Thursday, July 28, 2016

=made to be a maid=

Yes darling, that silly frilly little apron most certainly *does* have a purpose!

Saturday, July 23, 2016

=Abduction Under the Sign of the Hummingbird=

 It seems such a shame, she says, to outright kill him, as she signs the contract for them to do just that, or whatever might be its moral equivalent. She signs it in his own blood, extracted by black-clad “ninja nurses” who crept into his bedroom and drew it from his sleeping body just the night before. Though surely weird, it isn’t as surprising as it initially seems;  this business entails so much superstitious bullshit.

The agent, if that is what you call him, carefully examines the nine sheets of paper she has so far signed, or done her best to sign. Her signature is shaky; her hand is trembling slightly.

“These look okay,” he says in his pale voice. “Everything in order. More or less. Enough that is, to get us started.”

“So when do you…” Kathy made a gesture, which, once she realized what it looked like, she aborted, horrified. “…you know…”

She signed instead the last three sheets.

“Soon,” the man says, somewhat enigmatically, gathering up the dozen pages.

He stands up, or is going to. First, he packs up everything in his briefcase and snaps it shut with authority. The briefcase bears a logo, or perhaps it is a crest, that at least looks official in that vaguely governmental way that such crests have. The man himself has, overall, the “faded” appearance typical of spooks, governmental and otherwise. He’s made a lifetime habit of taking parts in conversations just like this one, where one gets one’s point across without saying anything, or as close to that as possible. Even looking at him now, Kathy has no idea, really, what he looks like.

“Okay then,” she says, smoothing, unnecessarily, her navy-blue skirt, “I guess that’s…” She thinks about having a cigarette but doesn’t.  “That.”

*     *     *
 Morgan is watching him, from the sedan, through a pair of high-powered opera glasses, while his partner, Talbot, sketches something, maybe that elm tree by the playground, or is it a linden?

“That’s him,” he says, and adds reluctantly, “I think…”

Talbot looks up from his sketchbook, almost disinterested, and gazes vaguely off in the direction of the basketball court at which Morgan half-heartedly directs his attention. “Which one?” he asks, reluctantly, as if prompted by someone not in the sedan.
“The blonde.”

“Which one?”

“The one in the red shorts.”

Talbot looks confused, somehow, still. So Morgan adds, “He’s the one who can’t seem, for the life of him, to go left.”

“Ah…” Talbot says, but without conviction, or maybe not paying enough attention, once again bent intently, even more intently than before, over his sketchbook, trying to render a fence-post, or, perhaps, it’s supposed to be a fire hydrant. Let's face it, he's earnest enough, but just not very good at rendering reality.

*     *     *
 “Did I do the right thing,” Kathy asks, sipping a chilled white wine at an outdoor cafĂ© in the town's leafy, sun-dappled central square. She has ordered a cold chicken wrap and waits for it, thinking, maybe, that she should have ordered something else. Alyssa, who sits across from her, although Kathy keeps momentarily mistaking her, with her hair done like that, for the red-headed Beth, is still picking, against all odds, at her arugula salad.

“Hmm?” she says, smiling, pretending she’s still chewing. “The right thing about what, exactly?”

“About Kenny…you know.”

“Oh yes…oh Kenny…” Alyssa, formerly Beth, waved her fork, momentarily empty, in a little circle in the air, “…he’ll get used to it…I guess.”

It was possible, Kathy mused, sipping her white wine again, that her friend had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes, she thinks, I’m not sure I do either. Maybe, just maybe, it’s true that all her more or less happy friends, like Alyssa, are right when they tell her: it’s much better that way.

*     *     *
 “It’s all for the best,” that’s what they always say, and that’s what she is saying now. Kenny is crying, shaking, his slender blonde body, naked, golden, in the last light of an autumn afternoon. This is supposed to be a doctor’s appointment, a routine exam for life insurance, something like that, and instead he is here, in a room at an inn by the sea, having what might be an affair, but sure doesn’t feel like one.

Mary Pat is holding him, stroking his limp penis, comforting him, telling him it’s okay to make a mess, they will have to strip the bed anyway. In all likelihood, they’ll probably roll him right up in the sheet when they’re finished, to get rid of, as she, rather matter-of-factly, puts it, “what remains of the evidence.”

“She’ll find out…she knows…she…?”

“Its okay,” Mary Pat says, and Kenny notes the tone of her voice: tenderly amused. It’s meant to be reassuring and it really does calm him, momentarily. “Its okay” she repeats herself, and, surprisingly, it really does seem okay until he decides to ask the next question.

“When…will they…”

“Oh darling…”

Mary Pat’s own penis, shall we say it, is still inside Kenny’s ass right now, and she is moving her hips ever so slowly, letting Kenny feel it inside him, filling him, as she kindly strokes Kenny’s indecisive little member, which harden and softens, hardens and softens, endlessly, as if he has an entire lifetime to cum, but he doesn’t.

*     *     *
 "This boy, pleases me," said the man in the armchair, via computer, as he typed out the words with his thumb on the abbreviated hand-held keyboard concealed in his left fist. "He pleases me, do I dare to even say it in italics...greatly."

Across from him, his visitor nodded, politely, accepting the compliment. J. Loft had a reputation as a man who could please men who were difficult to please. Unlike some men with a similar reputation, J. Loft also had the talent to back it up, which was fortunate because such men were often irascible, unreasonable, and dangerously negative. The man who sat opposite him was such a man. He had lost his voice, and much of everything else, to what it is easiest to simply call “cancer” and leave it at that. But it’s much more complicated than that.  He has been kept alive, marginally, with certain experimental medicaments. The ingredients to these not-quite-miracle drugs, although not exactly uncommon or even expensive, were, how can we put this as delicately, as diplomatically as possible?

Let’s just say they are “inconvenient.”

"What is extra pleasing," continued the man in the armchair (let's call him R.), "is the symmetry of the entire operation. There is an aesthetic circularity to it all that is rare to find these days. In evil, I mean. Do you understand?"

