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.

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….

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?!?

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….

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.

“A Binder Full of Shemales”

sec4If I can’t make it as a porn star, I’ll settle for being a sexy secretary.

My years working as a high-end escort have well prepared me for this newest role. Classy yet slutty, Bimbo-like but actually probably smarter than my boss (clients), I’ve got the part down pat.

My attitude might seem appalling to feminists. But I’m just so happy to get the job, particularly given the employer’s unconscionable lack of “a binder full of shemales.” (It’s not as if we expect maternity leave coverage or anything.)