Mickey was 15 when he went to see a psychiatrist.
He wanted to be a woman. He thought he wanted
to be a woman.
He rifled through his Mother's wardrobe
when she wasn't in the house. He rolled on
tights with all the poise and care of
a model in a lingerie advert.
His face was a canvas for his
Priscilla stylised transformation.
A blush of red. Carmel foundation.
A shock of purple lip stick.
Extended eyelashes.
The glimmer of gloss.
The dark secret of mascara.
Strutting in front of the full length
mirror's like a peacock fanning her plummage
in the summer season.
When we was five he loved the dress-up box.
Never the knight or the cowboy.
We wanted to be the Princess in Pink.
It shamed him. When his Father cam home
he hid under the bed - were all secrets
shield themselves from embarassment -
he struggled to rip off the gown
and the silver plastic grown.
Once his Father caught him
and sat him on his lap:
'You don't want to be Barbie.
Boy's don't dress as girl's
and girl's don't dress as boy's.
Don't be a Barbie. Do you want
to be a girl?'
Mickey squirmed in embarassment
in his arms. All shy eyes and tomato
red. Shy after having being caught
in a natural moment with guard down
like singing and realising their is a
window open or talking to yourself
thinking you are alone only to realise
someone is still in the house or a door
opened upon your masturbation.
'Does Mickey want to be a girl?
If you want to be a girl
you need to go to the Doctor.
Daddy will take you to the Doctor,
and the Docotor will have to cut
your penis off?'
He wiggled his index finger
as he said it - poking it
playful near Mickey's face.
'You don't want that now,
do you Mickey?'
Mickey slide off his knee
onto the ground and ran to his
sister and hugged into her lap.
Mickey didn't want to be a woman.
He just wanted to be able to dress
as one to perform as one to imitate one.
He loved it. It sang to his nature
to be lady like to be in awe of woman kind.
He goes on stage now to perform.
As confident as any man
dragged up to the eyeballs in glitter
and glad rags and gown. He prances
to Edith piaf, Whitney Houston,
Tina Turner, Hana Hegerová.
He prances all dainty
all dandy, all darling desdemona.
He couldn't give a fuck
what real men think. He couldn't
give a fuck what normality
doesn't understand.
Some nights he does Anne Lennox
'Sweet Dreams'. Short ginger mlitary
cut hair. In a black suit. And he
melts the floor.
Dancing,
a man dressed as a woman being a
woman dressed as a man.
Which just about says
it all.
- messy first draft.
Writing and Random Creativity Workshops 
