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?

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 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.)

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.

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.)