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Chapter 1. Impact

Tuesday 11th March 1997

Oh shit! I knew, as soon as I glanced in my mirror, that the car behind hadn’t a hope of stopping before it hit me as I came to rest behind other vehicles in the outside lane of the M1!

I pulled on the hand brake. Shit Shit Shit! Why today of all days? I braced myself for the impact.

The collision itself wasn’t that bad — but the consequences were likely to be huge!

Bugger! Shit! FUCK! I rested my head on the steering wheel and just sat there.

The driver of the car that had hit me rapped on the window. I rolled it down. “Are you OK love?” he asked. I just nodded my head then got out of my Cavalier SRi, straightening my skirt as I stood up, and went to the back of the car to check out the damage. There was a slight dent in the bodywork — otherwise nothing. Even the lights were all undamaged.  I might get away with it after all.

“Doesn’t look serious, obviously my insurance company will take care of it,” the other driver assured me. “Here’s my card — and I’ve written the insurance details on the back. Can I have your details?”

I got out a piece of paper and wrote Chris Williamson and my address and insurance company details and handed it to him.

By now, the police had arrived and were checking if there were any injuries and helping us to get our vehicles onto the hard shoulder. When I gave the officer my licence his eyebrows were raised as he looked at my face then back at the licence.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“I guess not.” He replied. “We need to carry out breathalyser checks on everyone involved though so can you come to our car?”

That would be the least of my problems as I hadn’t had a drink in days.

As I got in the patrol car, the officer who had checked my licence showed his colleague his notebook — he then glanced at me and a smirk appeared on his face.

I sighed. Ignorant pigs.

The test completed, the officer confirmed that it was negative and, as I’d been the ‘victim’ rather than the cause of the crash, my car was still roadworthy and we’d exchanged insurance details, I was free to go on my way.

I lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply before pulling back onto the main carriageway and heading south. Maybe there would be no further contact — especially if I didn’t bother to make a claim. With luck I might be able to straighten the dent myself and a bit of body-filler and spray paint and it wouldn’t be noticeable.

A few miles further on, I pulled off the motorway and drove across country then turned onto a back road that ran alongside an old gravel pit now filled with water and found a concealed and totally unoccupied area just off the road I knew of.  I parked the car so the open door would provide some cover from anyone else pulling into the area as well as giving me the chance to drive off quickly if I needed to. It was just getting dark and I was able to grab my bag of clothes from the boot. I sat back down with my legs out of the car and removed my tights and knickers from underneath my skirt and pulled on my pants, trousers & socks. On, too, with slip on shoes — then a padded jacket. I closed the door again and removed my wig then proceeded to remove my make—up. OK — now if anyone saw me there was nothing untoward to attract attention.

Now for the final stage — open the jacket and undo the buttons of my blouse — then off with the jacket, blouse & bra before pulling on a shirt. Well that had been the plan when a police Panda car pulled in next to me. For crying out loud, this really wasn’t my bloody day. As the officer got out of his car, I zipped up my jacket again.

I rolled down the window as he approached.

“Good evening, sir. Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Nothing. Just taking a break on my way home.”

“I see. You seem a bit nervous, sir.”

He was looking at my holdall on the seat next to me, unzipped.

“Can I ask what you’ve got in the holdall?”

“Just clothes. Why?”

“Unusual to have the bag on the passenger seat. Most people would put it in the boot or on the back seat. May I just have a look in it?”

Sweat was forming on my forehead. I didn’t think he had any right to insist on looking in the bag — but if I refused, it would certainly make him even more suspicious. I reached over and pulled the bag onto my lap and opened the top. He shone his torch into the bag. As I knew they would be, the wig, panties, tights and shoes I’d removed were on top of my shirt.

“Yours, Sir?” he asked.

“Yes.” I admitted. “It’s not illegal is it?”

“No, Sir.” He replied with emphasis on the ‘Sir’.

“So, what are you doing here?” He asked again.

“I’m getting changed.”

”Is that all?”  

“Yes.”

“Well. Sir. It’s just that there’s a sailing club across the road and there have been thefts of equipment from some of the boats so we’ve been asked to keep an eye on the place. Now, if what you’ve told me is true, then there’s nothing to worry about. But, if there are any problems reported tonight, I’ve got your vehicle number and we’ll know where to find you. Goodnight.”

With that, he returned to his car and drove off.

I finished changing, repacked my bag and put it into the boot. I lit another cigarette and stood outside the car while I smoked it trying to avoid getting the smell of the smoke on my male clothes. It wasn’t just the crossdressing the family didn’t know of. When I got back into the car, I ate an orange then wiped the peel around my face to, hopefully, disguise any lingering smell of smoke or make-up.

As I drove the last few miles home, I was relieved that the police hadn’t taken any more interest in me than they had. Cross dressing wasn’t illegal, but all too often police would find some reason to be difficult or would be downright offensive — and could maliciously “out” you.

Being outed could easily cost you your job — not to mention your marriage and family.

So why did we do it?

The simple answer is because we have to. There is a side to us that can only be satisfied by cross dressing. Believe me we TRY to stop. Ask almost any tranny and they’ll tell you about the times they’ve purged — getting rid of their collection of clothes, wigs and make up. Then something, often insignificant, would start you off again.

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