They were going to get on the horse of this new life, real or not, & ride. They were going to tear the very air with determination to win. They were not going to inspect the cause or weigh their slim chances. Life is too short to be afraid of it all your life.

—Padgett Powell

=Sissy Hypno-Mandalas=

Just stare into them & repeat 20x, 

"I am a sissy. I want to be more girly. I am a sissy. I want to be more girly"

It really works.

I'm just kidding.

No I'm not.

Yes I am.

No I'm not

Yes I am.

No I'm...

=The Fran Lebowitz Phenomenon=

Enjoying the rewards of "male privilege"
 in my cherry dress.

I was watching a short documentary about the transgender pioneer and Warhol superstar Candy Darling and was very disappointed to hear what Fran Lebowitz had to say in the short segment in which she was interviewed for the film. I always liked the "idea" of Fran Lebowitz. I was never really that interested in her actual work as a social commentator and cultural critic. As a personality, though, she seems so irresistibly curmudgeonly and outspoken and contrarian. I would have thought to find in her a like-minded champion of the underdog, the outcast, the unclassifiable. I would have thought to find in her an ally. But in this case, at least, she sounded not much different than your run-of-the-mill transphobic hater. Certainly her comments betrayed an ignorance of what it means to be transgendered. They surprised me and took me aback.

What she said, basically, was that a transgender person could never be a "real" woman—only a caricature like Candy Darling—because they lacked the essential early social experience that made little girls grow up to be "real" women. Instead, she opined, transgender females grew up as little boys, with all the inherent privilege that little boys have in a largely patriarchal society. They couldn't possibly know what life was like for a "real" woman. They grew up with "male privilege." 


Well, I guess this is the usual feminist gripe. Many old-school, hardline feminists have a vested interest in preserving the special unique status of women. They can't just be admitting any ole person who hacks off their genitals and puts on a dress into the club. It can't be that easy to become a woman, after all, can it? What's more, how can you continue to argue for how privileged one is to be a man in this society and how difficult it is to be a woman if there are men out there who'd not only rather be women, but who'd go through all kinds of pain, alienation, and ridicule to be women—with the full knowledge that they'll never be fully accepted as one anyway? 

What kind of person would voluntarily give up such a "privilege"? The implication is: only a crazy person.

What's further implied in her comments is that being transgendered is a choice. That a man can "put on" and then "take off" a female persona and go back to claiming his male privilege whenever he likes. However this may or may not be entirely true for a female impersonator, it is not true for a transgendered person. Being transgendered is no more a matter of choice than being born a woman or Asian. It's something outside of your control; it's something you are, not something you choose to be. What you choose is whether you are going to be true to yourself and live your identity or whether you're going to struggle against it, betray yourself, and hide behind a false persona for your entire life. 

Whereas women may be second-class citizens they have at least fifty-percent of the population to call comrades-in-arms. They have an enormous support-system. A sisterhood. 

What does a transperson have? Until very recently. Nothing. And very recently? Still not so much. Certainly, not  nearly enough. And the attitudes of women like Fran Lebowitz certainly don't offer much encouragement, sympathy, or support.

Here's the truth, Fran. 

Growing up as a "boy" didn't do much for me. It wasn't, I assure you, a "privilege." If anything, it was a handicap; at worst, it was an unmitigated horror. Because those things that should have been a privilege were useless to me. Power, aggression, assertiveness, competitiveness, testosterone, a penis (!)—all those qualities traditionally fostered and fed  and celebrated in boys, I felt totally alienated from them all. I felt alienated from boys and the world of boys in general. Whatever advantages I was supposed to have as a boy, I found to be liabilities because I lacked whatever it was that enabled boys to access and utilize them as I was expected to do and those qualities I did have—testosterone and a penis—I perceived as something alien and alienating, a mistake, a deformity.  It was like I'd been  offered a tool designed for extraterrestrial hands for use on an extraterrestrial world. What was I to do with it here, in my world? And the boys among whom I was mistakenly thrown sensed—I don't know how…some kind of animal instinct, I suppose—that I didn't belong among them. No matter how "boyish" I tried to act or, if that failed, no matter how invisible I tried to render myself, I was always spotted, found out, and picked on. I was bullied mercilessly, as if the boys in the pack were driven to drive me out, to destroy me as unfit for survival. 

And where could I turn?

