by Dom Harvey
Out of necessity, so I can live my life day to day without being arrested, I have become a bit of a ninja when it comes to concealing my excitement. The easiest and most effective way to do this is to utilise the belt area of your clothing to do the tuck-up. Then eventually it goes away and falls back down into the proper place. I should throw a warning out there, though: the tuck-up manoeuvre cannot be done if you are wearing togs without a top at the beach. Do the tuck-up in this scenario and suddenly you have what looks like some sort of an offensive periscope poking from the top of your board shorts. In this beach situation the alternatives are limited but in the past I have taken to lying face down on the sand until things go back to normal or kept my hands strategically placed in front of me until I could get in the ocean. A dose of cold water is as effective at putting out erections as it is fires.
I first became aware of this handicap at the age of twelve when I was at St Peters Intermediate in Palmerston North. It was class speech time and after two weeks of preparation everybody had to stand in the front of the class and deliver a two- to three-minute speech on a subject of their choice. I wish I could tell you what I spoke about but the topic was overshadowed by something else that happened. I knew what was developing but could do nothing to stop it. All I could hope was that nobody else would notice. Sadly, that was not the outcome. I kept on reading my speech from the cue cards in front of me even when I could hear the whispering and suppressed giggling from my classmates. Then one of my best mates in the class, someone who I should have been able to count on to have my back, burst into laughter so loud that the teacher, Mrs O’Connell, stopped me so she could deal with this disruptive pupil who was being inconsiderate during my speech. Good on her, she had my best interests at heart, but I knew the reason for the outburst of laughter and I had a feeling this situation could end badly.
‘Dean, this is incredibly rude of you!’ Mrs O’Connell said sternly. ‘Dominic is making his speech and I expect you to be polite enough to sit and listen quietly. Whatever made you laugh must be hilarious. Would you care to share it with everyone else?’
Now, as I mentioned earlier, Dean was a good mate. He had let me down with the interruption. Surely he would make it up to me now by either refusing to answer the question or making something up on the spot. Surely.
‘Miss! Dom’s got a stiffy!’ Dean shouted and pointed simultaneously. Now the entire class lost it. Miss O’Connell could do nothing. Her repeated pleas for silence were drowned out by the laughter that could probably be heard from as far away as the office block on the other side of the school grounds. Fortunately by then the evidence had shrunk, allowing me to strenuously deny the allegations and blame it on the fabric of my shorts gathering in a bunch at the front. But the damage had been done and there was no way any of my classmates were going to give me the benefit of the doubt.
Luckily this was towards the end of the year. After that I left St Peters to start at Palmerston North Boys High School. Had this not been my parents’ plan, I reckon they would have had to move me to a different school anyway—one little incident like this can ruin a student’s entire school career!
Since that day I have been aware of this incurable problem and have just done my best to manage it. If it happened today in the life drawing class it would be an unmanageable situation, a catastrophic embarrassment with nowhere to hide.
From my waiting place (holding cell) I could hear the girls arrive, then heard them all walk up the wooden stairs in their heels. This distinct sound just served as another reminder that they all had footwear on and I did not.
The first twenty minutes of the class were, as Amanda had explained to me on the phone, a crash-course in sketching, where the girls would be taught the basics about drawing the human body. Then the girls would draw some intentionally phallic-looking fruit—a banana and two apples. Boy, after drawing these the girls were going to be let down by what was supposed to be the main event. I should have asked Amanda to swap the fruit with a courgette and a pair of mandarins.
As I waited I could hear muffled laughter from time to time coming from the studio upstairs. The girls were all in good spirits which was encouraging. They were not afraid to laugh, though, which was expected but still concerning.
Amanda knocked on the door and asked if I was ready. I took in a big deep lungful of air then exhaled in a feeble attempt to lower my heart rate. Sadly, I don’t think anything would have been effective right then.
We walked up the stairs and waited in the lobby just outside the closed door to the art studio. The stereo came on and the music kicked in. Dum. Dum dum dum. Dum dum dum. Dum dum dummmm. ‘Eye of the Tiger’. The Rocky theme music. That played for what felt like an eternity, but it was probably only thirty or forty seconds. The door was opened and I walked in to generous applause and cheers from the aspiring artists. I quickly looked around the room and glanced at the girls, in position at their respective easels with aprons on. They were all attractive, which immediately made me stress out about my little problem with those spontaneous erections.
I took my place on the stage, still robed. Jen, the bride-to-be, was invited to join me on stage to remove the robe. It is hard to explain the awkward vulnerability I experienced at this point. Many men would probably think this sounds like a dream come true—being the only bloke in a room full of women who are looking at your penis. But the reality is definitely more embarrassing than sexy (at least, that’s the case when I am the model in question).
Jen untied my robe and removed it. I stood completely naked on stage, unsure what to do with my hands. The urge to use them as a penis shield was overwhelming! It is your natural human instinct. I had to resist doing so as Amanda gave the girls their instructions.
