Aisle Seat Dreams

By Monika Kowalska

I’ve always been fascinated by air hostesses.

As a child, I watched them walk through airport terminals with an elegance I could only dream of. They moved like they belonged to a world just slightly above ours, a realm of shiny shoes, rolling suitcases and perfectly tied neck scarves. Their lipstick never smudged. Their hair obeyed gravity. And when they walked down the airplane aisle, they weren’t just serving drinks, they were commanding space. Even turbulence seemed to respect them.

Back then, I didn’t know I was transgender. I just knew I wanted to be an air hostess, whoever she was, whatever her name tag said. I didn’t want to be with the air hostess. I wanted to be the air hostess. And even though I’m now living openly as myself and have embraced so much of the femininity I longed for, there’s still something about seeing a woman in uniform gliding down the aisle of an airplane, that sends a tiny ache right through me.

My best friend, Caroline, is a flight attendant. We’ve been close for a long time, long before either of us imagined where life would take us. While I was struggling with my manhood and dreaming abstract dreams of womanhood, she was already researching airlines, learning about cabin pressure and emergency protocol and practicing her smile in the mirror.

Now, years later, I see her with her wheeled suitcase and flawless bun, her posture a masterclass in confidence. When we meet for coffee between her flights, I sometimes just sit and stare at her, amazed. There’s something inherently cinematic about her job. She’s had layovers in New York, breakfast in Dubai, sunsets in São Paulo. She speaks in airport codes and time zones, and has perfected the art of packing her entire life into a suitcase smaller than my carry-on.

But I’ve also seen the darker side of her world.

I’ve seen her stumble into our café, exhausted after 14 hours in the air, her voice hoarse from dry cabin air, her patience frayed by a passenger who thought “Please fasten your seatbelt” was a personal attack. I’ve seen the toll the irregular hours take on her sleep, the way she struggles with jet lag that doesn’t just knock you out, it disorients your very sense of where and who you are. I’ve seen her cry from missing birthdays and holidays. I’ve watched her stretch her legs because she’s been on her feet for hours, serving meals and de-escalating arguments 35,000 feet in the sky.

And there’s the glamour tax no one talks about, the unspoken, but ever-present pressure to look “presentable.” There are rules about hair, nails, makeup and body. Some airlines still expect “a certain weight range” and offer feedback that wouldn’t pass even the most lenient HR sniff test in any other industry. She once told me only half-jokingly, that you get trained in safety procedures, but hired for your smile.

So I know now that the job isn’t all first-class perks and Instagram-ready views. There are delays, canceled flights, demanding passengers, aching feet and a constant, grinding expectation to be composed. Always composed.

Still, I envy her.

Not because I think I could have handled the job, honestly, I’m not sure I could have. I get motion sickness on bumpy landings and I’m suspicious of hotels that don’t offer complimentary conditioner. And I know it’s too late for me to start down that career path. Airline recruitment isn’t exactly bursting with second chances for middle-aged transwomen who didn’t do their flying hours when they were 20.

But when I board a plane, I still watch the crew. I still notice the way they move down the aisle with quiet authority. I catch a glimpse of my younger self in the reflection of the overhead bin, wide-eyed, longing, still dreaming. And yes, sometimes I’m jealous.

Not because I want the job, but because I still want the feeling. That sense of being part of something elegant and brave, something sky-high and magical. That moment when the wheels lift off the ground and you think, “Anything is possible.”

I may never wear the uniform. I may never memorize the safety demo or do the lipstick check before takeoff. But in another lifetime, I would have walked that aisle as an air hostess.

And maybe, just maybe, I still do, in my dreams.

Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life, since 2013. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.

Wearing BOSS Hugo Boss

Two 1950-era femulators in the 2006 British short Private Life.

AI and Me Again

Commenting on Tuesday’s “AI and Me” post, Lily wrote, “Fascinating! You must start with some reality or is it like drawing a portrait? May we see STANA alongside her avatar please?”