J. Loft did not understand, not really, but he nodded, like a fellow adept at these matters, instead of a businessman, a provider of special services to those who could pay handsomely for the provision of special services. He found it a pleasure, really, after so many years in covert work, not to be pestered with a thousand-and-one unnecessary questions from above: did you cover your tracks, leave any witnesses, clues, hints, loose ends, etc. and to work instead, sans supervision, under the assumption that he was competent enough to do the job he'd been hired to do, to be treated, in other words, like the professional he was.

"I am a man who enjoys being a man," his employer continued, "even in my…somewhat…erm… diminished…capacity. Perhaps…" and he gazed outside, fondly, towards the pool, where three turquoise dolphins were playing, "all the more so for my diminution."

J. Loft didn't speak; he wasn't paid to speak, so he was fairly stingy with his words. He wasn't paid to listen, either, but, of the two, the latter was by far the more appropriate, closer, in any event, to what he was getting paid to do. Using his time economically, he thought of his next job as the man spoke, making a mental checklist: silencers, curare, a pear-shaped vibrator, a chastity belt, and plenty of pink electrical tape. Tools of the trade.

"It's not exactly as if the boy will be separated from anything he'll really miss," the man in the armchair was saying. His voice, naturally not his own, had been programmed and remixed from old movies. It was a mash-up of the voices of Cary Grant, Robert Mitchum, and, of all people, Marlene Dietrich. "Well…" he started, but could not go further. He was doubled over, guffawing uncontrollably, the tears streaming down his face. Apparently, he’d accidentally pressed the button that activated a laugh track.

J. Loft supplied what should have been the punchline. "Not anything except, perhaps, his life."

*     *     *
 The man in the black suit looks at a small pastel-colored business card in the palm of his hand and says: "Are you Mr. Gregory Tanner?"

"No," Kenny says, but the encounter has him,  admittedly, unnerved. He has been getting phone calls for the last three weeks, every day, the anonymous voice on the other end asking the same disembodied question. "No," he repeats, but without much conviction. As if he knows instinctively it is pointless: he can't convince anyone of anything. "I'm not this man."

"That's funny," the man in the black suit says, checking the business card again. "It seems quite impossible from the information that we’ve gathered that you aren’t Greg Tanner. Are you quite certain?”

“Why…yes. I’m sure. I don’t even know any Gregory Tanners.”

“How can you be so certain that you aren’t Mr. Tanner then? If you don’t even know who he is?” 

They are in a supermarket where Kenny has gone to pick up some milk and bread and a few other items Kathy has asked him to bring home. They are standing, for no good reason, in front of the frozen food section, where they have the Indian dishes, various sorts of masala and makhani and saag paneers and whatnot.

"Sir…I really should go…"

"Yes you should."

But the man in the black suit, his name, what he claims his name is, anyway—Talbot, wasn't it?--doesn't move and it's clear that he doesn't intend to let Kenny pass either, not yet. Instead he lifts his left hand to Kenny's face, and lays it almost paternally against Kenny's right cheek. What Talbot says next, he says in a very soft voice, "You are warm, sweetheart…"

Kenny imagines, wildly, that this anomalous gesture is some kind of signal to hidden cohorts. That he is about to be arrested, thrown against the freezer doors, cuffed, driven away to an undisclosed location.

"I want…to buy…wildflowers…" he says, desperately, and gestures, feebly, towards the front of the store, where the exit is, and the floral bouquets, both of which are impossible to see from where they are now standing.

"Yes, naturally, but they must be red carnations," Talbot says and allows Kenny to think that he's finished with this unsavory encounter by the frozen foods for some blessed seconds before he adds, "no, white. The red will show wonderfully against your alabaster skin. "

*     *     *
 "This tastes so scrumptious," Kathy murmurs, her face between Pam's legs, licking—short stroke, long, short, short, long etc.—a hashish chocolate mousse that Pam had her Peruvian housekeeper whip up in the kitchen some hours before. Kathy pauses, replacing her tongue with a gentle finger, and says, licking her lips, "Are you sure your mom won't be home any time soon?"

Pam is looking at her right nipple, squeezing it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, examining it, as if seeing it for the first time, wondering what it was doing there or, as if she weren't really seeing it at all and trying to convince herself of its presence.

"Sweetie?" Kathy prompts.

Pam looks up, pouting, automatically, and for some reason Kathy thinks of her husband, standing in front of a full-length mirror, on painted tiptoes, following with his similarly feminized hand the delicate curve of his arched spine and pantied tush. The photograph, taken, supposedly, at an oceanside hotel resort, did not seem to be of Kenny at all, but when she questioned the man who slid it, along with others, across the glass-topped table in the atrium of the downtown Marriott, she remembered him saying, "Oh, but it will be."

"Huh?" Pam says, looking, with her new haircut, remarkably like Alyssa, who looked like red-headed Beth, only with her hair pinned up and blonde; Beth, who was, of course, her mother. "Did you say something?"

"Yes…no…never mind…your mom, she's in Bucharest, isn't she? She told me last Tuesday."

"No, I think its Gdansk."

"Hmm," Kathy hums. "Well, anyway, I guess I should be getting…" and she notices just how spacey the hashish, or the champagne, or the sex, or all three are making her feel and sound.  "…Somewhere."

"I haven't come yet," Pam says, sounding unashamedly spoiled, petulant, childish. She picks up a joint, already lit, from somewhere, from a small change pocket in the side of her neck is what it seemed like, but, of course, couldn’t be. Her eyes look, somehow, inverted.

Kathy absently strokes the girl's soft white belly, just below the navel, pierced, as expected, and the intention, clearly, is to return to licking her moist, very lightly furred pussy, now oozing chocolate chiffon, but that's not what's in the cards, so to speak.

"Lick my toes," Pam says urgently. "That will get me off quick."

