Davinas night out in Cardiff - A dream

This was an actual dream, OK I’ve embellished it a bit but honestly, planning a night out in Cardiff with my wife Esme, I did wake up from a dream, and you don’t always remember your dreams but this one stuck with me even down to the detail of what I was wearing.

So the following unfolds in vivid stages.

Again it’s funny how some dreams vanish instantly while others cling to you so tightly you have to write them down or ask AI to make images for you.

This one sparked a story for my blog, so let me reiterate: This was a dream, pieced together.

We didn’t actually go out in Cardiff as women.

I doubt we ever will go out as girl “friends” in Cardiff — As Esme would say, it’s too close to home, and my confidence as Davina would need to be at its absolute peak. But my fingers can flow freely here, letting the idea and fantasy appear in print. So here goes.

Morning Calm

I wake most mornings before 06:00 and head out for a 3–4 mile walk before work. It gives me time to clear my head, get home, shower, and be ready for the day before the rest of the house stirs.

But this was a Saturday, a bank holiday weekend.

The streets were silent, dawn glowing orange ahead of me as I walked east. A light drizzle misted the air, puddles reflecting the silver cloud cover.

My trainers looked expensive, they weren’t, of course, just a bargain from an online site, but they feel incredible. Black exercise leggings (men’s, I love how tight they feel), a warm hoodie, waterproof jacket, cap, and my ear pods.

Beneath the leggings, a secret: Black nylon and lace knickers.

A tiny private thrill. Only I knew… and now you do too so comfy I can hardly feel them when I walk.

Each step pressed into the damp pavement, the soft squeak of air-filled soles flexing.

A podcast murmured in my ears, the latest Weekly Hot-Spot, Olivia and Erika chatting about feminisation and crossdressing.

Their voices made the miles fly by. At one point I laughed out loud remembering Erika’s Nutella safari.

Still amused minutes later.

Home again. No one up. Breath heavy, body hot and sweaty.

When I walk, I walk hard, it keeps my figure in check.

I’d love to run again, but years of sport have battered my knees.

These faux trainers help, but I need to lose more weight before running is realistic.

Maybe by summer.

Inside, I stripped, folded my knickers into a sock, balled them up, and tossed my exercise clothes into the washing machine, planning to rescue the hidden knickers later. A secret ritual.

A hot shower. Hair washed. L’Oréal Men Expert shower gel over freshly shaved skin, smooth from Thursday’s full-body shave, intimate areas included.

That cold-sweat moment with the razor after the electric shaver… worth it for the softness.

Oh, how I wish my upper body were naturally hairless. As a man and especially as Davina. I hate body hair.

Towelled dry, into boxers, joggers, and a T-shirt. Electrolytes, breakfast, news on TV. Worries of the world, and worries about my football team’s injury list ahead of the FA Cup semi-final at 12:45.

The FA Cup Quarter Final

Housework. Clock-watching. Waiting for the match before a date in Cardiff with Esme.

Kick-off. My team started well, chances, no goals.. then 1–0 down at half-time.

I hoped for a quick equaliser. Instead: 2–0, 3–0, 4–0. They’d given up. So had I.

Manager out. Players out. Rebuild needed.

Esme was in the bath during the match, then doing her hair, she’d had fresh highlights, a shorter cut, curling and styling it before makeup.

As the match dragged on, she walked through the living room, asking if I was getting ready. Then: “What should I wear? Jeans and blouse? Trousers and blouse? Or tights, dress, and heeled boots?” Her teasing tone made me smile. She knew exactly what I’d say.

“Obviously the dress,” I replied. “Black tights… mmmm.”

“And you?” she asked, admiring her hair and makeup in the mirror.

“Jeans and a shirt… or jeans and a shirt… or maybe jeans and a shirt,” I joked. “Or maybe a dress, black tights, and my heeled boots.”

She smirked. “If you like…” As she headed upstairs to pick a dress. As she climbed, she added, “Come out as Davina if you like. You’ll pass, I’m sure… I’ve been looking at your Flickr pics.”

My pulse spiked. The football — still 4–0 — faded into irrelevance.

I messaged her: Are you serious about us going out as women? Seconds later: Yes.

Excitement replaced frustration. I needed to get ready for the 16:04 train. Sod the football. Sack the manager.

