Shemale Sampler: What Men Like

No wonder men desire me! I desire myself!

No wonder men desire me! I desire myself!

“A woman’s vagina is a scary place for a guy to understand,” a Trannychaser named Chris tells me. “But because he has a penis, a guy knows what makes it feel nice. A girl like you has both a penis and breasts, so I’d feel less pressured because I would know what I’m doing.”

Even more experienced guys express this same sentiment — a mixture of fear and loving of the opposite sex — to justify their attraction to shemales, foreign but familiar. “Men fear the inability to bring a woman to orgasm. We can never be sure,” says Mike. “But when a t-girl comes, it’s obvious, even if she’s embarrassed, as some are, of that male part of her body.”

Plus, according to a correspondent named Victor, “T-girls don’t come with all that perplexing emotional baggage of genetic girls that men can never explain. I don’t find beauty in the male form. But, unfortunately, I relate better with males. With a t-girl, subconsciously I’m probably thinking here is a guy who looks like a girl.”

So it’s a guy thing, so much so that so-called tranny-chasers are sometimes defined as latent homosexuals. That’s the conventional wisdom. But it’s not so simple. In my experience, these men are definitely women-lovers, attracted to the feminine, at least a man’s idea of the feminine, while sexually repulsed by masculinity. If latent anything, they’re wannabee t-girls themselves, although I’ve only had a couple of guys actually admit to this uncomfortable self-knowledge.

“Being with a transsexual is not gay, because the transsexual’s femininity provokes the initial attraction. It is not a man’s cock; it is a woman’s cock,” proclaims a self-described “43-year-old married man with two great kids.” Certainly, from my own transsexual point of view, he is the kind of man I find most attractive — legitimizing me as a woman, since he prefers to fuck me rather than the real cunt back home. Indeed, most of the men I “date” — a large enough sample, I’m sure, to be statistically valid — have been married straight guys.

“All men at some point want to suck their own dick, but we can’t, most of us,” laments another married man named John. “As men we have been raised to think sucking dick is gross, and gay. However, when we see a beautiful t-girl in a heavenly woman’s body, it just might be all right to suck that dick. And to fuck that booty or even submit to anal penetration.” Asking his wife to fulfill his fantasy with a strap-on dildo, John says, “would freak her out.”

Fantasy: that’s the recurring key word in the male vocabulary defining their attraction to girls like me. First, we ourselves are phantasmal — deceptive, or illusory, women. As such, we can make any forbidden male fantasy come true. “It’s a fantasy of mine to have done to me what I have done to woman my entire life, consume them sexually,” says Ralph. “Oh, to have a beautiful, full-lipped woman throw me down on the bed and just start ravaging my body, all the while growing inch by inch until it’s proudly sticking out of her panties. It’s a complete surrender, I guess. I never have given a second look to any man, but I would take her dick in my mouth and just go to town. That image I have of being fucked by a woman is enough to get me rock hard.”

Integral to the fantasy is the assumption that shemales must be purely sexual creatures, combining the come-hither desirability of the most brazenly alluring woman with the unquenchable lust of the horniest man. So says Lawrence: “From a very early age, I think it’s fair to say that most men are taught that things like high heels, long painted nails, and porn-star-looking makeup are sexy. I can’t remember the last time I saw a t-girl who was not sporting all three of these little ideals. Why stick with boring everyday women when you can have super-glamorous, fantasy women who actually make a point of putting as much thought into what shoes to wear as the girl next door does into her pension plan?”

Indeed, why else would a transsexual go through such a painful, time-consuming, and expensive transformation, except to attract and please men? After all, we know what men want, because we were once men ourselves! We know that the mere glimpse of a woman putting on lipstick is incredibly sexy. She is advertising herself, making herself ready and receptive. Being a shemale is so self-absorbed and time-consuming, there is time for nothing else except making yourself ready.

That’s the male assumption, and yes, to the extent that male desire validates us as the females we long to be, an assumption grounded in truth. And so we do indeed craft and creatively package ourselves into the supreme sex object, the embodiment of sinful lust, insatiable in our desire to be desired by men. I am desired, therefore I am. With exaggerated femininity and all its fetishistic accruements — big boobs and a finely sculpted ass, not to mention painstakingly applied makeup and suggestive clothes — we advertise that we’re ready and willing and “want it.” Indeed, want it as much as any man.

