The Idea of a Woman

What color are my panties?

What style and color are my panties?

My girlfriend Stephanie is vacating the apartment we once shared on the Lower East Side, so what to do with all my stuff I left behind when I moved to Europe last year?  I don’t remember what’s there exactly — probably lots of fashionable clothes that immediately became unfashionable the week after I bought them.  Plus tons of old underwear, pantyhose, camisoles and such.

But I don’t want to tell Steph to simply toss them in the trash, for they’re money in the bank!  Like Bitcoins, a form of international currency!! And like vintage collectibles, the older and more worn, the more valuable they seem to be!!!

I’ve had some experience with men in the past fantasizing about — and fetishizing — my undies, but only recently have I come to understand what an incredible business opportunity they represent.

When I worked as an escort, guys would sometimes bring me lingerie to wear while we had sex, and then take it back home with them as a trophy of sorts.  And one guy, a regular, would wear panties himself to our encounter, then take them off, ask me to then put them on; afterwards, he would use them to masturbate in.  Feeling the silky softness around his shaft was infinitely more fun, I guess, than feeling it deep down my throat.

I’m not being critical or judgmental.  For I’ve often cum in my own panties myself.  When I use a vibrator, in fact, it just feels somehow sexier to leave my panties on.  Anyway….

Over the last few months a bunch of Facebook friends/followers/fans have offered big bucks for items from my lingerie chest.  I don’t even have to freshly wash them — the more spoiled, apparently the better!  I’m beginning to think I’m sitting (both literally and figuratively) on a gold mine!

Come to think about it, maybe the intimates I wear — conveying the idea of me — is so much better than the reality of me.  Hosiery, thongs and bikinis never bitch and complain, never need selfish satisfaction.  They exist just for your pleasure….yours alone.

So take my poll and send me a offer…. opening bid on my bright orange thong, for example, starts at $50!

How to Love a Tgirl Who Writes

Please let me concentrate...maybe!

Please let me concentrate…maybe!

1.  I need alone time.  Your sexual needs are secondary to my need to sublimate my own considerable sexuality into my work.  Be patient.  The good time I’ll eventually show you will definitely be worth it!

2.  When I dress for work at my laptop, my attire may be sexy lingerie or even a French maid’s uniform — not for your voyeuristic pleasure but because feeling ultra frilly and feminine is so fun, even inspirational, for me.  Really.  For I’m my very own muse.

3.  You — and even your cock — might provide material for my work.  I will write the truth, even (especially) if you’re a lousy lover.

4.  I will flirt — and possibly even do a great deal more — with others in order to build a readership.  When it comes to art, the means always justifies the end.

5.  Let me chew and suck on a pencil or pen without your assuming I have unsatisfied oral urges.  My brain is just searching for the perfect word.  Really, I promise.  I’ll suck you later.

6.  When I’m not writing or reading, I’m probably making myself pretty for you.  Thus can be justified the time and expense spent getting my hair and nails done or going to gym.  Housework is another matter, however.  A desk whose surface is clean often spells a cluttered mind.  So don’t bug me about being messy, and I won’t nag you about your dried cum all over the bedsheets, in my hair, on my panties, or wherever…

Thanks for your understanding, sweetie….

Perfect "skin" for my laptop: Mermaid, Me!

Perfect “skin” for my laptop: Mermaid, Me!




Wittgenstein’s Penis

There always comes the moment inevitable

As sunrise, unpredictable as the weather,

Partly cloudy and so suggestively hidden or maybe

Clear and bold and brazen and burning bright,

When up your skirt his hand

Slips, sticks, jabs, gropes, fumbles, feels

Around and around, higher, ever higher.

What’s a girl to do?  Nothing,

Relax and enjoy it, or disentangle

From his embrace but ever so

Gently, naughtily, so he’ll do it again.

Does it matter what you have on?

