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.


Welcome to e[lust] – The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers (including Joy!) are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust].  Want to be included in e[lust] #48? Start with the newly updated rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates! (Joy’s post “Like a Virgin” is featured below!)

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

This Scene Called Life

I Don’t Give A Fig

9 Reasons You SHOULD Have Sex on a First Date

~ Featured Posts (Molly’s Picks) ~

East Side Exhibitionism

~ Readers Choice from  Sexbytes ~

Threesomes: Being a Good Little Unicorn

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Non-Fiction

Sexentric News and Public Cam-Sex Report
The Play’s the Thing
Sadistic Bitch
It was a good night
Kink Chronicles – Panties
Quickie Afternoon Delight
“No, you don’t!” 
“Objectification” by Blacksilk
So I Asked SilverHubby About Our Orgasms
For Pity’s Sake, No
Like a Virgin
Three Ashes
His Princess and His Slut
I hope my neighbors got a show.


I want to know You
Once Upon an ‘O’

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Testosterone! Don’t Leave Home Without it!
Why Modeling Is Poison
On the swingset
Achievement Unlocked
How To Make A Woman Orgasm
Mutual Masturbation is Mother****ing Awesome!
The Wonder of Weddings
Introvert recovery
May is International Masturbation Month
Make love to yourself

Erotic Fiction

Fighting Spirit
Dinner is Served
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Five
Belle and Sandy
Babygirl Gets Caught

Writing about Writing

Beauty and the kebab

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Return of the Vulcan Penis Problem
Masturbation Mishaps, Introduction
“For Novelty Use Only”
BDSM Lexicon Entry #24: Aftercare

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Mad Men: the dominance of Don Draper
Wicked Wednesday – Knowing When to Say No
Why Do I Like Being Owned?
The difference between BDSM & Abuse


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?!?

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….

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!

Shemale Origins: Girly Girl Dreams in a Boyhood Bedroom

girlygurlMy bedroom window looked out — at a safe distance and from the omniscient perspective of the second floor — onto the street. It was not a busy street, but the cars and foot traffic that did pass were enough to enliven the otherwise still life framed by my bedroom casement.

That it was a casement, rather than double-hung, I realize in retrospect, took on great importance. Even more important was that I, at even so young an age, knew — and had wanted to learn — the difference between casement and double-hung. The window treatments for each are so different. Had I been born a boy, a real boy, I’m sure I would have never noticed.

Yes, I was meant to be a girl. And more: a girly girl.  Little wonder that the greatest of women’s literature, from Jane Austen to Virginia Woolf, has always been grounded in the notion of interior space and confinement.

The floor-length mirror screwed to the interior side of my closet door was my closest friend. It had no frame at all, and of course revealed nothing when the door was closed into the darkness of the closet. But when the door was open and I was bold, what worlds it opened up!

With towels and sheets and random fabrics, I improvised and fashioned my own designer wardrobe. I well remember one of my very first creations: a scandalously tiny bikini bottom made from two red kerchiefs, each folded into a triangle and then joined with a square knot at the apex.

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I slid the creation under my butt until the knot was snug in the hole that would become – though then I could only vaguely imagine such sensations – the future happy home for butt plugs, vibrating dildos, and real, hard cock.

After my fingers tied the ends of each kerchief together where they overlapped on my hips, I stood up, admired my creation, and wiggled and gyrated before the floor-length mirror. Such fun!

But I wanted more (don’t we always?).  I – and my creation, my very own bikini – needed to be seen by others. First, I would have to fashion, also out of red kerchiefs, a matching top, though I had no titties yet to fill it. Then, with my costume complete, I spent days and nights practicing and prancing in front of the floor-length mirror.

What would happen if I really did venture outside and let people glimpse me? I had to know.  So one day, when no one else was home, my bikini-clad body snuck outside.  A large beach towel draped around my torso would convey the false impression that I was modest.

A large linden tree’s trunk next to the street, I hid behind.  When I heard a car approaching, I stepped away from the tree so that I could be seen by its occupants and dropped the towel as if I was about to lie down on it to go sunbathing. Then, as the car passed and I could see the people inside staring at me, I feinted surprise, wrapped my arms around my tiny bikini top and even tinier tits, let out a soft squeal, dropped my face as if embarrassed, and quickly baby-stepped away from the street.

Over and over, as I would hear another car approaching up the street, I would repeat the thrilling ritual. Revelation and concealment. Getting the attention of others. Shocking them as if I were an apparition. Exciting them: I could only imagine the intensity of it, but strangely I felt I could feel it, really feel it, the excitement, as if I were they.

