=person with vase=

=dear diary=

Daddy told me to wake him up at 8 this morning. At exactly 8,  i knelt at the side of the bed and kissed & nuzzled Daddy's cock to wake him up. He'd cum in my mouth late last nite so i didn't know if he'd be in the mood for another blowjob but i figured he'd let me know if he wasn't (which is almost never; maybe if we're being chased by a pack of pitbulls). 

i continued to kiss & lick his cock through his underwear & it just got bigger & bigger. soon he took it out & it was in my mouth & i knew that Daddy was for sure in the mood 
for another blowjob, after all. (it's safer to assume that Daddy is always in the mood for
a blowjob. that's kind of Daddy's default mode).

even tho he wanted to get up at 8, Daddy decided to dicky-dally away a little extra time with his
cock in my mouth. he came after about fifteen minutes.  i nuzzled Daddy's cock for a little longer & then got up to make him breakfast. but first Daddy wanted me to pull down my panties so he could tease
me a little more. when he got me all panting & wet he had me turn  around & he fingered my backside a while. then he abruptly told me to pull up my panties. he smacked me on my plump, hormone-enhanced, feminized ass & told me to go downstairs & get his breakfast started.

in the middle of breakfast, he had me get up & stand in front of him with my panties pulled down. he laid his fork on the table & teased me again until i felt like my knees would buckle. he made fun of me for getting so turned on & had me touch where i'd wet myself & then lick my fingertips clean. he told me to sit back down to finish my breakfast. when i went to pull my panties back up he told me to leave them off. 
he wanted me to spend the rest of the morning exposed. ordinarily this would have been terribly embarrassing but i was so spaced-out & turned on that i was hardly aware of what i looked like. 
i found it very hard to concentrate on eating breakfast.

to Daddy's amusement, i washed the dishes & did the rest of my morning chores intoxicated with feelings of shame, excitement  and helplessness, my limp little sissyclit dangling & exposed. 

=a sissiegirl's view of the world=

If you're a sissie, you'd better get used to this view because you're going to be spending a lot of time on your back with your toes pointed at the ceiling.

You'll want to make your feet look as pretty as possible.
You'll be seeing a lot of them.

=a little valentine for Daddy=

i made this little bookie for Daddy & left it
on his pillow to tell him how much i love him. Daddy has been regressing me lately. he figures that emotionally i'm probably stuck at about the level of a 10-year-old girl. maybe younger.  he says, i never fully experienced what i should have experienced as a child & he is helping me experience those emotions now. as it turns out, it's really never too late when it comes to emotions; they may be blocked & frozen but  they are still as powerful & fresh as ever. using orgasm denial (little girls don't have orgasms) to put me in a kind of altered state of consciousness, Daddy has been systematically breaking down my resistance to experiencing my blocked childlike need for Daddy's love. gosh…i always knew intellectually but i never realized emotionally how very, very badly i wanted to be Daddy's girl. how much i wanted Daddy to love the "real" me instead of being always disappointed with the son i tried but could never be.

=more camisole, more orgasm denial=

i found another camisole/panty set while reorganizing my lingerie drawer yesterday.
by reorganizing i mean taking everything out, going through it, & putting it all back basically in the same hopelessly jumbled mess it was in when i started.

Anyway, i wore this one yesterday with a pair of high-heeled sandals while fixing Daddy dinner. Later, i wore it while sitting on his lap watching television.

The orgasm denial program is working just great…if you consider that i'm
in a constant state of air-headed sissy heat, practically begging to be fucked anytime
anywhere anyhow by anyone to be great. (I do).
Daddy does.
And to be honest, so do i!
i'm like floating in a 24/7 erotic haze.
All Daddy has to do is touch my sissyclit with the lightest, briefest stroke & i'm
instantly aroused, moaning & squirming & pointing my painted toes, straining for relief.
But no…not yet, Daddy says.
He had me look down last night to see how he was barely touching me with just the edge of the nail on his pinkie.
A pink bigger than my sissieclit, he hastened to add.
God, you would have thought he was  pressing a vibrator
on high-speed against my clittie it felt so intense.

In the old pre-hormone days, i would have surely needed to cum by now. The sheer build-up of seminal fluid would simply have demanded some
kind of milking or i'd be getting seriously backed-up, which is not very good for your urinary tract and all that other plumbing. But since, because of the hormones, i have essentially no seminal fluid anymore,
 i don't have a physiological need (i.e. good excuse) to discharge.  if i produce anything at all, it's just a tiny drop or two of clear sticky stuff that i guess is probably some kind of self-lubricant.

Anyway, this means that i have no good reason to offer as to why i should be permitted to cum. Ever! And my sexy torture can continue indefinitely until Daddy decides he'd like to see me make a sissiecummie
just for the sheer entertainment of it.