Absolutely!  Silly

Girl, encased in Wolford’s pantyhose enhanced

With a silk-lined Chanel skirt accentuating his

Rough, crude, muscular, callused hand, the awkward

Touch of his desire.

Prove you’re a woman, his hand demands.

He is, most men are, empiricist, logical

Positivist, penis philosopher, meaning

The only truth that can be known,

Tautological, a woman is that which embodies

Womanliness, softness that makes him hard.

The verity of materialism: nothing’s real,

Not even a pussy pudendum, unless


You can touch it.  Finger it,

Feeling the touch of it, like

Shopping for lingerie.  Never

Would I buy some underthingie without

First running it through my fingers, feeling,

Imagining the feeling, what he must feel,

The touch of a man’s hand with me in it.

A thong is a thing, and a cute thing is I in a thong.

Men want me to be their thing, to do their thing.

Yes, I’m a material girl, and I’ll open my legs,

Not, but my purse, to prove it.

See, silly man, there’s my Victoria’s Secret

Credit card, expiration 11/15, making me

An Angel, a card-carrying cunt.

Becoming a Shemale Hooker: Chapter 3

callgirl3Just as Mr. Jackson had instructed on the phone (in a hoarse and heavy-breathing voice), I pulled my car into the dark and mostly deserted office parking lot… and headed toward the illuminated place under the lamp-post.  There I was to park — in the spotlight under the lamp-post.  The phallic symbolism — I couldn’t help but smile — relieved at least some of my anxiety.  My next instructions were these:

Turn the car engine off.  Turn on the car’s inside lights.  Look in the rear-view mirror and start touching up my makeup, specifically my lipstick.  Wait for my cell to ring, which it now did just moments after I had deposited my lipliner back in my purse.

“Yes, Mr. Jackson…. Yes, Mr. Jackson…. Yes, of course, I want to make you happy.”   After his abrupt goodbye, I proceeded to do exactly as I had just been told:

Make believe I’m just a normal businesswoman arriving at a real job. Open the car door.  Stay seated, but swivel my legs so that my heels are on the pavement.  Make sure that my skirt is hiked up, so that an observer from the office building can see my crotch.

“Wear no panties!” he had earlier commanded.  Now I began to understand.  And I followed precisely the rest of his instructions:

Pretend I’m unaware of either the observer or the fact that my crotch is showing.  When I stand up, feint surprise that my skirt is hiked up so high; quickly tug it down to mid-thigh; look around, embarrassed, to make sure no one has seen me; then walk briskly, as if late for work, to the office entrance.

Buzzed through security, I then took the elevator to the second floor. There waiting for me as I exited the elevator was Mr. Jackson. I can’t describe exactly the man I had expected as my very first “John,” but he definitely wasn’t it!  And his voice no longer made me tremble:

“You’re beautiful,” he said — the binoculars still in hand that he had obviously used to spy on me arriving in the parking lot. “The agency’s photos don’t do you justice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Just call me Jack,” he said, holding the door open for me to step into Suite 210.

Becoming a Shemale Hooker: Chapter 2

callgirl3“Don’t wear any panties!” The scary, heavy-breathing voice over the telephone kept commanding.

How could this be? What was being asked of me? A male-to-female transsexual not wearing any panties?  That’s like a cappuccino without any foam…skinny jeans without fuck-me boots….  Why, I had spent all my life working up the courage just to wear panties!

It was as if he were asking me to cut off all my hair, which I had so religiously cultivated over the last couple of years…or commanding me to smear my impeccable makeup into the face of a clown….

But he would be paying me for my time, during which I would be expected to do exactly what he wanted of me, so I had to do what he asked, right? This wasn’t at all what I had bargained for when signing up with the well-established local escort service as their newest (and therefore presumably hungriest) “fully-functional” shemale hooker.

Marvin, the founder and owner of the escort service, seemed to take a special interest in “the new girl” and tried to reassure me:

“Mr. Jackson is a regular client. He always wants to check out the new girls. If you do what he wants and he likes you, it’ll be a regular gig. And that can be very lucrative.  He tips extremely well.”

