It’s a most appropriate adjective for girls like me, whose whole life could be described as a fantasy. And once embarked upon that fantasy – the boy who actually lives the impossible dream of becoming a girl! — I find it hard to reject any fantasy, no matter how flighty, that ever darts into my silly, unpredictable brain.
Take prostitution, for instance. Just about every real woman I know readily acknowledges that she sometimes fantasizes about getting paid for sex. But she never actually acts out the fantasy. “Of course, not!” she exclaims. “I’m not crazy.” Or: “I’m not that sinful.”
But for me, it’s no big deal after the crazy — arguably sinful — journey I’ve already embarked on. That train has already left the station. Or, for a more appropriate metaphor – given everyone’s recurring fantasy of joining the “mile-high club” – the plane has already taken off.
“Selling my body,” as people put it, I’ve never found degrading. To the contrary, it’s validating. Maybe that’s because I’m never really selling my body. I’m just cashing in on a fantasy, not mine but theirs. To the men who pay me, I’m their ultimate fantasy chick.
Not unlike being a Playboy centerfold whose image sparks countless masturbatory fantasies – and fulfillments! The only difference is that the cum splashes and smears glossy magazine paper, while the cum aimed at me is captured in a condom.