by Dom Harvey
In the end I just faced the wall on the shop floor and discreetly and quickly held the XL dress up against my clothes. It looked about right so I took it to the counter. As I waited in line for the cashier I found a straw sunhat on the rack to my right that I thought would go well with my pretty summer dress. Reluctant to draw attention to myself I just grabbed one and hoped it was a one size fits all.
All in all I reckon I was in Glassons for three or four minutes. This may be some sort of record for someone making a purchase in a women’s clothing store. But I was not there to set any world records; my mission was to turn myself into an attractive lady and participate in a sports event for women only.
I would not be trying to win. Going fast would draw too much attention to myself. Then my sex and the legalities of me being in the run would be questioned. I would be scrutinised like that South African runner who people thought was a bloke just because she was heaps faster than everyone else—Caster Semenya. Remember her? She won the gold medal for the 800 metres at the 2009 World Champs. And she was totally wasting all the other girls in her races. Combine this blistering speed with the fact she has a masculine face and giant shoulders and suddenly people start talking. After that win at the World Champs she was subjected to gender testing and didn’t run again until the IAAF cleared her to return to competition the following year. And that is one thing that puzzles me about Caster Semenya and this gender test the IAAF do. How did it take them months to do the test and confirm the results? Surely there are a couple of simple and far less time consuming ways to prove someone is a man or a lady?
Even a reasonably non-invasive Genital Squeeze Test, or GST, would have surely solved the secret of Semenya’s sex. It’s a common procedure, the GST, but its catchy acronym never really took off after the government launched their Goods and Services Tax.
A GST requires just a gentle squeeze and pat down there on the outside of a person’s clothing, the way you check the freshness of bread in the supermarket.
The World Champs where Caster Semenya’s sexuality was questioned were light years away from this six-kilometre Sunday morning fun run that I was participating in. But my sexuality could also be questioned. Sceptical female runners might try to give me a GST. Is it wrong that I found this possibly-could-happen-but-probably-won’t-happen scenario quite exhilarating?
Race day arrived and Jay-Jay and I got up early. I showered and, instead of using the cake of Imperial Gold soap to rigorously wash myself down, I used a delicious lavender-scented body-wash and slowly caressed my body as I rubbed it on. Then I draped a big soft bathrobe around me and wrapped my towel up around my wet hair like a turban. This small change in my morning routine immediately made me feel a good 10 per cent more feminine. I was ready to get my girl on.
I struggled into the yellow dress. I hadn’t tried it on in the store the day before but it looked pretty damn big, so I was confident it’d fit okay. With the help of my wife and a wee bit of force, we got it on. Then came the long blonde wig, a thin black belt for decoration and the gorgeous sunhat, and I was good to go.
I would wear my regular size 12 Adidas running shoes—everyone else would have their trainers on so my choice of footwear would not be brought into question. For the same reason I would resist the urge to wear make-up—the majority of runners would not be made up so neither should I.
When I looked in the mirror prior to leaving the house I liked what I saw. A very handsome lady stared back at me. She was gorgeous, mysterious, intriguing. I thought the female me looked very European—not in a Bulgarian weightlifter way, either, but in an international model fresh from the beaches in the South of France way. I looked good. I was actually convincing. I was now ready to go public as a lady.
Some early morning road workers on the back of a truck laying down orange road cones were the first to comment. This was just moments after we got out of the car. After staring at me from the moving truck, one of the young blokes shouted out something like: ‘Hey Big Bird! Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?’
This was followed by laughter and applause from his colleagues. What if I did just happen to be a tall and muscular woman? A comment such as that would be soul-destroying. Luckily I could take it on the chin—my big square masculine one!
None of the women who approached me for a chat did so thinking I was part of the sisterhood. Not one woman came to me asking if I had an emergency tampon they could borrow. (Girls do ask each other to borrow these things, don’t they?) A couple of them wanted to know where I got the dress, but most of them wanted to know what the hell I was doing dressed as a woman.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I wondered.
