e[lust]#47

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) ~

Firm
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
Best.Sex.Ever
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.

Poetry

Watching
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
Should
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


elustbutton200

What’s up with my Titties?

Getting my attention....

Getting my attention….

When I decided to grow a pair of my very own breasts, no one told me how complicated and temperamental they would be.

Not that any such warning would have changed my tiny little mind!

I love them.  Guys love them.  What more can any would-be girl ask for!

Yet…and yet…sometimes it feels like they really don’t belong to me — but have minds (not so tiny!) of their own.

When they’re cold or the subject of “nipple play,” I can understand how they get erect…hard-ons…snap to attention…so hard and sharp, they seem like weapons.  I also understand psychological stimulus — like thinking about something sensual or sexual.  For these special tittie nerves, part of the autonomic nervous system, are instrumental in helping the body prepare for sexual activity.

But why, oh why — for seemingly no reason at all — do my nipples get especially sensitive at the most weirdly random moments?  And sometimes one tittie more than the other?

As the relative new owner of a pair of glorious breasts, I need to know why….

Some wise guy suggested: It’s a sign that I (though womb-less) might be pregnant!

The Ethical Slut

Do I or don't I?  Tell, that is.

Do I or don’t I? Tell, that is.

The handsome guy is ogling you, especially your boobs.

“They’re not real!”  You blurt out, followed by the sheepish explanation: “I got implants last year.”

I think all would agree that’s a stupid thing to volunteer, right?  Stupid, but maybe also the right thing to do?  For it would be ethically wrong not to reveal that which is false about you?

Without getting into the philosophical question of what’s really “real” nowadays, I do want to ask:

What’s the right thing to do for a Tgirl who passes?  Stay “stealth,” or feel morally obligated to announce to any would-be admirer:  “I”m not really real.  My clit is really big and looks like a cock.”

My girlfriends — they’re both real friends and real girls — think I should always play stealth.  They think it’s fun when we go clubbing.

What do you think?

Like a Virgin: Part 2

I'm ready, please, and so is my ass....

I’m ready, so please do what must be done to my pussy ass….

I can remember the moment precisely, the exact words that came out of my mouth when my shrink began our regular weekly session by asking how I was feeling:

“I need to be filled.”

The words just spilled out of my mouth.   I hadn’t rehearsed, I hadn’t reflected.   Never had I acknowledged this feeling, much less articulated it:

Yes, I wanted — indeed, needed! — to be fucked in the ass.

Until that moment, this carnal desire was a well-maintained secret, especially to me.  My consciousness always felt a disdain, disgust even, toward anal sex.  It seemed to have about as much appeal as a prostate exam or colonoscopy.   Plus it was dirty.

But now, having lived full-time as a woman and ingested girlie hormones for nearly a year, I suddenly felt empty, incomplete.  Not psychologically, but physically.   Deepthroating — which I loved! — would never satisfy my hunger.  I needed something more, much more.

The shrink always looked especially wise when he nodded, and he was now nodding vigorously.  “What do you mean exactly?” he didn’t have to ask.  Not only did he understand, but also I was apparently validating all his long-held theories about male-to-female transsexuals.

So it was that, with the good doctor’s tacit encouragement, I began my anal experiments: tampons, butt plugs, beads, dildos, enemas, lubricants….

My boyfriend at the time, very patient and practiced, helped.   The fact that he had a so-enormous-it-was-scary cock helped, too, curiously enough.  Sure, it was plenty painful, particularly at first.

But I can’t begin to communicate how incredibly exciting it was to keep the visual image of his huge, thick, hard cock in my mind while he plowed me.

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?!?

Proposed Sex-Change: What Do YOU Think?

Would a bottom with different genitals smell as sweet?

Like Shakespeare’s legendary rose, would a bottom with different petals smell as sweet?

All my life — or at least since my earliest memories as a little boy who wanted to be a little girl — I’ve just assumed that, when the appropriate time came, I would have sex reassignment surgery (SRS).

But who is smart enough to say what the “appropriate time” is exactly?

1.  Is it now, just because I have a “sugar daddy” who will pay for the operation?

2.  Or is it never?  Because, quite simply, I’m having too much fun as a so-called shemale!

3.  Or (final choice): Like the American Congress, I can just “kick the can down the road” and leave the hard decisions for some other time?

What do you think?  Since I seem incapable of deciding myself, I might as well just throw my fate into the hands of my friends and fans.  Kind of like a gangbang….

So please take your pleasure with me and cast a vote….

I will be forever grateful… as well as, I sincerely hope, forever fuckable!

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….

Passing 101: The Strut

catwalkJust forming the word, saying the syllable, sounds sexy, doesn’t it?  Strut!

Back in the days before ubiquitous computer screens, when people used to go outside occasionally, you could always tell a man from a woman just by the way they walked.

Walk is the wrong word.   To be a desirable woman means to strut.  A man who wants to “pass” as a woman must therefore know the strut; not to know means he will be “read.”  Being naturally tall and slender helps.

To see it: a confident and elegant woman’s tantalizing strut — the actual word in alluring action — can make the most ancient and decrepit of men cry.  The tears are tragic; for the lustfully alive legs and hips creating the strut may be seen but never again, as in their virile youth, possessed.

So it is that to feel it — to actually do the strut yourself – is indescribable.  Maybe that’s what makes it so impossibly hard to master.  If no words exist, how can an ignorant would-be woman ever be taught?

That was the primary reason I enrolled in modeling school – to learn to strut.  Once upon a time “educational” places like this used to be called a “charm school,” and I wanted to learn all the other secret feminine charms, of course.  But how to walk – to strut – was my main motivation.

Everyone was surprisingly welcoming.  No one said I didn’t belong.  Maybe they were afraid some macho boyfriend of mine would sue on my behalf for sex discrimination?  Whatever…. The tuition for the six-week course was the best investment I ever made.  Cosmetic surgery is costly, but learning to strut is priceless.

Even now, after so many years living “full-time,” I don’t always have the steps down.  The strut may be a learned movement, but once learned, it must be as natural as breathing.  If I become too self-conscious, I can look like I’m on a fashion catwalk: my arched back becomes exaggerated, my gait too slow and long, my wiggle just a bit too wiggly.

But when your hips are undulating just right, your stride feeling like a glide, and the very clicks of your heels making heads on the street swivel, you know you’re in the groove…you’ve got the strut down pat.  With eyes fixed straight ahead, mobile device hand-held to your ear (especially if you’re not really talking with anyone!), the experiences you absorb as practitioner of the strut are like no other.  Truly, you see the world differently.

But mostly the world sees you…envies you…desires you.  You’ve got the strut.

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.

gurlygirl

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?