“That willingness to make an effort, the attention to detail, the openly sexual nature of their look and their attitude,” drools an admirer named Jim. “They embody the ultimate fantasy woman.” Another long-time admirer, Allen, gushes: “Transsexuals attract me because they have declared their femininity and in taking on the ‘weaker sex,’ by implication, their submissiveness. Not that I’m a dom, but I love the fact that they have chosen to be vulnerable, making themselves available to being used by men.”

“Then you have the thrill of everyone thinking you are going out with a really gorgeous girl, but they don’t know she has a penis just like you!” says a long-time shemale fan who identifies himself as Smidsy. Of course, sinful secrets and edgy risk-taking provide a spark to any sexual relationship.

Sometimes I think I’m like one of those life-like, blow-up women dolls that lonely men make love to. As a fantasy, I’m not real. I’m a simulacrum, a virtual woman. (Virtual: one of my transsexual sisters once said, “I wouldn’t have ever existed without the Internet!”) Since I can never be an authentic woman (even with SRS), I become an exaggerated artifice, more feminine and seductively alluring than any real woman can ever be. Shemales are to women as Las Vegas is to Paris or Venice.

But this much is real: I want what every woman wants — not just to be desired, but to be loved. I want romance and flowers. And so my favorite tranny-chaser fan mail comes from Gilbert, who says: “It doesn’t matter what’s between your legs. It’s all about whether you really fall for someone. True love.”

True love for an untrue woman? Maybe, just maybe, Gilbert is on to something. Any student of romantic love knows that the most enduringly passionate love requires obstacles. Think Romeo and Juliet. Think the adulterous affairs on daytime soap opera. And think of that medieval romance of Tristram and Isolde. Since she was already married to King Mark, Tristram laid his sword between their two bodies, his and Isolde’s, as they prepared to sleep together. I am Isolde, and what’s between my legs is Tristram’s sword.

Do Shemales Have More Fun?

I am desired, therefore I am.

I am desired, therefore I am.

You catch your boyfriend doing Internet porn. You feel betrayed. But, worse, totally inadequate. The girls he’s been lustfully watching have something you’ll never have. “Women 2.0…special girls with a little something extra,” the porn sites sometimes seductively spin it. Less euphemistically, they more often scream: “Incredibly slutty shemales chicks with dicks…boobs and balls…tantalizing t-girls.”

But no need to worry. Your guy’s not some closet weirdo. Most straight, normally faithful guys seem intrigued, if not sexually turned on by, so-called shemales. They represent the fastest growing segment of the porn business.

Still, you wonder. What’s going on, what’s the attraction, the turn-on? I wonder, too — and I’m a shemale myself!

Back in the day, I would have been just a regular male-to-female pre-operative transsexual — ingesting estrogen and living fulltime as a woman while awaiting the knife, sex reassignment surgery (SRS). That was the traditional narrative of “a woman born into the wrong (male) body” — the feminizing, often arduous journey to become finally “the woman I was meant to be.”

That was then. Now, more and more special girls like me keep postponing the final surgery and opt, instead, to stay suspended in a transitional stage of half-man and half-woman, like some kind of freakish mythological creature. There are always convenient excuses: SRS is so expensive, you know…anyway, I still haven’t finished electrolysis…I want to get adjusted to my newest regimen of estrogen therapy…what money I’ve saved up seems better spent on what people actually notice when I walk down the street — breast implants and facial feminization surgery. When you really stop and think about it, a cunt is just an engineering redundancy anyway, for I have two holes to service cock already. So down deep I know I’ll probably never go all the way, for then I would no longer be special. I’d be just another unattached, on-the-market woman. Too many guys prefer me cuntless, just the way I am.

I am desired, therefore I already am. But what am I exactly, and why am I desired? In order to understand, I wrote a plaintive piece some time back, subsequently posted all over the Internet, and I received literally hundreds of thoughtful responses, love letters — lots and lots of lustful love letters.

I’ll tell you in my next post what I’ve learned.

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!”

