Harem Girl (Part 2): Pros and Cons

Which one's the eunuch?

Which one’s the eunuch?

Is it because I was born a boy that I am now Super Rational Girl?  What I mean to say is: Do I still put too much stock in reason as opposed to emotion — always being analytical as opposed to just listening to my newfound woman’s intuition?  Who knows?  

But whatever the explanation, my brain just won’t let me be the bimbo that I want to be!  So as much as I found appealing the idea of actually joining a real-life harem, I quickly made a mental calculation of all the pluses and minuses:

On the plus side, was the money, obviously, that I had been offered.  But perhaps even more enticing was the chance for the uniquely feminine camaraderie being just one of the harem girls — being pledged into a secret sorority, as it were!

A definite minus, however, was the undefined, open-ended nature of what I was getting into — would I be able to leave when I wanted, or was I potentially enslaving myself?  Sex slave sounds sexy…until it’s not!

But before I even got to dress up in my harem costume, or whatever, I would have to have an orchiectomy, my would-be master had insisted.  I’d still be a pre-opt Tgirl, but minus my two balls!  This prospect, too, had its own balance sheet:

On the pro side, no longer would I have to take a daily testosterone blocker.  Henceforth, my good, old faithful estrogen patch would be all I ever need.

On the con side, however, if I ever go through with the actual surgical sex-change, some of the best doctors prefer that the scrotum be fully in tact — providing more material to work with in fashioning a vagina.

And perhaps most important: I think a pre-opt Tgirl, like a candy bar, is just plain sexier with nuts!  That’s yummy me!

So do I want to join a Harem?

Which one's the eunuch?

Which one’s the eunuch?

Is it just me, or do all girls get the wildest, weirdest, most preposterous propositions all the time?  Or maybe it just happens to Tgirls?  Anyway, here’s the latest:

I’m sitting in a cafe in Florence with a girlfriend, and this Middle Eastern guy keeps staring at me.  I guess my top was pretty low-cut, but really — believe me! — I wasn’t at all being purposely provocative.  He wasn’t bad looking himself; and from his tailored outfit, you could tell he had money and taste.  So he sends this other guy (butler, employee?) over to our table to ask if I would like “an audience.”

Is the guy some kind of royalty?  Naturally, I’m intrigued.  So I go over to his table.  It turns out he knows who I am — has even read my blog!  And quickly he gets to the point:

“I wish for you to be my guest.”  He touches my hand and looks deeply into my eyes.  Then he motions to his butler sidekick to hand me an envelop and explain to me all the necessary details.

The envelope, I can sense, has money inside — but the ungodly amount I could never have guessed.  Stunned, I listen:

I have been invited to one of his palaces, where I will join other girls, perhaps 10.  Since I am the only girl who is not born a girl (and am still pre-op), I will first have to have an orchiectomy!  Not to worry: the castration will be performed by the very best surgeon.

“But if the prince is attracted to transsexuals like me, why must I be castrated?”

“A eunuch is allowed to join a harem, but a man is not.”

“Why not just go ahead and pay for my complete sex-change?”

“Because then you will no longer be special.”