Before and After

Before Hormones

Before Hormones

After Hormones, But Before Implants

After Hormones, But Before Implants

These pictures were in one of my Facebook Photo Albums — until yesterday! — when Facebook suggested I delete the image showing the breasts I had grown. Within the context of the truly obscene images often floating around Facebook, my picture seems more appropriate to a medical textbook or an art studio.

Apparently just one person filed a complaining report. Who is this unnamed person? This anonymous accuser? Was she truly offended by the image — or just doesn’t like me?

What ax is she grinding? What hidden agenda? I will never know.

I just assume the complainer is a woman or another Tgirl, don’t you agree?

The poor women accused of witchcraft not so many centuries ago — I now have an inkling of how they must have felt. To be banished or burnt at the stake — simply on the word of another woman.

Anyway, that’s quite enough woe-is-me whining….

The before-and-after pictures demonstrate the effects — after almost two years’ treatment — of estrogen transdermal patch and oral finasteride.

Counter-intuitive: Go Bulky to be Girly

Never too many or too bulky when it comes to bracelets!

Never too many or too bulky when it comes to bracelets and rings!

Young would-be Tgirls ask my advice all the time.  I’m happy to help.  It makes me feel good…except it also makes me feel old!

Often the questions are all about “passing.”  These questioners generally look like drag queens.  What gives them away, paradoxically, are their attempts to be ultra-femme.

But the sad fact is that dainty jewelry and long hair, for example, just accentuate the masculine.  The contrast is too sharp — drawing attention to rugged hands, thick neck, or whatever the very traits you’re trying so hard (too hard!) to disguise.

Only now, after countless facial feminization procedures, do I even dare to wear my hair long.  But there’s nothing I can do, alas, about my unfortunate hands, so lots of clunky bracelets and rings remain my preferred adornment.

Cover Girl!

Yes?  No? Maybe?

Yes? No? Maybe?

Many of my blog posts will soon be woven into a new book.  A memoir, you could say…. with yours truly playing the part of a post-modernist Moll Flanders.

Remember Moll?  The naughty but endearing 18th Century slut created by Daniel Defoe, who also authored Robinson Crusoe.  My adventures may seem tame by comparison — or maybe not!

Anyway, the publisher is pondering what kind of cover would be best. What do you think of the sample pictured here? It leaves a lot to the imagination…. which is the point, don’t you think?

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.

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!

Everywhere, Phallic images

brushes makeupTo be perfectly honest: I’m not one of those girls who find all penises lovely. To the contrary, if, for whatever reason, I’m forced to stare and study and contemplate the hard cock so eager to enter me, I begin to wonder: Is it just me, or is this particular penis distinctly unattractive, even unappetizing?

So, no, it’s not the visual aesthetics that excite me. Rather, my cock cravings are all about touch and taste. To hold the hardness in my fingers, to lick and kiss it, to let it slide down my throat, then to feel it enter my make-believe pussy, at first tentatively, thrusting, then deep, thrusting, ever deeper, deep, so deep inside me.

It’s the function, not the form, that counts.

So it is with my makeup brushes. I must have more than a score, all sizes and shapes and textures. To the untrained eye, they sort of all look the same.  But each functions entirely, yet subtly, differently.  To dust powder, you’d never, ever use a contour brush, for example.

Speaking of my contour brush, I must confess that it — even more than the fan-shaped blush brush — is my personal favorite.

The way the bristles are clipped reminds me of the flat-top/crew-cut of a sexy Marine platoon sergeant with whom I once fell in love.  And the very fact that the contour brush is sharply clipped — and not broad and bushy like most of the others — makes me think of a circumcised penis.

The tiniest of my makeup brushes — for eyeliner — also holds a special place in my heart. Its proper use requires an especially deft touch and skilled technique. Which perhaps proves the (larger) point that size does not always matter.

Different cocks, different techniques, different occasions, different needs.  And I get to experience them all in my quest toward truth and beauty!

First Fuck

reading-is-sexy-earringsFor a “normal” girl, which comes first: menstruation or getting your ears pierced? What if, as in my unfortunate case, the former never happens? Does that mean I’ll never be a woman? In which said case, piercing will have to do.

So getting your ears pierced becomes perhaps the most important rite of passage for special girls like me.

It’s fitting, of course, because being pierced is not unlike getting fucked for the first time. Poking a hole in my earlobe = breaking my imaginary hymen!

But the beauty of piercing is that I got to lose my “virginity” a number of times! The very first time, well before my “Sweet Sixteen,” I cajoled a jewelry store clerk to use one of those piercing guns on me.

The fearful yet pleasurable anticipation was so exciting, I can remember it still. Even more exciting: I wasn’t too young not to conjure up delicious metaphors: the cock-like gun, the darting dildo….

By nightfall, when I had to be back home, I had removed the temporary plugs designed to keep my new holes from healing. And I covered the tiny red spots on my earlobes with makeup foundation and concealer.

No one knew.

And one day no one would know – I could only dream – that I wasn’t really a girl. And I would be fucked for real.  One day.  Yes, one day my Prince would cum.

Eternal Feminine, Forever Fuckable

cezanne1877oiloncanvasThe so-named “The Eternal Feminine” oil on canvas, painted by Paul Cezanne in 1877, haunts me.

At first blush, it could be me at the center of the painting: unformed, gawked at by various men. Their fantasies will mold me. I’m as blank and passive as a porn actress.

But then I realize that I myself could be said to be one of the gawkers. In my quest for the Eternal Feminine, I will fill in the blanks of what Cezanne left unpainted.

Actualizing the woman within, I fashion myself inevitably into the object of the male gaze…reflecting lecherous curiosity and lustful desire. So it is that it is their faces that become blank, anonymous, forgettable, a blur, animated and defined only by how their imaginations — and thrusts! — fill me. Yes, it’s the the cock (but not the faces) that I remember.

And yes, I want to be, and remain, forever fuckable. Isn’t that what “the Eternal Feminine” is ultimately all about?