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[Upfront] The Month
[The Buzz] Club News
[Viewpoint] The Real World
[Bits & Pieces] Diane At Large
[A CD Eye for the Arts] In Petals by Tiff Holland
[The New Yorker] High-Heel Neil - Conclusion
[Walking] If the shoe fits
[Last Laugh] Uncertainty

[Upfront]
THE MONTH

"The Real World." No, not MTV's reality television program but the world in which many AO members circulate. Our straight-talking chairman, Gloria Fenton, explains.

Diane Frank prepares for the upcoming visit of author Helen Boyd, celebrates with Transfamily Cleveland, and knows someone looking for your history.

Art: Gender uncertainties have their subtleties. Our old friend, Tiff Holland, is back with a poem that captures the emotion. A web première!

We conclude Neil Cargile's saga of high flying, high society and high heels.

If the shoe fits, wear it. Gloria Fenton reminisces.

There's humor and more!

Elaine

[Bits & Pieces]
DIANE AT LARGE

By Diane Frank

I don’t have a lot to contribute this month as most of my energy has been spent on lining up venues for the Helen and Betty visit.

Helen and Betty Visit
We have confirmed Loganberry Books as a Warm up for Friday. The Saturday venue, “C-Space” has fallen through. We are confirmed at Pilgrim UCC on Sunday at 10:30 am, and they’ve put together a beautiful flyer for the event (see below). We are also planning a reception/party at Bounce Nightclub Sunday evening and I should have more information about that by the time I get to the AO meeting on Saturday. Anyone with any ideas for venues for Saturday, or other venues for Friday or Sunday, please let me know.

Transfamily
I'd like also to commemorate the relocation of Transfamily from our friends Bob and Karen Gross' house to the LGBT center on the West Side of Cleveland. Transfamily has been supporting people affected by those who transition and those who transition themselves for 14 years now. At a celebration held at the Center in mid-April they were presented numerous awards for their service to the community. They meet on the the 2nd Saturday of every month from 4:00 pm - 6:00 pm.

Oral Histories
Also, I ran into Lisa from the GLBT archive project. She'd love to collect oral histories from people who know about the good old days in Cleveland and any written materials people might like to donate. If anyone wants to talk to her earlier please let me know. I'd love to line her up as a speaker for either June or the fall.

By Tiff Holland

Drag Queen, 2004
David FeBland
oil on linen

David FeBland's website

[The New Yorker]
HIGH-HEEL NEIL - CONCLUSION

High-Heel Neil-Part I
High-Heel Neil-Part II

January 16, 1995

At some of the finer spots frequented by Southern society, one Republican businessman stands out for his love of adventure -- and a well-cut dress.

BY JOHN BERENDT

Part III

In the morning, I rose early in order to finish perusing a stack of reading material I'd assembled as a crash course in the psychology of cross-dressing. Though Cargile's theatrics were superb, he was a bit short on theory, and I was curious to know why -- apart from the fun of it an estimated three to five per cent of the male population puts on women's clothes, at least occasionally.

I discovered that the true causes of transvestism are not known, but that psychologists have come up with explanations for a wide range of cases. At one end, women's clothes are a sexual fetish; at the other, the clothes give expression to a second self, to the "girl within." The girl-within phenomenon underscores the difference between sex and gender -- between, on the one hand, a person's basic male or female characteristics (sex organs and sex drive) and, on the other, the person's masculine or feminine personality. (Some cross-dressers refer to themselves as members of "the gender community.") If the sexual orientation and the gender orientation are seriously at odds, the result can be the emergence of a second self. Cross-dressers frequently give a name to this other self. In Neil Cargile's case, apparently, it was SheNeil.

In addition to scientific studies on the subject, innumerable insights have been gained anecdotally. One psychiatrist reported encountering several cross-dressers who had been forced as children to wear clothing of the opposite sex as a form of punishment; their subsequent cross-dressing was therefore connected with a sense of humiliation. Another clinician found that male cross-dressers often tended to think women had too much power; putting on women's clothing was their way of taking back that power. A common thread seemed to be the theme of"role relief": the cross-dresser seeking to escape the pressures of being a male in a society that demands more of boys and men than of girls and women.

I was not sure where Neil Cargile stood in all this. However, I did come across a survey, conducted by Richard F. Doctor, of California State University at Northridge, that tabulated cross-dressers' own explanations for why they cross-dressed. In the early years of cross-dressing, the most common reason given was that it was "sexually arousing." Over time, the sexual aspect diminished, and the primary reason became that it was "pleasurable behavior," which is, I suppose, another way of saying "fun."