Kathy, who knows this kid's body as well as her own, never suspected this about Pam, but the idea excites her, and she immediately thinks of placing halved strawberries between the girl's notoriously perfect white toes, the image reminding her, effectively, of strawberry shortcake.

"Could you please," Kathy says, thus inspired, her breath hitching a little, "ring the kitchen?"

*     *     *
 In an over air-conditioned hotel room, Kenny stands, hugging himself, in a pastel-colored bra and panties set. His work clothes are hanging in the closet, and a small overnight bag, containing white platform sandals, a white teddy, and white thigh-high stockings is on the bed behind him. He is waiting for someone, probably Mary Pat, who is late, or not coming at all. It’s also possible that he has checked in here alone, content to simply look at himself in a full length mirror, stand on painted tiptoes, admire the line of his paper-thin profile, from shoulder-blades to well-turned ankle.

He is aware, of course, that he may have been followed, or that the room itself, as improbable as it might seem, is being monitored, and, how improbable is that really, nowadays? Is Kathy having him watched? Does she suspect something? Is she preparing papers for divorce?

He slips his hand over his soft tummy to the front of his panties, silk, impossibly cool, under his trembling fingertips. He isn't hard at all, which makes perfect sense; it comes as no surprise. He’s been taking those pills that come in the mail, sent, by god knows who, to his office. The packages come on the sixth, ninth, fifteenth, and twenty-seventh day of each and every month since he can't even remember when.

*     *     *
 "I don't like having to do this," Mary Pat says, tossing back his blonde hair, a cigarette between his fingers, in the process of being lit by a man calling himself (once again) Talbot. "I want you to know that. I want it noted in the record. I don't like it at all."

The man in the black suit is standing against the railing of the boardwalk, his back to the colorless ocean, which lies flat and dull behind him, like a razor blade used too many times. He puts the cigarette case back into the breast pocket of his black suit, returns the light to the pocket of his black pants, and folds his arms, looking down at Mary Pat with a false benevolence.

"We understand," he says, as if speaking for the majority of people in the world. “You might even say it is the very reason that we chose you."

"He is my friend, goddammit…" Mary Pat dragged nervously on the cigarette, which tasted, surprisingly, normal. He shifted his weight on his long legs, his short skirt riding upward, almost over the tops of his stockings. His white blouse, partially unbuttoned, showed a pink bra, and not as much in it as he would have liked, but that was a situation he was in the process of correcting, even as he spoke. "It's just not fair…what you are doing…to me, to us…"

Talbot, or whoever it was, nodded. “Duly noted.”

*     *     *
 “Sometimes you have to get past the superficial differences between people,” R. says, talking to himself, yet all the while imagining that he’s talking into a tape recorder. “But, in the end, they are all basically the same, as most couples are revealed to be, after a little surgery, which proves, as if it needs proving,” and he pauses for a wracking series of coughs that sounds like a wet fish being slapped on a sidewalk.

When he resumes speaking his voice might be coming from a different person altogether. In fact, it is. His head, immobilized for his own safety, doesn’t move, but his eyes flick left-right, right-left, left-right, right-left, etc. to the two photographs pinned side by side on the light-box. Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, etc.

“…which confirms,” and he struggles to form the words out of the poisonous phlegm thickening his windpipe, “that we only love ourselves.”

*      *     *
On a canvas lounge chair, on the porch, Kenny lies, his thin, tanned, well-toned body barely dressed, he can't help but notice, in a royal-blue bikini, very skimpy, and a needle stick in the back of his left hand, an IV dripping into him, slowly. What is dripping into him, however, is a mystery, and although he could theoretically ask one of the nurses, or whatever they are, who come by occasionally to change the bag on the metal pole, he is, in practice, either asleep when they come, or somehow, he forgets to ask.

"Don't I need to get back…to something?" he asks someone, maybe it’s Mary Pat, who sits beside him, reading an old fat novel.

It’s not the sort of book anyone really reads, although it’s creased and worn as if a thousand hands have flipped its pages. Something she must have found in the day room, something by someone named…oh, he can't see the name, what's the difference anyway?

Mary Pat, if it’s her, lowers the book. Her eyes are hidden behind very dark glasses. She smiles.
"There’s no hurry," she says.

The way she says it brings tears to Kenny's eyes.

"I'm very tan," he says irrelevantly.

 Just for the hell of it, he tries to remember when the last time he ate might have been, but he can't think back that far. "And very thin. I guess…" and his eyes fall level on the ocean, swollen and blue, over the porch railing. Suddenly he has a thought: "…will they drown me, then?"

Mary Pat pretends not to hear, or maybe she really doesn't, but some time later, in response to some other dreamy half-sentence that Kenny utters almost without knowing it, she chuckles affectionately, and says, "You're so silly."

*     *     *
 She reads about it in an online edition of an out-of-state paper, in the news of the weird section, or something like that, and even though she sits on the deck in a yellow string bikini in the 93 degree heat of a central Florida afternoon, she feels as if a cold shadow passes over her.

That woman in the photo looks so much like me, she thinks, it’s a good thing they found the body in a motel room where…?

She checks the article again.

In Minnesota.

The glass door slides open and Kenny stands there with two tall frosted glasses of lime-slush and gin. He’s wearing a tiny bikini bottom and a pink pair of her rubber thong platform sandals. His oiled body is smooth and slender and tan all over. Looking up at him, she knows the news story of the murdered woman is all wrong, full of misstated facts, faulty deduction, and wrongly arrived at conclusions, but that doesn’t make it any less eerie.

“Mojitos, sort of,” he shrugs and smiles with the forced cheer of someone with a gun at his back. 

Then, mirroring Kathy’s troubled expression his demeanor suddenly changes to something slightly less faux, “…is something…wrong? You look…” but he’s waiting for Kathy to fill in the blank, which she never quite gets around to doing. Or maybe she can’t, and she’s waiting for him to…what?

Whatever it is it remains unspoken, a blank space, but underscored, highlighted, set off in parenthesis, to remind them always that something, some crucial something, will always be missing.


