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!

The Serious Shemale

Instead of short shorts...what if my latest fashion purchase was referred to as  "sea-level-rise-induced-by global-warming" hotpants...would I then begin to be taken more seriously?

Instead of short shorts….

….What if my latest fashion purchase was referred to as “sea-level-rise-induced-by-global-warming hotpants,” would I then begin to be taken more seriously?  Not that I pretend to be a real intellectual or anything, but still….

Why don’t people take us shemales seriously?  Is it because we’re perceived as boys who just want to be bimbos?  The truest and most authentic of bimbos who’re only interested in and motivated by sexy, dolled-up clothes — and, of course, sex itself?

But “regular” transsexuals — those who follow through on SRS (sex reassignment surgery) — are often treated with the utmost dignity and respect.  (That is, obviously, except among Philistines and homophobes!)

Not only are transsexuals like Jan Morris (the travel writer and essayist) and Jennifer Finney Boylan (the English professor and author) greeted with respect, even awe — but also are considered intellectually serious thinkers worth paying attention to.

Part of the reason, of course, is that shemales are often associated with porn and prostitution.  While I personally have never done porn, I readily confess to having worked as an escort (just a euphemism for prostitute!)  But getting paid for sex (or often simply my companionship) did not deter my intellectual curiosity.  To the contrary, I read more now — and am better-informed — than I’ve ever been.  And each of my clients was like a richly nuanced character in the very greatest novels and/or a deeply layered case study in the most intense Freudian psychoanalysis.

My mission, then, is clear.  It’s simple.  You can guess what it is!

“Passing” Pains

Should I go shopping dressed like this?

Should one go shopping dressed like this?

In a remembrance I just wrote of my very first week living “full-time,” I found myself recalling how happy and thrilling it was:


But that’s not the whole story, I now realize.  Memories are tricky, and it’s easier not to recall the pain.

Especially painful was the ridicule I risked whenever I was caught not “passing” as a real woman.  By the time I started living “full-time,” I had enough practice — not to mention invaluable coaching from both T- and Genetic-Girl enablers! — to fool just about anybody.  But, before that, I had my share of mortifying missteps.

The worst were around children, running in packs: “Look!  It’s a man!  A man dressed up like a woman!”

Children, not yet “civilized,” say exactly what they think.  So the horrible conclusion — which, thankfully, I didn’t draw at the time — is that a lot of adults must have “read” me, too.  They were simply too polite to say or do anything but ignore me.

But now that I know I pass I never want to be ignored — and dress accordingly!

For Ladies Only


Knowing how to make men hard doesn’t necessarily translate into an understanding of the penis.

The latest sexting scandal to involve New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner (what an unfortunate name!) means that more and more perplexed women are asking me to help them understand “what’s up” with men and their penises.  Here’s what I say:

Imagine you’ve just stepped out of the shower, your hair shampooed, conditioned, and rinsed…and…and…

And you can’t get your stupid blow-dryer to work!  No matter what electrical outlet you try, you’re frustrated.  You stomp around the house…not one of the outlets works!

That’s what it’s like to have a penis!  You’re constantly looking for a place to plug it in.  (I wish I could take credit for that wonderful imagery, but I heard it from a stand-up comedian a while ago.)  It’s the best explanation I have when genetic girls (GG’s) ask me what it’s like to have a penis.

In theory, a special girl like me (who still has a penis!) would possess some kind of profoundly unique wisdom — and so could act as an honest broker in the endless war between the sexes.  But since my cock has always seemed to act just like a Big Clitty, I don’t know how much help I can really be.

Still, I’ll try…. so in coming posts I’ll share all my most private penis secrets.  I promise!

Decisions, Decisions….

Am I doing this right?  Posing for a camera is harder than you think!

Am I doing this right? Posing for the camera is harder than you think!

Do I dare? Go topless, that is. It’s commonplace — going topless — at beaches and spas around Europe. But, still, I worry and wonder.

Most men couldn’t tell — and wouldn’t care if they could — but I know most women could spot right away that I’ve had implants. “Not real,” their eyes would say. And if my boobs aren’t real, what else about me is not real, too?

I’m inviting needless scrutiny.

And then there’s this: I think tan lines from a bikini top are incredibly sexy. Don’t you?

Look at Me

Someone needs a new smartphone!

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?

Reflections: What the Mirror Sees

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

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!

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….

Just a Cunt, Yes, I Am

Like a horse, I apparently needed to "be broken in."

Like a horse, I apparently needed to “be broken in.”

“Watch where you’re going, you silly cunt!” The man spit the words at me. While texting, I had accidentally bumped into him coming out of a Fifth Avenue Starbucks and apparently almost spilled his latte grande. On the one hand, I found his angry words both deeply offensive and downright scary. But on the other hand, of course, for a want-to-be cunt like me, to actually be called a cunt is always reassuring, even life-affirming.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I batted my eyes. “I truly am.” Those are the words that a true cunt is schooled to submissively say, right? But the teenaged boy still lurking inside me was urging my arms to violently swing my Gucci handbag into his crotch.

Indeed, the lingering hint of male aggression is apparently part of the attraction for so-called shemales — creating a taut, sexualized tension with our feminized features. It took me a while to understand this and learn how to use it.

I had a great teacher. His name was Jay. I met him very early in my transition; I wasn’t even entirely sure then I was a transsexual; I just felt a need to crossdress. His was the very first cock I ever sucked, and it was then that I knew exactly who and what I was.

