Girls just old enough to know how to post to YouTube create video selfies posing that question. Often the responses are so downright cruel as to cause possibly permanent damage to a young girl’s budding identity. As for special girls like me, the only relevant question is much more basic, even base:
Am I fuckable or not?
A more lady-like way of asking the same question is this:
Do you like my hair?
On the subject of hair and fucking, August is the hardest month, what with all the heat and the humidity. The better, the sweatier the fuck, the more likely my latest trip to the expensive salon is all for naught…my hair, so carefully coiffed and styled, is now ruined, absolutely ruined. What to do?
Some girls I know invest in satin pillowcases, so they no longer have to worry about frizzy “sex hair.” The silky fabric won’t rough up your hair like cotton pillowcases do, no matter how rough the play. Another way to accomplish the same end is simply to be the dominating girl on top, so the sweaty sheets won’t ever touch your pretty-perfect locks.
For a girl like me who’s not afraid of a lot of makeup — even using a face primer, which smooths texture, boosts coverage and helps makeup wear better and last longer — I understand there’s a similar product for your hair, called Prime Style Extender. I think I’ll ask my trusty hairdresser about this, whether it truly can ensure my style lasts through the sexiest of encounters.
Another solution is simple enough: good old-fashioned braids! Whether your hair’s in cornrows, French braids, or fishtail, you won’t be afraid to get a little wild. Sure braids can get a little messy during your romp, but afterwards when you comb them out, you’ll have a super sexy wavy hairstyle! All the more sexy given the secret knowledge of the naughtiness you’ve been up to!!
Finally, my favorite: the ponytail. When I throw my hair up in a ponytail, I know I’m ready to get down to business! And I do mean get down! It’s the best for giving head. Your hair’s back away from your face, so even if your guy’s into giving you facials, no cum will goo it up. And a ponytail gives a guy a convenient handle to push and pull your head to achieve maximum satisfaction.
Besides — and best of all! — a classic ponytail is really cute.
A “real blog,” according to a recent article in The New York Times, is one that “reflects one voice, is essentially unedited, and causes the writer to experience butterflies of anxiety as she hits the publish button.”
Sounds like how I feel whenever I drop to my knees and unzip a stranger.
Also sounds like how I feel every time I venture out of the house in the shortest and snuggest of short shorts!
Fashion. Sex. And Blogging.
All three have the same goal, now that my bimbo brain is forced to think about it:
To make you — dearest reader/stranger — hard! So, so hard, and thus so, so indescribably yummy.
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!
Some of the most meaningful men in my life have been those I haven’t really known at all. This was especially true in the beginning, when I was first trying out in public my girlish persona. They validated me, and for that, I salute them – all those anonymous men whose lust I awakened! Which in turn awakened my slut within.
The proverbial construction workers who whistled and yelled “Hey, Baby!” Real girls sometimes complain (disingenuously?) about this kind of “unwanted” attention; for girls like me, it provides an incredible rush of badly needed self-confidence.
The timid man — tall, dark and handsome – whom I caught staring at my jean-encased butt as I stood in line for a café latte. Blushing, he quickly snapped his head away. As a man myself, I had done that cowardly maneuver too! So I sent him a lifeline by smiling and saying, “Hi!”
“Hi,” another man says as I’m strolling in a city park. It’s the first time I’m venturing out wearing such a short, snug skirt! I smile, so he follows me and stands by my side as I stop to read a historical marker. He starts talking about the history that happened here; I’m so nervous, I don’t pay attention to the content of his words. He can tell, so he says: “Don’t worry, I’m married, a faithful husband.” Turns out he’s a real estate broker and has a $500,000 house in the neighborhood that would be “perfect” for “a young career girl” like me. A rich bitch, is that what I look like? I don’t mind. Or is it all just a ploy: to take me on a tour of the empty house and then fuck me there? That, I would not have minded either!
Whenever I pull on pantyhose, I think of Ron. Ron, one of my first serious lovers…what’s he doing now, I wonder?
Anyway, Ron had a beard, and the reason he had a beard was not so he would look like a pensive professor, which he was, or a disheveled lumberjack, which he was not, but because he was so damn analytical. And he was afraid of time, its passage, its fleeting nature. If he’s dead now, and he could well be for all I know, his fear would of course have been justified (he would have laughed if he had heard me say that!).
So one day he threw all his razors away – or rather, frugal guy that he was, asked if I wanted them for my legs and underarms – and announced that he would never shave again. At five minutes a day, he calculated, over the course of an average American male lifetime, he would have wasted close to 100 days looking in the mirror shaving. Shaving! He spit the word with disgust.
How many days have I – will I have – wasted pulling on and peeling off pantyhose?
“I really like your scent,” volunteered the woman standing next to me waiting in line at the ATM machine. “May I ask what it is?”
Before I could answer “L’air du Temps,” my mind churned with possible implications. Was she sincere? Or did she suspect something? Her seemingly innocent question simply bait, to catch me, the pretender, the ersatz female, the alien in society’s midst? And my still masculine voice would unmask me?
I smiled, whispered “thank you,” opened my handbag, lifted out the perfume bottle, and smiled again. Show and tell. Or show and not tell.
It’s hard now to really remember, much less communicate, all the little, terror-inducing episodes like this when I first came out as a woman, trying to “pass” and not get “read.” When I did pass, it was exhilarating, the equivalent of getting straight A’s in school, winning the lottery, coming in first in a talent contest, getting the promotion plus huge salary increase, all rolled into one. But the times I failed were worst than F’s; I remember them still as if a recurring nightmare.
Children and drunks: those were the worst. Those are the ones any new Tgirl has to watch out for. They never mince words, never afraid to report, often loudly, what they see — making even the most casual stroll down the street turn into terror. “Look, it’s a man!”