Just a Cunt, Yes, I Am

Like a horse, I apparently needed to "be broken in."

Like a horse, I apparently needed to “be broken in.”

“Watch where you’re going, you silly cunt!” The man spit the words at me. While texting, I had accidentally bumped into him coming out of a Fifth Avenue Starbucks and apparently almost spilled his latte grande. On the one hand, I found his angry words both deeply offensive and downright scary. But on the other hand, of course, for a want-to-be cunt like me, to actually be called a cunt is always reassuring, even life-affirming.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I batted my eyes. “I truly am.” Those are the words that a true cunt is schooled to submissively say, right? But the teenaged boy still lurking inside me was urging my arms to violently swing my Gucci handbag into his crotch.

Indeed, the lingering hint of male aggression is apparently part of the attraction for so-called shemales — creating a taut, sexualized tension with our feminized features. It took me a while to understand this and learn how to use it.

I had a great teacher. His name was Jay. I met him very early in my transition; I wasn’t even entirely sure then I was a transsexual; I just felt a need to crossdress. His was the very first cock I ever sucked, and it was then that I knew exactly who and what I was.

I remember it was our second or third date and we were doing some serious kissing standing next to his car outside the restaurant. Against my skirt I could feel his hardness growing and bulging against his trousers. My hand, as if it were separate from the rest of my body, slowly slid from around his back and waist down to reach, touch, caress the hardness that my deep kisses had themselves created.

Then, as if I knew exactly what I was doing, surprising myself as much as Jay, I unzipped him and dropped to my knees.

Afterwards,he gave me a critique. But it wasn’t about my oral sex technique; that was just fine, thank you — I had “a natural gift,” he allowed. Rather, I didn’t need to be so blatantly obvious in my oral cravings. “Let the guy be the aggressor,” he counseled. Learning to feint resistance would make any man just want me more.

“I’ll have to break you in,” he announced. That sounded deliciously erotic and exciting, as visions of butt plugs, ball gags, and waist-training corsets danced in my head. And, yes, there was some of that over the weeks and months we dated — not to mention his sometimes loaning me to his friends to fuck.

But mostly what he taught me was simply this: patience and passivity. Those ladylike virtues would reward me with all the cock I ever craved. To be a cunt, desireable and fuckable, I first had to learn to be a lady.

About Joy Saint James

Day job in Big Banking. Elsewhere I'm @ScholarlySlut, whose essays and erotica have appeared in various print anthologies and websites. Email: joy.st.james@hotmail.com.

One response to “Just a Cunt, Yes, I Am

  1. I loved that detail of the Gucci handbag!
    I write some of my stories saying you don’t have to be passive, sometimes guys like a bit of ballsiness in a woman. (Wink.) Sometimes the shy ones need you to come on a bit strong or they would never come … and give you a kiss, at all. I practically had to hit my fella over the head with a handbag to get him to realise he had a chance with me! Although to be fair to him I was doing research with Muslim lgb people and he thought I was a lesbian so tried to treat me with maximum respect. ROFLOL!

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