Cover Girl!

Yes?  No? Maybe?

Yes? No? Maybe?

Many of my blog posts will soon be woven into a new book.  A memoir, you could say…. with yours truly playing the part of a post-modernist Moll Flanders.

Remember Moll?  The naughty but endearing 18th Century slut created by Daniel Defoe, who also authored Robinson Crusoe.  My adventures may seem tame by comparison — or maybe not!

Anyway, the publisher is pondering what kind of cover would be best. What do you think of the sample pictured here? It leaves a lot to the imagination…. which is the point, don’t you think?

Getting My Attention

I want you to want me.

I want you to want me.  Now what?

Now that I’ve got your attention (short shorts never fail!), the question becomes:

How do you get my attention?  That is, how do you get my Big Clitty hard and my would-be cunt wet and wanting to know more?

Catcalls — or the instant message equivalent (“Whassup, sexy!”) — may be flattering but don’t do much to distinguish you from the horny herd.

“Where you from, you sexy thang….”   That pickup line is as old as the rock lyrics.  Even less imaginative: “How R U?”

I’m not about to presume to tell you guys how to do your job, but here’re some gentle suggestions:

Engage my mind.  Tease me with your wit.  Make me curious to want to know you more.

Of course, you can always buy me a gift.  For good girls like me, guilt never fails as a motivator.  Maybe I won’t end up saying “yes,” but at least I’ll pay attention.

Like a Virgin: Part 2

I'm ready, please, and so is my ass....

I’m ready, so please do what must be done to my pussy ass….

I can remember the moment precisely, the exact words that came out of my mouth when my shrink began our regular weekly session by asking how I was feeling:

“I need to be filled.”

The words just spilled out of my mouth.   I hadn’t rehearsed, I hadn’t reflected.   Never had I acknowledged this feeling, much less articulated it:

Yes, I wanted — indeed, needed! — to be fucked in the ass.

Until that moment, this carnal desire was a well-maintained secret, especially to me.  My consciousness always felt a disdain, disgust even, toward anal sex.  It seemed to have about as much appeal as a prostate exam or colonoscopy.   Plus it was dirty.

But now, having lived full-time as a woman and ingested girlie hormones for nearly a year, I suddenly felt empty, incomplete.  Not psychologically, but physically.   Deepthroating — which I loved! — would never satisfy my hunger.  I needed something more, much more.

The shrink always looked especially wise when he nodded, and he was now nodding vigorously.  “What do you mean exactly?” he didn’t have to ask.  Not only did he understand, but also I was apparently validating all his long-held theories about male-to-female transsexuals.

So it was that, with the good doctor’s tacit encouragement, I began my anal experiments: tampons, butt plugs, beads, dildos, enemas, lubricants….

My boyfriend at the time, very patient and practiced, helped.   The fact that he had a so-enormous-it-was-scary cock helped, too, curiously enough.  Sure, it was plenty painful, particularly at first.

But I can’t begin to communicate how incredibly exciting it was to keep the visual image of his huge, thick, hard cock in my mind while he plowed me.

Like a Virgin: I Wish!

Girlfriends make the truest co-conspirators!

Girlfriends make the truest co-conspirators!

Who knows if I’ll ever actually get married? To be legit in a lot of places, I’d have to have a sex-change first. In the meantime, a girl who was born a boy can play make-believe bride all she likes, right? And without the heavy commitment of real wedding vows!

“Blushing bride” is the fantasy I play most and best. With a little bit of help from my giggling girlfriends — I mean, bride’s maids!  We get my hair done, try on gowns….  And all my intimate apparel must be in the purest white, of course.

For in this fantasy, this one-act play, I’m always a virgin!

It brings back the most delightful, almost childlike, memories: recalling the anticipation as much as the act!  To be fucked for the very first time in my Tgirl pussy (i.e., my ass!).  I knew it would be painful probably; how much, I had no idea.  Would the designated groom be gentle, a good teacher?

Anxiety mixed with excitement is an erotic elixir!   And what innocent sense of wonder: would I discover such pleasure as I never knew before, so that henceforth I could never be fucked enough?

The answer is obviously a resounding yes!  That’s why, even though proud slut that I am, I’ll still always be a make-believe virgin!

Is Sexting Sexy?

Do you like my hair color?

Do you like my hair color?

All bodies are, of course, flawed (especially mine!).  Is that why I never pose totally nude for the camera?  Maybe.  But more:

It’s easier to be sexier when partially — indeed, even fully — clothed.  I’m not saying anything new, of course.  So the question is: why do guys I hardly even know keep sending me digital close-up’s of their penises?

If they’re simply exhibitionists, I could understand.  But most of them apparently think it’s the equivalent of sending me a dozen red roses — a way to win me over, seduce me, make me want to suck and fuck them.

It’s become a pet peeve of mine — these penis pictures.  Oh, how I long for a suggestive photo of an ever hardening bulge in an attractive man’s well-tailored pants!  Now, that’s something I could happily imagine wrapping my mind — and my lips! — around.

“Imagine” is the operative word.  Leaving some things to the imagination is what the very best, most erotic, sex is all about.  Frisson, anticipation, creative tension, stories to be told, narratives to be developed, yearning/longing to be explored, bodies to be made beautiful.

So “upskirt” I’ll do — and I’ll have fun doing it, flashing a crotch shot while clad in a chic bodysuit.  But a clinical, pantyless, between-the-legs close-up — no thanks!  I’ll spare you.