It seemed the answer was yes. It must have been the lack of make-up, I reckon. A bit of eyeliner and some lippy and I think the outcome would have been quite different.
Yes, I felt pretty. But to everybody else I just looked like one of those guys I took the piss out of earlier in the chapter, one of those terrifying blokes on K Road who dress in drag and smugly believe they have duped everyone.
Even during the run I went past some young children on the footpath who were there cheering on their mum. Their dad pointed me out to them and they laughed. Their laughter, combined with the finger pointing, made it very obvious they were laughing at me and not with me.
So I made a dick of myself. I did not manage to trick any person of any age. And, apart from me, nobody seemed to think I looked like a sexy chick. But the one positive from this whole experience?
This is a bit embarrassing to admit but I have never felt so free and liberated on a run. The summer dress was so light it felt like I was running naked. It was so much less restrictive than my regular men’s running shorts. Unfortunately, this fun run left me emotionally scarred and a bit fragile, so I will never dress as a woman in broad daylight ever again. But if you happen to see a very tall lady with a rectangular jaw in a yellow dress going for a jog very late at night, you should do a double take. It might just be this sexy man-bitch!
GET A BAD TATTOO
I don’t have any tattoos. It’s not because my body is a temple or anything, far from it. It’s not because the pain makes me nervous (okay, maybe that’s not entirely true).
I think the big reason I’ve never been inked is that I’m a commitment-phobe. I often notice tattoos on other people and wonder if they are still happy with the work they have had done. Like the two guys I saw at the Wet’n’Wild theme park on the Gold Coast—probably best mates, possibly brothers. These blokes were in their early twenties and each had a tattoo of a dumbbell weight on their left boob . . . or pectoral muscles, as they probably call them. I find it hard to see how this could have ever seemed like a good idea. These guys were in good shape, so I’m guessing they train together at the gym and that’s very nice for the both of them. But surely it would be enough to have the matching triceps, deltoids, trapeziums and bicep muscles?
But each to their own. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. Some people may be happy with tattoo work they’ve had done even though others think it is absolutely shithouse. Like the lady I met at the swimming pool at Aggie Grey’s resort in Samoa a few years ago. She had her back painted with a slogan in a very generous font size. Her tattoo read: ‘The older the WOOD, the hotter the fire.’ I asked her about it and she explained that Wood was her family name. Maybe it needed an explanation in a small font at the bottom of her back, like a footnote. Because without explanation, I assumed she must have married an old bloke and the slogan was something to do with the age of his genitals and an appraisal of his performance in bed. That theory would also explain why she choose such a big font—so her elderly lover with his ageing wood and fading eyesight could still read the tattoo when they were making love in a particular position. She told me she still loved her tattoo. But then again, she never had to see it, did she?
I wonder if tattoo artists ever feel bad about what they are doing. It would not be good for business, but surely an artist with a con
science would speak up and say something to a customer who is about to make a bad mistake, just to act as one final voice of reason, since the warnings, if any, from friends and family did not get through. I mean, all it would take is the artist to say something like: ‘Are you sure you want to do this? What if you and Angus break up? That’s not a very common name and I cannot imagine other non-Anguses would be too pleased at seeing your unclothed breast for the first time and discovering they are trespassing on some skin that is clearly the property of another man.’
A lot of people who get the name of a lover tattooed and then regret it down the track often opt to get it covered over with more tattoos or get it changed or tweaked so it takes on a new meaning. During the height of his romance with Winona Ryder, back when they both thought they would buck the celebrity trend and be together forever, Johnny Depp decided to show his love for her by getting ‘Winona Forever’ on his right shoulder. Then, the unimaginable happened—they broke up! Johnny got his tattoo touched up, and now it says ‘Wino Forever’, suggesting that he has gone from having bad taste in women to having a drinking problem.
