New Year Resolutions

sexy_happy_new_year_2008_shirtToo bad it’s not Leap Year. Then the number would be 366 — not 365. The number of sex partners I resolve to have in the upcuming year!

Or should my resolution be simply to return triumphantly to the annual Oral Sex World Championship? And this time bring back a Gold! Not a mere “second runner-up” title.

Only teasing….

For, alas, we’ve all seen the spectacle of too many Olympic-level athletes compete well past their prime. As for the number of my fuck partners, I’ve reached the age when quality is definitely more important than sheer quantity. I wouldn’t mind having sex at least once a day for the next 365 days, of course; but I’d like to be able to remember the name (the real name, too!) of the individual person behind each unique cock I suck.

So maybe my New Year’s Resolution should be to go ahead and commit to one special cock — that is, get married! Me as the blushing bride!

How sexy! Even sexier, maybe, would be for me to write the Greatest Memoir of all time. And each one of these blog entries is like one (sometimes tiny) suckable cock on the way to my ultimate goal….

My New Best Friend

scorpiontattooToday, boys and girls, the subject is sextoys.

My newest best friend is a Scorpion! That’s the name for the most incredibly pleasureable sextoy I’ve ever enjoyed, and only now  just discovered. It straps between my legs at the furtherest reaches of my upper thighs. Its curved tail reaches around to tickle my bottom. Its head and pinchers clasp my clit (an extra big “clit,” as you well know, given my pre-opt condition).

Then — and here’s the very best part — from the scorpion itself runs a long wire, perhaps a meter or a yard in total length. At the other end of the wire is the master control switch, which with the mere flick of a finger or thumb commands the scropion tail and pinchers to vibrate madly. Depending upon the mood of whoever’s fingers control the master switch, the vibration is set at a high, medium, or low speed.

“Designed by a woman for women!” The advertisement must be true.

My fantasy — and one that I seriously intend to act out very shortly — is to have strapped the scorpion on underneath my panties and skinny jeans when I next board an airplane. Once seated and airborne, Ill hand my traveling companion the scorpion control knob.

This will arguably give him almost as much pleasure as I — to be in control and to experience vicariously at least the kind of sextoy-induced pleasure that girls only are privilege to know. (Doing it in a public place helps, too!)

For my newest profound thought, or philosophical thesis, is that men are limited in their self-gratification to visual images, evidenced especially in porn. This makes sense, since the objects (yes, accept the fact, we girls are objects!) of men’s desire are physically separate — and thus must be seen in order to be then taken, possessed, devoured…or whatever.

For girls, on the other hand….

The precise moment when I knew what womanhood probably meant was when I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the need to be touched — and, most especially, filled!  That’s what happiness is!

I didn’t need to see any pictures, pornographic or otherwise, visualizing myself as a sex object. A sextoy, instead, awakened the woman within.

To be sexually excited…oh-so excited…I just needed a vibrating dildo…blessing me so: Just to close my eyes and feel the feeling…feel the filling!

And so it is now: Oh, how I love you, my scorpion!


Eternal Feminine, Forever Fuckable

cezanne1877oiloncanvasThe so-named “The Eternal Feminine” oil on canvas, painted by Paul Cezanne in 1877, haunts me.

At first blush, it could be me at the center of the painting: unformed, gawked at by various men. Their fantasies will mold me. I’m as blank and passive as a porn actress.

But then I realize that I myself could be said to be one of the gawkers. In my quest for the Eternal Feminine, I will fill in the blanks of what Cezanne left unpainted.

Actualizing the woman within, I fashion myself inevitably into the object of the male gaze…reflecting lecherous curiosity and lustful desire. So it is that it is their faces that become blank, anonymous, forgettable, a blur, animated and defined only by how their imaginations — and thrusts! — fill me. Yes, it’s the the cock (but not the faces) that I remember.

And yes, I want to be, and remain, forever fuckable. Isn’t that what “the Eternal Feminine” is ultimately all about?