Fantasy Girl!

Of course, girls like horseback riding!

Of course, girls like horseback riding, silly!

A fantasy girl, that’s me, according to a lot of guys.  I’m “that girl with something extra!”  — the description alone can make those same guys drool.

But what about me?  Can’t I have fantasies, too!  Sex objects are people, too, aren’t we?  So here goes:

I want to be fucked by a stallion.  That’s not to say that I haven’t already been fucked by lots of guys who consider themselves human stallions.  (Some were, some weren’t…but that’s a discussion for another time.)

I’m talking about a real stallion.  Yes, a horse!   A horse, of course!

Isn’t that what they say Catherine the Great did?  And some people would call me a queen (of the queer kind), right?

But to be honest and practical, I’m sure I’m simply not big enough to actually take the cock of a horse.  I would probably be split in half and painfully killed.

Still, it’s fun to imagine — to fantasize about….

And the fantasy wouldn’t be complete without a lot of horny guys standing around watching me and the horse go at it.  Their eyes popping out — marveling at the size of the horse and my ability to take it — as the ever hardening bulges in their pants pop out, too.

I’m resigned that my fantasy will never actually happen.  So I must content myself with traditional horseback riding.  That feels good, too (any girl must admit!), so good, with my legs tightly wrapped around the leather saddle.  And, in case you didn’t know, the pommel of the saddle works just like a high-powered vibrator!

Horny guys can still watch (and drool) as I post and canter, with my crotch sliding hard against the pommel and my hips going up and down, up and down, up and down, clad in the skin-tightest of jodhpurs cum scrumptious boots.  Up and down….

Look at Me

Someone needs a new smartphone!

Someone needs a new smartphone!

To see yourself as others see you?  Or to create the self you want others to see?  Either way, you’re an object — most likely, a sex object!  So how to explain the proliferation of so-called “self-shots” on the Internet?

Two methods are most common: (1) photographing a reflection in the mirror; (2) photographing one’s self with the camera in an outstretched hand.  A third (pre-smartphone) method involves using a traditional camera’s timer or remote-controlled shutter release.

Before photographs there were paintings, of course.  That’s when mirrors — or reflections in things like silver teapots, in 15th Century Europe — to capture one’s own image were first employed.  Interestingly, almost all significant women painters, much more often than their male counterparts, have left examples of self-portraiture.

These self-portraits of artists open a fascinating window, critics have found, into the self-perception of people with psychological issues typically associated with artistic temperaments.

But what of today’s nude or provocatively clad self-portraitists?  What are our psychological issues?

These advertisements for one’s self often convey a strong sense of narrative — as mundane as the style and color of the undies we choose to wear on a particular day to vignettes of fantasy, role-playing, and fiction.

The fact that I am brazenly offering myself up — rather than being secretly seen by a third-party observer/photographer — might make me an even more desirable sex object?

For I’m asking for it, right?

Reflections: What the Mirror Sees

Don't you just love the Wet Look Legging Look!

Don’t you just love the Wet Look Legging Look!

When I look in the mirror, whom/what do I see?

More interesting question: who is the “I” behind the eyes?

Do the eyes belong to the horny teenage boy I once was?   Wow, what a hottie!

Or has my vision now been altered along with the rest of my body?  I like it when you think I’m hot!

You Sexy THING You

Leder Leggings!  How cool (how hot!) are they!!  From a fashionably chic shop in Switzerland.

Leder Leggings! How cool (how hot!) are they!! From a fashionably chic shop in Switzerland.

Am I a person or a fetish?  A human or a thing?

Without leather leggings (as pictured) — not to mention the matching thong and demi-bra — do I even exist?  Snug leather (once animal first-, now human second-skin) is not the only clothing fetish, of course.

Your basic bra-and-pantie set are enough to ignite intensely yearning desire in some men; real, alive women are not even needed to fill the undergarments; just to finger them and touch them is apparently sufficient.  (The cum stains found on these garments afterwards attest to the validity of this not unscientific observation.)

So when I don a male admirer’s requested (and requisite) black mesh hose and garter belt and stiletto heels, I realize that what I have between my legs, so out of place on a real woman, is like a fetishized garment too.  As much as the hose and the heels and garter, he wants my male genitals to be there — even if I do not.

If only I could unscrew them and take them off and place them gingerly in my lingerie chest when, satiated, he leaves….

Proposed Sex-Change: What Do YOU Think?

Would a bottom with different genitals smell as sweet?

Like Shakespeare’s legendary rose, would a bottom with different petals smell as sweet?

All my life — or at least since my earliest memories as a little boy who wanted to be a little girl — I’ve just assumed that, when the appropriate time came, I would have sex reassignment surgery (SRS).

But who is smart enough to say what the “appropriate time” is exactly?

1.  Is it now, just because I have a “sugar daddy” who will pay for the operation?

2.  Or is it never?  Because, quite simply, I’m having too much fun as a so-called shemale!

3.  Or (final choice): Like the American Congress, I can just “kick the can down the road” and leave the hard decisions for some other time?

What do you think?  Since I seem incapable of deciding myself, I might as well just throw my fate into the hands of my friends and fans.  Kind of like a gangbang….

So please take your pleasure with me and cast a vote….

I will be forever grateful… as well as, I sincerely hope, forever fuckable!