When she can face the outside world my former mistress (that’s a lot to keep typing, I’ll call her P) is the one sounding board where I know I can get complete non-judgemental honesty – it works in the other direction, too.
Her C-PTSD can mean that several months go by between meet ups over a good long lunch or dinner. What she gets to see is a fresh melody each time with all the little changes in dress, mannerisms and even personality rolled up into one leap.
I know she has wistful pangs since she was the one who first gave me the name and despite her being the one who had to walk away from D/s has found it hard to see how I’ve moved on, explored and blossomed. She would dearly love for that to have been under her tutelage, though we both acknowledge that it probably would not have happened.
The last time P saw me as my mistress I was in frilly satins looking like an overweight pantomime dame. Since then like a stop-motion film she’s seen my appearance and poise change from vanilla male to … well ….
She’s seen my nails change with what I’ve been prepared to display in public. At first a surreptitious and embarrassed clear coat just when having lunch or dinner with her. Then enough confidence to wear gel clear coat all the time. The last time I had dinner with her the nails were a very subtle and self-conscious shade and the first time I’d worn colour in public. This time, they were a blood red that was unmissable to anyone and I didn’t care, I barely noticed them.
I’ve found that hands and nails are one thing women first notice. Longish nails force changes in mannerisms and women pick up very quickly that they are not looking at masculine hands and so they tend to inspect the whole.
She’s seen the amount of jewellery I wear change – these days I jangle. Most is meaningless nick-knacks such as a charm bracelet. There’s one piece I wear constantly to signify our time together. She bought me a handcuff bracelet which sadly disintegrated. I replaced it with another more robust one with handcuff links that to me is still ‘hers’.
The new piece she’d not seen before is a feminine necklace of an emerald stone heart given to me by my current domme. Whilst P adored it, there was a wistful look.
She’s seen my clothing change from minor feminine touches through to this encounter where there was not a single piece of male clothing. The first time she’d seen me in my workaday heeled boots. No skirt or dress, nor stiletto heels, but all that melody is currently comfortable displaying without needing to particularly consider making the image one that can pass.
And there’s the rub. I have been out in a constrained public environment with the skirt, stilettos, cleavage and wig. I assumed at the time that it was a thin mask that barely hid the male from anything but a cursory look.
P looked hard and stunned me when she said that with the way I was presenting to her, that there wasn’t really much further to go to consider passing. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or scared – and I still don’t. I see all the flaws and gaffes that a casual glance never does. The personal scrutiny can become debilitating if you let it.
P has no need to be anything other than brutally honest. She’s happy to be seen with me in whatever flavour of melody I’m comfortable with. I have to admit that the frustrating side of her mental health issues means we can go many months between meet ups when I’d love to be able to have a more frequent calibration of my confidence, because on a more regular basis I know full well that I’d reach a level of passing in her company such that I could consider going out in less protected environments.
She left her final surprise for when we got back to her place to continue the long chat over coffee. I’ve known her son for perhaps twelve years and P was always careful to use my male name when her children were around. Undoubtedly she pre-planned it, P introduced me to the son’s girlfriend directly as melody – and it felt right, especially as the son didn’t bat an eyelid, either.
I kind of see myself in limbo. At some point all those steps required to make the journey into passable and then unnoticeable as anything but female will happen. How long it will take, I don’t know. However, I’m less perturbed about the necessity of that journey than I ever have been.