June 13, 2022



No, not the TV show. Or the Eurovision song.

The continuing non-binary adventures! A story that involves Mario Lopez, broken zippers, and the kindness of strangers. Or, how a vulnerable moment led to something beautiful. And slinky. And SWISHY. SO FLIPPIN SWISHY!

I've just realised there's not even any sex in this one. Oh well.


Stories of queer life and even queer-er sex. 

The repeatedly award-winning, slightly filthy storytelling project tackling LGBTQ issues in a fun and engaging way. Created to remind all of our queer siblings that we are none of us alone.

Much like its creator, it’s a smutty-but-charming collection of personal misadventures working to make the world a better place, one silly, sexy story at a time.  

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The continuing adventures of non-binary-ness, with your favourite non-binary mess! 

(I should come up with a theme tune, but it would probably just be me going “waaaa… Have you got any biscuits?”)

Anyway. Recently I had my first experience of euphoria. Not the TV show, that’s just teenagers running around doing drugs and having feelings. It’s just Saved By The Bell with extra dicks. And, honmestly, if it’s not AC Slater in a lycra wrestling singlet, I’m not that bothered. Anyway. Not that kind of euphoria. This would be gender euphoria, I think. At the time I was too busy enjoying myself to be thinking too much about it. Like when you almost get arrested for a pasionate moment in a public place because all the blood was moving away from the parts of your brain that know to look for security cameras. 


As part of my exploring my non-binary existence, I decided that, when I attended a friend’s wedding earlier this month, I would go in a dress. Well, no. I didn’t just DECIDE to go in a dress. I tried on a lot of suits, first, and just found them super uncomfortable. I think it must be a class thing. Where I grew up, if you saw someone wearing a suit it was because they were on their way to a parole hearing. 

So, anyway, I ordered a few suits and tried them on, and none of them fit quite right, and I just felt uncomfortable. I generally wear a lot of black, because it’s supposed to be slimming and at heart, I’m still the podgy kid who used to get body-shamed by the skinny twinky gays. And a black suit says ‘funeral’ rather than wedding. Well, on the kind of person it looks good on it says ‘funeral’ in a sort of dignified mourning sort of way. On me, it says “bouncer who’s a bit overdressed for standing outside a Wetherspoons all night”. Anyway. Suits make me uncomfortable. I bought one anyway, it would have been rude not to, really. It’s fine. A generally nice suit. But I still wasn’t feeling it. 

I left the shop, and as I wandered into the street, with the back of my hand pressed to my forehead as I lamented my lack of style or grace, my eyes clouded with tears at my lumpen grotesquery and unable to hear the sounds of the street over my own wails and moans, I staggered, awkwardly, into traffic and was nearly hit by an oncoming car. The two lovely queers driving it picked me up off of their bonnet and took me for a coffee to calm me down.

As we sat and chatted they reminded me that, as a non-binary queer person, I didn’t need to wear a suit if it made me uncomfortable or didn’t fit right. I could, in fact, consider wearing a dress. Because the only rules that matter are the ones we choose for ourselves. 

I ummed and ahh’d, as I wasn’t keen on going into a dress shop by myself to try on dresses. I had no idea of my size, or if I’d get kicked out or called a pervert or something like that, and besides, my body may be a slab of hunky muscle for a man, but all of the girl’s clothes that might fit this body shape would be in the “fat lass tried her best” section. Luckily, these two lovely queers were having none of it, and they dragged me, bodily, into a dress shop. Not just any dress shop. This couldn’t be a quiet moment with no-one around so we can do this awkward thing in silence and without being disturbed. That would be far too easy. This little shop, was stuffed with eleventy million bitchy white teenage girls getting dresses for prom. There must have been at least twenty of them. Or three. Might have been three. I don’t know. I was already panicking and I’m not great at maths at the best of times. 

Anyway. In we pop, and start looking at dresses. I found a pair of sunglasses I like, which is not the same thing, and I realise I’m avoiding the thing I’m here to do. So, I go and find the nice lady running the shop, and awkwardly, shyly, quietly ask her if she has anything that will be in my size. Whatever size that is, because I have no idea. And, like I say, I’m not even sure what sort of dresses would fit my frame, as I am not in any way what you might call ‘feminine’. Fememenine? And this woman, bless her. I saw the look in her eyes as I asked the question. I think she was expecting me to ask for directions or something, but no. There was a moment of sheer confusion as she awkwardly changed mental gears, but then she was kind of pointed me to the right sort of sizes and I wandered around awkwardly, not really knowing what I was looking for. I found a couple with nice patterns on, thought to myself “if mI were a girl, I’d probably like this” and I kinda slunk over to the fitting rooms. 

This in itself is something I’ve not needed to do in a while. I tend to buy my clothes online, and buy the same thing in several different sizes so I can try things on in the comfort of my own house. If I don’t like it, or the fit makes me look like a zeppelin in a condom, I can send it straight back and no-one need know of my terrible shame. Here. Here, I had to go into a little room, and fight with a dress, which in itself is a new thing. I only found out they have zips after I nearly rippled one, Incredible Hulk style, trying to get all of my bulging muscles and chest-hair into it. But eventually I manage, and step out into the little area where the mirrors are.

