Shemale Sampler: What Men Like

No wonder men desire me! I desire myself!

No wonder men desire me! I desire myself!

“A woman’s vagina is a scary place for a guy to understand,” a Trannychaser named Chris tells me. “But because he has a penis, a guy knows what makes it feel nice. A girl like you has both a penis and breasts, so I’d feel less pressured because I would know what I’m doing.”

Even more experienced guys express this same sentiment — a mixture of fear and loving of the opposite sex — to justify their attraction to shemales, foreign but familiar. “Men fear the inability to bring a woman to orgasm. We can never be sure,” says Mike. “But when a t-girl comes, it’s obvious, even if she’s embarrassed, as some are, of that male part of her body.”

Plus, according to a correspondent named Victor, “T-girls don’t come with all that perplexing emotional baggage of genetic girls that men can never explain. I don’t find beauty in the male form. But, unfortunately, I relate better with males. With a t-girl, subconsciously I’m probably thinking here is a guy who looks like a girl.”

So it’s a guy thing, so much so that so-called tranny-chasers are sometimes defined as latent homosexuals. That’s the conventional wisdom. But it’s not so simple. In my experience, these men are definitely women-lovers, attracted to the feminine, at least a man’s idea of the feminine, while sexually repulsed by masculinity. If latent anything, they’re wannabee t-girls themselves, although I’ve only had a couple of guys actually admit to this uncomfortable self-knowledge.

“Being with a transsexual is not gay, because the transsexual’s femininity provokes the initial attraction. It is not a man’s cock; it is a woman’s cock,” proclaims a self-described “43-year-old married man with two great kids.” Certainly, from my own transsexual point of view, he is the kind of man I find most attractive — legitimizing me as a woman, since he prefers to fuck me rather than the real cunt back home. Indeed, most of the men I “date” — a large enough sample, I’m sure, to be statistically valid — have been married straight guys.

“All men at some point want to suck their own dick, but we can’t, most of us,” laments another married man named John. “As men we have been raised to think sucking dick is gross, and gay. However, when we see a beautiful t-girl in a heavenly woman’s body, it just might be all right to suck that dick. And to fuck that booty or even submit to anal penetration.” Asking his wife to fulfill his fantasy with a strap-on dildo, John says, “would freak her out.”

Fantasy: that’s the recurring key word in the male vocabulary defining their attraction to girls like me. First, we ourselves are phantasmal — deceptive, or illusory, women. As such, we can make any forbidden male fantasy come true. “It’s a fantasy of mine to have done to me what I have done to woman my entire life, consume them sexually,” says Ralph. “Oh, to have a beautiful, full-lipped woman throw me down on the bed and just start ravaging my body, all the while growing inch by inch until it’s proudly sticking out of her panties. It’s a complete surrender, I guess. I never have given a second look to any man, but I would take her dick in my mouth and just go to town. That image I have of being fucked by a woman is enough to get me rock hard.”

Integral to the fantasy is the assumption that shemales must be purely sexual creatures, combining the come-hither desirability of the most brazenly alluring woman with the unquenchable lust of the horniest man. So says Lawrence: “From a very early age, I think it’s fair to say that most men are taught that things like high heels, long painted nails, and porn-star-looking makeup are sexy. I can’t remember the last time I saw a t-girl who was not sporting all three of these little ideals. Why stick with boring everyday women when you can have super-glamorous, fantasy women who actually make a point of putting as much thought into what shoes to wear as the girl next door does into her pension plan?”

Indeed, why else would a transsexual go through such a painful, time-consuming, and expensive transformation, except to attract and please men? After all, we know what men want, because we were once men ourselves! We know that the mere glimpse of a woman putting on lipstick is incredibly sexy. She is advertising herself, making herself ready and receptive. Being a shemale is so self-absorbed and time-consuming, there is time for nothing else except making yourself ready.

That’s the male assumption, and yes, to the extent that male desire validates us as the females we long to be, an assumption grounded in truth. And so we do indeed craft and creatively package ourselves into the supreme sex object, the embodiment of sinful lust, insatiable in our desire to be desired by men. I am desired, therefore I am. With exaggerated femininity and all its fetishistic accruements — big boobs and a finely sculpted ass, not to mention painstakingly applied makeup and suggestive clothes — we advertise that we’re ready and willing and “want it.” Indeed, want it as much as any man.