I wasn't a "girl" either. Not according to you, Fran Lebowitz, and not according to the society in which we live and which you represent, contrarian though you present yourself to be.

That left me, like the Candy Darlings of the world, with no tribe to call my own. No place to belong. I lived most of my childhood and adolescent years in the kind of solitary confinement that psychiatrists of prison cultures claim regularly leads to insanity. 

Transpeople have been perpetual outsiders. And where it didn't kill us outright, or drive us crazy, as it did and does to so many, it has the advantage of making those of us who do somehow survive as tough as nails. Or cockroaches. 

You can spew toxic poisons in our direction from now until Doomsday. And we'll obligingly retreat into the baseboards, the closets, the cracks in the walls. But you'll never exterminate us. Never. We've always been here and we'll always be living in your house. Because this is what you don't understand. What we often don't understand ourselves.

IT'S OUR HOUSE, TOO!

So maybe you're right, Fran Lebowitz. Maybe we aren't or can't ever be "real" women. But it's not because we were once privileged males and haven't suffered enough what it's like to be a woman in this society. But because we've suffered more, whether you want to hear it or not. Because when it comes right down to it, a transsexual person is the new nigger of the sexual world. But I, for one, am not content to keep claiming #1 victim status in perpetuity. I've no desire to claim victimhood as my privilege. I really hope that one day as a transgendered female I can relinquish that claim to some other more deserving group. 

I hope transgendered people can one day even dream of being as accepted in society and given the same opportunities as "real" women have today—even if it's only as second-class citizens! I hope that we can be give even the same opportunity to live safely and openly and with full acceptance if not full equality as real women have since the dawn of time! I hope we can be so fortunate as to quibble that we don't get paid as much as men, or, for that matter,"real" women, that our opinions aren't taken seriously, that we're condescended to, that we're treated as sex objects, that all we're allowed to be are housewives. For most transgendered women what you've been calling hell since the 1950's we'd call a relative paradise.

I can't wait for the day that as a transgendered person I can speak on behalf of a group even more disadvantaged than my own. When I can be someone else's ally and champion and not a victim. When I can help someone else up a rung and not merely be clinging precariously to the bottom-most rung. I'm talking the real bottom-most rung, from which I look up at "real" women who are still pretending that the rung they're standing on is the last. Who think the ladder stops with them. It doesn't. We're still down here under your feet. 

In short, I hope I'm a lot more gracious and understanding than you, Fran Lebowitz, you and your kind, of those who come after me on the treacherous ladder to acceptance.

=sissies i wanna be=

Whenever I see a pretty sissie, I have the same reaction that I have when I see a pretty woman. I don't want to fuck her—I want to be her getting fucked. I've always felt this way & when I was young I assumed every little boy felt this way, too.

I remember friends showing me skin magazines they'd stolen from their dads and ogling over the pictures, making crude remarks about what they were going to do with the centerfold. I felt somewhat at a loss, not knowing what they were talking about, having no trace of the urges they seemed to feel. Because I couldn't conceive of their desires, I still somehow assumed they were akin to mine. To me, it was obvious. Everyone would want to be the pretty girl in the picture, the object of so much admiration and the target of so much passionate, slavering, hungry desire. I didn't think of it in precisely these crude terms but later I could articulate it: Who wouldn't rather be the one fucked than the one doing the fucking?  Who wouldn't rather be the eaten, sweet & delectable, than the hungry eater? 

To be pretty was to be something—something people wanted. To want to fuck something pretty was merely to be wanting. If you could choose, the choice seemed to me obvious.

In the photo above, that little sissie looks like a delicate piece of sweet blonde cake & I would love to be her and have a bunch of hungry guys dig into me.

I could play lesbian with such a pretty sissie—and I have done that sort of thing with various degrees of satisfaction—but we'd both know, I think, that it was a substitute for what we really desired: to be fucked by a man. What would be sexiest of all, I suppose, is for us to play with each other in front of an audience of horny guys who'd eventually interrupt the show & "horn in" on the action with their hard cocks. I think I'd like to kiss another sissie while we were both getting fucked hard in the sissypuss. I think that would be a very sexy thing to do. 

=Several Windows=

The golfers dot the green landscape like grazing sheep. The muscle relaxant begins to take effect; it's unpleasant but in a mild way that's almost pleasant and that's enough these days. "An attitude of gratitude brings opportunities," the tag on her teabag informs her. She dunks the bag absentmindedly. The polish on her thumbnail needs repair.

