The wrong trousers

David Thomas’s transgender diary

So, here I am, in a dress, in public, for all the world to see. I must be mad.

The truth is, I lost my nerve. I begged my editor not to run this photo and she very kindly said, ‘Of course, I understand. We’ll pull it. Take your time.’

But then I told myself to buck up and get a grip.

Do your job. Work through your twisted emotions and turn them into coherent prose. And start at the beginning, with the day this, and many other pictures were taken. Because that day was fun.

I’d been very nervous. In public, I do everything possible to hide the way my body is changing. Though I’m dressed from head to toe in clothes intended for women, I still present, and am invariably read, as a man.

But I resolved to be more open for these photographs. If only to demonstrate that the transition I write about is real, I would wear clothes that would be much more revealing of my new figure than I would ever normally allow.

That was a scary, very vulnerable prospect. The only way to get through the day was to pack my fears away and really go for it.

I put the Stones on the studio sound system, cranked up the volume and switched to performer mode: feeling the beat, dancing, modelling, playing a much freer, more self-confident version of my true self.

As for the specific garments I wore, well, I was a little better at picking them than the first time I posed for these pages. But for some reason, I still couldn’t quite put looks together that felt entirely natural. I was thinking this just yesterday, actually. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, wearing an olive-green silk vest, a pair of baggy, cropped, off-white linen trousers (it was our last Indiansummer day) and a couple of long necklaces, both in various shades of turquoise, blue and grey. The combination just worked, in a completely relaxed, uncalculated way, and I thought, ‘Why the hell didn’t you wear this for the shoot?’ But actually, there was one exception. As I was leaving home, opening the front door of my flat, I thought, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, take it. You don’t have to wear it. But just in case…’

‘It’ was the dress you now can see in the picture. It’s from Me+em’s summer collection… and here I must pause for a second to apologise to Clare Hornby, the founder of the brand.

We’ve never met, though I feel we are oddly connected. I buy tons of her clothes. In fact, I buy so many that a couple of years ago, when Me+em was raising funds via the Crowdcube website, I bought a bunch of shares as well.

My reasoning was that if they went up, the profits would cancel out the cash I’d splashed on the clothes and I’d have got half my wardrobe for free.

As if all this were not enough, Ms Hornby and I live in the same neck of the woods. We even shared the same cleaner for many years. So I really should say sorry to her for sullying her lovely clothes with my unlovely appearance.

But the thing is, I really like this dress. It’s incredibly comfortable and easy to wear and I love that there’s just enough lace to make it pretty, but it’s also restrained and understated.

By the way, for the record, when I wear dresses, it’s not because I’m getting cheap thrills, or prancing around shrieking, ‘I’m a lay-dee.’ It’s for the same reasons anyone does.

Maybe the weather’s really hot and I want to be cool. Maybe it’s cold and I want to snuggle on the sofa in a cosy, woolly sack. Maybe a particular dress just suits my mood, and it fits, and I like it.

Or maybe it’s because a photo session has gone really well and I think, ‘Tran-up and put that damn dress on.’

So I did, and I stuck a Uniqlo denim jacket on top, and a pair of white sneakers on my feet, and they felt like the most ‘me’ clothes I’d worn all day. I mentioned a few weeks ago that the photographer, Edd, said that I only really relaxed when I was in the dress. And I told him, ‘So would you, if you put it on. It’s incredibly relaxing.’

So that was how I felt when this photograph was taken. But looking at it, all I can see is a transgender Malvolio: a self-deluding old fool, with a white frock instead of yellow stockings and cross-garters.

And so I wonder … no matter what I do, or how many hours I spend on the operating table, will there ever come a time when I can look at my new self and not just see an old fool?

For the record, when I wear dresses, it’s not because I’m getting cheap thrills, or prancing around shrieking, ‘I’m a lay-dee’