I don’t know what you would call my process, but I simply start with a bare-bones command, for example, “70-year-old balding male wearing glasses, Red Sox T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, in Fenway Park.” 

After AI generates an image according to my initial command, I will examine the image, determine what changes are necessary and send a new command based on those changes.

The first or second command usually is not exactly what I want and I may repeat tweaking the image three, four, five or even more times. (Yesterday’s image of me in the Red Sox T-shirt was a rare one-command success!)

Lily’s wish is my command and the image below is me and my avatar side-by-side. I picked a photo where I was wearing an outfit and hairdo similar to my AI image. However, I had none wearing eyeglasses, so I generated a pair via AI and pasted the eyeglasses onto my photograph.

Wearing Boston Proper

Marius Goring femulating in French television’s The O Agency Files (1968). 

AI and Me

If you have been following along during the past year or so, you know that I have been using Artificial Intelligence (AI) to create images for this blog. I am having a lot of fun in the process and plan to continue using AI ’til the cows come home.

Saturday was a rainy day and I cancelled my plans to do desperately-needed yard work (darn!). Instead, I sat in front of the television watching TCM with my MacBook Pro in my lap. 

As luck would have it, TCM was showing Bulldog Drummond’s Revenge, a 1930’s mystery that I vaguely recall seeing before. And even more vaguely, I seemed to recall that there was some crossdressing in the film. Next thing I knew, one of the bad guys is in full and convincing femulation mode and remained so for the next 10 minutes of the film.

After the film, I began playing with AI on my laptop wondering how well AI would work generating an image of me en homme and en femme. 

I tried en homme first and hit a home run on my first attempt. I was shocked how closely the AI image resembled the real me. My AI image could use a little more hair, but now I was ready to try an image of me en femme.

Not so fast, Big Girl! 

I spent about an hour generating en femme images, but none of them were me. There were two problems: the hairdo and the eyebrows. 

No matter what I tried, I could not get AI to generate the short blonde hairstyles I normally wear. What AI generated were styles that were either too long or too big. I tried a workaround by commanding AI to generate a “very short blonde men’s haircut” and that finally did the trick.

The eyebrows problem had me stumped for a long time. If AI’s output was a female or a male en femme, it insisted on thin, plucked and arched eyebrows. And I don't have thin, plucked and arched eyebrows! Asking for “thick eyebrows” did not work.

I was close to throwing in the towel when I thought that if AI would not give me the eyebrows I wanted, I would hide the eyebrows it wanted. Eyeglasses should do the trick and when I added eyeglasses to my AI command, voila! that solved the problem. (Although most of my photos don’t show it, I do wear eyeglasses much of the time that I am en femme.)

The images below are the results. 

In my opinion, the en homme image is so good that it is scary, while the en femme image is close and maybe a cigar.

Wearing Tory Burch

Frank Puglia femulating in the 1937 film Bulldog Drummond’s Revenge.

Stuff 69: Non-Expert Advice

By J.J. Atwell

I’ll say it again

As I said in Stuff #47 that Stana published on October 14, 2024, I’m not an expert. I’m just somebody with an opinion on CDing who also enjoys writing about it. I happily report my observations of the real world and the sometimes imaginary world inside my head. In other words, I have an opinion and I’m not afraid to write about it. 

Why am I repeating this?

Because there are so many “experts” out there already. I just want to present my opinions and offer advice from my perspective as an ordinary CD. I have no formal training in the subject. I have nothing to base my writing on other than my real life interactions. 

No, I didn’t stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, but I do read a lot on the subject of CDing. I find even that is somewhat problematic as those authors may not be representative of me. Just like you should be aware that just because I’m writing something here in Stuff, it doesn’t mean it applies to you. Or that it is even accurate. 

Be Yourself

Having said all that, I hope my readers find my writing to be interesting, amusing, helpful and provides food for thought. It’s always good to be a bit introspective in life. Please take what I write and think if it applies to your personal circumstance and life experience. 

