There is a strange difference between imagining wearing feminine clothes in public and actually doing it.
In your head, every person outside is waiting.
They are all going to notice. They are all going to look. Somehow the simple act of opening the front door feels as though it will change the atmosphere of the entire street.
Then you go outside and somebody is putting shopping in a car.
Someone else is looking at a phone.
A person walks past thinking about whatever they were already thinking about.
Life is terribly inconsiderate of the drama you prepared for it.
I wear leggings out regularly, so those barely register as an event now. They are fitted, comfortable and much closer to what I naturally want to wear than loose clothes. Add a fitted jacket and trainers and I am simply dressed for the day.
A skirt is still different for me.
I wear them publicly much less often, so the first few minutes have a sharper edge. I am more aware of the hem, the way I am walking, the fabric moving, the fact that somebody could notice. The same sensory details I enjoy at home become mixed with awareness of the world around me.
Then, if I stay out long enough, something changes.
The skirt becomes a skirt again.
I start thinking about where I am going, what I am doing, whether I want a drink, whether it is cold, whether I have remembered my keys. The clothes remain present because I am always fairly aware of what I am wearing, but the public part recedes.
That is probably my favourite point.
Not the moment of being noticed. The moment when I stop waiting to be noticed.
I prefer quiet places anyway. A quiet pub, an empty stretch of countryside or a street without much happening suits me whether I am wearing feminine clothes or not. Crowds and noise drain me. Being somewhere calm gives me room to enjoy the clothes rather than constantly process everything else around me.
The physical side changes outdoors too. Cold reaches sheer legs differently. A fitted jacket becomes reassuring. Gloves make sense rather than simply completing an outfit. Boots interact with pavement instead of carpet. Wind gives a long skirt something to respond to.
Those are the details I tend to remember.
Not whether somebody looked for half a second.
I have become much less interested in the idea of public dressing as a performance. I do not need strangers to validate it, and I certainly do not need to shock anybody. The pleasure is much quieter.
I want to be able to wear something I genuinely like, go somewhere ordinary and let ordinary life happen while I am wearing it.
That is one of the ideas that found its way into Dressed very early on.
The protagonists go for walks. Sit in bars. Travel on trains. Go to the theatre. They are not waiting for a transformation scene. They are already dressed. The interesting part is what happens to the clothes and to their awareness of themselves as the evening carries on.
That comes directly from something I recognise.
At first, the clothes can feel like the biggest thing in the world.
Then, if everything goes well, they become what I wanted them to be all along.
Just my clothes.