“You’re being yourself,” says a cross-dressing man who parades around the streets at night in a fetishistic latex maid’s uniform. With bonus dog collar and leash, obviously.

“I’m openly trans now. It’s a lot easier. But that rush will be missed, of having that secret.” pic.twitter.com/wWjnwSXfcT

— Genevieve Gluck (@WomenReadWomen) August 30, 2026

But he doesn’t want to talk about his sexuality, because “it’s complicated.”

As if we couldn’t guess.

Says our enthusiast of bondage and public humiliation, “The rush eventually wears off… I miss the rush… you do more risqué things.” And of course this chasing of transgression entails onlookers. People to be scandalised, disturbed or in some way imposed upon. Reluctant participants in his naff erotic drama.

At risk of seeming insufficiently affirming, what I see is a man being consumed by his own sad and grubby fetish. Not, I think, the most obvious basis for applause. Or indeed pride.

But hey. Modernity, baby.

We’ve recently mentioned how the realities above are difficult to convey in a normal social situation. Consequently, you may encounter people who wish to be seen as supportive of all things trans, because they’ve been watching the BBC and therefore know almost nothing about the phenomenon that they feel obliged to be seen supporting.

And so, you may find yourself in a social situation where nodding along or some affirming noise is expected, and you may then have to decide whether to sidestep the subject or introduce the other person to a world they may not care to enter or wish to spend much time in. But which is a very large part of what it is they’re affirming, if, perhaps, unwittingly.

And which isn’t necessarily what you want to think about when, say, having a meal with friends or coffee with the neighbours.

Update:

Regarding the endless chasing of transgression, mentioned above, it’s worth bearing in mind that our tedious transvestite is recording his interactions, any double-takes or looks of disgust, for sexual purposes. That’s his thing. He’s making other people part of his fetish, whether they wish to be or not.

See also this piece of work, mentioned here some years ago.

Dr Colin Cremin, a sociology lecturer, wants you, and his students, to be disconcerted by his stockings:

Same dynamic. Same imposition. Same sad creepiness.

And note how readily Dr Cremin – our balding, middle-aged man in a frock and court shoes – employs the now-familiar language of “gender fluidity,” identities, and mandatory tolerance.

Lifted from the comments, which you’re reading, of course.

In hardships-of-prison news:

His maturing female body.

If the above doesn’t sound sufficiently unhinged, I should add that the inmate in question, the one suing the Department of Corrections and invoking his human rights, Mr Michael R Caldwell, is a rapist of children.

Mr Caldwell, who prefers to be referred to as Skeggi Hildof Katrinssonr or “Hildi,” isn’t alone, of course. His fellow transgender complainants are,

Pride, baby.

Mr Caldwell, our transgender rapist, insists that his alleged hardships constitute “sex discrimination,” and that the failure to provide a private salon for his twice-weekly laser hair removal sessions is impacting his mental health, such as it is. Indeed, the inmate has insisted that he will “not consent” to any perceived infringement of his womanly privacy. Stated sorrows include “elevating anxiety, depression, skipping meal times,” and frequent crying.

The invocation of consent may strike readers as somewhat ironic, just a little tone-deaf, given the criminal activities that resulted in Mr Caldwell’s current situation. Activities regarding which Mr Caldwell seems much less tearful, having blamed his crimes on the victims. And nothing suggests remorse like demands for fetishistic cosmetic procedures at someone else’s expense.

Not to be outdone, “non-binary” inmate Mr Hunter S Christian, our violator of dogs and enthusiast of child pornography, complains that he was denied access to Minoxidil treatments to correct his receding hairline – apparently, an unthinkable transgression – and likewise, testosterone supplements, supposedly to address his “shrinking testicle size.”

Hey, I’m just reading what it says here.

Mr Christian invokes “mental anguish… and a loss of the forward momentum in maintaining the delicate balance between my masculine and feminine sides.”

I’ll give you a moment to suppress all that sympathetic weeping.

Mr Andrew S Kennedy, the third complainant, and who is serving a 31-year sentence for the torture and murder of an eleven-month-old baby, claims to have been “repeatedly misgendered,” supposedly a violation of his human rights.

The trio’s additional demands, and they are numerous, include “body contouring services” and significant monetary compensation.

At which point I’m inclined to suggest we could just submerge the trio in hot concrete and get on with our lives.

From the pages of Metro, where Ms Rachel Meghan is talking about herself:

The barbecue is in Hell. Did I mention that?

Or, “I have badges too,” she said.

Oh calamity. All that specialness – dashed to pieces.

And yet correcting people – constantly – attempting to make them mouth absurdities, remains a go-to impulse. An irresistible temptation. Despite those claims of exhaustion. Funny, that. Whether other parties might be fatigued by this habit is, alas, not explored.

Well, given observable reality, that will happen.

“Everything came to a head after I became a mother,” says she. Pretensions of themness, the craving to seem special – perhaps more special than one is – would, I suppose become harder to sustain. Given the arrival of someone more important, someone whose needs tend to come first.

That’s the spirit.

Not sure whether that’s a fear or an aspiration.

As women so often do.

Specifically, a woman’s body.

As, like, totally spiritual people feel compelled to say.

A spirituality of self. How terribly innovative.

Again, self. And repeated descriptions thereof.