Championship Training

Getting Ready for the World Championship

I find the whole idea of a world championship for cock sucking incredibly, gloriously erotic. Why not? The world, at least the Western world, is full of infinite possibilities, and there’s equal opportunity for all women, even me.

Whenever I’m on my knees now (and it’s often), I make believe I’m Claudia. Not Lady Gaga or Britney — my new heroine and latest role model is Claudia. Her fame is not due to mere beauty or luck, but is justly based on merit and perseverance. I believe if I practice a lot and work hard, just as I’m doing now while kneeling before a brand new cock, working on my basic bob and slide, I can become just like her.

Claudia, according to a dispatch from a Romanian newspaper widely reported on the Web, is the winner of the first Oral Sex World Championships. Competitors from all over the globe attended the event at a Black Sea spa. An all-male jury awarded Claudia the $1,000 first-place crown. Their decision was based on “speed” and “artistic merit” in two rounds titled “technical” and “freestyle.”

At first, when I read this, I chuckled, as most readers did, I’m sure. But, ever since, I haven’t been able to get it out of my pretty, come-sucking head — a head no longer chuckling, but giggling and giddy. I’m jealous! Like Claudia, I want to be internationally recognized for my abilities (at least all the guys tell me I’m able)!

The purity of it all excites me: cock sucking for the sake of cock sucking, in and of itself, having absolutely nothing to do with love or any other emotion that might get in the way of technique and performance. But think about the bonding going on between the cock sucking performer, the anonymous owner of the succulent cock, and the observing audience! It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime, life-altering experiences when minds, not just bodies, truly connect. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it. The idea of it alone is enough. I can’t think of a better expression of eroticism.

I want to be Claudia! The epiphany pops into my head at the exact moment when I’m licking the underside shaft of my latest prize of a penis. Or if not Claudia, at least second-place finisher, shedding genuine tears of happiness for the winning girl. Instead of a crown, I could then wear a tight T-shirt, with my hard nipples poking the fabric, flaunting the fact: “Miss Fellatio World. First Runner-up.” The mind boggles with all the fresh cock I would attract.

My lover has no idea what’s going through my head as I’m giving head. That’s part of the fun of it; I remain a mystery to him. He, on the other hand, is totally exposed, vulnerable to my every tongue-flickering whim. I know exactly what he’s thinking; he tells me so. Even taciturn men feel compelled to talk to me when my mouth is full. While I’m sucking like a vacuum cleaner, they are spitting out appreciative, flattering words:

“Look up at me while you’re sucking, bitch. I want to see your gorgeous, fluttering lashes and grateful, smiling eyes while your sexy lips are around my cock.”

They ask questions: “You like to suck cock, don’t you? You’re just a cock-sucking cunt, aren’t you? Tell me, cunt, isn’t this the best cock you’ve ever tasted? You can’t get enough of my fat, juicy cock, can you? You don’t want to ever stop sucking, do you, bitch?”

Of course, I can only answer with my head — a vigorous nod or a swaying shake. Those well-executed head motions just add to the cock owner’s pleasure. And it is his pleasure, after all, that brings me mine.

Actually, what I want him to tell me is how I’m doing — a real critical review. Vague praise is meaningless: “This is the best blow job ever…Slut, you suck so fine…” Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. What I crave — besides cock, of course — is brutal honesty. And the more detailed the critique, the better.

Unfortunately, most suckees are hopeless in this regard. All they care about is “shooting me a pearl necklace” or whether or not I’ll “swallow.” They’re so ecstatic just to get a blow job, they don’t really notice, much less appreciate, my truly expert level of keenly honed presentation.

Do they consider the pronounced, feminine arc of my back and butt while kneeling (evolutionary biologists call this “the fertility curve”)? Can they award points for the dexterous way my hand moves at the base of the shaft, so it’s synchronized with all my various mouth actions at the most sensitive tip? Are they connoisseurs of how even the eloquent (dainty, yet firm) grip of my hand ensures that my finely French-manicured nails are showing? Are they closely observing the vigorous, quick tempo of my acrobatic tongue, lip, and neck movements, as calorie-burning as my aerobics class — without my face working up even one tiny bead of perspiration, much less ruining my makeup (except my lipstick, of course)?