Men I Have Known: Chapter 2

Shaping more than my brows....

Shaping more than my brows….

My very first lover, he was the most judgmental.

It started with my hair.  Too short, he said.

Then my brows.  Untamed, too bushy, he said.

My chest, too flat, of course – he didn’t have to tell me.

Finally…finally…I became what he desired.

And then I killed him.

Sometimes now, in my vanity mirror, I can see his stare still, for his eyes belong to me, you see.  The “he” was once me.  It was he who shaped me…and not just my brows!

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!

Getting My Attention

I want you to want me.

I want you to want me.  Now what?

Now that I’ve got your attention (short shorts never fail!), the question becomes:

How do you get my attention?  That is, how do you get my Big Clitty hard and my would-be cunt wet and wanting to know more?

Catcalls — or the instant message equivalent (“Whassup, sexy!”) — may be flattering but don’t do much to distinguish you from the horny herd.

“Where you from, you sexy thang….”   That pickup line is as old as the rock lyrics.  Even less imaginative: “How R U?”

I’m not about to presume to tell you guys how to do your job, but here’re some gentle suggestions:

Engage my mind.  Tease me with your wit.  Make me curious to want to know you more.

Of course, you can always buy me a gift.  For good girls like me, guilt never fails as a motivator.  Maybe I won’t end up saying “yes,” but at least I’ll pay attention.

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….

10 Stupid John Tricks: A Pro’s Pet Peeves

sex worker1.  Like Congressman Weiner (still can’t believe his name!), sexting a picture of your penis…. As if girls care what it looks like! (“Feels like” is another matter.)

2. On the subject of Congress…. Lecturing me about how clever and sexy the House Republicans are.

3. Running my Wolford’s hosiery.

4. Wanting to wear my panties.

5.  Taking my panties with you as a souvenir.

6.  Screaming out your dog’s name when you cum (and we’re not even doing it doggie style).

7.  Telling me to play with a second-hand sextoy that you brought along.

8.  Taking the entire one-and-one-half-hour appointment to cum.

9. Complaining you’ll go limp if you have to wear a condom.

10. Texting your wife while I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had.

Becoming a Shemale Hooker, Chapter 6

profileWhat’s the hardest thing you have ever had to do?  Learn Latin?  Run to win a 5-K race?  Play hostess at a Black Tie dinner party?  Perform the starring role in your school’s “The Nutcracker?”  Execute a French manicure on your very own nails?

For me, the very, very, very hardest thing is putting a rubber on a limp penis.  I’ve only had to do it once (thank God!), and that occurred during my very first date as a shemale escort.  It was a truly unique skill I developed on the spot.

I could see him go limp as I fumbled in my purse for the condom.  (Have you ever been able easily or quickly to find something in your purse when you need it most, when time is of the absolute essence?)

At first I didn’t think it would be a problem.  All I had to do was lightly brush his sensitive skin with my finely manicured, sexy fingernails, right?   After all, just moments earlier, his cock , though tiny, had been explosively erect.  But that was then; this was now.

Then he had been fondling my own cock, which I preferred to think of as just an oversized clitty.  To be frank, my clitty didn’t like the too rapt attentions of his monotonous, and rather rough, hand motions.  The very tip of my big clitty was actually getting sore; my pantyhose felt like sandpaper.

If I could just make him cum, I would have earned my money, and I could leave.

I pressed the rubber against the head of his penis and clamped the rolled-up sides with my fingers.  Then I took my tongue so that it tasted the rubber tip.  Flicking my tongue, as I so desperately had hoped, gradually stiffened what I held between my fingers — sufficient to gain purchase to unroll the condom.  As it unrolled, my lips parted and slid over the tip and down the ever lengthening, but still short, shaft.

Now my lips and throat and bobbing head could work their gliding magic, and they did.  But, from Mr. Jackson, there were no quickening thrusts and volcanic eruptions, as with a younger man.  Instead, when he came, I heard a barely perceptible grunt and felt the condom inflate like a tiny balloon.  The texture and consistency felt like an over-ripe melon about to melt and get messy in my mouth.

When I left his office, he said a very formal thank-you, and I noticed that all around the walls were hanging pictures of his wife and children and grandchildren (I could only presume, I didn’t dare ask): mute witnesses to the display of his extramarital activities with a shemale.  He must not have cared.

I only cared what he would tell Marvin, my pimp.  Mr. Jackson – I mean Jack (I wasn’t supposed to know his last name) – was one of Marvin’s regulars. What kind of report card would I be given?  I knew it would not be an “A,” because I had dissuaded him from doing what he really wanted – to play with my big clitty.   So was I failure?  Would Jack ever want to pay for me again?  A satisfied, repeat customer?

Or would my very first trick also be my last?

Becoming a Shemale Escort: Chapter 5

secrets7He didn’t try to kiss me.  He didn’t grab my boobs.  He didn’t rip my clothes off, or even undress himself.  Instead, Jack asked me to sit on the edge of the desk and hike my skirt up and spread my legs. He then rolled the desk’s over-sized matching chair toward me and, like an old frayed teddy bear, plopped down in it. His face betrayed a bashful grin as he rolled the chair closer and closer.