She dreams of collapse—I mean, she fears it. At the beach, the gull looks frozen in a great cube of plastic, like an installation by Damien Hirst. The wind, however, or something, is screaming. 

She wakes up with a pain in her neck she's almost forgotten, turning towards her on the pillow like a lover grown too close for comfort. There is always someone in the driver's seat—a shape, indistinguishable, hard to make out, unless she squints hard in its direction and even then. Whoever it is curses the driver of the car ahead of them, too tentative, apparently, in the execution of what may well be an illegal left turn.

She shrinks back in her seat. She's always suspected that to be almost there is better than to be there. She rests her eyes in the meantime. She hears, but doesn't see, the stone that stars the windshield. 

He'd a cock in my mouth. One in my ass. Another in my cerebellum. He'd a lot more cocks than I thought. Me, a lot more holes to put'em in.

=Home Depot sissie=

Daddy gave me a break and said I didn't have to wear my porno plaid micro-mini schoolgirl skirt and flash my Hello Kitty panties. Instead I can wear something more appropriate. But not too appropriate, he warned. The original plan was to go to Home Depot early in the morning when all the contractors are there. But we woke up too late and now it's after lunch and mostly it's just homeowners and retired do-it-yourselfers and maybe a few contractors and whoever else goes to Home Depot. We're there to pick up a window shade. Daddy doesn't even make me do any needless bending over. I just get to walk around following him mindlessly (the muscle relaxant I took an hour earlier helps) sucking on a bubblegum-flavored lollipop. I don't make eye-contact with anyone. I feel pretty exposed and slutty and embarrassed because in spite of the apparent exhibitionist tendencies I display on this blog where I'm always putting up pictures of myself in various degrees of intimate exposure, I'm really a painfully shy and socially retarded kind of person.

There was a Target next door and we stopped there, too. There were a lot of women in Target and I could sense their silent ridicule at the way I was dressed. I mean pink fishnet stockings to go to Target?! What could I say except that "Daddy made me do it" and I'll bet that wouldn't have been a good enough excuse either. Daddy said I earned a reward and bought me a pair of denim shorts with girly appliqués on the pockets. I might wear them tomorrow when we go bike riding on the boardwalk with his friend.

I know Daddy will tease me about what a little faggot slut I looked like today when later on he makes me suck his cock. But first he'll make me admit that it turned me on to dress like this and tell him why I did and I'll say it's because Daddy told me to and I always do what Daddy tells me to do. And he'll ask me what's the other reason. And I'll say because I'm a little sissywhore, Daddy. He'll be asking me these questions while I'm licking his balls and he'll pull my head up by the pony tail to get my answers, which I'll have to give him in my most baby-girly, lispy, sissyish voice.

I can't wait.

Daddy brainstorms at the site of some possible future sissy tattoos.
I'm not sure if he really intends to have me tattooed, but it's
sexy fun to fantasize about it.

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=Show me, sissie=

Daddy declared this a no-panties day. The main reason is that he wants to humiliate me by having me show him my limp sissyclit on command. "Show me sissie," he'll order. Whatever I'm doing I have to stop, stand in front of him, lift up my skirt…which hardly needs lifting today it's so darn short…& show him my be-ribboned clittie. Then he quizzes me.

"What's that between your legs, baby?"

"That's my sissiclit, Daddy."

"How cute."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"It doesn't get hard anymore does it?"

"No Daddy."

"And why not?"

"Because sissies don't have hard-ons, Daddy. They don't need them."

"Why don't they need them, baby?"

"Because sissies don't fuck, Daddy. They get fucked."

"That's right, baby. So what is a sissie's clittie good for?"

"Nothing, Daddy."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing except for making sissie cummies, Daddy."

"And when do you have a sissie cummi?"

"When Daddy says I can."

 "That's right, baby. And how do you ask for a sissie cummi?"

"I say, please please please, Daddy, can sissy make a cummi"

"Very good, baby. And why do you have that cute little ribbon on your clit, baby?"

"Cause I'm a pretty wittle sissie, daddy, " I have to lisp in reply.

"Whose pretty little sissie are you, baby?"

"I'm your pretty wittle sissie, Daddy."

"And what are you good for sissie?"

"Pleasing Daddy."

"How do you please Daddy?"

"Any way Daddy wants. Mainly by sucking his big man-cock and having him fuck my hot tight sissypussi."