The line of taxicabs disgorging passengers at Tavern on the Green stretched all the way to Central Park West when I arrived, at noon. I made my way to the reservation desk and was informed that our table in the garden would be ready shortly. I waited in the entrance hall, keeping an eye out for Neil and Dorothy and reviewing a list of questions I had jotted down in the hope of poring a few worthwhile insights out of Neil.

A few minutes after the hour, they pulled up in a cab, and I could see, to my relief that Neil was wearing a blazer and an open-necked shirt. He was handsome, white-haired, and suntanned -- no picture hat, no rhinestone-studded sunglasses, no makeup, no earrings. This was the real Neil, King of the Dredges. Then he stepped out of the taxi, and there it was: his bottom half -- a black-and-white striped micro-miniskirt, panty hose, and heels.

Neil and Dorothy were approaching the front door now. Without a moment's hesitation, I turned and retreated into the garden, where I collared the headwaiter and asked to be seated immediately. "We're just setting it up for you now, sir," he said.

Then I heard Neil call out cheerfully "I thought I'd come half and half."

As I turned to greet them, I heard the buzz of surprised voices, little chirps of laughter, and the scraping of metal chairs against flagstones as people rose to get a better look.

As soon as we sat down, I scanned the menu, my mind fixed on ortolans -- tiny birds that used to be prepared as a delicacy in France. Ortolans are so small they can be eaten whole, in one bite, except for the beak. In order to trap the birds' aroma, restaurants traditionally provided large linen napkins to be placed over the diner's head and plate, covering them completely, like a pup tent. I had no particular interest in ortolans, but at that moment I would have given anything to cover my head with a large napkin. Already, I noticed, the traffic past our table had increased considerably. Some diners were taking circuitous routes to the bathroom.

"Dorothy and I have decided we're going shopping for dresses tomorrow," Cargile announced. "One for each of us." From across the table, Cargile looked like the conservative, Watergate-be-damned Republican businessman I knew him to be. He had a firm jaw and the bearing of a C.E.O. The picture would have been perfect had it not been for a few inches of bare knee and thigh visible along the edge of the tablecloth. Cargile had not tucked his legs under the table, as I had hoped he would. He had swung them to the side and crossed them so that they basked in full view of other diners.

"What size dress do you wear?" I asked.

"Eighteen," he said. "and an eleven shoe."

"I don't think you'll find much of any thing in an eighteen at Saks or Henri Bendel," I said. I offered to find out where male cross-dressers shopped in New York.

A boy with a balloon passed the table for the fourth time in as many minutes.

"You know, I used to be so happy I was a man," Cargile mused. "But these days white males are the most disadvantaged people in the United States. Women and minorities have the edge now. The government gives it to them."

"So that's why you wear women's clothes," I said.

"No. Like I told you, I do it because it's fun."

Just then, two middle-aged women approached the table with friendly smiles and a camera at the ready. "Would you mind?" one of them said sweetly. "We are from Sao Paulo, and we think you look wonderful! You are why we love New York! People here are fantastic! May we take your picture?"

Cargile jumped up and struck a pose with his hands on his hips and his blazer pushed back so as to give an unobstructed view of his miniskirt. Dorothy got up, too, and stood next to him. The commotion, which had been simmering, now boiled over. Other diners simply got up from their tables and came over to watch. Waiters gathered around, ways in hand. The people seated in the glass-enclosed Crystal Room had also abandoned their tables and were massed along the wrap-around windows. There was a smattering of applause. Cargile was all smiles.

When we took our seats again, he was radiant. "Did you see how everyone enjoyed themselves? That always happens when we go out in Palm Beach. The party doesn't start until I arrive. I am the entertainments Dorothy and I have been talking about opening a club in Palm Beach. We'd call it Club SheNeil."

His mention of the name SheNeil reminded me of the girl-within theory that I'd read about that morning. If there was ever going to bc a chance to delve beneath the surface with Cargile, this was it. Choosing my words carefully, I asked him, "When you put on women's clothes and become SheNeil, does a second self emerge? Do you feel like a different person?"

"No," he said. "I feel like Neil Cargile in a dress.

On Monday afternoon, Neil, Dorothy, and I took a freight elevator to the third floor of a loft building in the West Village. We soon found ourselves in the vast, Buttered showroom of New York's premier shopping mart for cross-dressers and drag queens. The shop was crowded with racks of glitter and fluff in every color and metallic tint -- mostly party dresses and show costumes rather than everyday street clothes. Cargile him- self was wearing a silk blouse, a miniskirt, a hat, makeup, and heels. The salesman regarded him with a bland air. "Yeah, we can fit you," he said. "We go all the way up to size thirty."

