Liberating wouldn’t be quite the right word, because I am neither a she-male, transvestite, closet gay, nor simply gay but referring to myself as a “she” certainly does something to me über-male system.
Opens up possibilities. Hidden closets.
(Did I really have to reach this old, far too young an age to finally, finally understand?)
Not that this means that I’m eagerly awaiting me next ready-when-you-will-never-be, you-know-you-want-it, massively-black-dildoed-strapped-on pretty, intelligent, lovely, lovely, oh so lovely, girlfriend.
Nor that I’m suddenly gonna wear A’s impossible high heels, impossible unsexy pantyhose things, impossible sexy stockings with them things attached to her knickers. Which when drunk I struggle to get off. Even sober.
“Never ever write when you’re horny,” no one ever once wrote.
So, for the record, I just did.