The first assignment was a straight drawing. I just had to pose with my arms folded for approximately ten minutes while the girls drew. Amanda had suggested to me that after the initial shock of being naked I would become comfortable. This was not the case. From my spot on the stage I could see a few of the works in progress and became incredibly self-conscious when I could see the girls drawing my penis—there was no doubt what body part they were studying at that moment!
After holding this pose for ten minutes I was told I could step down from the stage. There would now be a ten-minute recess while the girls got to sip their drinks and have a look at all the other drawings.
‘Do you want the robe?’ Amanda asked.
‘Hell yes!’ I replied without hesitation. I know there was nothing left to the imagination anymore but there was no way I could have a casual conversation with a fully clothed person if I was fully naked. It just was not doable.
Next up a chair was placed on the stage for a tandem pose. This involved me being seated on the chair while the mother of the bride sat on my lap. This would provide some coverage to key areas of flesh, for which I was grateful, but it also increased the chance of arousal. Fortunately, this worst-case scenario did not occur with this sweet lady in her late fifties perched on my lap.
For the final pose, Amanda from Strike a Pose gave me my instructions in advance. I just had to stand with my robe on and my arms by my side. The bride-to-be would take care of the rest.
Holding up a picture of the famous statue of David, Amanda then called Jen up onto the podium and issued her instructions. ‘Okay, what I need you to do is take off Dom’s robe and move his arms and legs into this pose. Maybe a bit of a tilt of the hips and the head to get it as close to David as possible.’
Maybe it was the warm lights and the wines from earlier catching up with me. Perhaps it was just the touch of the bride’s soft skin and warm hands on my body. Whatever it was, I could feel myself expanding. My genitals had let me down, but I maintained my professionalism. I held my pose and did not look down or flinch. All I could do was hope the problem would not get any bigger.
Fortunately, it did not get any worse and I assumed I’d got away without any of the budding artists noticing.
Unfortunately,
I had been busted, but everyone present was too polite to say anything about the elephant trunk in the room. I found out the next afternoon when Amanda texted me:
Just a quick text to say u were amazing last night. The girls loved you. Really nice to meet you. Hope u enjoyed it . . . u looked like u did ha ha!
Gutted! If there was ever a time in my life where I wished to suffer from the common problem of erectile dysfunction, this Saturday night was that moment.
Prior to the class, Amanda had told me that none of her male models had ever been aroused while posing. I had warned her that there was a first time for everything. In any case, surely the bride-to-be would have been flattered if she had noticed, wouldn’t she? I have no clue as to how the female mind works but I would imagine it is good for a girl’s ego to discover she has the ability to get a man aroused just by touching his arm!
After the class had finished Amanda from Strike a Pose told me I had done great for a first-timer. She said she would call me up if she ever had a model fall through at the last minute and needed a ring-in. Whether that was the truth or not, I appreciate her letting me know! If her name and number pop up on my phone screen on a Saturday afternoon I will know to ignore it. This is an experience I will happily never repeat!
CROSS-DRESS
This is a pretty big admission from a Kiwi bloke but I am very much in touch with my feminine side. I love bubble baths. I can appreciate the aroma of a nice pear-scented candle. A well-made chick flick is one of my favourite genres of film. And when I sit down, if I’m not thinking about, I tend to cross my legs like a lady.
And, yes, there have been occasions when I have been really, really hung-over and have sat down to pee (it just makes more sense when you don’t have total confidence in your aim).
In the past when friends have been engaged, I have sometimes found the plan for the hens’ night (facials and massages) more appealing than the agenda for the stag party (paintball and fishing). I can’t help this! It’s not my fault I’d rather be massaged with nice oils in a dim room while listening to pan-flute music than run around a muddy paddock while my friends try to shoot me with exploding balls of paint at close range. Those things fucking hurt—where’s the enjoyment in that?
But that’s about where my feminine side ends—otherwise I am all male.
I hardly ever cry. I shed a tear about as often as Graham Henry smiles.
I believe flatulence can be used effectively for comic purposes.
I never go to the toilet without taking in some reading material.
And sometimes I blow my nose on my towel before throwing it into the laundry.
So what? I’m a disgusting pig who just happens to enjoy massages, facials and Katherine Heigl movies. Big deal, get over it.
But even with these reasonably strong links to my feminine side, I have never ever contemplated wearing clothes or underwear that were designed for women.
It just makes no sense to me. I don’t see the benefit. Nighties are a different story, though—they are very comfortable. I have a fabulous collection of them.
Men who dress as women have always amused me, mainly because they don’t fool anybody. The cross-dressers I have seen never look all that feminine. They just look like a bloke in women’s clothing, apart from this one time in Phuket when I got fooled by a ladyboy, but that is not a story I really wish to revisit in this book.
I wonder what goes through the mind of a cross-dresser. When he gets dressed and puts make-up on and prepares to go out and mix with other people, does he actually THINK he looks like a lady? Or does he KNOW he looks like a man dressed as a lady but still feels good about that compromise?