"Maybe on some special occasion," Daddy said. "Like Christmas. Or Arbor Day."

i'm pretty sure he's joking. 
But i can't ever be sure with Daddy.
When is Arbor Day anyway? 

=spanking skirt!=

i never heard of a spanking skirt before but the moment
i came across it on Amazon by accident (i was looking for a female chastity belt since the male device Daddy bought me is too big for my tiny sissieclit) i just knew i had to have it! Daddy likes to keep me half-naked around the house on "ultra-sissy" days & i think this is something he'd like seeing me mincing about the house wearing along with a pair of heels & a belly-shirt.

best of all, i'd be encouraging some "inappropriate" manly groping as well as the impromptu spanking for the best of reasons: no reason at all!

i'd love to be wearing this when Daddy has the guys over to watch the game while i serve drinks & snacks but that probably won't happen.

what might happen, though, is that Daddy has talked about taking me to a special club for trans & sissie girls where couples play with other couples. he's also been talking about taking me to an xxx-rated theater where sex stuff often happens…he plans to have me blow him  & encourage anyone watching to masturbate over my exposed titties. if i wear this skirt they can cum on my ass, as well.

 he's also been talking lately about finding a guy 70 or older who'd be like my surrogate father & i can "resolve" my daddy issues by blowing him like the good daddy's girl i've always wanted to be. this would be an excellent skirt for that, too, i think! 

=1 of my fave outfits!=

i  just love this camisole set! it always makes me feel sooooo sissy. even more than a sexy nightie.

i'm not sure exactly why. there's just something about the silk & lace against my smooth skin that gets me so turned on!
Also  it's sexy without trying too obviously
to be sexy which can be
the sexist thing of all.
…the little top that keeps giving
peek-a-boo looks at my tummy…and the way it laces up the back with a black satin ribbon leaving me partially exposed there, as well.
then there are the little shorts that don't quite cover my asscheeks & even sometimes reveal the tip of my tiny clittie.

when i'm cooking Daddy his breakfast
in this outfit he has easy-access to every part of me. even if he doesnt touch me, with every move i make,
i'm flashing him without even meaning to do it. 

you know, it just occurs to me what i find so sexy about this outfit.

i feel a little like i'm still trying to be a boy wearing something that resembles shorts & a tank top but failing
miserably & proving in spite of myself to everyone just what a sissie i really am. like maybe i could be wearing this
in a men's prison, mincing around
the yard where all the hunky convicts are doing their weight-lifting & i'm trying to fit in & be "one of the
guys" fetching them water or toweling them down
or whatever.

Here i am sucking my thumb but i wish it were a big black cock being fed to me by the biggest toughest outlaw in the prison block!

=should I snip or should I no?=

It's up to Daddy. If he wanted it gone and wanted me to have another orifice that he could fuck, i'd do it in a heartbeat. But right now, at least, he says he's happy with me the way i am. He says it makes me a "special" kind of girl. With a vagina, i'd be just like any other woman. He likes being able to tease and embarrass me about it, saying how small & soft & pink it is, how cute it looks with its little ribbon, not like a man's cock at all. Not like any kind of cock, really. He likes comparing my small, smooth pink little sack with his large, hairy man-balls. He likes to tell me how there's practically nothing inside of mine. "What kind of man," he asks me, "would willingly destroy his own balls with hormones?" "No kind of man, at all, Daddy," i answer. He laughs. "That's right baby. No kind of man at all." You see, even if I still have these attenuated male parts, Daddy doesn't consider me a man. In fact, he likes making fun of my efforts to ever be a man. That's another reason he doesn't want it cut off. He likes humiliating me and he knows i like it, too, in spite of myself. He likes to threaten to expose me to a real woman just so she could have a good laugh. i hate my little sack & would like to get rid of it even if i kept my tiny sissiclit, but Daddy won't hear of it…not yet, anyway. He says there's no rush but i think it's mainly because he knows that it gives me a minimal sex drive that he can tease & not satisfy & that he can use that minimal sex drive to keep me unbearably on edge. He likes to drive me crazy with sex desire i can't—and he won't—satisfy. He says that makes me a better sissie & he must be right. Because look at me now! i'm his completely submissive sissie wife. He decides everything in my life. i'm totally his property to do with whatever he pleases. Even whether i get sex-surgery or not is up to him. i'm basically his sex-doll & he can tattoo, pierce & physically alter me however he chooses. Whatever gives him the biggest hardest erection is the right thing to do & what i want him to do to me & that goes for whether to cut it off or not. Daddy is always right.

=email xchange with Daddy=

Hey baby,

That was another hot night of teasing your sissieclittie and fucking your sweet sissypussy .  You're SO sexy, you naughty little girl!

Don't recall whether I'd sent this pic before.  This is a very cute little sissy who definitely reminds me of you.  She's wearing her Sissy Slut lavender t-shirt and she's got her pretty makeup on to seduce her daddy.  Daddy says, "Sure you can blow me you pathetic fucking girly sissy.  And you better close those lips tight around my cock when I start cumming in your slut mouth too."