“That willingness to make an effort, the attention to detail, the openly sexual nature of their look and their attitude,” drools an admirer named Jim. “They embody the ultimate fantasy woman.” Another long-time admirer, Allen, gushes: “Transsexuals attract me because they have declared their femininity and in taking on the ‘weaker sex,’ by implication, their submissiveness. Not that I’m a dom, but I love the fact that they have chosen to be vulnerable, making themselves available to being used by men.”

“Then you have the thrill of everyone thinking you are going out with a really gorgeous girl, but they don’t know she has a penis just like you!” says a long-time shemale fan who identifies himself as Smidsy. Of course, sinful secrets and edgy risk-taking provide a spark to any sexual relationship.

Sometimes I think I’m like one of those life-like, blow-up women dolls that lonely men make love to. As a fantasy, I’m not real. I’m a simulacrum, a virtual woman. (Virtual: one of my transsexual sisters once said, “I wouldn’t have ever existed without the Internet!”) Since I can never be an authentic woman (even with SRS), I become an exaggerated artifice, more feminine and seductively alluring than any real woman can ever be. Shemales are to women as Las Vegas is to Paris or Venice.

But this much is real: I want what every woman wants — not just to be desired, but to be loved. I want romance and flowers. And so my favorite tranny-chaser fan mail comes from Gilbert, who says: “It doesn’t matter what’s between your legs. It’s all about whether you really fall for someone. True love.”

True love for an untrue woman? Maybe, just maybe, Gilbert is on to something. Any student of romantic love knows that the most enduringly passionate love requires obstacles. Think Romeo and Juliet. Think the adulterous affairs on daytime soap opera. And think of that medieval romance of Tristram and Isolde. Since she was already married to King Mark, Tristram laid his sword between their two bodies, his and Isolde’s, as they prepared to sleep together. I am Isolde, and what’s between my legs is Tristram’s sword.

Do Shemales Have More Fun?

I am desired, therefore I am.

I am desired, therefore I am.

You catch your boyfriend doing Internet porn. You feel betrayed. But, worse, totally inadequate. The girls he’s been lustfully watching have something you’ll never have. “Women 2.0…special girls with a little something extra,” the porn sites sometimes seductively spin it. Less euphemistically, they more often scream: “Incredibly slutty shemales chicks with dicks…boobs and balls…tantalizing t-girls.”

But no need to worry. Your guy’s not some closet weirdo. Most straight, normally faithful guys seem intrigued, if not sexually turned on by, so-called shemales. They represent the fastest growing segment of the porn business.

Still, you wonder. What’s going on, what’s the attraction, the turn-on? I wonder, too — and I’m a shemale myself!

Back in the day, I would have been just a regular male-to-female pre-operative transsexual — ingesting estrogen and living fulltime as a woman while awaiting the knife, sex reassignment surgery (SRS). That was the traditional narrative of “a woman born into the wrong (male) body” — the feminizing, often arduous journey to become finally “the woman I was meant to be.”

That was then. Now, more and more special girls like me keep postponing the final surgery and opt, instead, to stay suspended in a transitional stage of half-man and half-woman, like some kind of freakish mythological creature. There are always convenient excuses: SRS is so expensive, you know…anyway, I still haven’t finished electrolysis…I want to get adjusted to my newest regimen of estrogen therapy…what money I’ve saved up seems better spent on what people actually notice when I walk down the street — breast implants and facial feminization surgery. When you really stop and think about it, a cunt is just an engineering redundancy anyway, for I have two holes to service cock already. So down deep I know I’ll probably never go all the way, for then I would no longer be special. I’d be just another unattached, on-the-market woman. Too many guys prefer me cuntless, just the way I am.

I am desired, therefore I already am. But what am I exactly, and why am I desired? In order to understand, I wrote a plaintive piece some time back, subsequently posted all over the Internet, and I received literally hundreds of thoughtful responses, love letters — lots and lots of lustful love letters.

I’ll tell you in my next post what I’ve learned.

Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Cum in My Tummy

Dr. Atkins should approve. But I wonder how many others would endorse it. Would you? Would you try it with me? I’m talking about the new all-protein, low-calorie, cum-only diet I’ve just discovered. Like many amazing discoveries, it happened purely by chance. At the time I was giving throatpussy. That’s what my boyfriend of the … Continue reading

Delicious Irony

The irony that silly me girlishly forgot to actually mention in the last post is this: My initial fear and trembling soon (inevitably?) turned into pleasure and purpose. Isn’t that always the way with the most exquisite of acquired tastes?

402301_290412211011516_1845299396_nEspecially a taste for cum.

You have to learn to like it, and I had so many great teachers. So many patient guys who took the time to teach me how to be their “pretty, little cumslut.”

But even more important were the real GG’s, like the nurses at the clinic testing me for HIV, who didn’t condemn me or make me feel kinky or embarrassed. Getting so-called “facials” was perfectly normal, they seemed to be saying in their nodding, knowing kind of way. Getting covered with a face-full of cum can cum with the territory of being a girl. (Were there too many cum’s, too much cum!, in that last sentence?)

GG’s, for those not in the know, are genetic girls, and they know everything that I want to know. More than mere mentors, they can do no wrong and are my ultimate role models, the goddesses whose secrets they alone can share.

And such forbidden knowledge is what my quest is all about.

Ah, yummy, to taste the knowledge, forbidden and oh so sweet. Please. Pretty please.

The Irony of It All

514_456678077706839_1520584169_nIf our eyes are windows into our soul, what do they say about us when they’re clouded in cum? Such was my freak-out when that first happened to me (cum-in-the-eyeball, see previous post) that I went to the nearby free clinic to be tested for HIV…again…and again. Each time I would have to tell the clinic workers, who were used to working with sex workers, why I wanted to be tested. Didn’t I insist that all my so-called boyfriends wear condoms? Of course, I replied, slightly insulted (I wasn’t stupid!).

So I would have to repeat my embarrassing tale of how I got a big wad of cum in my right eye, initially blurring my vision, stinging a bit, and making me worry like hell. Since the eyeball is covered in a moist membrane (right? I couldn’t remember my high school biology specifics), wouldn’t that transmit the deadly virus just like other delicate avenues into the body?

An anus of an eye? A vagina of the visual cortex? When worried sick, think up outrageous metaphors!

“You’re funny,” the nurse said. “I always like working with girls like you. You all have such a wonderful, outlandish sense of humor.”

“You’re not making me feel better,” I said.

“Well, sweetie, I really don’t think you have to worry. I’ve never heard of HIV being contracted this way. We’ll have the test results back in a week.”

She paused. I nodded.

“In the meantime, next time, why don’t you try just wearing glasses!”

Health Concerns

The first time I got cum in my eyes I freaked out. Actually, it was just one eye, but that was enough to get me to jump off my knees, run into the bathroom, and start madly splashing cold water on eye. Not exactly romantic, and of course my makeup was now a mess.

And poor Robert! (Was that his real name?) From his moment of triumphant climax, he now felt bad. But not as bad as I did!

Would the millions of tail-wiggling sperm start burying into my eyeball? Possibly worse, did he have some STD that would now be transmitted through the porous moisture of my eyeball? (He had pulled the condom off right before ejaculation, simultaneously extracting the wonderfully hard cock from my throat and lips.)

Just another day at the office….

stI am desired, therefore I am.

But is that (making men hard) all there is?

Those are the kind of thoughts I have when a one-night stand begins to seem like a long-term relationship!

Why, O Why???


You Say You Love Me: This Unhappy Hooker Wants to Know Why

This was not my intention: to become a freak. All I wanted was what any girl wants: to grow into as normal and natural (not to mention beautiful) woman as possible. But something happened — or didn’t happen — along the way, to make my coming of age story have anything but a fairy tale ending. Not that I don’t have plenty of adoring Prince Charmings (maybe too many, moralists might say). It’s just that the girl of their dreams is not exactly what I had in mind for my body.