I really had no idea what would happen next. But I was no longer afraid, just really curious. So far, at least, if I had to describe him, it would be, as I already mentioned, as an old teddy bear. Gentle but not necessarily cuddly (he was too ugly for that!). And what he was now doing — rolling the chair every closer so that his face was pressed closer and closer to my panty-less crotch — sparked some involuntary whimsy from my lips:

“I feel like my body is a computer and you’re about to start typing on the keyboard!” I laughed.  And he did, too — a hoarse, breathy laugh that tickled my scrotum (yes, his face was that close!).

He nuzzled his face ever tighter against my male genitals, already pressed tight against the flesh-colored pantyhose that he had instructed me to wear. Why he had been so insistent that I wear no panties, I now understood.

If he was expecting me to get hard…well, he would have been within his rights to want a refund. I glanced down and tried to see if he was getting hard — that was all that counted, right? — and I thought/hoped I detected a growing bulge in his pants. Maybe just wishful thinking?

I wanted and needed for Jack to be happy…so that Marvin would be happy…so that I wouldn’t be fired. Most of all, I wanted this moment to be over with, in a satisfactory manner, so that I could feel like I’d actually earned the money. Yes, I wanted to make sure Jack got his satisfaction. Pride in my new identity was at stake.

Against the nylon of my hose, his rough thumb began to make circular motions around the head of my still flaccid penis.  He did it so much and so hard, I was beginning to feel painfully sore and inflamed at the head of my urethra.  I had to change the subject of his attention.

“Let me suck your cock,” I suddenly said.

“With Marvin’s other girls, I always suck their cocks.”  He seemed puzzled.

“Well, give me a chance,” I begged. “You might be surprised. You might really like it. I give really good head.”

Becoming a Shemale Hooker: Chapter 4

callgirl3At first around my waist, gradually sliding down to my butt, Jack’s hand guided me through what seemed like countless doors and long corridors.  The click of my heels and the sway of my hips displayed a confidence I had not yet earned.  Like a virgin acting like a sexpot, down deep I knew I was a fraud, a fake, just a wanabee whore.  It wouldn’t take much to reignite the worries and fears I had felt initially when Jack’s creepy telephone voice was booking our date.

So when Jack ushered me, the nervous Nellie, into the inner sanctum of his executive suite and locked the door behind us, one of my heels snagged the edge of an Oriental carpet. I would have fallen had Jack not steadied me.  All the lady-like poise I had spent months, even years, cultivating quickly melted into embarrassment…and, yes, fear.

“Maybe I should call Marvin…” I stammered and reached into my purse for the cellphone. “… And tell him I’m here.”

“No need to do that, Joyce.”  He handed me an unsealed envelope.  “Put this in your purse instead.”  My fingers opened the envelope and flipped through the bills — four $100’s and one $50.  Just as Marvin — the escort service owner and so, yes, my pimp —  had said it would work!  My estrogen-patch-addled bimbo brain didn’t even have to remember to ask for the money!

What exactly was Jack buying for $450?  I wasn’t yet sure.  That was my appointment rate set by Marvin.  For that amount, the client could have up to one and one-half hours of my precious time.  If the client wanted additional time, it would be at the $300 hourly rate.  Overnight rates could be negotiated.

Everything had to be prepaid, either by credit card over the phone with Marvin or by handing cash directly to me.  If the latter, I would deposit Marvin’s one-third directly into his bank account the next morning at a bank branch most convenient to me.

I’ll tell you more about Marvin later, but at that particular moment I was in awe.  He had thought of everything — as slyly clever as any Wall Street hedge fund manager.  By paying upfront, the client could never be undercover police because that would be entrapment.  And by coordinating all the logistics of the appointment through Marvin’s office, I was reasonably safe: if I didn’t report in by phone in exactly one and one-half hours, Marvin would send one of his assistants looking for me.

Marvin had the address.  He had the client’s phone number, maybe even credit card number.  Marvin knew everything.  My fate was in his hands.  Suddenly I had a glimpse of the legendary power of a pimp:  Marvin had become my God-like protector.

Of course, Marvin at this very moment could not prevent Jack from raping me, killing me, then cutting me up into tiny pieces.  But if Jack was rational, he knew he would never get away with it….right?

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.

The Passion of Trannychasers, the Myth of Romantic Love

tristan“When made public, love rarely endures.” Thus spoke “De Amore” (The Art of Courtly Love), written in the 12th Century. This Medieval tome is generally seen as the Ur-text for Western civilization’s notion of romantic love, its unrequited passion and passionate longing. If this love is ever consummated and legitimized, the passion will inevitably die.

Thus we have soap operas making heroes and heroines of those involved in extramarital affairs. Thus we have Romeo and Juliet. And thus we have that Medieval legend of Tristan and Isolde’s forbidden love.

When they sleep, Tristan places his sword between them. True passion needs obstacles, like a sword. When the sword is removed, according to at least one version of the legend, the lovers must drink from a poisoned chalice.

We Tgirls have our own swords, of course.

Maybe that’s why we’re so desirable? There are always obstacles in the way. And our admirers’ love for us is seldom made public.