Back in the late 60's I had hair down to the middle of my back (sigh!), I wore skintight jeans and the highest heeled cowboy boots I could find. I wore those blousey peasant shirts that were popular at the time and I wore a lot of jewelry: rings, bracelets and necklaces. I also wore one big dangly earring. I was effeminate even for a long-haired hippy freak. I guess I was kind of stealth crossdressing in a way. Reading about the 60's today, you'd think that this was a popular way to dress. That was true if you lived in Greenwich Village or San Francisco but Prince Georges County, Md was still stuck in the greaser era.
In those days I hitchhiked everywhere I went. I can't tell you how many times some greaseball would slow down to pick me up, thinking I might be one of those "free love" hippy chicks, and then try to run me over when he realized I wasn't. I would also attract the "chicken hawks" looking for fresh meat to molest. I had lots of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans thrown at me. They hurt a lot less than the Carling Black Label bottles. I couldn't even walk through the apartment project I lived in without some rednecks yelling, "Hey Clyde, is that there a boy 'r a girl?" Then they'd get a big laugh out of it like they made that joke up themselves.
In case you're thinking of saying something back to these jerks or flipping them off, I'll relate one experience I had. I was hitchhiking down the highway when these two guys in an old car veered toward me causing me to jump out of the way. I gave them the finger as they sped away and went back to hitchhiking. A few minutes later, here comes that same car (they circled back on a side road), only this time they pulled off the road in front of me. Out jumps these two hillbillies. One had a single barrel sawed off shotgun and the other had a revolver and they didn't look like they just wanted to say "howdy."
So I ran into the woods thinking I could outrun them. I also thought that if they shot at me the chances were good they would hit a tree instead of me. I didn't get very far before I tripped on a log and got tangled up in some brush. They caught up with me and the guy with the shotgun proceeded to pound me in the head with it while the guy with the revolver pointed his gun at my head and gave me a few kicks with his construction boots. All the while they were talking about what to do with the body after they killed me. Finally, they just made me apologize and promise not to get "smart" with them anymore and left me there to nurse my wounds. For a minute there I thought I was a goner. After that I decided to keep my mouth shut and my finger out of sight. My dad used to say, "Just walk away, live to fight another day." That was good advise, coming from a lunatic.
Maybe having these experiences partly explains why I have no desire to go out crossdressed - been there, done that (sort of).
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