I’ve chatted with several of the other authors that Stana regularly publishes here on Femulate and we all have our own perspective. We all enjoy writing about our views, but, again, they are our views. As far as I know, none of us have any academic qualifications to dispense advice. You should decide for yourself whenever you read anything online as to the applicability of it to your life. 

I’ll be back

Yes, I’ll be finding more Stuff to write about. I welcome comments and suggestions here on Stana’s page (in the Comments below) or by email at Jenn6nov at-sign gmail dot com.

Wearing Ann Klein

Norah out and about at the Wadsworth Antheneum Museum of Art in Hartford, Connecticut

Rips, Zips and More!

Guest cartoonist Johanna Arrow from Sweden offers us her interpretation of stewardess problems on long flights.

Today is “Take Your Daughter to Work Day”

Wearing Boston Proper

Mark Volman femulating in the 1971 film 200 Motels.

Legs, Lycra and Me

By Monica Kowalska

From royal legs to riotous queues, the evolution of stockings is a tale woven with fashion, innovation, a healthy dose of scandal and the kind of sheer drama only hosiery can deliver.

Long before stockings became a staple in women’s wardrobes and a secret weapon in my own drawer, they adorned the legs of European nobility. In the 16th century, kings like Henry VIII were strutting around in silk stockings, flaunting their wealth with each puffed calf. Yes, back then, a good leg was considered peak masculinity. Yes, it was the men who first turned hosiery into a statement. The irony isn’t lost on me. One courtier even boasted that Queen Elizabeth I had gifted him her garters, not as a romantic gesture, but as a sign of supreme royal favor. A literal leg up in court politics, if you will.

These early stockings were hand-sewn, made from silk or wool and lacked stretch entirely. They didn’t cling, they lounged. And since elastic hadn’t yet graced the Earth with its existence, enter the garter: a ribbon or band wrapped around the thigh to keep things from sliding south. Functional, yes, but also flirtatious – there’s a reason garters eventually became the star of the bridal toss. 

Then came the glorious invention of nylon in 1939. DuPont unveiled it with all the subtlety of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a very sexy hat. “Stronger than steel, finer than silk,” they promised and women were instantly enchanted. When nylons officially went on sale in 1940, 72,000 pairs sold in one day. Hosiery hysteria had arrived and so had the garter belt, the slightly dominatrix-looking, but oh-so-practical contraption designed to hold stockings up via suspender clips. It was all very engineering-meets-burlesque.

World War II, however, rudely interrupted the stocking party. Nylon was suddenly needed for parachutes, tents and ropes, leaving women with bare legs and broken hearts. Some resorted to drawing faux stocking seams down their calves with eyebrow pencil. One clever woman in Detroit even opened a business offering “leg make-up” services, complete with painted-on seams. Honestly? Entrepreneurial queen. Meanwhile, the black market in nylon flourished.

By the 1960s, fashion said, “Why not show more leg?” and the mini skirt arrived like a cheeky wink to tradition. Pantyhose, also known as tights, or as I like to call them, “yoga for your legs,” were invented to save us from the daily garter belt battle. They were sleek, modern and screamed liberation. Though personally, I've always had a love-hate relationship with pantyhose. On one hand, they make your legs look like they’ve been airbrushed by angels. On the other, getting into them is like trying to stuff a cat into a sock. But even with pantyhose dominating, the allure of stockings remained.

And that’s where hold-ups strut in. These miracle stockings defy gravity thanks to built-in elastic and a little rubberized magic. No garter belts needed. They’re like the rebels of the hosiery family, sultry, independent and probably sipping espresso while judging your outfit. I’ve worn them on dates, at conferences and every time, I feel like I could conquer a kingdom or at least a cocktail hour.

But let’s not forget my true love: fishnets, the misunderstood bad girls of the hosiery world. To some, they scream cabaret and crime noir. To me? They whisper confidence. My first pair felt like a transformation. I didn’t just wear them, I became someone else. Someone bolder, someone sassier, someone who could deliver a one-liner and a high kick. Fishnets are art. They’re flirtation in fabric form. They say, “Yes, I’m classy, but don’t test me.”