"That's a good sissie. Now come over here and show me how you please Daddy."

It's not always convenient for me to stop what I'm doing to go through this catechism and, frankly, sometimes I'm not really in the mood, but if I betray the least little shadow of annoyance or anything less than complete enthusiasm, Daddy will throw me over his lap & administer the kind of bare-bottom spanking that corrects my petulant attitude instantaneously and I'll have to go through it all anyway. So I'm well-advised to make it easy on myself & do it correctly from the start.

Of course, I know that Daddy is doing this all for my own good. He wants me to be the best sissie-wife I can be and I want that, too.

So all I can say is
Thank you, Daddy!

=New Kindle e-book=

Available now on Kindle for $2.99

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=No One Sees It=

I was at the baby shower and they
were passing out little squares of cloth 
and magic markers. Everyone was 
supposed to write something to the 
baby on the cloth squares and later
someone would sew them all together
into a baby quilt. “Oh what a sweet 
idea!” the woman next to me squealed
and grabbed the cloth squares and a
magic marker. When she was done
she offered me a marker and a cloth
square. “No thanks," I said. “I’m not
good at this sort of thing.” “What do
you mean? I don’t understand,” she
said, looking suddenly impoverished.
“What I mean is that I don’t believe in
birth and I can’t lie. Besides I don’t
even know the mother-to-be. I just
came in for a cup of coffee.” What
remained of the woman’s smile fell
into her lap and I sensed it was time
for me to leave. Outside on the street
I found a man huddled against a wall
asking passersby if they had any money
to spare. I fished a few dollars out of my
purse and dropped them into the brown
paper bag between his crusty bare feet.
I pointed to the café where they were
holding the baby shower. “They’re waiting
for you in there,” I said. “Who’s waiting
for me?” he asked. “Everyone,” I said.
I left him staring off at the café. At the
traffic light a car cut the curb and broad
-sided a bicyclist, who tumbled head over
heels through the air and landed in the 
gutter with a sickening thud. He looked
dead for certain and everyone froze like
they were in a photograph. Then the
cyclist suddenly leapt to his feet and
brushed himself off. “I’m okay,” he said,
grinning. “No problem.” The driver of the
car ran up looking distraught, offering to
call an ambulance on his cell phone. 
The cyclist calmed the man down. “Are
you sure?” the driver asked. “I really
think you should get yourself checked
over at the ER just to be on the safe
side.” “Positive, man. I'm fine,” the
cyclist said. “Well at least let me give
you a lift. You can’t ride your bike like 
that anymore.” It was true. The bike
needed repairing. The front wheel
was wavy as a potato chip. The cyclist
agreed to a lift and they loaded the
injured bike into the back of the driver’s 
SUV and drove off together. An old lady
standing next to me burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. She pointed
to the place where the cyclist lay as if 
dead just a few minutes ago. “No one
sees it,” she said, wiping tears from her
eyes. She could barely get the words
out she was laughing so hard. “I can't
believe it. It's right there in front of 
everyone's eyes and no one sees it
but me!”

=Trans Envy=

What is it about hearing that someone has transitioned from male to female or female to male that seems to outrage people so much? I think it's the prefix "trans." I think it frightens people when instead it should inspire them. Most people, I've come to believe, are actually quite terrified of change. Although they pay lip service to it, when it comes right down to it, they want things to remain exactly the same. Especially when it comes to other people. They want the other people in their lives to be predictable and static, even if they don't particularly like the other person or their behavior! They like people to be like objects, like a stapler for instance. You don't want to put a stapler in a desk drawer and come back two days later and find that it's turned itself into a perfume atomizer. Not when you need a stapler! The nerve of that stapler!

Sadly, I've come to discover that even the closest people in your life, especially those closest to you,  really don't want you to change, not even for the better, not even if the change makes you happier and healthier. "What…all of a sudden you're a vegetarian now?! Where did that come from?!" They're personally threatened by even the smallest changes you might make. You're making their world that much more unpredictable. When a person changes sex it's tantamount to bringing death into their world—the greatest of all changes.  You're dying and being reborn into another person isn't the hopeful sign of resurrection that it could be—instead it's a sign of chaos and disorder.

"So if I say I'm a lion," they'll argue by false analogy, "that means I can be a lion? Just saying I'm something doesn't make it so!"

