=Memorial Day sissy=

Ugh. I look fat! I'm hovering somewhere around 125 pounds right now, which, I know, logically, at five-eight, isn't really overweight, but it's as heavy as I can stand myself to be…& still too heavy for my liking!

Note to self: no more chocolate cake for you, piggie!

One of the downsides of hormone replacement therapy is that you tend to gain weight, retain water, and accumulate fat. The gaining of fat isn't all bad, as that's what gives you titties, hips, & a more feminine ass. But the battle to keep weight off overall becomes never-ending. Before hormones I typically weighed between 118-123, depending on how badly I starved myself. I was pretty bony & boyish looking then, it's true, like an anorectic model (which I aspired to be), but still I miss those days when the scale read south of 120. I'm afraid they're gone forever because if I drastically under eat now I get very shaky and lightheaded.

I'm not quite as borderline anorectic as I was even five years ago—sometimes I go up to 2 or 3 days without weighing myself repeatedly—but I'm still weight-obsessed and often consider starving myself to death as a desirable thing to do for spiritual and aesthetic reasons that are way too complicated to go into here. More realistically, I'd like to lose about 3 pounds, at least to start. I can still fit into the clothes I used to have to buy in the young girl's department when I had no hips, but now it's a bit of a struggle.

Poor body image, obsession with weight, compulsive dieting, depression about never meeting some impossible, ideal standard of beauty—check, check, check, check…yep, I feel just like a  woman now!!!

=Better than Me=

Everything is better than me.

Every thing.

A fingernail is better than me.

A cat sleeping on a rug.

A crumb from a crumb cake.

A bloody nose with no tissues at hand is better than me.

Every single letter in the alphabet.

A cancelled stamp.

A mispronounced word.

Better than me.

A booger—yes a booger—is better than me.

Some guy in a wife-beater t-shirt beating his wife in the kitchen downstairs is better than me.

A broken roof shingle lying in the street.

A flat tire.

A sore toe.

A bounced check.

All of them, every single one of them:

Better than me.

Something a truck driver digs out of his ear and sniffs while waiting for a light to change.

A crushed can.

A stitch in your side.

Whatever’s reflected in any mirror.

Mustiness.

Moths in the flour.

Clank.

Pommel.

Stick a hose in it.

Let the air out.

You guessed it.

Rubber puddle.

Better than me.

=improve your self-esteem through hormone replacement therapy!=

Before

After

=David Bowie=

=candy darling=

=i'd like bigger titties but…=

I'd probably have to gain a significant amount of weight or have breast implants to get 'em  Neither of which I'm terribly anxious to do. That being the case, I'll have to reconcile myself to the fact that this is likely as big as they're ever going to get on hormones alone.

=patti smith=

At 69, still a rock icon, probably more than ever, still full of energy, passion, piss & vinegar. Still an alternative sex symbol, a beguiling & unapologetic mix of masculine and feminine, an alchemy all her own. (By her own account in "Just Kids," Allen Ginsberg once tried picking her up in an automat thinking she was a boy). She could be transgender if you define "transgender" in its wider sense, not as merely denoting the transcending of the physical manifestations of gender, but the imposition of psychological and societal roles as well. Why, for instance, can't you wake up a boy one morning and a girl the next? Why can't you be both at the same time, or neither? Why is it necessary to "define" who you are at all? Definitions, by definition, are defining. Once you're defined you're confined. And who wants to be confined by anything? Who wants to be limited? Do you really want to live your life under a tombstone already carved "Here lies so-and-so"? Who thought it was a good idea to tell me that I was a boy before I even knew who I was?  Before I even knew that I was?

I saw Patti Smith last week at an impromptu benefit concert at Le Poisson Rouge in downtown Manhattan & she several times reduced me to cathartic tears of joy. Long-faced and lanky, her unstyled graying hair cloaking her narrow shoulders, she was dressed in a shapeless black coat, but she radiated sexuality, compassion, and magic. Everything she sang, whether written by her own hand or another's, was transformed into an anthem dedicated to the principle of following your own path in life—artistic, sexual, political, personal.  Right now, I'm reading her second memoir:

It's fantastic. I like it even better than her first. Incredibly inspirational. Makes you want to live in the world she lives in—a world where everything is alive and has its own special wisdom to share. Makes you want to open your eyes. Talk to a flower box. Take a picture of a coffee cup. Ask William Blake or William S. Burroughs a question. Even though they're dead.  She makes you believe they just might answer.

