Imperfect Creatures
If you like my writing, I think you'll enjoy this. If you're not a fan, please skip the story.
It features a character who is a transvestite, a cheating wife, a loving wife and a polyamorous relationship. There are references to male bisexuality and no drawn out or detailed sex scenes. If those elements upset you, please enjoy a different story.
I don't want to write about six-foot tall perfect specimens of masculinity and their feminine counterparts. Of special forces commandos and people with advanced hacking skills, secret assassins and members of the illuminati. I want to write about flawed people, misunderstandings and grey areas. Of secrets, poor communication and love.
Time jumps between chapters, characters names change and change back. Two characters have the same name(ish). If I've written the story well, it wont be a problem, if I haven't it could be quite confusing. The comments will let me know how well I have managed it, I hope.
I've taken time to write this story, it finished differently from how I expected. Comments are appreciated, especially those that help me to understand how I can improve the stories that I tell.
If there is someone out there who would be interested in editing, I would value the opportunity to work with you on how to improve my writing. Even impatient punctuation pedants would be cherished. Please drop me an email.
Chapter One -- Ilfracombe, Devon, UK. August 2022.
It was mid-summer hot. The salt-scented, sea breeze cooled the people in the garden. The children were running around, playing their variation of Tag. Shrill voices competing with the hosts' curated playlist. They'd eaten a picnic lunch and later an adult would fire up the barbeque. There were between twenty and twenty-five people present. Enough that there were small clusters rather than one large group.
Christopher sat back in his chair. He stretched out his legs and looked down them. He could see his feet in the sandals he was wearing and the nail varnish he'd applied that morning. It was a muted red. He liked wearing red nail varnish, felt a little bit tarty. A little bit naughty. It made him smile. The sandals he was wearing had low heels on them. As distinctly feminine as the rest of his outfit. He was wearing a dress, a light summer dress. Yellow with green prints of trees. He liked this design, it was unique.
He got complimented when he'd turned up wearing it. Not just from the ladies. A couple of his male friends had also praised his look. They were used to his unconventional dressing. He'd grown up with them. This little foible, his crossdressing, hadn't been known until he returned from his time in the States. When he returned, it was one of the things different about him.
He'd coped with their surprise, questions and judgements. He'd been a known quantity; someone they'd grown up with. He'd not dated any of the women present, he hadn't been popular with the girls. Not boyfriend, girlfriend popular. Not only was he one of the youngest in his year group. But puberty had come late, a few years later than his peers. His parents had taken him to a doctor, concerned he hadn't started developing at the same time as his friends.
They'd been told he was a late developer. But that had turned out to be a little wrong. Right, but a little wrong as well. He was a late developer. He started puberty after the age of sixteen. He was also someone who wasn't much of a developer either. Other boys had grown big and strong with dark, coarse hair covering their muscular frames. They could grow beards before they finished school. Talked in loud bass voice. Not him. He achieved the grand height of five foot five. He was slender and due to his blonde, almost white hair, practically hairless. He had hair, but his hair was so light, most people couldn't see it. Shaving was optional.
Not the most impressive specimen of manhood. His features never really matured. Baby-faced and for a man, pretty. He'd also not really developed emotionally as the other boys had. He wasn't big on sports. He wasn't competitive. Watching more manly men did little to turn him onto them. He was interested in other activities. He liked to cook and to bake. He enjoyed art and creating things of beauty. What he lacked in machismo, he made up for in his delicate touch and eye for appearance.
His smaller size and good nature had made him popular at school. He hadn't been bullied, he was too small and innocuous to be worth a bully's attention. He was so insignificant that a bully would lose respect rather than garnish it, if they picked on him. He had a quick sense of humour and a reputation for being a loyal and solid friend. He had female friends as well as close male friends. To his deep sadness, he couldn't translate the friendships he had with girls, to dates and romance.
He watched as his friends paired up with different partners and explored the world of love. He was on the side lines, looking in. He wasn't ugly, he was quite good looking and got told that often. But he was small, and slender. He did get called names and teased on occasion. For a short while, he worked out at a gym to bulk up and impress the girls. This worked as well as his other stratagems. He didn't put on muscle mass. No matter what he ate. What diet he followed. What his personal trainer promised. Nothing made him bigger or manlier.
He'd gone onto university to study a degree in Fine Arts, alienating his family on the way. His dad was physically different to him. He had the height and breath of shoulder that Christopher lacked. Not an athlete or a strongman, he was none the less man enough to be dismayed with the rather effeminate child he'd sired. As a father, he wasn't terrible. He didn't abuse him nor hurt him, but Christopher grew up knowing he was a disappointment to his father. His mother sided with her husband rather than her son. University gave Christopher the chance to escape and discover, free from friends, family, who he could be.
