Saving the World, One Horny Man at a Time

Super Heroine...that's me!

Should I change my name to Emma Frost?

Super Heroine, that’s me!  Really, I’m going to save the world!  Well, not just me, but all us Tgirls!  Here’s how:

I’ll never – can’t ever! – get pregnant!!

Sex with me is consequence free.  Totally!

That means zero population growth!  Totally awesome!

Instead of the projected 10 billion people gobbling up Planet Earth’s finite natural resources…and fouling our own nest…we can happily fuck away forever.

Added bonus: As a simple sex-for-the-sake-of-sex machine, I’ll never get fat and have stretch marks.

Men I Have Known: Chapter 2

Shaping more than my brows....

Shaping more than my brows….

My very first lover, he was the most judgmental.

It started with my hair.  Too short, he said.

Then my brows.  Untamed, too bushy, he said.

My chest, too flat, of course – he didn’t have to tell me.

Finally…finally…I became what he desired.

And then I killed him.

Sometimes now, in my vanity mirror, I can see his stare still, for his eyes belong to me, you see.  The “he” was once me.  It was he who shaped me…and not just my brows!

Tribute to a Selfie

He must love me!

….more expressive than words?

Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but…

When a fan sent me a so-called Tribute Picture – my recent blog’s photographic image splattered with his cum – I found it a bit of a turn-on. No, not as much of a turn-on as he had no doubt felt (unlike my mystery man, I didn’t ejaculate!), but still…. Yes, I could sense my Big Clitty stiffening slightly against my fashionably tight-fitted leggings.

Why, I wonder?

I’m not being kissed, not being fondled, not even hearing sweet nothings whispered in my ear.  Moreover, except for his digital moniker and Facebook image, I don’t even know who he is.  Tall, dark and handsome?  I haven’t a clue.

And yet…and yet…we’re now lovers of a sort, aren’t we, my admirer and me?

I guess back in the day of girlie magazines, the models fully expected the printed pages of their photographic poses to be splattered with sperm — splashed and smudged by readers ranging from teenaged virgins to dirty old men.  But these girls never actually saw the physical result.  Today everything is different….

Maybe the Tribute Picture is the natural, inevitable companion of the Selfie.  Both shot alone, now together at last.  True love in this digital age!

Yes, he must love me!

Yes, he must truly love me!

Of Déshabillé and Desire: Holiday Reading

Love the Look, don't you?

Love the Look, don’t you?

Sometimes I think my driving passion hasn’t been simply to be a woman, loved, sexy and desirable.  Rather, glamour is what I want!  To be considered glamorous — who could ask for anything more!

That quest is what defines me!  The epiphany comes to me while reading Virginia Postrel’s new book, The Power of Glamour: Longing and the Art of Visual Persuasion.

An essential ingredient of glamour is apparent effortlessness or graceful nonchalance, called sprezzatura in Italian. (When Tgirls look like they try too hard, that’s precisely when we’re most often “read!”)

Paradoxically, however, sprezzatura requires great care and craft, attention to detail,  even premeditation, to pull off properly.  Another word for this is grace.

When you communicate grace, you’re not just fuckable, but so much more: An aura of confidence and competence envelopes you.  Others don’t just want to fuck you; they want to be you!

The French expression deshabille — what one literary scholar calls “careful carelessness, artful artlessness, delicately tousled perfection” — is all about eroticism, isn’t it?

While I’m not presumptuous enough to ever call myself glamorous, I can promise you this: I’ll always keep trying…keep working it.

You should, too!

Rite of Passage

Please don't squeeze too hard....

Please don’t squeeze too hard….

Like any rite of passage, the pleasure comes only after the pain.  The pain of dreading it, actually doing it, getting through it.  Then the pleasure of having done it — the most pleasing sense of accomplishment and acceptance that only this particular rite can bring.

I’m talking about my very first mammogram!  Here are some totally random thoughts I’ll now share:

The nurses, technician and radiologists weren’t sadists.  Instead, they were genuinely caring helpmates, as only other women can be.  (Sorry if I’m being sexist!)

I’m so, so happy that I didn’t get implants until after a couple of years of estrogen therapy.  If my implants were any bigger, I’m sure they would have burst during the procedure!

As my breasts were being flattened by the machine — first one and then the other — I encouraged my thoughts to wander — to distract me from the pain.  What better thoughts than erotic fantasies!

So I imagined now in the room with me a lover (or maybe several lovers!) who normally fondled and kissed and licked and suckled my titties. But now he was using a machine to vicariously (and forcefully!) “caress” my breasts. It gave him intense pleasure to see just how tight my breasts could be squeezed!

Thinking this thought — do I dare admit? — I felt something getting ever so slightly hard in my panties.  And I smiled.

“Tighter! Tighter!” he commanded.  And the harder and harder I got.

Yes, I smiled.  The medical personnel complimented me on how incredibly brave I was.

Bureaucratic Confusion!

Too glamorous for a Passport picture?

Too glamorous for a Passport picture?

We all remember that famous story about “The Man Without a Country.”

But what about a Sexual Being Without a Gender?

The Embassy and the local authorities are all atwitter about my Visa renewal….  My name’s been legally changed, but my official sex has not.

Maybe to get all the boring paperwork expedited, I’ve have to give all the bureaucrats each a blowjob!?!

Maybe then they’ll know I’m really a girl….  If I suck like a girl and fuck like a girl, then I must be a girl, right?

How to Love a Tgirl Who Writes

Please let me concentrate...maybe!

Please let me concentrate…maybe!