=Pop Quiz: What's this got to do with being a sissy?=

A: Nothing.

=pussy & pussy=

Every pussy needs a pussy to love.

=Because Daddy told me to=

"Touch yourself baby," Daddy said. "I want people to see what a naughty girl you are. Look at you, playing with yourself at the breakfast table like a little slut. I want them to see your clittie with the pretty bow on it. Then I want you to come over here, get on your knees, and suck my cock,  you sissy."

=I'd kill myself but I'm afraid I'd botch the job=

and even I can't imagine that my life would be improved by becoming a bedridden vegetable tended by a non-English speaking healthcare aid in a state-run facility. 

I wake up from a dream that it's not even worth recounting: something where I couldn't manage to say a four-digit number no matter how hard I tried. That's all I'll say about it. 

Except that it also had something to do with Maine.

Where I've never been, by the way.

It's not even five a.m. yet but I know I'm not getting back to sleep. I've already begun the day whether I like it or not.

I reach over to the nightstand and grab my iPad. 

I check my email. Deals. Last chances. 75% off. Viagra. Porn. 

There's an email from Satan. I scan it. The usual. Lost soul. Anal sex. Burnt offering. I hit the "keep new" button and save for a more careful perusal later.

Nothing going on at my blog. 

Or on Twitter.

I check my online horoscope and it says, "Wake up and smell the coffee, you stupid cunt! He doesn't love you anymore! What does he need to do to prove that to you? Hit you across the teeth with a shovel?"

I wonder if that means what it seems to mean?

I make another of the vows I find myself making lately. This one goes: I refuse to humiliate myself anymore in any way that doesn't give some guy somewhere a hard-on.

How old do you have to be before you can finally let yourself acknowledge that you're never going to be what you once planned on becoming because even if by some miracle you did become it now, it's already too late; you wouldn't enjoy it; in fact, come to think of it, you don't even want whatever it was anymore.

What was it, anyway?

I'm thinking of getting a "Best if Used By" tattoo and dating it about five years ago.

Later, in the bathroom, I have to remember to check my ass in the mirror to make sure I didn't actually already get that tattoo last night.

Last night. 

The sum total of what I can remember of it: well, I'll have to get back to you on that later. 

Or later than that. If I ever remember.

I make two lists:

Bad things about Alzheimer disease
1. You can't remember shit.

Good things about Alzheimer disease
1. You can't remember shit.

Why do I always want to say Alzheimer's disease. Like it belongs to someone named Alzheimer? Guy Alzheimer. 

My mother died of Alzheimer disease last month. The last six months of her life she'd totally forgotten who I was. She recognized me, but it was as some other person entirely. I never figured out who, maybe someone from her distant past, someone she knew before I was born. Whoever it was, she sure seemed happy to see her. Her face would light up whenever I walked into her hospice room. Not one flicker of disapproval. Not one word of reproach. This case of mistaken identity was one of the best things she ever did for me. Forgetting who I was, thinking I was someone else. Someone she really liked. It was a real gift. For once she was a good mother and I was a good daughter and I knew what it was like to be loved. Thanks, mom.

Because I make up shit like this does that make me an evil person?

I draft a suicide note:

What did you miserable bastards want from me anyway? Fuck off! Good bye. 

P.S. Please take care of Sashimi. He likes the chicken and tuna from Friskies. I think there's five or six cans left under the kitchen sink.

The pinkies on both my hands feel a little numb and weird right now. They keep hitting the wrong keys on the keyboard and I have to keep going back to correct typos as I write this. I keep making the same mistakes over and over again.  Does this mean I'm having a stroke or something?