Tuesday, July 19, 2016

=Goldilocks=

I don't know about beds & porridge. I suppose they can be too hard, too soft, too hot, too cold. But as far as I'm concerned, every cock I suck is just right.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

=My mouth is your pussy, Daddy=

Aside from it being a sexy thing to do, arguably the sexiest, I also find it very relaxing, even meditative. 

Of course, there are the hot, sweaty, nasty blowjobs where a guy has his hand on the back of your head & he's grinding your face into his crotch & telling you to "take it all you sissybitch, I want to feel your lips on my balls." There are the blowjobs you give on the sticky floors of x-rated video booths, on the gritty concrete stairwells in the backs of buildings after midnight, leaning over the center console in the front seats of cars, in hotel rooms with a guy you met only moments before while Daddy watches you from an armchair. I like these blowjobs, too, but they aren't relaxing. You aren't meditating when you're giving these kinds of blowjobs. These blowjobs really are more like jobs. These are blue-collar, down-and-dirty, manual labor blowjobs. Work you enjoy, but work nonetheless. 

What I'm talking about are the leisurely good-morning blowjobs you give a guy who's just waking up. Or the sleepy late night blowjobs you give him to relax the last part of him still awake. You nestle down between his legs and mindlessly suck his cock as if it were a pacifier. Not being a smoker, I imagine it's a little like smoking, very calming, very relaxing, and yet mentally stimulating at the same time. I'll find my mind drifting pleasantly while giving these kinds of blowjobs. I get all kinds of inspirations, sexual and non-sexual.

Sometimes I'll think about what I'm going to wear that day or what I'm going to cook for dinner or what I'm going to read next. Sometimes I'll recite Emily Dickinson poems that I've committed to memory. Or I'll plot out a short story.  Or get an idea for a painting or drawing or poem. I might drift off into a sexual fantasy. Or into a dream. I've given so many blowjobs at this point that it's kind of like driving to the supermarket. I can do it on auto-pilot.  I make the proper turns without having to think out the route beforehand. I don't have to think about anything while I'm sucking cock. That's part of the beauty of it.

Every so often I bring things back into focus, gauge how far along we are, and I'm always aware when the big moment is about to arrive. At this point, I snap back to the present & give my full, undivided attention to the business at hand. Anything less would be a dereliction of duty! Pure sacrilege! An orgasm is a sacred moment, like the priest consecrating the wafer. More sacred than that, even!

Sensing he's reached the point of no return, I intensify my efforts. I open wider and relax my throat to take him all in. I massage his balls. I run a finger along his perineum. Or gently pump the base of his cock with my fingertips. I find it helpful to start swallowing before the cum starts shooting into my mouth. You never know. He might shoot so much it starts coming out your nose like soda. I've had it happen and it's a bit messy. So I start swallowing early. 

I keep his cock in my mouth after he cums. I don't pop it out immediately as if to say "whew, glad that's finally over!" I make sure he knows I enjoyed myself, too. Plus there are still little aftershocks of orgasm left in a spent cock that can be enhanced by a pair of soft lips and a gently massaging tongue. When he's truly finished, I lick him clean. I sit back on my heels. I remember my manners. I say, "Thank you, Daddy."

And it's true. I am genuinely thankful. I don't just like to suck cock; I love to suck cock. Even more, I need to suck cock. I'm sure glad there are a seemingly never-ending supply of guys out there who need to have their cocks sucked every bit as badly as I need to suck them!


Monday, July 11, 2016

=Survivor=

You’ll have to forgive me
I’m not in my right mind
anymore. By now
I’ve had a lot taken out of me.
It was inevitable, I guess,
considering how it started.
All those years of lying
have left me hoarse
like Babe Ruth
with cancer
a whole stadium hushed
to hear death
whispering.
I’ll show you the scars
if you like
where they cut the song
right out of me
and if you don’t like.

Go now, its best if you do,
there’s nothing here to love,
just a lot of holes
where someone has been before.

What’s a survivor, anyway,
but a map of mistakes,
of paths best avoided?
Am I here to teach you something
do you think,
to inspire you
to comfort you
or am I just a sideshow freak?
I didn’t come through the fire
for you,
for anyone,
not even for myself.
Truth is, when it burns,
you just go to the place
where it stops burning the most.
That’s all.
That place is here.

I’m talking now because it still hurts
and won’t stop
and though its quieter
and sounds almost reasonable
please understand
that I’m not talking to communicate anything
that what you’re hearing is nothing
but the fading of a scream.
















Saturday, July 9, 2016

=Dreams don't just come true=

There's probably no tragedy greater in life than in thinking it's too late until it really is too late & consequently never becoming and doing what you were meant to be and do.

But then it can seem "too late" even relatively early on in your life.


It can seem too late right out of the gate.

What if, before you quite know what's happening, you already have a family—a wife, a child, a career—and only after several years do you come to realize, singing along with the Talking Heads song you play over and over and over, "This is not my beautiful home. This is not my beautiful wife."?

What then?

How do you disentangle yourself from all that? Haven't you already irrevocably set your course? Haven't you made your bed & now aren't you required to sleep in it? Is there really an honorable way to bail out of a life taking you where you don't want to go without causing everyone else on the plane to go down in a fiery crash?

 "It's never too late to be who you were always meant to be." A line commonly misattributed to George Eliot, but true nevertheless whether she said it or not. Whether anyone ever originally said it or it just kept getting repeated.

You can only be who you are at this present moment no matter how many moments you've already lived or how many moments are left to you in the future. Now is all you have. You can wake up this morning, right this very moment, and be who you were always meant to be and you won't be any less who you are in this moment than if you lived this way for the last fifty years. The past doesn't count. You are who you are now.


So,  if only theoretically speaking, it really is never too late.

But it's hard. Sacrifices have to be made. People will very likely be hurt. How selfish are you prepared to be? Is it really being selfish if by being anyone other than your true self you aren't yourself at all?


