A/N: I initially had these all in one enormous pic - however, I've since deleted that and made the decision to post them all individually, removing some altogether and redoing a few .

So, the first to be reposted is arguably my favourite.This is inspired by some videos by the intensely awesome (and entirely gorgeous) YouTuber Stef Sanjati - namely 'I'm Transgender', which was her coming out video, and 'Trans Sexuality 101', in which she spoke both about being unable to understand why she loved the bodies of other men, but hated her own, as well as something about making a habit of sleeping around pre-transition for some unknown reason, and being incredibly unfulfilled by it in spite of feeling as though she needed it; I took those concepts and ran with them. This was my first time writing about pre-transition Bernadette, as well as trans-ness in general, and particularly dysphoria - and sad as it is, I'm incredibly happy with it.

No two ways about it, Bernadette was an utter slut - with no qualms about admitting to it to boot. Bernadette was - this wasn't to say that Ralph was the same.

It was quite miraculous, really. Everyone noticed it; not just him. It was just a fact that a drag persona is a character and nothing more, and that you become an entirely different person one you've got a face plastered in makeup and a pair of fake tits on; and to live vicariously as the woman you become whilst decked out in such a way was a perfectly common practice. However, typically at least a touch of your character's personality clings to your own; the girls exaggerated certain traits in a person rather than fabricating them. Not Bernie. They were fundamentally entirely different.

Ralph was clearly not just your average poof, in spite of the fact that he certainly looked the part, in that he was subdued - almost quiet even; shy, spiny, and constantly on the defensive. He possessed a knife-edged wit, and a vocabulary of curse words and insults that could make a sailor blush; but these only came out occasionally. Different to your run-of-the-mill queen. More intellect; less fluff.

But as soon as Bernadette came out to play, all that was cast from the window and left in the rear-view mirror. She was a bizarre creature, really; far more overtly sexual than her creator, that was one thing. She had the confidence of a hundred; able to strut around onstage in barely-there costumes, cut down hecklers without batting a beaded lash, lip-synch as though her life depended upon it - and all with a smile on her face like she was having the absolute time of her life. Only to leave the stage at the end of the night, wipe away the glamour, and go back to being unextraordinary; back to never speaking unless to verbally slit somebody's throat in self-defence, and to hiding behind his scarves and overlong hair - and to being constantly, inexplicably unhappy.

Her promiscuity was something else entirely. Not only was she wont to spend her time jiggling her breasts, and sticking her arse in the faces of her audience without a qualm as the influence of burlesque began to seep its way into the shows; but if ever she decided to step out into the audience in costume...Every single member of the troupe had caught her sneaking kisses with randoms behind the bar - more than a few had been on the receiving end. There were rumours of blowjobs in bathrooms; occasionally...more. Those types of relations generally came home with her; she was...loud, and that wasn't the best thing when others were present to be able to hear her. The first time, she had never heard the end of it. But regardless of time and place, if on the nights that Bernadette decided to venture out and get pissed she had not had her way with some Tom, Dick, and Harry, questions were asked.

Of course, not a single one of them ever stayed. The difference was far too stark; they had gone home with the glorious lovechild of Aphrodite and Bettie Page, only to wake up next to a shy, moody, exceptionally average twenty-something with smudged makeup and a bad haircut who hadn't had a second date in his life. It was shitty, but it was a shitty truth that he couldn't do fuck-all about. They all said they'd call, but never did; occasionally he'd pass the time with the same man twice, but the meetings would be months apart - and they generally would have been unable to remember the morning's disappointment the previous time. Or they'd have been too drunk to care the night before. Both at once, sometimes. Once again, shit, but again - it wasn't as though he had much he could do about it.

The misery was chronic, and he had absolutely no idea why. It was inexplicable; so many things made him uncomfortable...made Bernadette uncomfortable - and each and every single one of his - her; it was always Bernadette that coaxed the men in and did the talking, and the...doing. Ralph was just the morning after disappointment - conquests felt unenjoyable. Dutiful, even. He found himself resenting his own body, or rather the use of it. He could give fellatio and be on the receiving end of a good fuck without a second thought, but turn the tables, and...Urgh. It disturbed him, but his rationale wasn't something he could place a finger on.

He could, however, pinpoint incidents; convulsing under the touch of a man who'd gotten too handsy between the sheets; slapping a fellow performer for placing a hand up his skirt - and he knew for a fact it wasn't him being prudish, because he had at that point been Bernadette, and Bernadette was anything but prudish. It just got under his skin for reasons that he couldn't quite articulate.