Jeans Skintight, Boots Tres Sexy

imagesCASZOXKDConsider, for a moment, skinny jeans and boots. They’re the fashion fad du jour. So ubiquitous, almost like a uniform.

Now consider moi. It’s important for girls like me to blend in. But like any natural girl, I want (need?) to stand out, too. We all might be wearing the same outfit, but it’s the nuance that’s most important: how the jeans are filled!

Waiting for a cab, rushing around the airport, all of us jean-and-booted mademoiselles are checking out each other’s derrieres.

To make other girls envious – is that our raison e’tre?

Merry Christmas!

happy holidays!Waiting for Santa to cum down my chimney….

Don’t you just adore candy cane!

But people say too much sugar is bad for you.

Snow Bunny, c’est moi

ski-bunny-pg-2If some charming, rich guy invites you to Gstaad or St. Moritz (all expenses paid), it’s hard to say no.  That he readily admits he’s happily married, complete with two kids, ironically makes it even easier for a girl like me to say yes. Oui!  Jawohl! Yesyesyes!

Did you know that there’s a fancy Latin term for the straight guys who lust after snow bunnies like me?

Gynandromorphophiliacs.  Yes, gynandromorphophiliacs!

For my part, I certainly prefer straight guys — no matter what they’re called — the straighter the better. They make me feel the most like the woman I was meant to be.

But I’ve never been known to turn down a gay guy. After all, in the final analysis (Freudian or otherwise), a cock is just a cock.

Being Pampered


When guys ask me (and they always at some point inevitably seem to) “what color are your panties,” I’ve decided I’ll just reply, “They’re color-coordinated with my nails, sweetie.”

What is it about panties? A lot of guys, in my experience, seem way more interested in the panties than in what the panties cover. I guess that’s what a fetish is, right?

Of course, girls like me could be said to be nothing but a fetish! Not a real woman, but simply the idea of a woman. And the clothes that enclose us are what signifies desire…and its sister on steriods, lust.

My lust, I must sheeplessly confess, is fed by the clothes (including panties) that I put on, the sexier the better. So, too, do the acts of putting on make-up or nail polish. For I am consciously making myself into an object of others’ lust.

But more: Doing your nails or doing your lashes requires total concentration (if you’re doing it right, that is). If you’re distracted or rushing, what you’re trying to perfect will ienvitably be flawed. The concentration is such — so complete, single-minded and intense — that it feels like meditation or yoga.

It’s the same feeling I get, come to think about it, when I’m focusing on giving a really good blow job. The same goes even for a truly memorable hand job. I don’t know whether the guys ever really notice, but if I’m not totally focused on what I’m doing with my mouth, lips, tongue, or fingers and hands, I’m just not that into it and get very little pleasure myself.

The one time I’ve tried doing four guys at once — using both hands and both holes — I’ll share this little secret: It’s just one guy too many! The hard cock nudging my bottom is just way too distracting. Simultaneously giving proper head and hand jobs becomes impossible!

You never see a nail technician doing two hands (or feet) at once, do you!?! I rest my case. My case for complete concentration.

Here’s an unrelated, random thought (showing I’m not concentrating on my writing right now!): In an ideal world, my ugly feet would be my only flaw.

The Things That Made Me a Woman: 1

secrets5If only…. If only the words flowed, glided as easily as fingers on satin — feeling, ferreting, exploring the contents of the slightly ajar drawer of the lingerie chest. But to talk about a “mere” piece of furniture is to describe it, primarily in visual terms or its functionality. What does it look like? What’s its purpose? Those are masculine questions. They only hint at the raison d’etre of a lingerie chest…and the intimate secrets within.

I had to own one! Not just any new, mass-produced reproduction, but the genuine article. Real wood with beveled edges and tongue-and-groove joints. Not fiberboard affixed with machine-driven staples. Real craftsmanship, wherein the individual artisan envisioned (perhaps lustfully) the most intimate, feminine finery his work would soon contain. Not assembly-line, industrial-grade substitutes whose money-motivated manufacturers reduce all women to consumers, no matter how frilly their lingerie.

