather than him. Sometimes they stayed only a short while before going off somewhere else and not coming back but sometimes they’d stay with us much longer. Then I’d have to endure the innuendo and incomprehensible jokes and smile sweetly as if I was enjoying myself. I knew other men wanted me even though I did my best not to be provocative. I always sweated a lot, mainly because I had to keep on a cardigan or long sleeved blouse to cover my tattooed arms. Oh how he hated those tattoos! He told me I’d disfigured myself and ought to be ashamed of that. I told him I didn’t even have a woman’s hands let alone arms but he wouldn’t hear of it. You have a beautiful body, was all he would say. If he had arranged for us to stay at this club overnight, which was often, we didn’t usually get to bed until quite late. I’d dress soberly unisex when we went down to breakfast in the morning, a bit of a giveaway as I usually needed a shave. Then eventually we’d go out and wander around Bristol together. If there was no-one around I’d even hold his hand. Usually we went shopping for things neither of us needed. Cufflinks for him and ear rings for me. My ears were pierced then as well as my nipples. We’d lunch in some place where us sort of people went, again more so that he could show me off than actually eat anything. I must say I got quite well known in the local gay community eventually though nobody used the word Gay then. To most straight people the word was just “queer”.

It was an interesting life and I enjoyed it, even if my feet did hurt from wearing funny shaped shoes all day. Usually in the early afternoon we’d go home to watch the sports on the telly. He drove a Jaguar car, a big one, an automatic. Which meant the gear lever was between the seats, in the middle, right in the way. Manys the time I’ve rested my plastic tits on top of that while I sucked him as he drove us somewhere.

When I got bored, as I often did, I’d say to him “Come on, look, lets go into Bristol and pick up a couple of women!” He’d shudder visibly at this, tell me to take the car and go by myself as he didn’t like women. I think they frightened him. I’ve often wondered why he wanted me to dress like one and be one for him as much as I could anyway. But it was Somerset after all, quite near Glastonbury and yes, his name was Arthur. Years later I still feel sad when I think of him. He was a lovely man.



© Aahlu. 1997.

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