INSIDE THE ZEBRA CLUB
Oscar had taken me to the Zebra Club where he’s a singer.
It’s been the highlight of my previously dull, mundane life. Even though I’m a professional football player in Africa and played for my country, I’ve never encountered this level of sophistication. Never been anywhere this enticing. This exotic.
Sloping, tinted mirrors animate the bar where tall, beautiful creatures, lithe and slender, are posturing and posing on red leather stools, waiting for invitations to sip cheap champagne, at luxurious prices, courtesy of the gawking straights at the red velvet draped tables that surround the dance floor. Some of the lovelies simpering and giggling at the bar are white South Africans or from Romania or Latvia. One from New Zealand. Natural blondes. Well, perhaps not so natural. But beautiful. And so, so feminine.
If you are female and come to ogle the beautiful cross-dressers then you must be accompanied by a male partner. A sensible regulation from Arnold, the owner, sat in the corner, wearing a too tight tuxedo. Arnold also ensures, with judicious bribes to certain officials that the club is never raided. It is now generally accepted, in Western Society that if a man encounters the police while dressed as a woman, he is as entitled as any other law-abiding citizen to courtesy and consideration. But this is Africa. This is Nilemwe; and however beautiful the lovelies decorating the bar may be they are in fact committing a criminal offence – three years minimum sentence.
These thoughts never entered my head. I was too busy being introduced to all of Oscar’s sophisticated friends – admiring me and saying how ‘pretty’ I looked. It felt good. Oscar had helped me dress and applied all my make-up. Wearing one of Oscar’s red-dresses and the sensible bob wig.
“You should see him in a blonde wig,” says Oscar and showed everybody his mobile.
“And get this!” Oscar pulls off the bob and for a moment I felt ashamed until Oscar began sprucing my long locks. Everyone stroking my hair and saying how beautiful I looked. A natural. I couldn’t resist tossing my hair for them. I know they are not women. I know they in drag. However skilfully they are dragged up. But I never felt this good. Ever. The dress against my skin and the way it flows when I turn, the way it follows when I walk. And if I did a twirl abruptly, and I did when I got the chance, then the dress lingered in the air, magically, before it came soaring back to cascade against my slim, shapely frame. And more than occasionally looking in the mirrors behind the bar. The red dress. Me tossing my hair.
Why do men cross-dress?
No one really knows why some men have this desire. Many men who cross-dress describe it as an outlet for stress, and they tend to want to dress up more during times of tension at work or at home.
Some men get relief from tension simply by wearing women’s lingerie (often silk) under their exterior male clothing. These guys often go no further than that with their cross-dressing.
Most cross-dressers, however, want to appear as female as possible in their outer garments and want to wear elegant make-up and pleasant perfumes.
Men who cross-dress are not mentally ill. Indeed, psychologists in the USA have decided that cross-dressing comes within the normal range of male sexuality unless it becomes a compulsive obsession.
Sometimes I have asked myself the question. ‘Why do I cross dress?’
Now! – after that first night at the Zebra club. I know the answer.