Shower. Close shave. Feminine shower gel. Moisturiser. Pick a dress. Was this really happening? Surely she’d say she was joking… but still.

This was my ritual — The transition from male me to Davina, usually reserved for stolen hours at home, but this time was different. We were going out out. Esme and her “friend” Davina.

I had to look perfect.

I could do this. I would do this.

Transformation Ritual

Upstairs in a towel, makeup cases out. “You sure?” I asked again. “Yes,” she said.

Gulp.

I chose matching black lingerie, retrieved my Davina bag from atop the wardrobe containing; silicone C-cup breasts, heels, hosiery, wig and took everything to the bathroom.

Moisturiser. Colour corrector to mask any shadow. Foundation shade checked. Cheap but creamy foundation applied, then contour, highlighter, blush. Blend, blend, blend, the MUA secrets now common knowledge thanks to YouTube and TikTok.

Eye makeup, mascara, lippy, gloss. Setting spray. Face done.

Black lace knickers slid up my legs. Bra and Cold silicone breasts pressed against my skin, soon warming and becoming part of me.

New black 60-denier tights sliding up freshly shaved legs, this has always felt divine for me.

Pink dress, one Esme had discarded, but perfect for Davina.

3.5-inch heeled black ankle boots. Blonde wig styled. Almost done.

A generous spritz of DKNY perfume.. neck, wrists, cleavage, all over.

Smelling feminine is part of the illusion.

I checked myself in the mirror. Pleased. Heels clicking on tiles, tights snug and smooth.

One more glance, a vain little blown kiss from glossy dark-pink lips.

Time to show Esme. Twenty minutes until the train.

Deep breath. I am Davina.

Esme sat waiting on the setee, black tights, heels, black-and-red dress, hair down, deep red lips.

Stunning.

“Wow… you look incredible. Your makeup is perfect,” she said, then softer: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I am,” I said. Then again, in Davina’s voice: “I am.” My pulse thundered.

We stood before the hallway mirror, two classy women with a hint of sexy.

She handed me a handbag for my phone, mini perfume diffuser, lipstick, and gloss.

The First Test — Leaving the House

At the front door, Esme asked, “Ready?”

I nodded. She opened it. Cool air brushed my legs. She stepped into the spring sunshine; I followed, locking the door and slipping the key into my handbag.

Outside. Heart racing harder than after my morning walk. Please no neighbours. Please no familiar faces.

We walked toward the train station, five minutes that felt like fifty. But we made it out of the street unseen.

Up the steps, calves burning in heels. Keep calm. Act normal.

In reality, this walk would feel endless. In the dream, it compressed into seconds.

Esme brushed my arm lightly, whispering: “Please let no one see… please let her pass… we’ll be okay.”

This was the hardest part, our local community. We didn’t want to be read or outed.

Step by step.

On the platform, a few people — mostly young women dressed for Cardiff, a few couples.

No one we knew.

Relief.

The train approached. Another test.

Train Confidence

Two carriages, already busy. We found seats together — a blessing.

The hum of the train vibrated beneath us.

Drinks clinked from our handbags. “Cheers,” we whispered, laughing at the absurdity and thrill of it all.

Cold rum and coke. Pink lipstick on the rim.

Selfies — Our usual ritual as husband and wife, now as two female friends.

These wouldn’t go on Facebook.

We whispered critiques of commuters: “Her eyebrows, OMG.” “Her foundation is too orange.” “He’s wearing odd shoes.” “That guy sounds so camp.” People watching had started, maybe the same being said by someone about us.

Esme nudged me toward a loud group of women across the aisle. “You look better than them… you’ll be fine.”

Validation. Relief.

Arrival in Cardiff — Blending In

Off the train, through the crowd, down the subway, ticket machine working first time (miracle), and out onto the concourse.

First pub. Ground floor packed with men. A few looked us up and down.

Up the stairs — Our usual window seat free. Perfect.

Drinks ordered via app.

We people-watched — Women chatting, couples, groups of men drinking cheap pints before moving on.

Then they walked in — A person we debated: guy or girl? Physique and walk said guy.

Tattoos everywhere. Somewhere between goth and drag queen. Boots, fishnet tights, metallic pink tutu skirt, pink top. The woman with them was full goth.