“But he doesn’t want me to wear any panties!” I protested.

“Believe me, he’s totally harmless…. You’ll see. He’s kind of pitiful, actually.” Marvin then held my hand, as it were, by gaming out the scenario in which I was to be the leading lady:

“Mr. Jackson is an older gentleman who owns his own business. As you drive into the parking lot, he’ll be watching from his office on the second floor. I think he even has binoculars. The idea is for you to be very femininely, professionally dressed as if arriving for work, yet underneath having your male genitals hanging out. He apparently gets his kicks from knowing what no one else knows watching you….

“If you look like a drag queen or you can’t pass, he’ll send you away. He might give you a tip, but he won’t pay for the full one and half-hours.” Marvin paused. “Don’t worry, baby, you’ll do fine.”

Still, I just couldn’t imagine getting all dolled up and not having the most basic feminine foundation securely underneath. How could I look and feel feminine if my nuts are swinging while I sashay across the parking lot? Admittedly, the flesh-colored pantyhose that Mr. Jackson had instructed me to wear would hold things somewhat in place. But without tightly tucked panties, there might well be a decidedly unfeminine bulge against the tight skirt I had also been instructed to wear.

It would take 30 minutes or so of driving in the evening rush hour to reach Mr. Jackson’s office in a suburban business park. The traffic was made worse by a heavy rain. I was dressed exactly as instructed, sans culotte. But tucked, like a security blanket, in my purse by my side on the front seat was a brand-new pink pair of Victoria’s Secret bikini briefs, a nice and snug size six.

When I got lost — just like the good bimbo I was striving to be! — I seriously considered turning the car around and telling Marvin I just didn’t feel right about things. Perhaps he would let me try someone besides Mr. Jackson as my very first John? But I knew Marvin well enough to know that he was all about the money, that Mr. Jackson was one of his most valued regular clients, and that my cowardice would no doubt be a career-ender.

I often wonder how my life now would be different if I had in fact turned around that rainy spring evening — and not kept going down the (rush-hour-clogged) road of becoming a shemale hooker?

Being Pampered


When guys ask me (and they always at some point inevitably seem to) “what color are your panties,” I’ve decided I’ll just reply, “They’re color-coordinated with my nails, sweetie.”

What is it about panties? A lot of guys, in my experience, seem way more interested in the panties than in what the panties cover. I guess that’s what a fetish is, right?

Of course, girls like me could be said to be nothing but a fetish! Not a real woman, but simply the idea of a woman. And the clothes that enclose us are what signifies desire…and its sister on steriods, lust.

My lust, I must sheeplessly confess, is fed by the clothes (including panties) that I put on, the sexier the better. So, too, do the acts of putting on make-up or nail polish. For I am consciously making myself into an object of others’ lust.

But more: Doing your nails or doing your lashes requires total concentration (if you’re doing it right, that is). If you’re distracted or rushing, what you’re trying to perfect will ienvitably be flawed. The concentration is such — so complete, single-minded and intense — that it feels like meditation or yoga.

It’s the same feeling I get, come to think about it, when I’m focusing on giving a really good blow job. The same goes even for a truly memorable hand job. I don’t know whether the guys ever really notice, but if I’m not totally focused on what I’m doing with my mouth, lips, tongue, or fingers and hands, I’m just not that into it and get very little pleasure myself.

The one time I’ve tried doing four guys at once — using both hands and both holes — I’ll share this little secret: It’s just one guy too many! The hard cock nudging my bottom is just way too distracting. Simultaneously giving proper head and hand jobs becomes impossible!

You never see a nail technician doing two hands (or feet) at once, do you!?! I rest my case. My case for complete concentration.

Here’s an unrelated, random thought (showing I’m not concentrating on my writing right now!): In an ideal world, my ugly feet would be my only flaw.