He could draw. Not as well as some, but better than most. He could paint, sculpt at a push. Most art related activities, he could turn his hand to. Whilst at school he'd stood out from his peers with his artistic skills; at university there were better in all areas. He discovered he liked patterns and colours and had an eye for creating designs. He was never going to make great art. His work wouldn't be destined for museums and rich benefactors. His efforts, his patterns had appeal. He may never be a great artist, but delivered designs people liked.
When he moved away, he cut back contact with his family. He didn't make much of an effort to stay in touch. Didn't go home for holidays, preferring to stay at university instead. His parents tried a bit. However, he felt he needed to break away from them to discover who he was. Contact between them dropped to a few awkward, guilt ridden calls a year.
At university, he finally got to bed a girl. He was tipsy; she was drunk. She'd a reputation for sharing her love around and he felt brave. He got lucky. He had a night he'd remember for the rest of his life. Sex was everything he'd hoped it'd be. He took his sweet time and did all the things he'd read about and thoroughly savoured the opportunity. The whole experience was a delight to all his senses and he knew, despites some internal doubts, he was heterosexual. Not one hundred percent heterosexual perhaps, but he liked girls and responded to them.
He'd doubted himself a few times when he was younger. He'd been sure he found women sexually desirable but the name calling had taken its toll. He wasn't entirely sure. That name calling and being a transvestite had made him doubt himself. He grew up with few positive references to cross dressing. When the newspapers or magazines mentioned the topic, it was always the subject of derision and mockery. Linked strongly with homosexuality, there were no positive role models for a young cross dresser.
There was a noise and he looked up and around, distracted out of his reveries. His daughter ran up to him, panting breathlessly.
"Dad, everyone's going to the beach. Can we go, please?"
He nodded, giving her a smile. She ran off to share the good news with her friends. He eased himself up and walked over to the mothers. They were packing a bag with some towels. He let them know that he was coming and they included him in their preparations. He felt comfortable here. If they laughed at him or mocked him, they did it out of his sight and he never saw any of it. He was trusted to spend time with the wives, was included with the husbands when they made plans. He was one of the group. Not the most popular, but he was in the group and felt valued for who he was.
He was happy. His daughter loved life in the Devon town. He enjoyed the area, the quietness after his years in New York. The peace and solitude he could get with a short drive whilst Annie was at school. Just escape and be by himself. Get inspired and build his business. Think about life and decisions and what could've beens. He was back with friends. His family were nearby. A comfortable distance where he could drop in on them and use them as babysitters. Their relationship was improving, age gave a different perspective to both sides.
He walked down to the beach with one of the women. He could feel the sunshine on his shoulders as he chatted, strolling. His dress moved as he strode and he enjoyed the feeling. It had taken him years to accept he was a cross dresser, but now he owned it and considered his best feature. Well, his skills as a father came first and foremost, but his transvestism was up there. He'd gotten enough practice and coaching to become adept. He could pass as a woman if he wanted.
It was more of a stretch for him to pass as a man. He liked to think that he could do it. However, he knew that his posture, his mannerisms, all raised questions in people's minds. As a woman, they supported the illusion his slender frame and girlish looks created. But as a man, they made him appear effeminate and drew attention. He had what he wanted. He could wear the clothes he loved and look the way he saw himself inside.
He was a proper clothes horse. He chastised his female friends for their lack of appreciation for the clothes they could wear. It amused them to see him frustrated with their wearing jogging bottoms, yoga pants, shapeless and dull clothing designed to hide rather than to celebrate. He wore dresses, skirts, clothing that felt good to wear. Clothing that looked good. Clothing that was fun. He made them laugh with his insistence that stockings should be worn daily rather than as a birthday treat for husbands. Lingerie was for their benefit, not the men in their lives. Worn because it felt sexy and fun, delightfully feminine.
He walked through the town with the mums. A couple of the dads trailed behind chattering about golf or football or something equally as mundane. He nattered about his work and what he was planning over the next few weeks. They all met up at least once a month, often more frequently. He tended to hang with the women. When he first came back, some of the guys had been distant, as if they could catch his transvestism. Others had dropped hints and made clumsy passes until he'd made it clear that he wasn't interested.
It amused him. The different way people reacted to a man in women's clothes. It was still taboo. It made people feel uncomfortable. He wasn't gay; or he didn't identify that way. He didn't pretend to be anything that he wasn't. He knew that women didn't find him particularly attractive. Too small, not manly enough. Now he was in skirts, dresses and could pass as one when he wanted. He wore a discrete wedding ring. Small, but it sent a clear message. He was not on the market.
The kids tore across the sand and paddled in the breakers. Built sandcastles, squealed, shrieked, and ran away from the waves. The sea was calm and there was suncream on everyone; children and adults. Christopher sat and enjoyed the afternoon sun. This was what life was supposed to be like. The children got ice creams to help them with the walk back to the house.