The rear wall of the store was lined with high-heeled shoes. One comer overflowed with boas, and another had shelves devoted to sculptured female body parts -- hips, thighs, and breasts. "This is what Neil needs," Dorothy said, looking over a display of lifelike silicone breasts. "He just stuffs extra stockings into his bra. But he'd never spend five hundred dollars on something like this." At that moment, Neil was attempting to stand up in a pair of six-inch heels.

"Oh, SheNeil," Dorothy said. "Let me get a picture of this."

"Hurry, I'm about to tip over," he said.

After the picture-taking, Neil stepped out of the shoes and went into the fitting room. He came out wearing a black dress with fringes arranged in tiers. He shimmied, and the fringes swayed. Dorothy gave it an appraising look. "It's too shapeless," she said. It's not you."

"Find me something wild, Sweet Pea," he said, returning to the fitting room.

Dorothy toured the store and came back with several dresses over her arm. She handed him a green one with a ruffled skirt.

"It doesn't fire me up," he said, giving it back.

She looked at it again. "I see what he means," she said, turning to me. "Neil doesn't wear froufrou. He likes tight skirts. This is something I might wear." She held up a blue dress for him. It was too open in the back -- his Merry Widow would show, he said. "But I like that one." He picked out a red-sequinned dress. When he came out of the fitting room wearing it, Dorothy snapped another picture.

At this point, the salesman came over, looking out of sorts. "We don't allow picture-taking in here," he said as Cargile returned to the fitting room. I'll have to ask you to leave."

"These are just for our own use," Dorothy said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. That's the trouble. We get guys coming in here all the time trying on dresses, taking pictures, and not buying anything. Are you going to buy something?"

"Well, we're not sure yet," Cargile said, peering out of the fitting room. He had on just his corset and panty hose.

"Sure, well -- I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Now!"

"Fine with me," said Cargile. "We're on our way." He changed back into his own clothes, and within minutes we were riding back uptown.

"What awful manners that man had," Dorothy said.

"The hell with him," Cargile said. "He thinks trying on dresses is fun. It isn't. It's hard physical labor. You can work up a sweat doing it."

Dorothy laughed. "Of all places to be thrown out of -- a store that caters to cross-dressers."

"The guy probably figured I was some sort of weirdo who gets his kicks sneaking around trying on dresses and getting his picture taken."

"He probably doesn't think you have the nerve to wear them in public," Dorothy said. "If he only knew."

"Too bad for him," Cargile said. "I'd have bought the red one."

Except for lizards darting across the hot pavement, the streets of Palm Beach were virtually deserted on the Friday before Labor Day. Neil and Dorothy were planning a night on the town, and they invited me to go with them. Earlier in the day, I had joined Neil for drinks at the home of one of the investors in his venture to dredge for gold in South America. Neil wore a seersucker suit, a subdued tie, and white wing-tip shoes. We sat in a glassed-in semitropical rain forest for a discussion that consisted mostly of pleasantries, the working sessions having already been concluded. After about forty-five minutes, we rose to leave. At the front door, our host paused and fixed Cargile with a long, silent gaze. For a moment, I thought he had noticed the faint traces of lipstick on Neil's upper lip and the outline of the corset under his shirt.

"How old are you, Neil?" the man finally asked. "Sixty-five? Sixty-six? Tell me, why on earth would a man your age and in your position want to leave a beautiful place like Palm Beach and go into the goddam jungle and muck around for gold?"

Cargile put his hand on the man's shoulder. "It's real simple," he said. "No Environmental Protection Agency. No I.R.S. No unions. No attorneys. Besides -- and don't tell me you don't know this already -- the world's currencies are headed for the dumper, and when they get there gold will be king again."

The man smiled and shook his head and saw us out.

I made no mention of the vestiges of lipstick or the ill-concealed corset during the short ride back to Neil's house, but Neil laughingly confided to me that he was wearing panty hose under his suit. He often did that, he said, so he could make a quick change if he wanted to -- he always carried a miniskirt and a pair of heels in the car.

After dinner, Neil put on a red dress and a long blond wig, and we took a tour of night spots -- Chuck & Harold's, Ta-Boo, Au Bar. Neil's arrival never failed to raise the level of merrymaking. He and Dorothy would step onto an empty dance floor, and within minutes everyone in the place would be dancing, hooting, and living it up.

Neil had a business meeting scheduled for early the next morning, so at midnight I drove him home. On the ride back, he told me about come of the many close calls he had had while flying air planes, and about how he had invented mobile feed mills, coal-washing machines, and the world's largest submersible dredge, which could be used to reclaim washed-away beaches in virtually any weather. As we pulled up to his house, I changed the subject, and made one last try for a glimpse beneath the surface. I asked him what his father would have done if he had seen him in a dress.