I remember it was our second or third date and we were doing some serious kissing standing next to his car outside the restaurant. Against my skirt I could feel his hardness growing and bulging against his trousers. My hand, as if it were separate from the rest of my body, slowly slid from around his back and waist down to reach, touch, caress the hardness that my deep kisses had themselves created.

Then, as if I knew exactly what I was doing, surprising myself as much as Jay, I unzipped him and dropped to my knees.

Afterwards,he gave me a critique. But it wasn’t about my oral sex technique; that was just fine, thank you — I had “a natural gift,” he allowed. Rather, I didn’t need to be so blatantly obvious in my oral cravings. “Let the guy be the aggressor,” he counseled. Learning to feint resistance would make any man just want me more.

“I’ll have to break you in,” he announced. That sounded deliciously erotic and exciting, as visions of butt plugs, ball gags, and waist-training corsets danced in my head. And, yes, there was some of that over the weeks and months we dated — not to mention his sometimes loaning me to his friends to fuck.

But mostly what he taught me was simply this: patience and passivity. Those ladylike virtues would reward me with all the cock I ever craved. To be a cunt, desireable and fuckable, I first had to learn to be a lady.

Why, O Why???


You Say You Love Me: This Unhappy Hooker Wants to Know Why

This was not my intention: to become a freak. All I wanted was what any girl wants: to grow into as normal and natural (not to mention beautiful) woman as possible. But something happened — or didn’t happen — along the way, to make my coming of age story have anything but a fairy tale ending. Not that I don’t have plenty of adoring Prince Charmings (maybe too many, moralists might say). It’s just that the girl of their dreams is not exactly what I had in mind for my body.

Most girls, I know, would love to be loved for their imperfect selves. No need to worry about making yourself over according to some impossibly high, unachievable beauty ideals. Plump or skinny, naturally blonde or happily highlighted, short legs or tiny breasts, you are accepted (wouldn’t it be wonderful?), indeed even loved, warts and all.

But, you see, I’m not like most girls, for my wart is a penis. Once, like any normal male-to-female transsexual, all I wanted was wart-removal surgery. That’s why I took up escorting — simply to pay my bills for the never-ending electrolysis, collagen injections, and estrogen therapies, not to mention breast augmentation and browbone reduction and Adam’s apple shave, plus save enough for the cash-upfront sex-change operation itself. But now that I’ve got the money, I’m no longer sure I want a facsimile cunt. I’m afraid I would lose all my clients. They wouldn’t love me; they’ve told me as much. Right now, I’m special.

“A chick with a dick? an incredibly sexy babe with that something extra…38C-28-38, plus 6 inches, cut….” That’s the way my escort service Web page advertises, quantifies, and objectifies me. I have to turn away clients, I’m so overbooked. Most of my business is repeat. One even sends me flowers and pretends he’ll leave his wife for me if I’ll forsake escorting and promise to love only him.

Could any girl, even a genetic girl, ask for anything more?

I tell my psychiatrist this when I have to explain why I keep postponing my final surgery.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “you’ll make a very desirable woman.”

“Will you promise to fuck me, then, after I have the operation?”

He stammers. I make him blush.

“See, no one will want me! I’ll just be another aging cunt.”

His blush gets more crimson, and I can tell that psychology, in the final analysis, is no help. For my fundamental question is perhaps too grandly philosophical: what is the nature of desire, the pull of Beauty and Truth? When I’m layered in makeup and clad in fashionably sexy thigh-high boots, macro-minis, and cleavage-revealing, nipple-protruding camisoles, I seem to have the seductive Beauty part figured out. As for Truth, maybe being transmogrified into some kind of mythological creature — half-boy, half-girl were-woman — provides a sufficiently perverse angle of vision to understand finally and fully the meaning of life?

Angle. What angle? Atrophied to the point of permanent limpness after years of hormone therapy system shock, what remains of my penis is not worthy of the name. It’s good for nothing but peeing. When it stirs at all, it acts like a clit. That’s the idea, of course, and I practice with a vibrator. And when I finally do come, there is no come. My shrink applauds me: I am the best candidate for genital conversion surgery he’s ever had, since I’ve already figured out how to achieve a female orgasm. Even for many of the most expertly carved post-ops, it remains forever elusive.

My escort service owner tells me just the opposite. Like most pimps, he’s not into positive reinforcement. Instead, he gruffly tells me what I must do:

“Look, honey, you’ve gotta be fully functional. Even supposed straight clients demand it.”

“But I don’t want to be a genderfuck. I just want to be fucked like a girl.” I almost cry.

He ignores what I say and hands me a bottle of Viagra. He’s not kidding. “Take one pill fifteen minutes before each appointment. You’ll surprise yourself.”

So much for my dream of being a real woman. And so much for philosophical Truth. It all comes down to physiology in the end. In my case, physiopathology, which the dictionary defines as “the study of bodily dysfunction caused by disease.” If my addiction to castrating, penis-shriveling estrogen leads to dysfunction and my gender dysphoria is some kind of disease, or sickness surely, do men love me simply for being a medical marvel? What other conclusion can I draw?

By the same logic, you, too, must be sick — to be interested enough to be reading this essay. Oh, you’re just curious, you say? That’s what all my first-time customers say.

So you tell me: Why in the world are we she-males, or T-girls, such a turn on? Why? I want to know. Like you, I’m curious. Go ahead and use me. I just want to know. It’s research for my book deal. Once I’m a celebrity, “fully functional” will be needed no longer. People will love me for the real-life, anatomically correct doll I was meant to be.