Ralph stood up from his position sat on the edge of the hotel suite bed. The man currently laying in it was spent entirely - Hugo-Barry-Guy-Stephen-Joseph-Tyler-John-Paul-George-Ringo-Whatsisfuck (he'd be lucky to ever remember the name of a conquest) was on his back, naked as the day he was born (though considerably hairier) and snoring gently. He hadn't been that good, and not very well-endowed either - Jesus, Bernie was really scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one, he though to himself as he paced to the bathroom. He wasn't entirely sure how much of Bernadette still lingered about him - he had a corset on, but he knew his hair was his (he'd felt the bear draped across the bed pulling it earlier.) Christ knows what kind of state his makeup was in. He regarded the heels and frock abandoned by the room's door - as they had stumbled in, they had been voracious as only the young and drunk can be, tearing each other's clothes off as he - well, she - led him into the room and onto the bed. They'd kissed, trailing impromptu affections across one another's faces, before they had given up denying what they had both come for, and getting on with it. What of his lipstick that hadn't been dragged across the stranger's face had come off on his dick; he guessed that, having spent its time there, it was now mostly in his own arse. It had been unspectacular, but at the time he had wanted it desperately - needed it, even.

He stood staring into the mirror, his hands braced against the marble countertop. It turned out that his corset - which finished just under where his bust was whilst he was Bernadette - was just about all he was wearing. He had suspenders on, but it seemed that one fishnet stocking had gone walkies; save for this, he was basically nude from below the waist. His chest looked bizarre; the contouring he'd applied to imitate cleavage had remained, but he still had the physique of a prepubescent girl - hairless, and entirely flat. Sighing heavily, he ran a hand through his hair - it was at that awkward stage of growth between long and short; sort-of framing his face with lacklustre blonde frizz that fell to his jawline. The makeup on the side of his face he guessed he had been leaning on had come away entirely, leaving him looking somewhat lopsided; bushy-eyebrowed and five o'clock-shadowed on one side, and meticulously, almost flawlessly feminine on the other, save for the half-missing false lash.

He remembered that Rod Stewart had once sung about 'What becomes of you when they've finally stripped you of the handbags and the glad rags'...He guessed this was it. An overly-skinny twenty-three year old with a boring face, and an inexplicable dislike - no, a hatred - for his own body. He didn't understand it; he adored facial hair on a man, but even the slightest hint of it on his own face disgusted him. He almost felt embarrassed by his own cock, but clearly felt no qualms about having other people's rammed inside of him.

He was at his happiest when he was Bernadette...but even she carried around a strange air of tragedy. He would sit in the dressing room filled with the adrenaline of the knowledge that he was soon to perform as his better half - but with a certain melancholy as he remembered that as soon as the song finished, and the lights went down, and the curtain closed, he was either to go straight back to being plain, awkward Ralph Waite, or to stumble around for a little longer as Bernadette, only to have moments like this in hotel lavatories or in bed with strangers. It was a lose-lose really. He was stuck; stuck between a rock and a hard place - no, a frock and a hard place. Ha-ha.

Bernadette was a slut - enormously so. But then again, Ralph was not. She did what she wanted, and left him to pick up the pieces a few hours later. The lines only ever overlapped when he was on his knees with his face in somebody's arse - or their erect member in his. As he stared at himself, he let out a weak gasp of a sob that had come from almost nowhere; almost as though he was mourning the loss of his darling Bernie. But also out of jealousy for her; men threw themselves at her feet, and never called him back after they'd done the deed - Bernadette could have her pick of any man in a crowd of hundreds, whereas Ralph could hardly get one to make eye contact with him.

He sunk to his knees on the tiles, now in tears as mascara ran down one side of his face. He could hear whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was in the other room stirring, before calling out his name and telling him to come back to bed - no, not him; he'd called on Bernadette. Fuck...It was so unfair. She had to fight the men off, and he could never manage to make them stay. It was in that moment he hated her with every fibre of his being; wished she had never come into fruition. No - wished she was fucking real. Wished she was him. Not part-time, as was their current arrangement. He hated her being fictional; he wished that she could replace him. To lead her life of absolute glamour and effortless sex appeal, and not just in the evenings, would be a dream. He wished that he could walk down the street with her confidence, and her makeup, and beautiful clothes; he wished that he could make love in the daytime, rather than at night behind the veil of a costume.

He wiped away his tears with a balled fist, sniffling. The feeling would pass eventually, as it always did to one extent or another; he could meet her again the next evening. For now, he'd oblige; spend the rest of the night in the crook of this man's arm, before waking up, grabbing Bernie's things, and getting the hell out of dodge. Just like he did every other day. He'd walk back through, quietly apologising in Bernadette's sultry tones before lying down beside him, rigid as a board. Why should today be any different? But he couldn't quite manage it now for some reason. It hurt too badly.

He turned his head so that only the side still made up could be seen, running a hand gingerly down it. Pursing his lips, he let more tears fall - doing nothing to get rid of them once they streamed down his face and into his naked lap. He didn't understand it; not one bit. Bernie was a complete and utter whore - but he envied her, so much so he felt it twisting his guts and turning his mind to jelly.

"Why can't you just stay?..."