I once read somewhere that people having a stroke can't smile with both sides of their face. So I stretch my face into a big skin-splitting shit-eating grin. I can see myself in the mirror on the bureau. I look ghastly. I sit there grimacing, quietly having my stroke if that's what I'm having, forcing myself to stay calm throughout. I imagine dying and being found in bed with this big horrible toothy-doofus smile on my face. At my wake people will say, "Well she did die peacefully in bed. That's a blessing. They say she was found with a smile on her face."

Idiots.

Sashimi comes slinking into the room, tail up, head slung low beneath sharp shoulder bones. Like a tiger hunting dust bunnies.

He sits by the side of the bed and stares up at me, yellow-green eyes unblinking. 

His small head is triangular, like a snake's. He opens his white-whiskered, alien-small mouth, but doesn't even bother using his voice. He makes a silent meow instead. He has a mouthful of delicate, thin, needle-like teeth. Like a mackerel.

This is what he's saying: You don't have time for a stroke. I need to be fed. I need to be petted. This isn't all about you. It's not about you at all. Now get the hell out of bed.

He sits there, until I do, using feline mind-control.

Like a ventriloquist, he gets me to say what I don't feel like saying. 

Meeow, I say. Meeow.

I get out of bed.

This, in case you didn't know, is why people own cats.

=If the body is a cheap suitcase, as Lady Jaye Breyer P-Orridge said, as did the Gnostics before her, I was also given the wrong suitcase for my journey here on earth. Is that why I've always felt so uncomfortable in my body, so "not-at-home" in this world? Because I've been traveling with someone else's luggage?=

=woman & 2 vases=

=luscious=

=pantied, ribboned, toes freshly polished=

I'm ready to begin another sissy day.

=woman with cat & penis=

Some non-porn art so that when your wife, girlfriend or employer catches you looking at this blog you can reasonably argue, "But I thought it was an art site!"

=minotaur & maiden=

=Thought for the Day=

Actually, I don't have any thoughts today.  Just a kind of pleasant sissy-buzzing in my head, many fleeting images & half-fantasies of me sucking some guy's cock or taking it up my sissypuss while another guy fucks my face. Or I'm walking through the parking lot of the grocery store and some guy just comes up, takes me by the wrist, and leads me back to his truck and has me blow him then and there. I would do it, too. All a guy, any guy, would have to do is be assertive and I wouldn't be able to say "no." I'd pretty much do whatever he told me to do.  I guess it's a good thing that guys don't realize how easy it would be, although sometimes I wish they did know. I fantasize a lot about being a prison bitch, too. I mean, I wouldn't resist for even a quarter of a second! Resist?! I would hardly be able wait to be the sissywife of the biggest baddest Daddy who'd have me! I know the reality wouldn't be half so delicious as my fantasies, but still—if I had to go to prison for some reason, the chance to be a sissy prison bitch would definitely be an upside!  I'd love to be a prostitute, too. Not for the money, though. I would give all the money I earned to my Daddy. I just like the cheapness of it all. I'm not talking high-end call girl or anything. I'm talking blowing guys for twenties in the front seats of cars or in x-rated video booths. I did that once with my husband before he was my husband. He took me into this x-rated video store in Philadelphia dressed like a tramp in a short pink plaid miniskirt, a skimpy blouse tied halter-style above my pierced navel, and platform sandals. As if that weren't enough, I was wearing a big sunhat. He led me by the hand to one of the booths and I knelt on the sticky floor & gave him a blow job while he fed tokens into the slot and watched porn. The best part was when he led me back out of the shop and the black guy running the shop was leaning on the counter chewing a toothpick and watching me all the way out the door knowing perfectly well what I'd just done. We walked a few doors down for a slice of pizza, my husband not caring if anyone had noticed we just came out of the sex shop. Who would say anything to him anyway? He looks like a Hells Angel. That was the same weekend he peed on me in the bathtub. It was a really great weekend. We got a lot of things established about our relationship that summer.

=sissy action!=

Fuck me now! I'm totally impotent & will do anything for a hard cock so that i can make a sissy cummi…which means only one thing for me now: having you stick yours up my hot, tight sissipuss. Use me any way you like, i'm yours!