Am I Pretty or Ugly?

A most fuckable hairstyle.

Do you like my hair?

POU? Pretty or Ugly, am I?  Hot or Not?

Girls just old enough to know how to post to YouTube create video selfies posing that question.  Often the responses are so downright cruel as to cause possibly permanent damage to a young girl’s budding identity. As for special girls like me, the only relevant question is much more basic, even base:

Am I fuckable or not?

A more lady-like way of asking the same question is this:

Do you like my hair?

On the subject of hair and fucking, August is the hardest month, what with all the heat and the humidity.  The better, the sweatier the fuck, the more likely my latest trip to the expensive salon is all for naught…my hair, so carefully coiffed and styled, is now ruined, absolutely ruined.  What to do?

Some girls I know invest in satin pillowcases, so they no longer have to worry about frizzy “sex hair.”  The silky fabric won’t rough up your hair like cotton pillowcases do, no matter how rough the play. Another way to accomplish the same end is simply to be the dominating girl on top, so the sweaty sheets won’t ever touch your pretty-perfect locks.

For a girl like me who’s not afraid of a lot of makeup — even using a face primer, which smooths texture, boosts coverage and helps makeup wear better and last longer — I understand there’s a similar product for your hair, called Prime Style Extender.  I think I’ll ask my trusty hairdresser about this, whether it truly can ensure my style lasts through the sexiest of encounters.

Another solution is simple enough: good old-fashioned braids!  Whether your hair’s in cornrows, French braids, or fishtail, you won’t be afraid to get a little wild. Sure braids can get a little messy during your romp, but afterwards when you comb them out, you’ll have a super sexy wavy hairstyle!  All the more sexy given the secret knowledge of the naughtiness you’ve been up to!!

Finally, my favorite: the ponytail. When I throw my hair up in a ponytail, I know I’m ready to get down to business!  And I do mean get down!  It’s the best for giving head.  Your hair’s back away from your face, so even if your guy’s into giving you facials, no cum will goo it up.  And a ponytail gives a guy a convenient handle to push and pull your head to achieve maximum satisfaction.

Besides — and best of all! — a classic ponytail is really cute.

Men I Have Known: Chapter 1

Now that I'm respectable, I can reflect....

Looking “respectable” belies my memories….

The turning of the New Year invites reflection; and the thought occurs that time’s passage has, for me, been punctuated not with the ticking of clocks or turning of calendar pages but, rather, with all the different lovers I’ve known.  “Lovers” might be too grand a word, for many of these men I’ve known, when I was escorting, for only an hour or so.  And some I’ve come to know now only virtually, via the Internet.

Whatever I call them, they are someone else’s son, brother, father, boyfriend, husband even.  It’s said that, no matter how intimate, you can never really, really know someone.

So I may not be privy to the day-to-day life of the man sitting across from you at the dinner table right now, but I know his secrets, things you’ll never know.

Take Bukkake Bob, for instance.  That’s what I called him, and not just behind his back.  I made him laugh (not just cum).

All he wanted to do was splash his hot, gooey ejaculate all over my face and titties.  I didn’t have to do anything — not even suck — just kneel there, with my face uplifted and smiling expectantly.  Sometimes I would wag my tongue (this was long before Miley Cyrus’s iconic move) to gesture how much I wanted it, craved it — to feel and taste the splash of his cum.

Once a week, like clockwork, we would meet to perform this ritual, sometimes in my apartment, sometimes in a motel room, sometimes in his huge SUV.

Then one evening, when I had on a lot of makeup (for I was to go on a fancy dinner date with another guy an hour later), I tilted my head ever so slightly just as Bob shot his wad.  So most of what he shot ended up on the floor.

“What happened?” His scream sounded truly anguished.

“I didn’t want to totally ruin my makeup, sweetie.”  I said matter-of-factly.

“Well, you’ve now ruined everything,” he announced, and I never saw him again.

What more can I say?

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?

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.

The Irony of It All

514_456678077706839_1520584169_nIf our eyes are windows into our soul, what do they say about us when they’re clouded in cum? Such was my freak-out when that first happened to me (cum-in-the-eyeball, see previous post) that I went to the nearby free clinic to be tested for HIV…again…and again. Each time I would have to tell the clinic workers, who were used to working with sex workers, why I wanted to be tested. Didn’t I insist that all my so-called boyfriends wear condoms? Of course, I replied, slightly insulted (I wasn’t stupid!).

So I would have to repeat my embarrassing tale of how I got a big wad of cum in my right eye, initially blurring my vision, stinging a bit, and making me worry like hell. Since the eyeball is covered in a moist membrane (right? I couldn’t remember my high school biology specifics), wouldn’t that transmit the deadly virus just like other delicate avenues into the body?

An anus of an eye? A vagina of the visual cortex? When worried sick, think up outrageous metaphors!

“You’re funny,” the nurse said. “I always like working with girls like you. You all have such a wonderful, outlandish sense of humor.”

“You’re not making me feel better,” I said.

“Well, sweetie, I really don’t think you have to worry. I’ve never heard of HIV being contracted this way. We’ll have the test results back in a week.”

She paused. I nodded.

“In the meantime, next time, why don’t you try just wearing glasses!”