But to actually be the bikini-clad and shockingly out-of-place nymph was the most exciting of all.  And so it was that I first tasted the tempting fruits of teasing and seduction. And there would be no turning back….  My closet door with its floor-length mirror, never to be closed again.


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.

The Things That Made Me a Woman: 1

secrets5If only…. If only the words flowed, glided as easily as fingers on satin — feeling, ferreting, exploring the contents of the slightly ajar drawer of the lingerie chest. But to talk about a “mere” piece of furniture is to describe it, primarily in visual terms or its functionality. What does it look like? What’s its purpose? Those are masculine questions. They only hint at the raison d’etre of a lingerie chest…and the intimate secrets within.

I had to own one! Not just any new, mass-produced reproduction, but the genuine article. Real wood with beveled edges and tongue-and-groove joints. Not fiberboard affixed with machine-driven staples. Real craftsmanship, wherein the individual artisan envisioned (perhaps lustfully) the most intimate, feminine finery his work would soon contain. Not assembly-line, industrial-grade substitutes whose money-motivated manufacturers reduce all women to consumers, no matter how frilly their lingerie.

“I’ve always wanted my very own lingerie chest,” I felt compelled to give some explanation to Jennifer, my new roommate, as she watched me circle the tall, thin piece of furniture at the antique shop as if it were the Holy Grail.

“Well, you can get something in much better shape, much cheaper, at Target or Wal-Mart, I’m sure.” She shook her head. Yes, some of the intricate, rosewood inlays were chipped, and one of the cabriole legs looked wobbly.

“But this is the real deal,” I exclaimed. “Marie Antoinette could well have kept her undies in this very chest.”

“So you can make-believe you’re the real deal.” Jennifer laughed and squeezed my hand. She was what would-be women like me call a GG (genetic girl), and she would sometimes like to tease me about the “replica cunt” I wanted a surgeon one day soon to carve. I liked it, too – the teasing. It felt like hugging.

“Don’t you just love the lock on each drawer,” I said and touched what looked like a miniature padlock key. “The fact that you have to use this tiny bronze thingie to open them….”

“All you need is a dainty, pink silk ribbon to tie around the key.” Jennifer laughed again. As a GG, she had the natural-born, enviable self-confidence to scoff at feminine stereotypes and to needle me accordingly. I never knew her to wear matching bra and panties. She kept them all in a heap in the top drawer of an oversized, walnut dresser.

I picked up the brass key, studied its intricate teeth, then fondled it between my fingers. It was so tiny it could have fit the door lock of a Jane Austen dollhouse. It was so tiny it was a miracle it hadn’t been misplaced over the years, to be lost forever. What women’s hands, how many, had held it so, as I was now doing? What secrets would it unlock?

The First Time

Most men are so clueless....thinking I'm really a GG (genetic girl)!

Men are so clueless….they think I’m really a GG (genetic girl)!

This post isn’t about giving head for the first time, or otherwise losing my virginity. It’s about my very first time in an all-girl aerobics class, making me feel as if I were being asked to pledge in the hottest, coolest sorority on campus. This most memorable event occurred relatively early in my m-t-f transition, so a lot of would-be Tgirls wonder (quite rightly): “How in the world did you pull that off?”

Please pardon the unfortunate metaphor, but it took balls. Yes, it takes balls to become a woman!

It helped that the local health club was actively and aggressively recruiting new members and that the salesman who eagerly greeted me at the door was a horny, greedy, and clueless guy in his early twenties. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the seat of my skin-tight Guess jeans accentuated with a thick leather belt cinched so tight I could hardly breathe. (If I remember right, I was encased in a foam-rubber hip and bottom padded girdle from Frederick’s of Hollywood!)

Anyway, my wiggling butt kept his eyes off my too broad shoulders and still masculine (though expertly made up) face. Like lust, greed surely played a part as well — he no doubt would get a commision on every trial membership he could sell.

It happened that an aerobics class was getting underway just as he was finishing up the tour and his sales pitch, so he said: “Why don’t you join the other girls, and I’ll have your membership application ready for your signature after the class.”

Ushering me to the door of the women’s locker room, he could hardly keep his hand off my butt. When the door closed behind me and I was thus admitted into the inner sanctum, I almost fainted. I didn’t dare look at the “other” girls in various stages of undress, but headed for the nearest unoccupied locker. Luckily, I didn’t really have to change, but just shed my jeans and sweater. Underneath were at least two layers of tights (to conceal the lines of my girdle) and a long-sleeve, black leotard.

secretsAnd the rest, as they say, is history!