Are you really good to anyone as a fake? A fake husband? A fake boyfriend? A fake lover? A fake father? A fake son? 

A fake?

Don't other people, especially those who claim to love you, have a responsibility to love who you really are?

If they don't, did they ever really love you to begin with? Wasn't their love conditional on an illusion, on a need, on a fantasy of their own? Is conditional love really love? Isn't conditional love selfish? Aren't they being selfish to expect you to fulfill their needs? 


Isn't everyone, ultimately, selfish?

Isn't that a precondition to having a self?

If you aren't for yourself who will be?

If you aren't selfish, how can you be for anyone's else's self?

Let's stop being so abstract.

How do you find the strength, the courage, and, yes, the ruthlessness to stop the locomotive force of your life once it's set in motion down a one-way track and send it off in another direction—a radically different direction?

I wish I knew. I wish I'd had the strength, the courage, and, yes, even the ruthlessness necessary to make the changes that I made. Instead, I changed the course of my life through a series of largely unplanned breakdowns, negations, and accidents.

I changed almost by a kind of default—a default on my former identity.

My life was simply wrong, all wrong. My marriage—a mistake to begin with, entered into out of a desperate need to please, a false sense of heroics, an infantile need to escape from a bad childhood and flee into a sense of mature, if false, security—was failing, falling apart at the seams, unsatisfactory in every way, on both sides, mine and hers. I wasn't the biological parent of the child I called my "daughter" though I convinced myself it made no difference, that I couldn't love her any more if she were, though I'd never wanted children, didn't believe bringing children into the world was a good idea or that I could ever be a good parent or that our marriage could withstand the pressure a child would bring. I was caught in a job that I never really wanted but couldn't leave because of financial constraints that I would never have put myself into if I weren't married to someone who wanted a kind of material and social life that ultimately I didn't only not want, but instead despised for it's convention and conformity.

Listen, the fault was ultimately mine. Mine for being too weak to say "No." And sticking to my guns. Mine for not knowing who I was, what I wanted, and having the courage of my convictions. Mine for being an adult in age but an abused child psychologically, dominated in a society that doesn't accept that men can be dominated by women or that men may not really be men at all despite all outward appearances to the contrary. 


Following an instinct, searching for some fleeting glimpse of myself in the world "out there" that the internet suddenly made available, I discovered transgender stories & pictures which described and illustrated a reality I had only up to now fantasized about—a world I thought I alone lived in, dreamed of, wished for. I discovered transgender chat rooms & a population of others similar to me. I drifted into a shared fantasy world that seemed not only more desirable but more real than the supposedly real world that took it's place when I logged off my computer. Still, I didn't understand the implications of what was happening, of the double-life I was living and what it meant. I didn't realize that I wasn't just fantasizing about being a woman, that instead it was a kind of destiny. That by investing so much energy in a fantasy world I was, as if by magick, making it an eventual reality by degrees so fractional I didn't see it coming.


For some time already, my mental health had been under assault. Anxiety attacks so crippling I could barely make the 15-minute walk from the bus station to my office without shaking, sweating, & feeling like I was going to collapse at any moment. Once in my office, I'd shut the door, lie on the floor with my eyes closed, and wait for the nauseating vertigo to subside. Sometimes it didn't. Back home I'd sit on the couch with my heart stuttering and racing for no apparent reason. I was taking 3mg of Xanax a day. Anti-depressants. Anti-palpitation drugs. I was having suicidal thoughts. Everything seemed unreal, like I was watching the world around me through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, hearing it as if I were underwater. Once I pulled off into a parking lot to calm down after realizing with a shock that I had been about to  impulsively jerk my car sideways into a tree. I starved myself. I hit myself repeatedly in the face under the guise of "exercising." At work, I told them I was taking boxing lessons to explain my blackened eyes, my swollen lip.

Looking back on it all now, with a shudder, I realize that I was heading for either a major illness, a complete psychological breakdown, or suicide, either planned or "accidental."

Instead, there was an ill-advised, largely unconsummated & mostly emotional pseudo-affair which I readily, voluntarily, unnecessarily and probably foolishly confessed,  hoping it would finally convey my extreme distress, my desperate need to change things at least a little, but instead led to what seemed a sensible trial separation to sort things out, or so I thought of it, until locks were changed and divorce papers were quickly served up the minute I was out of the house, a legally strategic, completely untrue charge of abandonment, a bankruptcy, a punishing 18-month ordeal through family court during which I fought for the right to see my daughter who I loved more than any other single thing in my life but by the time it was over and I'd "won" the psychological damage done could never be undone and eventually ended up in a permanent (?) estrangement; there were ill-advised, self-destructive relationships, dangerous situations that amounted to unacknowledged suicide attempts,  and all the while a grim, joyless soldiering on at a job I hated more than ever since it no longer even supported the lifestyle I hadn't wanted in the first place but had to provide for two households…until, finally, mercifully, at just the right time and through no fault of my own, the economy collapsed and "my position was eliminated."


"Your position has been eliminated," I was informed. 
Truer words in so many senses had never been spoken.

What I'm trying to say is that it's easy to say "live the life you were meant to live before it's too late" but in actuality it isn't easy at all. In fact, it can almost kill you. Sometimes you can only do it, at least I could only do it, when the old life was killing me just as surely and even faster.


Today, I'm  happily married, a housewife, for want of a better term, living a second-life so radically different from the first as to constitute two different lives altogether. But it's cost me. Cost me everything I had before. Cost me friends, family, career…none of which, in the end, ever suited me, based as they all were on a person I was never intended to be. But a steep price to pay nonetheless. 

I take consolation in knowing that everyone survived the crash. Everyone from my past has made new lives of their own, too. New lives that don't include me, that don't need me, that don't want me. I feel amazed at times at how little I mattered to any of them. But I also feel relieved that I don't have to feel guilty either. If anyone wanted to reconnect, they could. I certainly wouldn't turn them away. If they could accept who I am, who I always was, who they never knew. But for them, I suppose, it would be like encountering a stranger. I can't blame them for not taking the trouble. 

