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.

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….

Tucked or Untucked?

Where's Waldo?

Where’s Waldo?

Bathing suit season — “Oh, no, I can’t be seen in THAT!” — is just cause for anxiety among even the sexiest, in-shape girls.  For Tgirls, it is especially fraught!

Unless you’re a porn star whose billing as a sexually insatiable shemale requires your male clitty and pre-orchiectomy balls to be omnipresent, hiding/concealing is Job One.  So it is that elaborate techniques of “tucking” — almost like an art form — are themselves closely guarded secrets.

But, really, it’s not all that hard.  It’s hard only when you get hard! — then the cock’s out of the bag, as it were.

So, for me at least, a snug hipster bikini bottom works like magic for sunbathing or wading in the water.

But serious swimming — which I also like to do — is another matter!  Vigorous flutter, scissors or frog kicks can spell real pain and worse — your becoming untucked, for all the world to see.  How mortifying!

Much better to look so, oh so, out of place in an old-fashioned, matronly swimdress!  Or is that just as mortifying?!?

e[lust] #44 sexblog

Mar162013

 pea

Photo courtesy of Plumptious Pea

Welcome to e[lust] – The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust].  Want to be included in e[lust] #45? Start with the newly updated rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Everyday D/s

Honesty sometimes feels like manipulation

Blood, life, sex

~ Featured Posts (Molly’s Picks) ~

Grief and Sex

Bringing Others into a Dom/Sub Relationship

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Adventures In… Lube-land
ORAL SEX, AS STANDARD AS THE WHEELS ON A CAR 
PolyAnna’s Musings: Radar Love
A productive morning
Livia Has a Crush
Terms of Fatness

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Thoughts: Feminism, Sexism and Submission

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Deep subspace – sexy or scary?
Django Unchained: the suffering black female 
What the hell is ‘NORMAL’ sex anyway?
Before
All About the Collar
Dirty Little Secret
Honesty

Erotic Fiction

Master’s Valentine’s ToDo List
The Passion of First Encounters.
Ma’am’s Turn (First Meeting Part 3)
Nipple torture and girl love
The Boundary
I’m in the Mood
Skin
Memories
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Two
Want
A Quick Preview

Erotic Non Fiction

Lindsey’s Orgasm
Blog Jammin’
Postponing the Inevitable
Watching Has its Own Rewards
A Farewell Torment
Writhe
I want to lick your pussy
Cap D’Agde 2012 Foam Party
Dirty Hot
Eighty-Five Minutes
Saying Goodnight
Hundreds of orgasms
our open marriage- mina’s date
1+1+1= My first threesome
Writing Sex Scenes
Beginnings and Endings
Glass Bottle
One Cole the Dane + One WeVibe Salsa = Orgasm

Blogging

Epiphora’s beginner’s guide to sex toy review
Very Inspiring Blogger Award

Eroticon

Erotic Eroticon
Finessing Sex- A Snippet Of Fiction
Eroticon Highlights
Bite Me

Poetry

In the Back Seat of the Bus
Transmogrification
Gelüste
Oiled Seduction

Mermaid, Me!

Mermaid Style Wedding Dresses

Mermaid Style Wedding Dresses

Every girl fantasizes about her wedding. Especially her wedding dress.  The groom — no matter whom she is actually marrying — is immaterial, at best a handsome prop.  So no wonder that one of the most popular style of wedding dress evokes the fantasy creature of the Mermaid!

And so no wonder, too, that every little boy who would rather be a girl always fantasizes about being a mermaid….

Most certainly, I did.  While dreaming of wedding dresses would have been discouraged, to make-believe I was a mermaid simply showed an active and admirable imagination.

I even made several mermaid costumes.  Long before I ever became fluent in the word “sexy,” that’s the way I felt with the tight fabric wrapped snug around my legs and butt.  That I was so constricted I couldn’t move except to wiggle made the sensations even…yes…sexier!

No longer earthbound, my mind was propelled by my newly created, undulating tail through an endless, sensuous sea.

Psychologists would opine, of course, that transsexuals naturally identify with mermaids because the absence of legs means there can be no genitals between them.

But the poetic interpretation I find preferable and more powerful: Like mermaids, we “shemales” are amazingly fantastic mythological creatures.

Dirty Little Secret

tampon trainer Serendipity! Think of how many splendid things happen in life because of serendipity! Sort of like Kismet…. So much better and more romantic than mere biological necessity….

I remember it as if yesterday, every detail, told and retold in my mind so often that it’s become myth-like in my creation: the first time, the very first time, I bought tampons!

Why, oh why, would a “special girl” like I ever need to buy tampons?  Wrong question.  As with any unnatural act or unspeakable practice, it has very little to do with “need.”  Rather, the correct frame is this: Why would I WANT to buy tampons? And the answer to that is really quite easy:

It happened in my early days of transitioning, always watchful that I wouldn’t “pass,” when one afternoon I was pushing a shopping cart full of necessities at the local grocery store and caught out of the corner of my eye an older woman staring at me. I didn’t acknowledge her gaze, but, instead, pretended to read the various yogurt labels in the refrigerated display case.  She continued to stare as I pushed the cart toward the check-out.  The quickness of my gait no doubt betrayed my nervousness…and confirmed her doubts.

And then…and then…I happened to spot the display for Tampax   Without really thinking, I found my hand casually reaching for a super-sized box and dropping it in my cart.  A few more steps brought me to the check-out lane, and the stalker had vanished.

Of course, once I got home in the privacy of my bedroom, since I had paid for them, I had to try them out — using the only hole I had. I’ll mercifully spare you the details of my initial experimentation, but….

I became addicted.  I bought boxes and boxes of tampons, testing all makes and sizes.  I would go through five or six tampons a day. To feed my addiction, I bought tampons at any store that sold them, so that the clerks at my neighborhood grocery wouldn’t think I had some kind of serious gynecological problem.

