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!

Of Time and Pantyhose

Image

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?

Remembrance of Pain Past….

decafashion4

“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!”

Saving the World, One Horny Man at a Time

Super Heroine...that's me!

Should I change my name to Emma Frost?

Super Heroine, that’s me!  Really, I’m going to save the world!  Well, not just me, but all us Tgirls!  Here’s how:

I’ll never – can’t ever! – get pregnant!!

Sex with me is consequence free.  Totally!

That means zero population growth!  Totally awesome!

Instead of the projected 10 billion people gobbling up Planet Earth’s finite natural resources…and fouling our own nest…we can happily fuck away forever.

Added bonus: As a simple sex-for-the-sake-of-sex machine, I’ll never get fat and have stretch marks.

Author & Adventuress

Come “like” my Author’s Page on Facebook!  Pretty please….

strutt

https://www.facebook.com/JoySaintJamesAdventuress

Tribute to a Selfie

He must love me!

….more expressive than words?

Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but…

When a fan sent me a so-called Tribute Picture – my recent blog’s photographic image splattered with his cum – I found it a bit of a turn-on. No, not as much of a turn-on as he had no doubt felt (unlike my mystery man, I didn’t ejaculate!), but still…. Yes, I could sense my Big Clitty stiffening slightly against my fashionably tight-fitted leggings.

Why, I wonder?

I’m not being kissed, not being fondled, not even hearing sweet nothings whispered in my ear.  Moreover, except for his digital moniker and Facebook image, I don’t even know who he is.  Tall, dark and handsome?  I haven’t a clue.

And yet…and yet…we’re now lovers of a sort, aren’t we, my admirer and me?

I guess back in the day of girlie magazines, the models fully expected the printed pages of their photographic poses to be splattered with sperm — splashed and smudged by readers ranging from teenaged virgins to dirty old men.  But these girls never actually saw the physical result.  Today everything is different….

Maybe the Tribute Picture is the natural, inevitable companion of the Selfie.  Both shot alone, now together at last.  True love in this digital age!

Yes, he must love me!

Yes, he must truly love me!

Rite of Passage

Please don't squeeze too hard....

Please don’t squeeze too hard….

Like any rite of passage, the pleasure comes only after the pain.  The pain of dreading it, actually doing it, getting through it.  Then the pleasure of having done it — the most pleasing sense of accomplishment and acceptance that only this particular rite can bring.

I’m talking about my very first mammogram!  Here are some totally random thoughts I’ll now share:

The nurses, technician and radiologists weren’t sadists.  Instead, they were genuinely caring helpmates, as only other women can be.  (Sorry if I’m being sexist!)

I’m so, so happy that I didn’t get implants until after a couple of years of estrogen therapy.  If my implants were any bigger, I’m sure they would have burst during the procedure!

As my breasts were being flattened by the machine — first one and then the other — I encouraged my thoughts to wander — to distract me from the pain.  What better thoughts than erotic fantasies!

So I imagined now in the room with me a lover (or maybe several lovers!) who normally fondled and kissed and licked and suckled my titties. But now he was using a machine to vicariously (and forcefully!) “caress” my breasts. It gave him intense pleasure to see just how tight my breasts could be squeezed!

Thinking this thought — do I dare admit? — I felt something getting ever so slightly hard in my panties.  And I smiled.

“Tighter! Tighter!” he commanded.  And the harder and harder I got.

Yes, I smiled.  The medical personnel complimented me on how incredibly brave I was.

Bureaucratic Confusion!

Too glamorous for a Passport picture?

Too glamorous for a Passport picture?

We all remember that famous story about “The Man Without a Country.”

But what about a Sexual Being Without a Gender?

The Embassy and the local authorities are all atwitter about my Visa renewal….  My name’s been legally changed, but my official sex has not.

Maybe to get all the boring paperwork expedited, I’ve have to give all the bureaucrats each a blowjob!?!

Maybe then they’ll know I’m really a girl….  If I suck like a girl and fuck like a girl, then I must be a girl, right?

Harem Girl (Part 2): Pros and Cons

Which one's the eunuch?

Which one’s the eunuch?

Is it because I was born a boy that I am now Super Rational Girl?  What I mean to say is: Do I still put too much stock in reason as opposed to emotion — always being analytical as opposed to just listening to my newfound woman’s intuition?  Who knows?  

But whatever the explanation, my brain just won’t let me be the bimbo that I want to be!  So as much as I found appealing the idea of actually joining a real-life harem, I quickly made a mental calculation of all the pluses and minuses:

On the plus side, was the money, obviously, that I had been offered.  But perhaps even more enticing was the chance for the uniquely feminine camaraderie being just one of the harem girls — being pledged into a secret sorority, as it were!

A definite minus, however, was the undefined, open-ended nature of what I was getting into — would I be able to leave when I wanted, or was I potentially enslaving myself?  Sex slave sounds sexy…until it’s not!

But before I even got to dress up in my harem costume, or whatever, I would have to have an orchiectomy, my would-be master had insisted.  I’d still be a pre-opt Tgirl, but minus my two balls!  This prospect, too, had its own balance sheet:

On the pro side, no longer would I have to take a daily testosterone blocker.  Henceforth, my good, old faithful estrogen patch would be all I ever need.

On the con side, however, if I ever go through with the actual surgical sex-change, some of the best doctors prefer that the scrotum be fully in tact — providing more material to work with in fashioning a vagina.

And perhaps most important: I think a pre-opt Tgirl, like a candy bar, is just plain sexier with nuts!  That’s yummy me!

So do I want to join a Harem?

Which one's the eunuch?

Which one’s the eunuch?

Is it just me, or do all girls get the wildest, weirdest, most preposterous propositions all the time?  Or maybe it just happens to Tgirls?  Anyway, here’s the latest:

I’m sitting in a cafe in Florence with a girlfriend, and this Middle Eastern guy keeps staring at me.  I guess my top was pretty low-cut, but really — believe me! — I wasn’t at all being purposely provocative.  He wasn’t bad looking himself; and from his tailored outfit, you could tell he had money and taste.  So he sends this other guy (butler, employee?) over to our table to ask if I would like “an audience.”

Is the guy some kind of royalty?  Naturally, I’m intrigued.  So I go over to his table.  It turns out he knows who I am — has even read my blog!  And quickly he gets to the point:

“I wish for you to be my guest.”  He touches my hand and looks deeply into my eyes.  Then he motions to his butler sidekick to hand me an envelop and explain to me all the necessary details.

The envelope, I can sense, has money inside — but the ungodly amount I could never have guessed.  Stunned, I listen:

I have been invited to one of his palaces, where I will join other girls, perhaps 10.  Since I am the only girl who is not born a girl (and am still pre-op), I will first have to have an orchiectomy!  Not to worry: the castration will be performed by the very best surgeon.

“But if the prince is attracted to transsexuals like me, why must I be castrated?”

“A eunuch is allowed to join a harem, but a man is not.”

“Why not just go ahead and pay for my complete sex-change?”

“Because then you will no longer be special.”

TO BE CONTINUED>>>>>>