“I’ve always wanted my very own lingerie chest,” I felt compelled to give some explanation to Jennifer, my new roommate, as she watched me circle the tall, thin piece of furniture at the antique shop as if it were the Holy Grail.

“Well, you can get something in much better shape, much cheaper, at Target or Wal-Mart, I’m sure.” She shook her head. Yes, some of the intricate, rosewood inlays were chipped, and one of the cabriole legs looked wobbly.

“But this is the real deal,” I exclaimed. “Marie Antoinette could well have kept her undies in this very chest.”

“So you can make-believe you’re the real deal.” Jennifer laughed and squeezed my hand. She was what would-be women like me call a GG (genetic girl), and she would sometimes like to tease me about the “replica cunt” I wanted a surgeon one day soon to carve. I liked it, too – the teasing. It felt like hugging.

“Don’t you just love the lock on each drawer,” I said and touched what looked like a miniature padlock key. “The fact that you have to use this tiny bronze thingie to open them….”

“All you need is a dainty, pink silk ribbon to tie around the key.” Jennifer laughed again. As a GG, she had the natural-born, enviable self-confidence to scoff at feminine stereotypes and to needle me accordingly. I never knew her to wear matching bra and panties. She kept them all in a heap in the top drawer of an oversized, walnut dresser.

I picked up the brass key, studied its intricate teeth, then fondled it between my fingers. It was so tiny it could have fit the door lock of a Jane Austen dollhouse. It was so tiny it was a miracle it hadn’t been misplaced over the years, to be lost forever. What women’s hands, how many, had held it so, as I was now doing? What secrets would it unlock?

The First Time

Most men are so clueless....thinking I'm really a GG (genetic girl)!

Men are so clueless….they think I’m really a GG (genetic girl)!

This post isn’t about giving head for the first time, or otherwise losing my virginity. It’s about my very first time in an all-girl aerobics class, making me feel as if I were being asked to pledge in the hottest, coolest sorority on campus. This most memorable event occurred relatively early in my m-t-f transition, so a lot of would-be Tgirls wonder (quite rightly): “How in the world did you pull that off?”

Please pardon the unfortunate metaphor, but it took balls. Yes, it takes balls to become a woman!

It helped that the local health club was actively and aggressively recruiting new members and that the salesman who eagerly greeted me at the door was a horny, greedy, and clueless guy in his early twenties. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the seat of my skin-tight Guess jeans accentuated with a thick leather belt cinched so tight I could hardly breathe. (If I remember right, I was encased in a foam-rubber hip and bottom padded girdle from Frederick’s of Hollywood!)

Anyway, my wiggling butt kept his eyes off my too broad shoulders and still masculine (though expertly made up) face. Like lust, greed surely played a part as well — he no doubt would get a commision on every trial membership he could sell.

It happened that an aerobics class was getting underway just as he was finishing up the tour and his sales pitch, so he said: “Why don’t you join the other girls, and I’ll have your membership application ready for your signature after the class.”

Ushering me to the door of the women’s locker room, he could hardly keep his hand off my butt. When the door closed behind me and I was thus admitted into the inner sanctum, I almost fainted. I didn’t dare look at the “other” girls in various stages of undress, but headed for the nearest unoccupied locker. Luckily, I didn’t really have to change, but just shed my jeans and sweater. Underneath were at least two layers of tights (to conceal the lines of my girdle) and a long-sleeve, black leotard.

secretsAnd the rest, as they say, is history!

Sharing Secrets

Even better than sex, I sometimes think, is simply being accepted as one of the girls. I’ll never forget my very first aerobics class! Wherever I am, I try to recreate that experience. I’m a member of the club…been admitted into the secret sorority. What more could any would-be girl want or ever need! (Besides an occasional, wonderfully reaffirming hard cock, mais oui.)