If you did get the name Angus, like in the hypothetical situation above, I suppose you could go back to the artist who did it and add the words ‘burgers are delicious’ next to it.
I have had some close calls over the years, moments in my life when peer pressure or poor decision-making almost got the better of me. These are the THREE BEST TATTOOS I NEVER GOT (BUT ALMOST DID).
Celtic knot armband
Celtic knot armband tattoos were very popular in the early nineties. Four of my mates at the time got them and I came very close. Lack of money was the only thing that held me back. Thank god I was broke. I have never been to Scotland, Wales or Ireland and I have no ancestral links to those countries. My strongest link to that neck of the woods is probably that I own a couple of U2 CDs.
Your name
A good mate of mine in Palmerston North endured the unimaginable discomfort of having the shaft of his penis tattooed and maintained it was the best decision he ever made. Immortalised in dark green ink forever were the words: ‘Your name’.
His tattoo became the basis of a party trick and a surefire way to break the ice with members of the opposite sex. I definitely toyed with the idea of getting one exactly the same. I had sufficient funds to get the work done this time; it was only the thought of the pain involved that stopped me following through.
But it worked a treat for my mate Dan. His conversations with girls at bars usually followed this path:
‘Hi, my name’s Dan, what’s your name?’
‘Angela.’
‘Angela? Oh wow. You won’t believe this. I have “Your Name” tattooed on my penis.’
‘Ha ha, is that right?’
‘Yeah, it is. I’ll show you later.’
It was possibly the world’s most profitable dick joke, and it served Dan very well in the 1990s. I haven’t caught up with Dan for a while so I’m not sure what he’s up to these days. For all I know, he could have ended up being imprisoned for exposing himself. It wouldn’t surprise me if that occurred. There can be a very fine line between a risqué visual gag and indecent exposure. I doubt this particular tattoo would make prison time easy, either. If I was in a prison with hundreds of other men I would make it a priority on the very first day of my sentence to find the tattooist in my cell block and get the word ‘NOT’ tagged onto the front of that short phrase.
The Confederate flag
Okay, so this one could be considered a bit of a stretch. I was eight years old and it was to be a temporary tattoo, a homemade one at that. It was 1981 and the must-watch TV show (well, it was for this little kid) was The Dukes of Hazzard. I loved Bo and Luke Duke, I loved Daisy and Uncle Jesse, Rosco P. Coltrane and Boss Hogg. But the star of the show for me was the General Lee. That was going to be the first car I ever owned. Before I eventually did get my first car I would change my mind another couple of times and dream of owning a car like KITT from Knight Rider and the A-Team van. In the unlikely event anyone actually cares, for my first car I ended up buying a Holden Gemini sedan. It was maroon, cost me $5995 and would have been totally useless in a high-speed chase to avoid the county sheriff after I was caught making my own moonshine.
The flag from the roof of the General Lee was my go-to doodle. It was all over my exercise books at school and was even etched onto my cricket bat.
One morning before going to school I came up with the brilliant idea of creating my own temporary tattoo. Instead of just drawing the flag straight onto my arm, for some reason that only an eight-year-old could explain, I drew the blue and white flag with an orange background onto a piece of paper. Then I got a damp flannel, moistened my shoulder, pressed down the piece of paper and held it in place. The end result was blurry and smudged but you could still tell what it was. I could not have been more pleased with myself.
Once my handiwork dried I pulled my T-shirt sleeve down and grabbed my backpack. My friends at school would be so jealous when they saw I had a tattoo. Sadly, they never got to see it. As I went to leave the house Mum approached. Bo and Luke Duke had Boss Hogg always trying to bring them down. I had my mum.
‘What have you been doing in the bathroom?’ she enquired.
‘Umm, nothing really,’ I answered with sheepish look of guilt all over my face. She lifted up the sleeve of my shirt.
‘WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THAT?’ she shouted. I should have been offended she couldn’t tell it was a tattoo of the flag from the roof of the General Lee.