Why should they? 
What do you owe a stranger, after all?

Most people, I suspect, go through life carrying along another life unlived. And the closer they get to the end of the only life they have to live, the more they come to regret and mourn that still-born twin. You have to be like a doctor, I guess, who, when encountering conjoined twins finds him or herself forced to decide which one is more viable. Unfortunately, I made the wrong choice and picked the life least viable to survive in the long run. 

Actually, I made, perhaps, an even greater mistake.

Typical of me, I didn't decide at all. 

Instead, I let both twins live. One sleeping inside the other until her desire to live become greater than that of her brother. I chose the wrong life at the start. And I paid the price of having to watch as that life painfully died. 

Maybe it would have died anyway and if I hadn't let the other twin live there would have been no life to replace it when the time came. I'd like to think that is what happened, that my weakness and indecisiveness was a kind of accidental wisdom.  

Or an unintended insurance policy.

I've lived two lives. 

I really can't take any credit for it.

I was not courageous. 

I was just lucky.

Live the life you were meant to live? 

Sure, it's good, if somewhat flippant advice. Something you'd read on a slip of paper inside a fortune cookie.

But I wouldn't blame anyone for not taking it. I wouldn't blame anyone in the least for becoming a bitter old man instead. It's easier; it's safer. You get to become old, anyway. 

To be who you were meant to be can require the equivalent of jumping off a cliff, walking into a blazing furnace, diving into the water and taking a deep breath only after you're under the surface. 

In other words, it can go against your every instinct for survival. It can cost you your life and everything in it you hold dear.

Are you ready to do that? 

To gamble it all away?

If you think too much about it, weigh all the alternatives, you probably won't ever do it.

In other words, just do it. 

Because if you make it to the other side:









Friday, July 8, 2016

=Sunday in the Village=

A seagull, having stolen a consecrated wafer directly from the chalice of a nearby church, flew to the beach and dove beak-downward into the sea and never resurfaced. The officiating priest declared this to be a miracle, men reportedly grew breasts, and the tree in the courtyard exploded into a thousand apostolic flames. That night, woken by the sound of all the graves in the village cemetery opening, a little boy in pajamas walked sleepily into his parent’s bedroom and asked, “Mommy, why is the big angel in the backyard carrying the flag of Switzerland?” Poor kid. He didn’t see his father hiding behind the door with the wig in his hand, not even when it was too late.




=Sissie Day Camp!=

(I'm guessing the two girls on the end are natural born females. Which is interesting. Because I actually find the two sissie girls in the middle a lot more sexy! More importantly, so does my Daddy!)
Daddy: I would love to send you off to sissy camp like these happy girls. That's not entirely true; I'd miss you too much.   Maybe I would send you to a Sissy Summer Day Camp.  That way you could get girly and giggly during the day, surely suck each others' titties and clitties, and you'd be home at night to please Daddy.  

Me: Oh yes, sissie day camp is a great idea! It sounds like so much fun. I can just imagine all the fun sissy activities & crafts, splashing around in the pool, sissy sing-a-longs, and, of course, what would camp be without the naughty horny camp counselors? (Maybe that’s what those two girls on the end are?)

Maybe i can even bring a couple of sissie girlfriends home for a sleepover. We can munch popcorn & do each other’s hair & nails & listen to music & talk about cute boys & other sissie stuff & generally romp around in our little babydoll nighties. And when we don't stop giggling & playing with each other after lights out, even after several stern warnings, you'll just have to punish each of us with a firm spanking...

…of course one thing leading to another, you'll come to understand that it’s not our fault we’re so restless. We’re just sissies after all! What we need to settle down is for Daddy to let us suck his cock, which, I'm sure, being the good, conscientious Daddy that you are, you won't deny us the opportunity to do. You’ll let us each take a turn and we’ll all try to outdo each other for Daddy’s load. Of course, whoever gets the “prize” will have to share because that’s what good sissies do, giving each other cummy kisses.  

At last, we'll be ready to scooch down cozily under the covers & fall sleep in each others arms. Each of us with a satisfying tummy full of Daddy’s warm cream.

Yum!

Thursday, July 7, 2016

=A Childhood Memory=

“I’ve got no more,” she says, and turns her cup upside down to show me. She’s sitting up in bed, reading, where she once had sex with my father. Her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror on the dresser across the room. “Not a drop left. See?”

“But, Mom, I’m thirsty.”

“Go ask your father.”

He’s sitting there in his easy chair, looking wise and benevolent, but straight through me, at the TV.  He seems to know why I’m here already, doesn’t say a word, just mutely turns his cup upside down without taking his eyes from the television, a really elegant gesture.

I’m so distraught, so distraught I’m no longer even thirsty. But what can I do?


I run away from home, but after a while I realize the obvious: there’s nowhere to go. So I return home. I see our house in the distance, over the hill. No one has come after me. They knew I’d have to come back.  Where else could I possibly go? I feel like I’ve dropped a burden I didn’t even know I was carrying, lighter somehow, like I could walk without bending the grass, freer, like it never really mattered.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

=Girl with a hard-on=

Marco Vassi wrote "there is nothing more erotic than a woman with a hard-on." When I read this line back in college, it nearly knocked me out of my library chair the way Paul was knocked off his donkey on the way to Damascus. Unfortunately, unlike Paul, the conversion wasn't immediate. It would still take me years of false starts, wrong turns, and dead-ends to realize exactly why Vassi's words resonated so strongly with me, although in my fantasies, which seemed to me must, by definition, remain only fantasies, I already knew.

Of course, in hindsight, it's perfectly clear.

I wanted to be the woman with a hard-on that Vassi wrote about. Although I wasn't ready at the time, in some small corner of my mind, his words stuck. Over the years, I recalled them many times. They meant: it was possible. I could be a girl someone would find sexy. Now, looking at the girl pictured above, it seems to me that there can be no doubt Vassi was correct. There isn't anything sexier than a woman with a hard-on!