But false analogy or not...why not? Why shouldn't, at least in theory, we allow ourselves such imaginative freedom to be what and who we want? Isn't that the basis of all hope? Of all redemption? Of all resurrection? That we have the possibility to change. To be reborn? Why should anything be taken off the table? Why should anything be categorically impossible?

People are scared to be who and what they dream of becoming. So they act as if it's impossible for them to even try.
That makes it easier not to make the effort, to remain in unsatisfactory and limited lives, where they don't have to dare, where they don't have to risk anything. I'm convinced that people aren't so much ignorant and hateful, as they are resentful and jealous of people who have the courage to transition, no matter what the transition.

Transpeople are just easier targets than most to ridicule. What I think we're seeing lately, though, is that day by day that's changing.

At least I'd like to hope so.

Knowing how much I've been able to change my life, gives me a more positive outlook that the world can change, too.

=The Home Depot Tree-of-Life Sale=

Home Depot was a madhouse that morning. They were having one of those ill-advised door-buster sales and people were running amok like looters in a riot, wild-eyed, with bags of grass seed slung over their shoulders and carts piled Dr. Seuss-like with flats of pansies and marigolds. I was there for the Tree-of-Life sapling special, culled off the original, if you could believe the advertising fliers. One per customer. I managed to snag one of the few that hadn't already been dragged away by the crowd, a sorry-looking stalk with a few ragged, yellow leaves, and even for that sad specimen I had to beat off one of those old ladies hunched over like a question mark. I was brandishing a small hand-rake I'd grabbed from gardening supplies. "Don't make me use it," I threatened. 

Hey, you do what you have to do, right? This was immortality we're talking about. Anyway, like I said, the tree wasn’t a very promising specimen. Its root ball was practically non-existent and its bark was missing in places, spotted with fungus in others. It came with instructions awkwardly translated from the Chinese, so awkwardly translated, in fact, as to be pretty much indecipherable. It would have been easier if I'd learned Chinese and read them in the original than trying to read that pidgin-English gobbledegook. 

From the little I could garner, growing this tree was the first step in building yourself a soul. Building a soul? You might as well have told me I had to build a rocket ship to the moon! How was I to even start? No way I could do it alone, from scratch. I’d need all of human evolution to do it, from the caveman to NASA. How long would that take? Ten-thousand years? There simply wasn’t enough time. 

Sure, theoretically I had a chance to build a soul and escape my earthly mortality, but it was in the same crap way they told us it was possible that we could win the lottery or grow up to become President of the United States. In other words, forget it. 

The vast majority of us aren't going anywhere; we're going to rot in a box right here under the earth and that’s just the way it is. Let’s face it. Not everyone can be Beethoven or Picasso either. Does it make any more sense to bitch that we can't all be immortal? So I'm destined to be fertilizer for the next generation's crop of Trees-of-Life. Oh well, that's life and the opposite of life, too. I’m sure not alone so how can I bellyache? Why should I be any exception to the rule? What makes me think I'm so special? From what I saw at the Home Depot, it's probably just as well. 

Good riddance to us all.

=sissyfootgasm=

Using a vibrator on my sissyclit
while reading an online  porn story 
about a sissy who is castrated
by her Daddy, 
I make a cummy.

=another ultra sissy day=

Daddy bought me this micro-mini & had me model it today. After dinner, we watched a documentary about Jodorowsky's "Dune" (a film never made) while I sat on his lap.  I ended up on my knees giving him a blow job during the final credits. I think Daddy wanted to get his rocks off before the basketball game tonight which is bound to run kind of late. Actually, it's just starting now, I think.

Anyway, Daddy says he's going to have me wear this skirt and a sports bra (footwear to be decided: either pink sneakers & frilly sissy socks or some kind of sandal situation, probably platforms) and then take me to Lowes or Home Depot early in the day when all the contractors are there. He's going to pretend I'm some slutty housewife he's working for and he's having me show him what kind of bathroom tiles I want him to use in my remodeled bathroom.  Needless to say, it will require me doing a lot of bending over & panty-flashing.

I'm honestly not sure if Daddy is serious about this or he's just trying to get himself hot and me nervous. He's had me do stuff like this in the past so I can't entirely discount it. But I can't honestly believe he's going to have me traipse though Home Depot in this tiny strip of skirt with half my ass hanging out in a pair of Hello Kitty panties.  It will be majorly embarrassing if not borderline illegal.

If he does have me go through with this scenario, I'll certainly report it here!