‘It’s a tattoo, Mum. It’s not a real one, though. I made it myself with felt tips,’ I explained, in case she somehow mistook it for an actual tattoo.
‘There is no way you are going to school like that!’ she exclaimed, then dragged me by my inked bicep with a grip a little tighter than it needed to be and marched me into the bathroom. What happened next would probably be considered child abuse these days. But in 1981, this was possibly considered textbook parenting.
Mum started running the hot tap, then went to the laundry and got a scrubbing brush. One of those real bristly ones, the sort you would use to get an oil spill off concrete. Then, using the brush, the water and brute force, she removed the tattoo and two to three layers of skin.
In my personal opinion, my homemade Confederate flag looked far more appealing than the scab that replaced it. But being eight years old, my opinion in this situation mattered little. The tough love appeared to work, though—never again did I attempt to give myself a temporary tattoo! Maybe subconsciously that incident played a part in putting me off getting a real tattoo later in life.
It’s not just regular people who make bad choices when it comes to tattoos, either. Johnny Depp is far from being the only celebrity who has made a big ink mistake over the years. Some of these beautiful people may regret it. Most have them have egos so big that admitting a monumental cock-up is not something they would ever be likely to do.
Pop singer Pink has a barcode on the back of her neck. And it looks like a crap job has been done on it too. Still, at least shoulder-length hair will cover it up.
Nicole Richie has the word ‘virgin’ on her left wrist. She explained in an interview that this is because her star sign is Virgo. What an idiot! How dumb is this girl? Who the hell sees the word ‘virgin’ and thinks of the zodiac signs? And it looks even more ridiculous now when she is pushing around her stroller with her children, Harlow and Sparrow. Maybe she should go and get the word ‘former’ tattooed on her right wrist.
Kimberly Stewart has a tattoo that reads ‘Daddy’s Girl’ in honour of her dad, Rod Stewart. That’s very nice. The problem is the location Kim selected—it’s less than six inches from her genitals. Partners of Kimberly are probably thinking about Rod when they are that close to her vagina . . . but I suspect her daddy is the last thing on their minds.
Mike Tyson for some reason thought it would be a good idea to get a traditional Maori design around his left eye. Then again
, after biting Evander Holyfield’s ear, getting addicted to drugs, making a reality TV series about pigeon racing and being imprisoned for rape, this tattoo could possibly be one of the least-stupid decisions he has made!
To earn another tick on my bucket list, I needed to follow in the footsteps of these beautiful people (well, Mike Tyson excluded) and get inked.
The big point of difference would be that I would not regret my tattoo in time. No, my tattoo would cause immediate remorse. From the time I left the tattoo parlour, the reaction from mates and family who saw my work would be along the lines of ‘Tell me the name of the guy who did this—I want to call the police and have him arrested for vandalism!’
For ideas, I posted a status update on Facebook asking if anyone had a tattoo they regretted getting done, and how long it was before the remorse kicked in.
My ex made a tattoo gun out of a teaspoon, needle, old phone charger & some Indian ink & since he had some alright tats said ‘Trust me babe I’ll give you a mean tat!’ so I did . . . Then checked the mirror & he’d put his initials on my ass. I dumped him not long after but still have the reminder of him . . . Now I’m married & my man has different initials.
Awkward.
Kirti
My friend got a tattoo saying SWAGGER down her stomach and she regrets it lots!
Helaina
I got a gang tat when I was 14 now I’m 19 and regret it big time! I’m not even in a gang anymore, I’m a changed man.
Jayden
I got my kids names on my back on a Saturday morning. He did a shit job as they were all crooked so I rang on the Monday about getting removal done!
Gillian
I got a paw print tattooed on my back when I was 15 just so I could piss my dad off. I started regretting it when my mate’s 6-year-old son started telling me there was a blues clues clue on my back. Lol