The combination of prettiness, softness, & vulnerability with the unmistakeable visual evidence of sexual arousal—no wonder  so many men like transgender girls.

Last night, Daddy, who sent me this picture, had me say the very words that caption this cutie. "Daddy, will you rub my clit until I come?"

"Yes baby," he said

With the hormones I'm taking, it takes a bit of rubbing in the special place & in the special way that only Daddy seems to know to get me in a state even close to the girl above. Even then, I can hardly make such a display of myself. I'm just not that big or hard anymore. But I can manage enough of a sissy swelling to leave no mistake about my urgent state of arousal.

Daddy knows just the pressure.
Just the place.
Just the pace.

And for a few glorious moments, I feel as if I've become at long last the embodiment of Marco Vassi's prophetic words.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

=The Perversities=

(for Cyndy)

“What will follow is the psychopathology of sex, relationships so lunar and abstract that people will become mere extensions of the geometries of situations. This will allow the exploration, without any taint of guilt, of every aspect of psychopathology.” 
--JG Ballard

1.
…so, yes, there are people who would love to have us together. still, i want to be the one to ruin you. nobody can handle that the way i can

hmmm...i was thinking maybe you could cut & bleach my hair & have me pierced...

these other people are just a community that will accept you and treat you as my little…

 i think most of the really freaky, sexy destructive things will be between you and me.

i've come to learn there is no shortage of sexy freaks in this area.

2.
i do have a thing for your blood. i can see craving it so much, i might bleed you every day. i'll slap your face until your pretty lip bleeds, then passionately kiss you, tasting your blood on my pink tongue. speaking of tongues, i've been thinking of having yours pierced.

i luv the idea that other people would accept us for what we are!!

i always laugh when i think of my diapered little sissykins at "work". how cute! i'm sure they take you *so* seriously, you precious pretty baby.

3.
theyd see the outward signs of what you were doing to me & theyd wonder and whisper...but only we'd know for sure....and finally only you'd know

…bite my lips until the flesh breaks, oozing blood as you kiss me, sucking my bloody tongue into your mouth and biting that too, holding me tight so i cant pull away...

...only you would know...

4.
i have a lot i'd love to share with you, if you get the notion to talk or write a bit. some of what i want to tell you is just stuff i want to complain about, but there's also hot real and fantasy stuff. i didn't sleep last night. i'm sooo tired. unfortunately i can't sleep because my shoulder hurts like crazy.

you could smack me until my mouth bleeds, or just bite

5.
they'll see the results of my influence on you- your loss of control, your diminishing use of anything but…

--honestly, you wouldn't be able to maintain your fake "normal" exterior for long.

i'm in L.A. right now.


6.
i think its so cool you told someone else about us. i like, tho, that you'd keep some things just between us :) & some things i wouldnt even completely know for sure. i luv that

baby-talk to communicate, your total dependence, all that. but they won't know the secret things i do to you to make you my helpless little…

maybe kayte….

......thats totally hot,

7.
ugh! i'm supposed to film that movie beginning tuesday, but i can't even lift my arm. very weird! i think i'll go to the hospital in a little bit.

i'd luv her to see me lying in your arms sucking your pretty tittie...

8.
......well im at work right now  (can you imagine?) so its hard to call back, but i'd luv to: i think i need to be much more "relaxed" when i call you until youve completely broken down my resistance & fear...then i'd happily call you all the time from anywhere :)

oh, my trip to brazil...very freaky.

.....you cut the veins above my ankles & let the blood drip over my trembling toes as your pretty hands tighten around my throat...

9.
well, i understand you being a litle scaredy-cat about calling back, but i know in time you'll need to call me *all* the time. adoration, dependence and sweet addiction will overcome you before long.

&, no, i dont struggle at all, too weak, too submissive, & wanting to be the picture-perfect victim for you...

10.
could tickle your little peepee with the stud, & my speech would be all messed up, & o the little click-click as the stud hit my teeth...

and then there's the night i spent with this ultra-freaky chick named kayte on thursday before coming here. kayte would love us together. i know that 100%. i tell her about you and she gets totally hot hearing about what we're into. she also has a ton of freaky friends.

& oh its so sexy to think you'd be "abusing" me behind the scenes...destroying me...and making me weaker and weaker...and totally dependent on you...

making me your helpless hopeless addict: ruin me!!! make me soooooo sick......

i'd really want you to have my tongue pierced...& my slavemouth

11.
ive been having the most intense fantasies of that: of you drinking my blood every day. sometimes i picture you biting me, and other times cutting me, letting the blood trickle over my skin before licking it and then sucking the wound.

 i'd just lie there with my arms thrown over my head as you positioned me however you wanted & drink from me, bleed me...

…but begin to suspect and whisper about changes in you and how i might be making those changes come about.

12.
oh wow, i just took two codeine tablets about 30 minutes ago and i'm feeling kinda creamy. ha ha, now would be the perfect time for us to talk.

i wish i was splashing around in the babypool where you are. are you in the mood to starve me or fatten me up? would my belly be shrunken or protruding over my diaper & little swimsuit bottoms? :)

...sitting on the floor in my diaper making a messy while you talked to your friends...

13.
i can barely keep my eyes open and i feel kinda "floaty" and dum.

14.
i luv getting thinner & weaker cause of your sexy neglect. oh ...how perfect to feed me xanax so i get too sleepy to fuss over food! how wonderfully sexily dysfunctional!!!

oh well, do call. or if you want i can call. i think i have unlimited weekend minutes. that was a problem before i got this cell phone. for some reason when i changed my home phone company i didnt get long-distance.

...is flying to california in my traveling sissy outfit: overalls rolled up at the ankles, cute pink sleeveless t, & flipflops...

