01Jul / 2013

Shopping for Meaning

The Thinker?

For answers to life’s most enduring mysteries, go shopping. I have my best, most profound thoughts while trying on clothes in a store’s fitting room — all alone, just me and the mirrors, and clothes,of course, lots and lots of clothes, different styles, different looks, different sizes!

As many choices, seemingly, as there are stars in the universe….

From the suits the sales associate has left with me, I slip on the cobalt blue, raw-silk skirt. It fits perfectly. But the matching jacket is another matter — much too tight around the shoulders!

This happens to me a lot. For there are no hormone therapies or surgical procedures that can diminish my studly broad shoulders. When the store offers the jacket and skirt as a pair that cannot be sold separately, the ethical dilemma becomes:

Do I tell the sales associate that I need to mix and match? Or do I just do it? (And secretly hope that the next customer will have the opposite problem to mine, namely narrow shoulders and broad hips!)

The disembodied voices coming from the adjacent stalls are of no help. The chatter belongs to women who have their own consequential choices to make.

It’s dangerous to have too much time to try on clothes. The temptation is to luxuriate in the possibilities, to experiment with endless looks as if a teenager. Then the paralysis of perfectionism sets in. Before you know it, the morning’s gone.

But the world has kept on spinning:

There’s news chatter about the U.S. “alienating its European allies,” and I think of ugly clothes that don’t turn heads.

“Actionable intelligence” sounds like a snug micro-miniskirt.

And “the end of history” must mean androgyny and unisex (sooooo boring) fashion.

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05Jun / 2013

Cover Girl!

Yes? No? Maybe?

Many of my blog posts will soon be woven into a new book. A memoir, you could say…. with yours truly playing the part of a post-modernist Moll Flanders.

Remember Moll? The naughty but endearing 18th Century slut created by Daniel Defoe, who also authored Robinson Crusoe. My adventures may seem tame by comparison — or maybe not!

Anyway, the publisher is pondering what kind of cover would be best. What do you think of the sample pictured here? It leaves a lot to the imagination…. which is the point, don’t you think?

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16May / 2013

Is Sexting Sexy?

Do you like my hair color?

All bodies are, of course, flawed (especially mine!). Is that why I never pose totally nude for the camera? Maybe. But more:

It’s easier to be sexier when partially — indeed, even fully — clothed. I’m not saying anything new, of course. So the question is: why do guys I hardly even know keep sending me digital close-up’s of their penises?

If they’re simply exhibitionists, I could understand. But most of them apparently think it’s the equivalent of sending me a dozen red roses — a way to win me over, seduce me, make me want to suck and fuck them.

It’s become a pet peeve of mine — these penis pictures. Oh, how I long for a suggestive photo of an ever hardening bulge in an attractive man’s well-tailored pants! Now, that’s something I could happily imagine wrapping my mind — and my lips! — around.

“Imagine” is the operative word. Leaving some things to the imagination is what the very best, most erotic, sex is all about. Frisson, anticipation, creative tension, stories to be told, narratives to be developed, yearning/longing to be explored, bodies to be made beautiful.

So “upskirt” I’ll do — and I’ll have fun doing it, flashing a crotch shot while clad in a chic bodysuit. But a clinical, pantyless, between-the-legs close-up — no thanks! I’ll spare you.

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05May / 2013

Fantasy Girl!

Of course, girls like horseback riding, silly!

A fantasy girl, that’s me, according to a lot of guys. I’m “that girl with something extra!” — the description alone can make those same guys drool.

But what about me? Can’t I have fantasies, too! Sex objects are people, too, aren’t we? So here goes:

I want to be fucked by a stallion. That’s not to say that I haven’t already been fucked by lots of guys who consider themselves human stallions. (Some were, some weren’t…but that’s a discussion for another time.)

I’m talking about a real stallion. Yes, a horse! A horse, of course!

Isn’t that what they say Catherine the Great did? And some people would call me a queen (of the queer kind), right?