Esme whispered, “If you’re coming out, at least look the part,” nodding at Davina — The contrast stark.

I wondered aloud what would happen when they needed the loo. Seconds later, bold as brass, they strode into the ladies’. No fuss. No complaints. In, out.

I knew I’d need to go soon.

Me: pink dress, black tights, heels, flawless makeup, blonde hair — trying to blend in.

Them: punk-goth-drag chaos. The only other trans person we saw that night.

After two beers, confidence grew. No stares. No comments.

Then the moment came — I needed the loo.

Esme offered to come, but we’d lose our seat. “If she can do it, so can I.”

I watched the door like a gambler counting cards, picked my moment, and went. Empty. Relief.

Washed hands just as four women walked in. No reaction. Just another woman at the sink.

I reapplied lipstick and returned.

“You re-did your lipstick — that was brave,” Esme said.

It wouldn’t be the last time I used the ladies’ that night, even in busier toilets and not once was I read or questioned.

Social Test — Free Drinks

A waitress arrived with cocktails. “We didn’t order those,” Esme said.

“They’re for your table,” the waitress replied. “Maybe someone bought them for you?”

Two men approached. “Hope you like Sex on the Beach,” one said. “Enjoy,” said the other. “I’m Tony, this is Josh—”

I cut him off, flashing my faux engagement and wedding rings. “Thanks for the drinks, but we’re married.”

I intertwined my fingers with Esme’s, showing her rings too. “To each other.”

They stared, awkward, then retreated.

“Thanks for the Sex on the Beach!” Esme called after them.

We burst out laughing.

“I wonder how many more free drinks we can get tonight,” I joked.

But the men kept glancing over — Attracted, confused, curious. Esme suggested we move on.

Lively Pub — Music and Dancing

Next venue. A couple left just as we arrived, perfect seats overlooking the dancefloor and stage.

Music thumped, bass vibrating through my chest — my false chest, now warm and part of me.

I crossed my legs carefully — One wrong angle and the people below would have a view up my dress.

Ladies’ toilet upstairs, busier this time. Heart pounding. Waited my turn.

Reapplied lipstick like the women around me. Pulse steadying.

At the bar, I ordered drinks in my best Davina voice. No reaction. Another small victory.

Returning to our table drinks in hand.. “Dance with me?” Esme asked.

“I don’t dance… wait — maybe Davina does.”

We left our jackets with the couple beside us and headed down. Dancing, laughing, swaying, I rarely dance as a man, but this felt natural. Two songs, then the band switched to a sit-down song (why do they do that?).

My calves screamed. My bra dug in. “I hate these heels!” I laughed, joking, something Esme would usually tell me by this time of night. “But necessary,” I added. “Part of the woman Davina is.”

Late Night — Spirits and Reflection

One more pub, an Irish one. Music, relaxed atmosphere, rum and coke.

Esme leaned in. “I’ve enjoyed this. You look happy. You’re better company than my husband… and much nicer than him.”

We laughed.

The night was winding down. Time to check train times.

Train Home

Short walk to the station.

Five-minute wait. “Please don’t change platforms — my calves are done and my feet are killing me.”

Train on time. No platform change. Seats together.

Thirty minutes of quiet reflection. Her whispered: “It’s nice having you as a friend, Davina. Let’s do this again sometime.”

Normally I’d kiss her. But a blonde and brunette kissing on a train might attract attention. Instead, I squeezed her hand. “It’s been so nice. Such an escape. And yes — if you’re okay with it, let’s do it again.”

Our stop. Off the train. Down the slope. Up the steps. Through our street — Still light, no one outside, though we passed windows.

Home. Key from my handbag. Door locked behind us.

We’d done it.

Something neither of us thought possible. And it was a blast. Davina passed the test — In a pink dress, black tights, and lacy lingerie.

Home

Wine for her. Rum and coke for me.

TV on — Fifty Shades of Grey.

“What a fantastic time out,” she murmured, head on my shoulder.

“Best day ever,” I whispered — still Davina.

Her hand on my leg. A kiss. The night ahead full of possibilities.

But the dream ended there — Waking in bed the night before the FA Cup quarter final.

One thing might come true though: a 4–0 loss was entirely possible.

Davina