For an anal sex virgin, as I was then, the Playtex “Gentle Glide” — yes, most especially the aptly named Gentle Glide! — provided perhaps the friendliest rectal dilator possible for bottom training.  It opened the way or primed the pump (which is the better metaphor?) for butt plugs and ever bigger dildos and, yes, of course, eventually, the real thing.

And more, so much more: I found that having a tampon inside of me, underneath my panties and hose, when I went out on a date made me feel so much more naturally, womanly receptive — for the real thing later that evening.  And just like a real woman getting ready for the real thing — before I would let his hard cock enter me — I would excuse myself to go quickly to the bathroom, to make myself ready.  After discreetly disposing of the tampon, I never felt so clean — my butt-pussy, that is.  But the moisture-absorbing tampon also made it feel unusually dry, of course, so I would always be prepared by bringing ample supplies of lubricant in my purse.

There!  Now you know just about all my dirty little secrets.

But not quite all….

Becoming a Shemale Hooker, Chapter 6

profileWhat’s the hardest thing you have ever had to do?  Learn Latin?  Run to win a 5-K race?  Play hostess at a Black Tie dinner party?  Perform the starring role in your school’s “The Nutcracker?”  Execute a French manicure on your very own nails?

For me, the very, very, very hardest thing is putting a rubber on a limp penis.  I’ve only had to do it once (thank God!), and that occurred during my very first date as a shemale escort.  It was a truly unique skill I developed on the spot.

I could see him go limp as I fumbled in my purse for the condom.  (Have you ever been able easily or quickly to find something in your purse when you need it most, when time is of the absolute essence?)

At first I didn’t think it would be a problem.  All I had to do was lightly brush his sensitive skin with my finely manicured, sexy fingernails, right?   After all, just moments earlier, his cock , though tiny, had been explosively erect.  But that was then; this was now.

Then he had been fondling my own cock, which I preferred to think of as just an oversized clitty.  To be frank, my clitty didn’t like the too rapt attentions of his monotonous, and rather rough, hand motions.  The very tip of my big clitty was actually getting sore; my pantyhose felt like sandpaper.

If I could just make him cum, I would have earned my money, and I could leave.

I pressed the rubber against the head of his penis and clamped the rolled-up sides with my fingers.  Then I took my tongue so that it tasted the rubber tip.  Flicking my tongue, as I so desperately had hoped, gradually stiffened what I held between my fingers — sufficient to gain purchase to unroll the condom.  As it unrolled, my lips parted and slid over the tip and down the ever lengthening, but still short, shaft.

Now my lips and throat and bobbing head could work their gliding magic, and they did.  But, from Mr. Jackson, there were no quickening thrusts and volcanic eruptions, as with a younger man.  Instead, when he came, I heard a barely perceptible grunt and felt the condom inflate like a tiny balloon.  The texture and consistency felt like an over-ripe melon about to melt and get messy in my mouth.

When I left his office, he said a very formal thank-you, and I noticed that all around the walls were hanging pictures of his wife and children and grandchildren (I could only presume, I didn’t dare ask): mute witnesses to the display of his extramarital activities with a shemale.  He must not have cared.

I only cared what he would tell Marvin, my pimp.  Mr. Jackson – I mean Jack (I wasn’t supposed to know his last name) – was one of Marvin’s regulars. What kind of report card would I be given?  I knew it would not be an “A,” because I had dissuaded him from doing what he really wanted – to play with my big clitty.   So was I failure?  Would Jack ever want to pay for me again?  A satisfied, repeat customer?

Or would my very first trick also be my last?

Passing 101: The Strut

catwalkJust forming the word, saying the syllable, sounds sexy, doesn’t it?  Strut!

Back in the days before ubiquitous computer screens, when people used to go outside occasionally, you could always tell a man from a woman just by the way they walked.

Walk is the wrong word.   To be a desirable woman means to strut.  A man who wants to “pass” as a woman must therefore know the strut; not to know means he will be “read.”  Being naturally tall and slender helps.

To see it: a confident and elegant woman’s tantalizing strut — the actual word in alluring action — can make the most ancient and decrepit of men cry.  The tears are tragic; for the lustfully alive legs and hips creating the strut may be seen but never again, as in their virile youth, possessed.

So it is that to feel it — to actually do the strut yourself – is indescribable.  Maybe that’s what makes it so impossibly hard to master.  If no words exist, how can an ignorant would-be woman ever be taught?

That was the primary reason I enrolled in modeling school – to learn to strut.  Once upon a time “educational” places like this used to be called a “charm school,” and I wanted to learn all the other secret feminine charms, of course.  But how to walk – to strut – was my main motivation.

Everyone was surprisingly welcoming.  No one said I didn’t belong.  Maybe they were afraid some macho boyfriend of mine would sue on my behalf for sex discrimination?  Whatever…. The tuition for the six-week course was the best investment I ever made.  Cosmetic surgery is costly, but learning to strut is priceless.

Even now, after so many years living “full-time,” I don’t always have the steps down.  The strut may be a learned movement, but once learned, it must be as natural as breathing.  If I become too self-conscious, I can look like I’m on a fashion catwalk: my arched back becomes exaggerated, my gait too slow and long, my wiggle just a bit too wiggly.

But when your hips are undulating just right, your stride feeling like a glide, and the very clicks of your heels making heads on the street swivel, you know you’re in the groove…you’ve got the strut down pat.  With eyes fixed straight ahead, mobile device hand-held to your ear (especially if you’re not really talking with anyone!), the experiences you absorb as practitioner of the strut are like no other.  Truly, you see the world differently.

But mostly the world sees you…envies you…desires you.  You’ve got the strut.