Today, stockings are less about necessity and more about identity. Whether you choose silky thigh-highs with lace tops, vintage garter belts with little metal clasps or modern hold-ups with anti-slip wizardry, you’re making a statement. And if you’re slipping into fishnets? Darling, you’re making a scene in the best way possible.

So next time you roll on a pair, take a moment. You’re not just dressing your legs, you’re embracing centuries of sass, seduction and survival. From queens and riots to your own glorious mirror selfie, stockings have always been about more than modesty. They’re about power. Because whether you’re conquering the boardroom, the ballroom or just brunch with a little extra flair, stockings never go out of style.

Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life, since 2013. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.

Cassen femulating in the Spanish film La tía de Carlos en mini-falda.

Dear Mike

Writing this blog, I receive a lot of letters, but I never received one like the following from Emily... a letter she wrote to her young self.

Dear Mike,

I hope this letter was delivered to you the moment you stepped off the stage at Lakeland Day Camp. Right now, you feel alone, miserable, humiliated and so ashamed of yourself that you don’t know how you’re going to face your family and friends. At the age of seven, you just endured what feels like the most awful moment of your life. You’ll wonder for a long time why it happened and why it happened to you. 

I know this because when I was seven, I had the exact same experience because you are the little boy who grew up to be me. My name is Michael, but when I was your age, I was Mike. 

I know that we never chose to appear in that day camp’s show dressed up as a little girl. I remember the horror and embarrassment we felt when camp director Rick announced that, along with several other boys, we had to be one of the girls in his show. We were too ashamed to tell Mom and Dad about our part. The first Mom knew of it was a few minutes ago when we walked onto that stage.

I never forgot that lady who made us put on a petticoat, a pink dress and a hat that had blonde curls attached. She applied makeup onto our faces. We didn’t want her to do that. When she was finished, Rick offered us lemonade. We recoiled when we discovered that our lips left a lipstick imprint on our Dixie cup. We set it down and told Rick that we didn’t want it. That’s when Rick reached under our costume and touched us. 

I know that you think the reason he touched you was to shame you for being a boy in a dress. You were embarrassed and felt helpless. However, I know the real reason Rick touched us that way. He was a bad man who hurt children. That kind of touch isn’t anything any adult should do to a child, ever. In fact, it’s against the law. He should have been punished.

You blame yourself, but eventually, you’ll realize that you did not cause any of that to happen. It’s not fair, but Rick chose you and me to be one of his victims because he liked that sort of thing. He had no concern for what we wanted. All he cared about was what he wanted. 

If it’s any comfort, you’ll never see Rick again. Tonight you’ll tell our parents that you’re refusing to return to Lakeland Day Camp and you won’t. 

I didn’t.

In a few moments, you’re going to take off that dress and try to wipe off the makeup, but no matter what you do, some boys will tease you about today. They’ll claim that you wanted to do it and they’ll say that you turned into a girl. Some boys are going to call you “Cecelia.” That’ll hurt and you’ll deny that you were in the show. It won’t help. They’ll tease you more. However, in a few weeks, it’ll stop. 

You’ll be Mike again. 

And, I’m afraid that in a few minutes, when you’re back in your own clothes, Mom is going to ask you if you wanted to play a girl in the show and she’ll ask if you had fun. 

I didn’t like it when she asked me that. I didn’t handle it well. I screamed at her to shut up and pitifully denied I was in the show. I have no idea what she thought occurred, but I wouldn’t talk about it to her or to anyone else. Not talking was a mistake on my part. Neither of our parents ever raised the topic again. 

They should have.

I suggest that instead of yelling at Mom as I did, tell her that Rick made us dress up and tell her that he touched us. However, I know that you believe Mom and Dad can’t imagine how or why you, their son, allowed himself to be in any show dressed like that; and you’re positive that they’re deeply ashamed of you.