Most girls, I know, would love to be loved for their imperfect selves. No need to worry about making yourself over according to some impossibly high, unachievable beauty ideals. Plump or skinny, naturally blonde or happily highlighted, short legs or tiny breasts, you are accepted (wouldn’t it be wonderful?), indeed even loved, warts and all.

But, you see, I’m not like most girls, for my wart is a penis. Once, like any normal male-to-female transsexual, all I wanted was wart-removal surgery. That’s why I took up escorting — simply to pay my bills for the never-ending electrolysis, collagen injections, and estrogen therapies, not to mention breast augmentation and browbone reduction and Adam’s apple shave, plus save enough for the cash-upfront sex-change operation itself. But now that I’ve got the money, I’m no longer sure I want a facsimile cunt. I’m afraid I would lose all my clients. They wouldn’t love me; they’ve told me as much. Right now, I’m special.

“A chick with a dick? an incredibly sexy babe with that something extra…38C-28-38, plus 6 inches, cut….” That’s the way my escort service Web page advertises, quantifies, and objectifies me. I have to turn away clients, I’m so overbooked. Most of my business is repeat. One even sends me flowers and pretends he’ll leave his wife for me if I’ll forsake escorting and promise to love only him.

Could any girl, even a genetic girl, ask for anything more?

I tell my psychiatrist this when I have to explain why I keep postponing my final surgery.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “you’ll make a very desirable woman.”

“Will you promise to fuck me, then, after I have the operation?”

He stammers. I make him blush.

“See, no one will want me! I’ll just be another aging cunt.”

His blush gets more crimson, and I can tell that psychology, in the final analysis, is no help. For my fundamental question is perhaps too grandly philosophical: what is the nature of desire, the pull of Beauty and Truth? When I’m layered in makeup and clad in fashionably sexy thigh-high boots, macro-minis, and cleavage-revealing, nipple-protruding camisoles, I seem to have the seductive Beauty part figured out. As for Truth, maybe being transmogrified into some kind of mythological creature — half-boy, half-girl were-woman — provides a sufficiently perverse angle of vision to understand finally and fully the meaning of life?

Angle. What angle? Atrophied to the point of permanent limpness after years of hormone therapy system shock, what remains of my penis is not worthy of the name. It’s good for nothing but peeing. When it stirs at all, it acts like a clit. That’s the idea, of course, and I practice with a vibrator. And when I finally do come, there is no come. My shrink applauds me: I am the best candidate for genital conversion surgery he’s ever had, since I’ve already figured out how to achieve a female orgasm. Even for many of the most expertly carved post-ops, it remains forever elusive.

My escort service owner tells me just the opposite. Like most pimps, he’s not into positive reinforcement. Instead, he gruffly tells me what I must do:

“Look, honey, you’ve gotta be fully functional. Even supposed straight clients demand it.”

“But I don’t want to be a genderfuck. I just want to be fucked like a girl.” I almost cry.

He ignores what I say and hands me a bottle of Viagra. He’s not kidding. “Take one pill fifteen minutes before each appointment. You’ll surprise yourself.”

So much for my dream of being a real woman. And so much for philosophical Truth. It all comes down to physiology in the end. In my case, physiopathology, which the dictionary defines as “the study of bodily dysfunction caused by disease.” If my addiction to castrating, penis-shriveling estrogen leads to dysfunction and my gender dysphoria is some kind of disease, or sickness surely, do men love me simply for being a medical marvel? What other conclusion can I draw?

By the same logic, you, too, must be sick — to be interested enough to be reading this essay. Oh, you’re just curious, you say? That’s what all my first-time customers say.

So you tell me: Why in the world are we she-males, or T-girls, such a turn on? Why? I want to know. Like you, I’m curious. Go ahead and use me. I just want to know. It’s research for my book deal. Once I’m a celebrity, “fully functional” will be needed no longer. People will love me for the real-life, anatomically correct doll I was meant to be.

At the movies….

Nobody knows. That’s the way I like it. Nobody knows that I’m not really a real girl. I like it like that. Passing as an incredibly sexy woman — i.e., making straight men’s cock grow hard — is my summum bonum. And so it is that I usually don’t like stories about special girls like … Continue reading

One girl’s floo…

One girl’s floor is another girl’s ceiling.