All about Robin

Hey there. This is where I tell you about Robin. It's sort of an interesting story, at least to some people. Like especially if you have an interest in gender and such. So I'll endeavor to dredge up some ancient memories and feelings from neuronal depths and attempt to render them readable enough for public consumption. As this is my first attempt at something biographical (I normally write technical books for a living), forgive my style. As we are prone to saying here in California, just remember, it's a process.

Robin is sort of an alter-ego of mine, you might say. You know that rap about how psychologists (at least Jungian psychologists) say we all have a masculine side and a feminine side? The Jungians call these the anima (feminine) and animus (masculine). Well, I happen to agree with that, and it's manifested pretty solidly in my life as I've delved into my own personality and experiemented in the area of gender. Actually, everyone is originally female in the womb, only later in developement do we differentiate as male -- if that's what we're to become. That in itself raises some interesting questions. It suggests that we're all sort of female at our most basic level, and only as a result of some hormonal add-ins such as testosterone do some of us become males.

Robin sort of started coming around about the time I was maybe 12 years of age or so. Not that she had that name at the time. Actually it was just Bob. Well, actually it's still just Bob, but since the world likes to genderize things so much I've given Bob the name Robin when he is looking like a woman. Anyroad... at about 12 or so, Bob discovered that wearing some items of feminine clothing was enjoyable and even sexually exciting. Experimentation for boys at such a formative age isn't uncommon, actually. In fact most boys try on some bits and pieces of their sister's or mother's clothes at some point in time. Usually they decide it's not all that interesting. But for some, and for unknown reasons, it develops into something that lasts a lifetime. In the case of Bob, it was nylon stockings that were the initial hook. The first time he tried them some on it was a truly religious experience. They felt totally smooth, sensuous, and groovy, and not only that, wearing them was charged with all kinds of great stuff like guilt and secrecy and fear! What could be more exciting to a pubescent Episcopalian male? Anyway, I'll spare you the details of all that and just say that the guilt was the larger part of it, and a battle between guilt and ecstacy raged on for years until I was surprised to find myself very upset about it all around 17 years of age, worrying that something must be terribly wrong if I desired to wear women's clothing. Geeze, this is freaky, I thought! I'll never be normal. No woman in her right mind will ever want to deal with this! This landed him up confessing his evil sins to his parents, seeing a psychologist who didn't know anything about crossdressing, sufferring through several years of depression, and generally being bummed out. Nobody understood, it seemed. So this part of me got pushed way back under the carpet, and I didn't talk about it anyone after that. Eventually, almost by sheer willpower, Bob worked his way back to a happy state of existence by -- among other things -- learning how to meditate, studying psychology, and finding girlfriends who understood.

Several chapters later, after graduating from college with a psych degree and studying in Europe to become a meditation teacher....Bob moved to California, the land of opportunity. There's Gold in them thar hills. Land of the 49ers. Go West young man. Texas tea. Black gold. Cee-ment ponds. Movie stars. Soon he met a hep gal who said "Hey, try on this dress! You want to shave you legs? It'll feel great!" and like that. She actually shaved my legs for me. Was I in heaven? Well, one thing lead to another, and soon I realized that I could actually pass in public as a woman, assuming I didn't say too much to anyone (my voice is a little too deep). Still into wearing nylons on my legs since they still felt good to me (despite the fact that almost any woman I knew hated them on themselves), this was the greatest. I could have access to all the nifty women's fashions that men usually don't get to wear, don colors that are typically deemed too fruity for any self-respecting man, and even wear skirts -- which I found out can be pretty comfortable which must be why the Scotts have been wearing them for centuries. A whole new "look" and wardrobe began to open up for me. Most of all, I had the go-ahead to indulge in the experience of being pretty -- something men are not supposed to do. I liked it! I like being "butch" too, when the situation warrants it, like when I'm working on my car or my house, too. But this was an addition, the reclamation of a lost and forgotten mode of feeling and being.

I still remember the first time I actually went to a public place -- a library -- on my own, wearing a dress. This was about 1980. It was pretty scary. Not just any library. I took the plunge and went to the undergraduate library at the University in town (UC Berkeley). What a rush. OK, it wasn't the Library of Congress, but it's still a pretty intimidating, 5 story job, with lots of young folks who have good eyes. Although a public outing, still I was very secretive about this experience, not telling many people. The psychologist John Bradshaw says we're only as sick as our secrets, and I tend to agree. (Not that all secrets are sick. Some are good, and even necessary, aren't they? You don't tell your boss you hate his chihuahua.) Anyway, so I worked on exposing my little secret, inch by inch. Why was it so hard, I wondered, to do this? I believe people do not want to announce parts of their psyches that will possibly send their friends and loved ones screaming from the room. But the more I dressed up and snuck out of the house in private, to be only by myself (even if in public), the less satisfied I became with the experience. I was already growing my hair fairly long, and nobody was freaking out about that (of course, I was living in Berkeley -- who would?). So why not announce that I wear dresses and other girlie stuff? How would my friends take it? I didn't know. Then again, I thought this might be a good way to find out who my friends really were. After all, life is too short to waste and why waste it with people who would disown me for I wearing a dress. Would George Sand or Marlene Dietrich have kept company with anti-feminist reactionaries who decreed they should not wear pants or a tuxedo (a special law was enacted in Paris to prevent Dietrich from wearing men's suits), I asked myself?

The experience was, as I said, a rush. Why? It was like gaining entry into some hitherto secret place; I\rquote d broken some taboo and forced my way into a world of feminine expression. There were both dark and light elements in the experience, all at once. Both feminine and masculine. After all, only a guy with guts could do a thing like this, even though what I was doing was imitating a woman. Hmm. I felt both more natural and in a way reclaiming of my birthright, while at the same time as though I were breaking one of the most central tenets of society \endash the tenet upon which the continuation of the species itself exists. That is, if people don\rquote t know who is a man and who is a woman, how can they decide whom to mate with? This certainly makes the mating process that much more opaque.

But I'll get back to that later. At the time of this first experience, I was simply amazed to not hear a cacophony of fire alarms or police whistles. I half expected to spy a platoon of vitriolic librarians marching my direction armed with handcuffs to address my brazenness, followed by announcements over the library loudspeakers declaring invasion by a member of the Debaucherers of Societal Order? Geeze, this was heavenly, incredibly exciting. My eyes went on ultra radar alert, darting about aware of every move, rustle of paper, turns of a page. All the while I just stood there at the periodicals rack, knees shaking, doing my best to appear calm. Nope. Still nothing. Everything was business as usual on that Spring afternoon at Moffit Library. Did anyone know? Could anyone tell? Did anyone care? If not, why not? Oops, a couple of strange looks, but nothing terrible. No words were spoken. Uh oh, a few flirtatious glances, even. From guys (yuk)!. I think I did hear a couple of guys in the next study carrel (I'd gotten into one as fast as I could after snatching a book off the stacks in order to look authentic) say something like"nice try." Were they talking about me?

Still, this was cool. I mean wow, I'm sitting in the library, way out in public, there with my dress on and nylons on my legs and women's shoes. The whole shooting match. But still it was a mixed bag. Aside from feeling elated I couldn't help but feel a bit annoyed or frustrated, at the same time. I mean, guys, you ever try to pick up a pretty girl in the library when you\rquote re wearing a dress? It's easier to teach a dog to jump rope. But I'm working on my technique, and once in a great while it's turned out to be quite a zesty conversation starter with just the right liberated Bay Area women who digs gender bending or just thinks it's cool to see a guy breaking out of the straightjacket, or who thinks I'm a woman, and then finds out I'm not, and thinks that's really quite erotic....

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