The worst cross-dresser of all time must be the wolf in the kids’ story ‘Little Red Riding Hood’. He dressed up as an elderly lady. Although he did manage to convince a girl that he was her nana, so maybe he didn’t do such a bad job after all.
If you wander around Auckland’s famous red-light district Karangahape Road, you can sometimes see these guys and, quite frankly, a lot of them look terrifying. Whether it’s the stance, the walk, the jaw, the bulging Adam’s apple, the stubble or the comical falsetto voice, there are always a number of obvious giveaways. I’ve seen a few Polynesian guys dressed up and these lads were huge. Bigger than any woman you will ever see. These guys never look convincing at all. They just look like club rugby players who are entering into one of those wacky ‘dads in drag’ fundraising evenings for their team.
Cross-dressing is not something I had ever wanted to do. Even when I’ve had the house to myself I’ve never been tempted to try on the wife’s panties and take a look at myself in the mirror . . . okay, maybe I have thought about it once or twice but just thinking about it does not make you a weirdo (cough, cough).
But this is exactly what I would do for my bucket list. I would transform myself into an attractive lady. I would be a brother undercover as a mother.
The event? A six-kilometre fun run . . . for women only. I would be the only male runner taking part alongside 3000 females.
Running is an activity that involves very little conversation, so this would be ideal—because no matter how much time a cross-dresser spends getting ready, any doubt is removed as soon as he opens his mouth. I’d have to avoid spitting as well. You hardly ever see women joggers spitting so doing so would potentially reveal my shocking secret.
First stop: the fancy Auckland shops of Newmarket. I went into the Trelise Cooper store. I only know the bare minimum about men’s fashion and even less about clothes for women. But I had heard of the name Trelise Cooper.
I flicked through a few dresses hanging on racks then played a hide-and-seek game where I searched furiously for the well-obscured price tag. When eventually I did locate the tag I realised why it had been so well hidden—$ 829 for one dress.
I think I’m the same as most guys in this respect—I always check the price before I even bother trying anything on. In fact, when it comes to clothes shopping I would say this is one of the main points of difference between the sexes.
When men shop, we do so like this:
1. Find something we like.
2. Check the price.
3. If the price is acceptable, we will try it on.
4. If it fits, we will buy it. (Sometimes we don’t even need to try it on).
When women shop, it seems to be more like this:
1. Find something you like.
2. Take three different sizes of the same thing to the fitting room.
3. Stand in front of the mirror in the garment while you think about it.
4. Listen to the sales assistant when she tells you how much it suits you.
5. Decide to buy the garment.
6. Purchase the clothes without even asking the price, because dresses like this don’t come along every day.
7. Take the tag off and hide it in your wardrobe, because if your partner finds out he will be furious.
I am convinced this is why women’s clothes cost more than men’s—women fall in love with the clothes before they bother finding out the price. So it becomes an emotional purchase and the price becomes irrelevant.
And another problem is this—the more the dress costs, the more it stands out, meaning the lady owner can only wear it once or twice before other bitchy girls start talking behind her back, saying things like, ‘OMG. Is that Trelise Cooper dress the only thing she owns? Laaaame! She wears it, like, all the time! It’s sooooo tragic.’
So you have an insanely overpriced item that you can only wear out in public a couple of times before it gets given a permanent spot in the wardrobe where it remains for a couple of years until you accept you will never wear it again and you put it in a clothing bin or sell it on Trade Me for $30. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sad and lonely life of an expensive designer dress.
Next stop: The Haus of G, Glassons. Having two snobby sisters and a wife, I had caught snippets of conversations about this popular chain store before. From what I picked up i
t seemed there was only one real problem with Glassons . . . it was just too damn affordable, which meant lots of women shopped there and ended up wearing the exact same clothes.
Walking through the front doors the first thing that struck me was the loud music—Taylor Swift or some similar female singer drizzled in generous amounts of oestrogen.
I’d imagine if you were a girl you would find the store design and set-up quite aesthetically pleasing. It’s like a Cleo or Dolly magazine brought to life—the funky wallpaper, chandeliers, the smell, the ambience. Words in big fonts designed to inspire the customers and make them feel good about themselves are printed across the walls. Words like ‘Dream’, ‘Believe’ and ‘Sale’.
The store was busy and I was the only man as far as the eye could see. I scanned the shop floor looking for other lads who had tagged along on their partners’ shopping trip but there were none present. I was alone, outnumbered, vulnerable, afraid.
Okay, that’s bullshit. But I definitely felt like I was in a place that I had no business being in. I was on a mission. Like Brad Pitt and George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven, I had a job to do: I had to get in, get the merchandise and get out of there in the shortest time possible.
I found a rack of yellow summer dresses close to the doors and checked the price on the first one. The tags were much easier to find here than at the Trelise Cooper shop and this one was a far more reasonable $79. I found one with an XL tag and felt my heart rate lifting and my throat getting that horrible nervous dry feeling as I played through in my mind just how awkward it was going to be asking to use a fitting room. The best story I could think of was that I was buying it as a present for my sister who was ‘about the same size as me . . . so can I try it on as a size guide?’
