RANSVESTIA

able to accept my panties and once a built-up slip. At mission head- quarters I sent out some in my laundry labeled shorts and they came back with the little notation, "nylon, lace edge." I cherished that little pencilled statement for years. In England when I bought some thing from a lady she was pleased and asked me if I were French. I nodded. I will leave for a separate article some special encounters I had with sales people when I told them the article was for me. I have never sought much encouragement from men, unless I knew them to be Transvestites.

Looking for advice or spiritual direction from the professionals gave me some pleasure and some ideas about these gentlemen. One priest recommended by Virginia wanted me to lie on the couch and talk. Actually he was so accepting of my transvestism that I didn't think he was for real. I wanted him to scold me, but instead he was kind. He was an older priest and that made it all the more unreal. I think it was the couch bit that got me, but for that I'd have trusted him com- pletely. I wasn't ready to accept myself for what I was yet, but even he admitted there was going to be trouble living in rectories and doing my thing. Housekeepers are nosy and you can't keep them out of your room even if you volunteer to make your own bed, especially if you do. I've let housekeepers wash my less lacy panties and heard nothing from them. Again proof that they are ready for more than we think. Women have cut my hair, encouraged me to let it grow longer. The only thing most of them won't do is give me a women's cologne rather than men's. I can't stand so-called men's scents, but I do appreciate it when a woman jokingly sprays me with a nice perfume.

A second priest who guided me misguided me to a dour psychia- trist. I can't remember how much I told him, but his reaction was enough to ensure I would never come back. In Dublin I met a benign old priest and gave him a copy of Transvestia as a keepsake. He had the grace to tell me he didn't know what to say and recommended me to a noted English psychiatrist who was annoyed I didn't want to be cured. He offered to give me aversion therapy and I said, "no thanks" and we left it at that. I think most of these men were upset by the fact that the patient was a priest. They couldn't forget that. This last gentleman I met again about a year later at a lecture he gave on religion and guilt. He didn't recognize me and I asked intelligent questions and made good observations, so much so that he praised me publicly and wished there were more priests like me. That was a beautiful thing to happen and there and then I forgave him for wanting to electrocute me.

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