In fact, you’re going to believe for a long time that anyone who saw us on the stage this afternoon or who knew what happened will never again see you as Mike the boy they know. You’re convinced that all they’ll see is a little sissy who this afternoon wanted to be Cecelia.

At the age of seven, you don’t realize how much our parents, our brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins love and adore us. Mom and Dad love you more than you can imagine and while they messed up today, their love for us never wavered.

My lifelong friends, some of whom you already know, either never knew of or don’t remember, what happened this afternoon. Even if they did, our friends would still love and respect us for who we are and wouldn’t judge us because this afternoon Rick wanted to feel up a little boy. 

Someday you’ll meet a woman who won’t care that any of this happened today. She will love us for our whole lives.

It’ll take awhile for you to realize it, but what happened on and off that stage today will be forgotten by everyone in the world except for you and me. 

Yet, you’re blaming yourself. I know you are. 

Rick did not ruin you. His actions do not define you. He might have hurt you, but you are still you and I am still me. A person shouldn’t have to forgive himself for being a victim, but please don’t shoulder that blame. It took me too long to figure all that out, but I have forgiven myself. 

Please forgive yourself too. 

One day you’re going to want to dress up as a girl again. You won’t understand why, but when that happens, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s OK to do that. It’s just who you are. You don’t need to forgive yourself for that either.

Love,

Mike

Wearing Zimmermann

Schafer, a professional femulator, circa 1900

Stuff 68: I Get Letters

By J.J. Atwell

…well emails really

Long time Stuff followers know that I include a request for comments at the bottom of each installment. I’ve had several suggestions from readers as to topics to write about. I’ll try to tackle some of them in today’s Stuff.

Sensations

In Stuff #63, I wrote about sensations when dressed which appeared here on March 17. That prompted Lily to offer her thoughts. Her comments are in italics below, I’ve added my comments after them.

Pretty toes after a pedicure in a local beauty salon – Lily

JJ gets a manicure every two weeks with a pedicure added every other visit. She loves the experience, but she sticks with clear polish because I’m in guy mode 99.9% of the time.

Managing an errant bra strap – Lily

JJ says, “Oh so feminine.” Love that subtle sweep of the finger under your collar to lift the strap back in place. Something that guys just never notice. 

Stockings with suspenders – Lily

JJ actually doesn’t do stockings with or without suspenders. Living in the south, I almost never see women wearing hose, be it nylons or pantyhose. 

Summer, bare legs or the sheerest tights – Lily

JJ doesn’t just keep her legs clear in the summer. It’s year round here because legs are almost always on display in the south.

Pretty sandals – Lily 

JJ loves some sandals. But frankly, can’t stand the “Birkenstock styles.” Give me a nice strappy sandal, perhaps with a cork wedge heel and I’m good to go.

Swimsuits  – Lily

JJ doesn’t have a swimsuit, but I’m sure I would love the feeling of wearing one. Assuming, that is, I could manage the “fall out” potential. Never really had the need for a swimsuit even though I’ve got a backyard pool. I guess I’m afraid of tan lines and the chance that neighbors would see me. Frankly, when I get in the pool, I don’t want to have to do hair and makeup to be presentable. 

It’s not just us

My friend Gigi emailed me about Stuff #65, which Stana published on March 31, where I wrote about insecurities. She said that we are not alone and that GGs also worry about those exact same things... except for the passing part. Of course, GGs have had longer to consider them and adapt. But apparently CDs have more in common with women than just the clothes. 

OGM

Some folks think OGM is just OMG with the letters mixed up. I’ll often use OGM as short for “Oh Goodness Me.” Yes, it pretty much means the same thing. It’s just one of those odd things I do. Kind of like me picking out girls clothes to wear. What kind of odd things do you do? 

I’ll be back

I’ll be back with more Stuff for sure. Comments are welcome either here on the blog or by email to Jenn6nov at-sign gmail dot com. JJ is always looking for more stuff, so let me know what you would like to read about.

Wearing Shein

George O'Hanlon in housewife drag in the 1956 film So Your Wife Wants to Work.

Happy Easter!