"He'd have killed me," he said.

"And your mother?"

"She heard about it and she confronted me. She said, You're the best-looking man in Nashville, Neil. Why on earth would you want to dress up in women's clothes?"

"And what did you say?"

"I told her, 'It's fun, Mom.'"


-- the end

[Walking]
IF THE SHOE FITS

By Gloria Fenton

Debbie’s shoes were too small to fit me. So were the shoes of almost all the girls. I did get my feet into Beverly’s shoes, but they were very, very tight. Patty’s shoes were too big. I was about ready to give up hope of any of the girls in my sixth grade class having shoes that might fit me when I slid my feet into Donna’s.

After all the failure that day, it took a few seconds for me to realize that my feet did slide right into Donna’s pretty shoes as if they were my very own. Donna was one of the prettiest and more popular girls in my class, and she had been one of the girls that, at various times, had referred to me as a goofy-looking boy.

I thought about those things as I took my first steps in the first girl’s shoes to ever fit me. Maybe to others I was a goofy-looking boy, but at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about being a boy. I was walking as natural as could be in the prettiest shoes that had ever fit me, and they were a girl’s shoes. I was walking in Donna’s shoes, just as easily and just as well as she did. At that moment I knew just how it felt to walk in Donna’s shoes, and I liked it.

Many times, including that day, I tried on other girl’s and women’s shoes, and dreamed of how I might feel being able to really walk like a girl or woman in pretty shoes that fit. But until that moment I had not known how good it would feel. For a moment or two, I walked in a girl’s shoes, and I knew I had felt like a girl doing it. I hated having to put my boy’s shoes back on.

Just moments later, I watched as Donna put her pretty shoes back on without a clue that I had worn and walked in them. Donna had no idea that we had wearing her shoes in common, and that I had felt like a girl, like her, while wearing them. I knew I shouldn’t have worn Donna’s shoes, or tried on the other girl’s shoes either, but the need to try them on had been very great in me that day.

But I had worn and walked in Donna’s shoes and felt so good in them. I had for a moment lived a dream of knowing how I felt walking just like a girl myself. Donna’s shoes had made that possible for me. And though I also knew it was wrong, I found myself wondering how I would feel wearing everything else Donna had on that day.

I had seen and felt stockings on my legs before, worn and padded a bra before, and worn other feminine things, and they had all felt so good on me. But never before had I so specifically wondered if the clothes and things of any one particular girl or woman would all fit me. Donna’s shoes fitting me had felt good, and I had walked in them just like she did. At that moment I couldn’t help but find myself wanting to know how good I could feel in the rest of her things, as well.

My legs looked good in stockings, and I knew it. Donna could wear stockings, and show off her legs though, and I couldn’t. I knew that if I had Donna’s stockings on my legs, that my legs would be just as pretty as hers. And if Donna’s bra fit me, I had no doubt I could fill it out as well as she did, even if I did have to pad it. I knew lots of girls and women padded their bras, so I would be no different than them.

I knew it was just daydreams, but it was possible that since Donnas’ shoes fit me, that all her other clothes would also fit me. It was possible that I could dress completely just like Donna from the skin out. It was possible that I could make my whole body look like Donna’s and even more importantly, know how it feels to be a young woman like her. I even daydreamed about having shoulder length blonde hair - hair like Donna’s that day.

But, even I had to realize it was all a daydream, and that Donna’s shoes fitting me had only been by chance. I had taken a huge risk trying on the girls’ shoes that day, and had almost been caught doing it. I knew I could never try it again. But I had walked like a real girl, in a real girl’s shoes that fit me that day, and I could remember that. I knew, though I would try to bury that I had also dreamed of dressing complete as a young woman that day, and had very much wanted that dream to come true. I had also thought about being a real young woman like Donna. Not exactly being Donna, but being me as her. Those were new thoughts and feelings for me. And it all happened because the shoes fit.

[Last Laugh]
UNCERTAINTY

Group Information
The Alpha Omega Society is a non-profit social support group for heterosexual crossdressers and their wives or partners. We primarily serve Cleveland and nearby Northeast Ohio communities.

Publication Information
This newsletter is copyright 2007 by The Alpha Omega Society. All rights reserved. Articles and information contained in this newsletter may be reprinted by other non-profit crossdresser organizations with advance permission of the author and provided that proper credit is given to author and source. The opinions or statements contained in this newsletter are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of Alpha Omega.

Contributions of articles are welcomed, but may be altered in the editing process, with the author’s intent retained, or may be rejected, whether solicited or not. We will exchange newsletters with any other similar group.

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