Man's constant groping of things unknown, drawing from the endless reaches of time, brings to light many startling things. Startling because they seem new...sudden...but most are not new to the signs of the ages. A life...is begun! People...all going somewhere. All with their own thoughts, their own ideas. All with their own personalities. One is wrong because he does right...one is right because he does wrong. Pull the strings! Dance to that, which one is created for. A new day is begun. A new life is begun. A life...is ended.
Pull the string! Pull the string! A mistake is made. A story must be told.
Beware...beware! Beware of the big green dragon that sits on your doorstep. He eats little boys...puppy dog tails, and big, fat snails. Beware, take care....beware!
Only the infinity of the depths of a man's mind can really tell the story.
Modern man is a hard-working human. Throughout the day his mind and his muscles are busy at building the modern world and its business administration. His clothing is rough, coarse, starched, according to the specifications of his accepted job. At home, what does man have to look forward to for his body comfort? The things provided for his home. A wool or flannel robe, his feet encased in the same thick, tight-fitting leather that his shoes are made of...these are the things provided for his home comfort. It doesn't look so comfortable, does it? And get the hat - or better still get the receeding hairline. Men's hats are so tight they cut off the blood flow to the head, thus cutting off the growth of hair. Seven out of ten men wear a hat, so the advertisements say. Seven out of ten men are bald. But what about the ladies? Yes, modern woman is a hard-working individual also. But when modern woman's day of work is done,that which is designed for her comfort IS comfort. Hats that give no obstruction to the bloodflow, hats that do not crush the hair. Interesting thought, isn't it? Just for comparison, let's go native. Back to the animal instinct. There in the lesser civilized part of the world, it's the male who adorns himself with the fancy objects, such as paints, frills, and masks. The true instinct. The animal instinct. Bird and animal life. Is it not so that it's the male who is the fancy one? Could it be that the male was meant to attract the attention of the female? What's so wrong about that? Where is the animal instinct in modern civilization? Female has the fluff and the finery, as specified by those who design and sell. Little Miss Female, you should feel quite proud of the situation. You of course realise it's predominantly men who design your clothes, your jewelry, your makeup, your hair styling, your perfume. But life, even thought it's changes are slow, moves on. There's no law against wearing such apparel on the street, as long as it can be distinguished that man is man and woman is woman. But, what is it that would happen were this individual to appear on the street? You're doing it now - laughing. Yet, it's not a situation to be laughed at. Thus, the strange case of Glen, who was Glenda, one and the same person. Not half man-half woman, but nevertheless, man and woman in the same body, even though by all outward appearances Glen is fully and completely a man.
Glen is not a homosexual. Glen is a transvestite, but he is not a homosexual. transvestism is the term given by medical science to those persons who desperately wish to wear the clothing of the opposite sex, yet whose sex life in all instances remains quite normal. Would you be surprised to know that this rough, tough individual is wearing pink, satin undies under his rough exterior clothing? He is. Then there is your friend the milkman who...who knows how to find comfort at home.
Glen and all the hundreds of thousands of other Glens across the nation face quite a problem. Glen is engaged to be married to Barbara, a lovely intelligent girl. The problem? Glenda, Glen's other self. The girl that he himself is, his other individual personality.
Glen's problem is a deep one, but he must tell her...soon...She's begun to notice things: his nails, his eyes when he looks into a lady's store window, so many of the little things that are so hard to hide. Soon she will realise. Then there was the time Barbara was wearing the sweater Glen had always wanted to feel on his own body. It was becoming an obsession to him. He must have it.
Always the same. He's not had the nerve to tell her. But he must soon come to some conclusion or forget the marriage. Should he tell Barbara of his Glenda now, before the wedding, or hit her between the eyes with it after, when it might be too late for either of them. The world is a strange place to live in. All those cars, all going someplace, all carrying humans, which are carrying out their lives. The world is shocked by a person who changed his sex. Glenda is shocked also, but by another reason: Someone like her had the nerve to do something factual about their situation. There are so many problems for Glen and all the other Glens. Perhaps the fear of discovery of the underthings they wear beneath their regular outer clothing, or that which they wear during their nightly visit to Morpheus, God of Sleep.
The homosexual, it is true, does adopt the clothing or the makeup of a woman to lure the members of his own sex. But this is not so for the transvestite. The transvestite is not interested in those of their own sex. The clothing is not worn to attract the attention of their own sex, but to eliminate themselves from being a member of that sex.
The end is only the beginning. Time passes, soon, due to a happily married life, the remembrance of the psychiatric treatments, and Barbara's love and understanding, Glenda begins to disappear forever from Glen. Glen has found his mother, his little sister, his wife, and his Glenda all in one lovely package. Thus Glen's case has a happy conclusion.
Once, long ago, just after we started going steady together, we promised we'd never lie to each other. Are we gonna start now, just because we're engaged to be married?
Our whole existence is one big problem after another.
My mind's in a muddle, like in a think fog. I can't make sense to myself sometimes. I thought I could stop wearing these things. I tried, honestly I tried. I haven't had a stitch of them on for nearly two weeks until tonight. Then I couldn't stand it any more. I had to put them on or go out of my mind. I'm afraid I'll lose her. I don't want that to happen because I really love her.