Throwing myself into living as female, I anticipated the difficulties of 'passing' in public. I was less prepared, however, for the barrage of questions in more private spaces. I soon realised that being expected to field invasive questions, often from strangers, is as much a part of the 'real life experience' as handling abuse in the street, and one reason why so many transsexual people aspire to live in 'stealth'.

I was reluctant to cover this, primarily as I thought I couldn't address it better than Calpernia Addams (and partly because readers might think I'd stolen her idea). But the reason why her video resonates with so many transsexual people is because of the frequently encountered assumption that by externalising our gender dissonance, we somehow invite any question on any aspect of our lives.

I wasn't sure why such people thought it my duty to answer intimate questions – particularly about my genitalia or my sexuality – that they'd never dream of asking anyone else. Seeing my irritation at being asked something inappropriate, their justification was often that they were "curious". The idea that their curiosity might affect someone other than themselves often came as a revelation.

Aware that not everyone understands transsexuality, I tried to be accommodating. (I'd brought it on myself, right?) The circumstances were vital: questions from friends as we discussed how I'd handle myself in an often transphobic society were very welcome. As for people I'd just met, I soon decided that I'd rather they asked me about anything on which they weren't sure (in particular which pronouns to use) rather than make assumptions about, or impose preconceptions on to, my identity.

Having done my homework, few of the questions were unanticipated: I quickly developed stock answers for the most common ones, which usually worked. (Many of them resembled those I was asked at 'Charing Cross', incidentally.) Occasionally, though, I was surprised – often more by the context than the content. At a party where everyone seemed happy to take me as I came, one man cornered me and said:

"Juliet, you're not like the other Juliets I've met." (Mills? Stevenson? Bravo?) My heart sank well before the inevitable: "Can I ask you a question?"

"Ask whatever you like," I replied, "and I'll reserve the right not to answer."

"Fair enough," he said, and momentarily there was a pleasant consensus. "Do you not think you're mad?"

The idea that I might undertake the gender reassignment process without myself or others questioning my mental health left me speechless (something which people who know me say doesn't happen often). There's no way to answer this, I thought, realising that the question – and its specific phrasing – was at best highly insensitive or, at worst, an attempt to put me in what he felt to be my place. Throughout my slow, simplified explanation of the numerous psychiatric assessments that had so far punctuated my journey I suspected that he wasn't really listening, and I wordlessly resolved not to field any more of his enquiries.

To be honest, such questions became the exception rather than the rule. Perhaps I adopted a more defensive body language and conversational tone after my early experiences: the previously mentioned "Are you a bird or a bloke?" question, which taught me the need to close down leading questions to thwart an unwelcome (and often planned) follow-up; and particularly a night out with old friends, when one person's first words to me were: "Are you a man or a woman?"

"I'm a transsexual woman", I told him, hoping that he'd accept my self-definition. "What does transsexual mean?" he asked. Trying to be understanding of the fact that English wasn't his first language, I attempted to explain but, at 1am, didn't feel I was making much headway. Frustrated at his refusal to cease interrogating me, I decided to leave. In the future, I would make it clear when I didn't want to continue such a dialogue.

Intrusions did not always stop at the verbal, however. I discussed with expectant friends how being pregnant or transitioning were similar in that in both cases, some people feel no inhibitions about trying to touch you. Leaving a Brighton bar at 2am on Pride night, a man stopped me: "Hey darling, you're gorgeous!" I thanked him and tried to walk on. "Are you a man? Can I touch your tits?" My friend shoved him away and apologised – although it wasn't my friend who needed to.

Most questions came down to the single word (which drives parents of small children mad): "Why?" I could tell people that I had never felt comfortable in a male body, nor with the expectations that came with it, but I couldn't satisfactorily put into words the roots of my gender dysphoria to someone who'd never experienced it. As it always seems implicit that I should only be on the receiving end of gender-related questions, perhaps the best thing to do is to turn these questions around where possible. So, for those who are curious as to why, consider this: what makes you not want to transition, and how can you be sure you've made the right decision?

• Juliet Jacques's column appears fortnightly. You are invited to post comments and questions for Juliet below, and are very welcome to share your own experiences.