1.  I need alone time.  Your sexual needs are secondary to my need to sublimate my own considerable sexuality into my work.  Be patient.  The good time I’ll eventually show you will definitely be worth it!

2.  When I dress for work at my laptop, my attire may be sexy lingerie or even a French maid’s uniform — not for your voyeuristic pleasure but because feeling ultra frilly and feminine is so fun, even inspirational, for me.  Really.  For I’m my very own muse.

3.  You — and even your cock — might provide material for my work.  I will write the truth, even (especially) if you’re a lousy lover.

4.  I will flirt — and possibly even do a great deal more — with others in order to build a readership.  When it comes to art, the means always justifies the end.

5.  Let me chew and suck on a pencil or pen without your assuming I have unsatisfied oral urges.  My brain is just searching for the perfect word.  Really, I promise.  I’ll suck you later.

6.  When I’m not writing or reading, I’m probably making myself pretty for you.  Thus can be justified the time and expense spent getting my hair and nails done or going to gym.  Housework is another matter, however.  A desk whose surface is clean often spells a cluttered mind.  So don’t bug me about being messy, and I won’t nag you about your dried cum all over the bedsheets, in my hair, on my panties, or wherever…

Thanks for your understanding, sweetie….

Perfect "skin" for my laptop: Mermaid, Me!

Perfect “skin” for my laptop: Mermaid, Me!

The Serious Shemale

Instead of short shorts...what if my latest fashion purchase was referred to as  "sea-level-rise-induced-by global-warming" hotpants...would I then begin to be taken more seriously?

Instead of short shorts….

….What if my latest fashion purchase was referred to as “sea-level-rise-induced-by-global-warming hotpants,” would I then begin to be taken more seriously?  Not that I pretend to be a real intellectual or anything, but still….

Why don’t people take us shemales seriously?  Is it because we’re perceived as boys who just want to be bimbos?  The truest and most authentic of bimbos who’re only interested in and motivated by sexy, dolled-up clothes — and, of course, sex itself?

But “regular” transsexuals — those who follow through on SRS (sex reassignment surgery) — are often treated with the utmost dignity and respect.  (That is, obviously, except among Philistines and homophobes!)

Not only are transsexuals like Jan Morris (the travel writer and essayist) and Jennifer Finney Boylan (the English professor and author) greeted with respect, even awe — but also are considered intellectually serious thinkers worth paying attention to.

Part of the reason, of course, is that shemales are often associated with porn and prostitution.  While I personally have never done porn, I readily confess to having worked as an escort (just a euphemism for prostitute!)  But getting paid for sex (or often simply my companionship) did not deter my intellectual curiosity.  To the contrary, I read more now — and am better-informed — than I’ve ever been.  And each of my clients was like a richly nuanced character in the very greatest novels and/or a deeply layered case study in the most intense Freudian psychoanalysis.

My mission, then, is clear.  It’s simple.  You can guess what it is!

Poetry

Validation!

Validation!

Wittgenstein’s Penis

There always comes the moment inevitable

As sunrise, unpredictable as the weather,

Partly cloudy and so suggestively hidden or maybe

Clear and bold and brazen and burning bright,

When up your skirt his hand

Slips, sticks, jabs, gropes, fumbles, feels

Around and around, higher, ever higher.

What’s a girl to do?  Nothing,

Relax and enjoy it, or disentangle

From his embrace but ever so

Gently, naughtily, so he’ll do it again.

Does it matter what you have on?

Absolutely!  Silly

Girl, encased in Wolford’s pantyhose enhanced

With a silk-lined Chanel skirt accentuating his

Rough, crude, muscular, callused hand, the awkward

Touch of his desire.

Prove you’re a woman, his hand demands.

He is, most men are, empiricist, logical

Positivist, penis philosopher, meaning

The only truth that can be known,

Tautological, a woman is that which embodies

Womanliness, softness that makes him hard.

The verity of materialism: nothing’s real,

Not even a pussy pudendum, unless

Unless

You can touch it.  Finger it,

Feeling the touch of it, like

Shopping for lingerie.  Never

Would I buy some underthingie without

First running it through my fingers, feeling,

Imagining the feeling, what he must feel,

The touch of a man’s hand with me in it.

A thong is a thing, and a cute thing is I in a thong.

Men want me to be their thing, to do their thing.

Yes, I’m a material girl, and I’ll open my legs,

Not, but my purse, to prove it.

See, silly man, there’s my Victoria’s Secret

Credit card, expiration 11/15, making me

An Angel, a card-carrying cunt.

“Passing” Pains

Should I go shopping dressed like this?

Should one go shopping dressed like this?

In a remembrance I just wrote of my very first week living “full-time,” I found myself recalling how happy and thrilling it was:

http://www.wattpad.com/22008442-mermaid-me-chapter-4-24-7-my-first-week-as-a-woman#.UfrAKo3I1Lc

But that’s not the whole story, I now realize.  Memories are tricky, and it’s easier not to recall the pain.

Especially painful was the ridicule I risked whenever I was caught not “passing” as a real woman.  By the time I started living “full-time,” I had enough practice — not to mention invaluable coaching from both T- and Genetic-Girl enablers! — to fool just about anybody.  But, before that, I had my share of mortifying missteps.

The worst were around children, running in packs: “Look!  It’s a man!  A man dressed up like a woman!”

Children, not yet “civilized,” say exactly what they think.  So the horrible conclusion — which, thankfully, I didn’t draw at the time — is that a lot of adults must have “read” me, too.  They were simply too polite to say or do anything but ignore me.

But now that I know I pass I never want to be ignored — and dress accordingly!