But to be honest and practical, I’m sure I’m simply not big enough to actually take the cock of a horse. I would probably be split in half and painfully killed.

Still, it’s fun to imagine — to fantasize about….

And the fantasy wouldn’t be complete without a lot of horny guys standing around watching me and the horse go at it. Their eyes popping out — marveling at the size of the horse and my ability to take it — as the ever hardening bulges in their pants pop out, too.

I’m resigned that my fantasy will never actually happen. So I must content myself with traditional horseback riding. That feels good, too (any girl must admit!), so good, with my legs tightly wrapped around the leather saddle. And, in case you didn’t know, the pommel of the saddle works just like a high-powered vibrator!

Horny guys can still watch (and drool) as I post and canter, with my crotch sliding hard against the pommel and my hips going up and down, up and down, up and down, clad in the skin-tightest of jodhpurs cum scrumptious boots. Up and down….

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22Apr / 2013

Look at Me

Someone needs a new smartphone!

To see yourself as others see you? Or to create the self you want others to see? Either way, you’re an object — most likely, a sex object! So how to explain the proliferation of so-called “self-shots” on the Internet?

Two methods are most common: (1) photographing a reflection in the mirror; (2) photographing one’s self with the camera in an outstretched hand. A third (pre-smartphone) method involves using a traditional camera’s timer or remote-controlled shutter release.

Before photographs there were paintings, of course. That’s when mirrors — or reflections in things like silver teapots, in 15th Century Europe — to capture one’s own image were first employed. Interestingly, almost all significant women painters, much more often than their male counterparts, have left examples of self-portraiture.

These self-portraits of artists open a fascinating window, critics have found, into the self-perception of people with psychological issues typically associated with artistic temperaments.

But what of today’s nude or provocatively clad self-portraitists? What are our psychological issues?

These advertisements for one’s self often convey a strong sense of narrative — as mundane as the style and color of the undies we choose to wear on a particular day to vignettes of fantasy, role-playing, and fiction.

The fact that I am brazenly offering myself up — rather than being secretly seen by a third-party observer/photographer — might make me an even more desirable sex object?

For I’m asking for it, right?

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13Apr / 2013

Reflections: What the Mirror Sees

Don’t you just love the Wet Look Legging Look!

When I look in the mirror, whom/what do I see?

More interesting question: who is the “I” behind the eyes?

Do the eyes belong to the horny teenage boy I once was? Wow, what a hottie!

Or has my vision now been altered along with the rest of my body? I like it when you think I’m hot!

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01Apr / 2013

You Sexy THING You

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….

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27Mar / 2013

Tucked or Untucked?

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?!?

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07Mar / 2013

Mermaid, Me!

Mermaid Style Wedding Dresses

Every girl fantasizes about her wedding. Especially her wedding dress. The groom — no matter whom she is actually marrying — is immaterial, at best a handsome prop. So no wonder that one of the most popular style of wedding dress evokes the fantasy creature of the Mermaid!

And so no wonder, too, that every little boy who would rather be a girl always fantasizes about being a mermaid….

Most certainly, I did. While dreaming of wedding dresses would have been discouraged, to make-believe I was a mermaid simply showed an active and admirable imagination.

I even made several mermaid costumes. Long before I ever became fluent in the word “sexy,” that’s the way I felt with the tight fabric wrapped snug around my legs and butt. That I was so constricted I couldn’t move except to wiggle made the sensations even…yes…sexier!

No longer earthbound, my mind was propelled by my newly created, undulating tail through an endless, sensuous sea.

Psychologists would opine, of course, that transsexuals naturally identify with mermaids because the absence of legs means there can be no genitals between them.

But the poetic interpretation I find preferable and more powerful: Like mermaids, we “shemales” are amazingly fantastic mythological creatures.

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11Feb / 2013

Becoming a Shemale Hooker, Chapter 6

What’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?

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