15.
god  i'm just in a completely blah, blah, blah mode right now. i feel really sexy and stupid at the moment. haha. my fingers arent too coordinated right now so i'd better send this. i love you,

o i'd be easy to hook, & very easy to corrupt, & i'd give up very sweetly, i think :) i luv to think of you orgasming at the signs of my dependence...i'd like you to orgasm again & again over my pale addicted-to-you body...

16.
 when i say i have plans for you, i'm serious. hope to hear from you. ciao,

...my ribs and hipbones showing clearly, & my pale arms and legs getting almost twiglike...

your baby literally starving to death in your arms...

17.
 i like the way you cant enunciate at first because your pretty tongue is swollen. then the lisp with the little clicking of the stud against your teeth. oooo! orgasmically hot!!!

18.
hi cutie,

so yes, i told kayte some of what we talk about and she got really hot. she'd be totally into watching, or more. she's freaky like that. i didn't tell her everything because i like to keep some secrets between you and me.

it turns me on for some reason when people don't know for sure,

19.
i sit in the airport someplace, looking lost, sipping a diet pepsi, so you can have a look at me & if you like me, you approach, drive me to the motel ive reserved...

...and for the next week or 2 you begin my 'breakdown' as your fake-asian-diapered-sissyslave, taking away my resistance, keeping me drunk, drugged, bound, starved, diapered...

 20.
so my shoulder still hurts, but i've gotten some good painkillers that make me feel really dreamy. i emailed the director and told him i couldn't go tomorrow. i'm half-disappointed, because i wanted to be in a movie and maybe make a lot of money from it, but who cares. i'll figure something else out. besides, the script sucked. it seemed like it was written by an eighth grader.

i want to lick it off your pale skin. nearly all my cruel images of you involve blood dripping from you, especially from your toes.

21.
i want to be your pale, bleached, blooded, fake-asian, sissy-slave...

oooo!

22.
so i'm just lying around today, my little arm in a sling, popping vicodin and codeine. yay! :) if you're around, let me know, my diapered, bleach-blonde fake little asian girl. i may not be totally coherent, but i think i can be sexy/fun. kisses,

23.
& you kiss my mouth, frothed with spittle & blood & lipstick, my lips blue, my breath gone...

& my hands lie open & limp at my side...

24.
i'm yours...

25.
maybe i should have a little wine with my vicodin...i like thinking of filling your baba with red wine, seeing you suck it until you're stupid.

i always make little plans to have you out here, then gradually get you hooked on pills. you're so fun/sexy to corrupt. i could orgasm just thinking of you beginning to show little signs of dependence.

mmmmm, that makes me want to suck your sexy toesies.

26.
so that by the time i fly back here im already changed, bleached and pierced, diapered continuously, already yours, & i fly back & forth for a few more sessions until i'm 'done' &

27.
your deepening dependence to me and addiction to my freaky desires makes me so hot!! i have my cell phone with me, if you want to call, i'm out by the pool.  if not, write more and i'll check back here in a little while. you're so much sexier when you crave my attention. love,

28.
i love the thought of you in your cute little bikini weakly splashing around at my feet while i lay in a long chair languidly reading a fashion magazine and drinking red wine.

...uhhhhh...you have me panting, waiting on your emails already :) i'd luv to do things for you & earn your sexy cruelty in return.

…as much as it turns me on to see your body overfed, i think i'd want you your tummy to be shrunken and your delicate ribs starting to get conspicuous.

29.
my shoulder has long since bothered me, but i kinda like the affect of the wine and codeine. sorry, baby,  if i'm too lazy to order out for some food or *gasp* cook it myself, i've taken to just giving you a xanax when you get fussy with hunger.

& you take me closer & closer to the edge each time & one time i'll go over & i never know when...

i'd luv to feel your beautiful hand around my skinny pale throat & feel myself totally at your mercy. i would luv to feel your teeth marks all over my white flesh...

30.
you're the best kind of slave. i can make you do things for me, or i can be sweetly cruel and do all kinds of sexy, destructive things to you. such a hot little plaything you are. hope you're not saddled with too much responsibility at work today...i have a feeling you won't be able to handle it. smoochies,

31.
ive barely eaten for a week or so, following a special diet youve put me on to "get me ready," sending you photos of me by internet...

my life is completely yours...

32.
...i'm spaced-out a bit on xanax...

33.
i definitely not proud of this, but i can't help but be turned on by the thought of making you my pretty little addict. you wouldn't even realize fully what i was doing to you until it was too late and you were completely hooked. i have twisted little fantasies like that.

...its silly, huh, me acting all 'growed up?' i know it could be pretty simple to become totally dependent on you. i think that was more or less about to happen when we talked last time. god, i was really far gone that day!!

34.
that's sooooo weird that you said this...i was thinking exactly the same thing…

35.
what a yummy image of you lounging by the pool reading fashion magazines & sipping wine while i splash around!

… i like biting you and all this talk of cruelty made me want to taste your blood, cut you or bite you hard. i just love the thought of your blood on my lips.

36.
now you've planted the thought of my soft hands tightening around your slender throat. too hot!! i love that you gasp, but you're too weak and submissive to struggle, your lips blue beneath the sensuous red lipstick.

37.
i wish i could feed you with my blood!!!

38.
& i luv you totally!

39.
xxxxx

40.
...thats what im dreaming of now...


(This piece is based on a long-running series of internet chats that I had with a dominant t-girl named Cyndy. We never met—primarily because I was too frightened that she might be unstable—an ironic &  arguably unfair assessment inasmuch as I was an enthusiastic & active participant in these dark fantasies—albeit as the victim—& I don't consider myself any more unstable than the next person. There was also an entire country between us making a real life meeting problematic. Yet even when I was in California for several weeks in the early 2000s & staying only 50 or so miles away from where Cyndy was living I still chickened out of her proposed meeting. One of the few things I regret not doing in life.)

 Cyndy, wherever you are now xoxo. Without you, I'd never be where I am now, which is to say, I'd never have become myself or found happiness & love. You'll always have a place in my heart.