And also where all of the bitchy teenage girls are. They were also trying on their dresses at the same time. Because of course they were. It was a super vulnerable moment for me, because it wasn’t like drag, or anything, it was just me, trying on a dress. And it wasn’t helped by the girls suddenly falling silent. The whole street fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. I didn’t notice, but one of them slyly lifted her phone up to try and take a picture or film me looking in the mirror. Luckily, one of my queers clocked her and immediately stood in the way, looked directly down the lens and said “Gurl.” and gave her a disdainful shake of his head.

They left quite soon after that. Almost as if three queers taking over the space made them feel uncomfortable or something. Can’t think why. So they fucked off to go have pillow fights or get pregnant, or whatever it is teen girls do. Never cared enough to find out.


Then the shop lady came over, looked at me, standing there in this dress and said “Well?” and I was sure she was going to kick us out for scaring away her legit customers and breaking the zip on one of the dresses ALMOST breaking the zip. It was fine. It was like that when I picked it up. Anyway.

“Well?” she says. I umm and ahh, and awkwardly explain that I’m not really feeling it. She nods, and I expected her to say “Well, yes, you’re a great lump of man, trying to pretend that fitting into a dress is ever going to look good on you. Of course you look stupid. Now take that off before you ruin it any further, and get the fuck out of my shop before I call the police, or some kind of helpline for the terminally ridiculous.” but what she actually said was “I think it might be that the waist is too high for your body shape. Let’s go and look…” And she took me off to find more dresses. No judging, no snarky comments, just genuinely trying to help me find something that I liked. I tried a few more on, and I realised I was relaxing and getting quite into it. I wasn’t some random weirdo (well I am, but you know what I mean.) she wasn’t TREATING me like a random weirdo, just another customer, same as all the others. And that was really nice. It meant a lot. I still wasn’t having much luck with the dresses, though. And eventually I said to her “Y’know, I just don’t feel comfortable in any of these. They just don’t feel right.” And my queer friend, who was helping undo my zip looked at me and said “That’s because you’re trying to think like a girl. Instead of thinking “If I were a girl, what would I wear?” try framing it differently. Stop thinking in terms of boys and girls and all that stuff, and just think “What would I like to wear? What do I think would look good on me?”

And that really kinda helped. I stopped trying to find something that would make me feel fememenine or girly or anything like that, and instead thought about what would just look good on me. It felt kinda weird, to start with, but I had a couple of supportive friends and the lovely lady who was being a proper ally, because she was helping, finding sizes, generally being helpful discussing different cuts and things like that. Women’s clothes are so complicated there’s not just dresses, there’s tea dresses and maxi dresses and all sorts of techn ical wank. As a boy it’s simple: if it covers your top half, it’s a t shirt, unless it has buttons then it’s a shirt. If it covers your legs it’s trousers, unless it only covers half your legs, then it’s shorts unless it doesn’t cover your legs at all, in which case it’s hot pants and you should get changed immediately you’re putting people off their dinner.

That’s proper allyship, by the way. The nice lady in the shop, not the hot pants. A lot of people think of being an ally as just being ok with things, like if she’d let us dress shop, but she’s just stayed over by the till and kept an eye on us from afar. But that’s not being an ally, that’s just being a base-level decent human being. Actual allyship is where you get involved, and actively help. For this nice lady it was helping me find the right size, and giving me non-judgemental advice.

And just with all of this happening, it was really quite exhilarating and fun and exciting to be trying on new clothes and seeing myself in them, not trying to be a boy or a girl, but just as me, doing my thing, wearing whatever I want. It was freeing, and joyous, and lovely, and honestly, I’d like more feelings like that in my life.

Eventually I decided on a slinky red dress, that made me feel very sexy, and it had lil tiny straps so I could show off my big muscly arms and my hairy clevage. And I accessorised it with a pearl necklace (a real one, fuckyouverymuch), and black leather boots. It felt like a good balance. It was more of a gown than a dress, which seems appropriate, as I might not identify as male or female, but I do identify as a Classy Bitch. A vibe that was only slightly undercut by me going IT’S SO SWISHY! Every time I moved

I didn’t even consider heels because I have no interest in making myself uncomfortable for other people’s benefit. And also I’d probably fall over a lot. Besides, as a Classy Bitch, I know that if I did get any unwelcome attention in the street while wearing my non-binary finery, there’s nothing like a Doc Marten for kicking someone’s balls into their throat.


A heartfelt thankyou to all of my Patreon subscribers. If you follow me on the socials or the Discord chat group thing, you’ll know that recently my laptop completely died. And it’s not an exaggeration to say that if I didn’t have you lovely people supporting me on Patreon, I wouldn’t have been able to afford to replace it and continue doing these fun little stories. So, thankyou again to everyone who supports this lovely show. If you’d like to be one of the cool kids, you can donate at patreon.com/probablytrue! Just like Francois Tremblay, who is not only cool, but also the kind of handsome that distracts you midway through talking to him; and Geoffrey Bridges, who is so cool he doesn’t mind the fact that a movie star nicked his name. 

Thankyou again to them and all my other Patreoners. I literally couldn’t do this without you. OKLOVEYOUBYE!