So many badges, and they’re all so shiny. Also, my truth.

Better start saving for those counselling sessions.

As two-year-olds do, of course. I can hear those eyebrows raising from here.

Having known the author as a girl and then as a woman, presumably. Not as some imaginary, unsexed being. One who’s had sex and consequently a child.

Imagine the fun. All those corrections and self-corrections. All that pointed effort. The evenings must fly by.

No laughing at the back.

How very dare they.

You see, in a sense, she’s always in the room, policing how her self is being perceived. On account of being so spiritual.

Update, via the comments:

What’s noteworthy, I think, is how closely these things follow a familiar, if unconvincing, pattern.

Say, the feeble, retrospective excuses for ongoing pretensions. Ms Meghan tells us of not wanting to get her nails done as a girl, and not wishing to straighten her hair, as if this were the very measure of things. Or the complaints of being exhausted by her own chosen contrivance, as if her attention-seeking were only being done reluctantly, as if she weren’t the author of it.

And the rather implausible claim of not influencing small children to make them mouth the expected absurdities. The demanded affirmation. In madam’s case, the claim that her two-year-old son “just clocked my queerness on his own,” unprompted, while simultaneously boasting of telling said two-year-old, “Mummy isn’t a woman.”

And of course the strange lack of concern for those on whom these tiresome dramas are being imposed. Including her own child.

Update 2:

John D quotes this,

And adds,

Well, indeed. It’s not unlike someone who’s five foot five insisting that they be perceived by everyone around them as being six foot four. And then getting all tearful and pissy when this doesn’t happen. It’s scarcely less absurd.

You don’t get to control how others perceive you. Emotional blackmail based on demands that others must use fabulist pronouns, even out of earshot, will not change that fact. It may, however, make you look obnoxious and deranged.

‘Every time you refer to me, whether I’m present or not, you first have to clap your hands three times.’

Same vibe.

Even if it were the case that Ms Meghan feels “misgendered” – which would be assuming quite a lot – she has not in fact been “misgendered” by use of the words she and her, or by any recognition of the fact that she’s obviously a woman. She has been referred to accurately, in accord with physical reality.

Her mental health problems – any feelings of being “misgendered” – are not the arbiter of what is.

We can see what is.

And it’s curious how patterns of behaviour that until very recently would have been recognised as manipulative, abusive, insufferable, etc., are now being indulged and actively encouraged. Not least in the pages of Metro, where this theatre of the self is pretty much a staple and served up routinely.

And in cross-dressing-men-relocating-faeces news:

Man pretending to be a woman says he wants “every trans person in the UK to be given a poo bucket” so they can cover the office of the Equalities and Human Rights Commission with their feces, as a protest against guidance preserving single-sex spaces pic.twitter.com/8JVFSFptgl

— Genevieve Gluck (@WomenReadWomen) August 9, 2026

For those of you assuming that the above is some cunning AI satire intended to diminish the credibility of cross-dressing men, I have news. Those of you wishing to keep track of the project’s success can do so here.

383 signatures at the time of writing.

The shimmering vision of womanliness seen above is Mr Lucy Rose Shaftain-Fenner, a filmmaker whose films are, it turns out, chiefly about himself, and whose interests include the “liberation” of Palestine, violating women’s boundaries, and “taxing wealth.”

When not declaring his personal hotness, Mr Shaftain-Fenner engages in many feats of radicalism, including cutting up Harry Potter DVDs in an attempt to reduce the number of future Harry Potter fans, intruding in women’s toilets, denouncing the misogyny and catcalling he allegedly endures, and listing his quite numerous mental health shortcomings.

So, hey, nothing to worry about, ladies.

Update, via the comments:

Readers may be amused by Mr Shaftain-Fenner’s repeated use of the word fantasy, which seems a bit rich, all things considered.

Noting Mr Shaftain-Fenner’s claims of injustice and persecution, Jen adds, not unreasonably,

Or of course the disabled toilets, which are both unisex and generally nicer. But chappie seems bent on using women’s toilets, thereby imposing his delusions on women. Which does rather suggest that the imposition is the goal. A key component of his mental drama.

Indeed, Mr Shaftain-Fenner seems remarkably uninterested in whether ladies might object to his intrusion, his violation of their boundaries. Or indeed in why they might do so.

For instance, some ladies may not wish to share an intimate space with weird, cross-dressing men who feel entitled to violate normal boundaries, and who, statistically, are much more prone to other, more serious kinds of boundary violation. Examples of which are not hard to find.

But to pull at that thread might unravel the whole frock. As it were.

Previously in the world of powder-room dramas.

The radical relocation of bodily waste by cross-dressing men – specifically, spraying children with urine – has, perhaps unsurprisingly, been touched on here before.

Or, Discourse Was Attempted:

Perfectly normal. pic.twitter.com/AShv6sF3b0

— Gay Not Queer (@Gaynotqueer1) August 2, 2026

Now, ladies. About your changing rooms…

Update:

Our Bellowing Man-Witch shouts, theatrically, “I am the villain of this world,” as if he were a martyr, presumably in some attempt to elicit sympathy and thereby compliance. But in a non-trivial sense, he is a villain. As I said regarding this bestubbled maiden:

The demand for dishonesty, the demand that lies should be imposed, ain’t a virtue or a basis for applause.

Consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.