Your daddy's got a few more dirty tricks up his sleeve.  Some sexy adventure ideas to show off your absolutely beautiful curves and showcase your total submission to men and their cocks.

It will be really hot and nasty to watch you sucking off your surrogate father and acting like a total swish of a sissy faggot whore.

You will do just fine and you'll make daddy proud of you.

I wouldn't be surprised if you even make a sissiecummie when he holds your head tightly and explodes in your mouth...

                        ~Daddy

*     *     *

hi Daddy!
last nite was very very sexy. i think its become pretty obvious that our new form of play keeps me pretty much perpetually hot & ready for anything Daddy has in his dirty mind. 

i guess its pretty obvious too that you don't have to hold back at all with dominating & verbally humiliating me…its very much a turn on for whatever reason. its something of a paradox but the more you point out how tiny & soft i've gotten the more turned on i get……

oh i'm pretty sure too i'll do just fine being any real man's swishy faggot slut. that seems to be what i was made to do & what i'm best at. i'll bet my surrogate daddy wouldn't need too much persuading either to treat me like the submissive little cumbasket of pink fluff i am. i'm not sure if i'd make a sissiecummi or not while he held my head tight to his crotch with his cock down my throat but i am sure that my panties would be soaked thru one way or another.

xoxo

Yes, I'm a cocksucking sissy-fairy-faggot.

Do you want me to suck yours?
Daddy says I'm very very good at it.
And all his friends say so, too.

=solitary confinement=

=no cummies for me=

Lately, Daddy has decided to put me on a kind of unofficial orgasm-denial program. When we're in bed, he diddles my clittie until i'm squirming & panting & moaning for a cummi but instead he just keeps teasing me, starting & stopping & letting me beg. He knows just where and when and how long it will take to trigger my orgasm but he doesn't do it. Instead he abruptly & arbitrarily stops & tells me to pull up my panties, that i've had enough for today. i obediently do as he says.

Then he'll usually have me give him a blowjob or he'll fuck me or shove a dildo inside me.

Last nite i was so horny i almost came just from the the cock inside me & the vigorous thrusting of his fucking  which tossed my untouched little clittie all around. i was so  so so close…………but couldn't quite make it happen. 


well  the result—and maybe the point of all this—is that i'm even more sissier than usual when i'm kept simmering just below the boiling-over point. i tend to dress & act even more ultra femmy & slutty than ordinary, as per the above photo (we were going out to Whole Foods). of course, i could masturbate on the sly but i won't do that because Daddy told me not to & besides, i like the self-denial…its a real turn on for me. We've tried a chastity device but even though Daddy bought the smallest one available it actually falls right off me even when it's locked! 

The hormones i'm taking have really done a number on that part of my anatomy—and by number i mean radical subtraction. When Daddy plays with me down there he says i hardly have any nuts at all…just two squishy little grapes is how he puts it. Of course, hearing that really turns me on. Anyway, even tho he doesn't let me make a cummi, i don't get cranky or anything. The feeling just kind of fades away & it's almost like i did cum, like i had about ten mini orgasms & i'm still turned on. it's a very blissed out state to be in…everything seems sensual & every guy i see i want to fall down in front of & suck his cock.

=fairytale hour=

My mother came to me in the night and she said, "I've never said anything bad about your father, but I have to tell someone and you're old enough to know.  He's a good man and he has always worked hard to provide for us, keeps a roof over our head and food on the table, etc etc. but he's a werewolf. After midnight, when you kids are asleep, he rises with the moon, and depending on its phase, takes on, to one degree or another, his lupine form. The culmination is the full-moon, while the days leading up to and just after are almost indistinguishably as bad. I don't even know him then, and more problematic, he doesn't even know me or you kids. The animals we see littering the street when I take you to school in the mornings after those nights, furry little sacks all torn open with their vulnerables exposed covered with flies, I've held my tongue, but that's your Daddy's doing. Turn your heads children, I tell you, trying to protect you, this is not for your eyes, but you little rascals look anyway, don't you? Ewwing from the back seat, grossing out, but fascinated all the same, unable to look away. I worry about you kids then. Maybe the moon is affecting your blood, too. What do I know and who can you ask about these things? I consult books, mostly fiction, which is the only place where these fantastical facts of life can be safely discussed without the authors and their readers being carted off as lunatics. I can't begin to tell you the number of women he's attacked for I don't know myself and don't want to know. I don't go into details and never will. That's something you truly don't need to hear. Needless to say, it hurts me to the quick to know that your father doesn't feel he can get what he needs at home, from me, his lawfully wedded and faithful wife all these thirteen and a half years. What he thinks he needs from these other women I'm sure I'll never know—nor do I want to know—but it's certainly foul and blasphemous and nothing any respectable woman would ever do. I would rather have a stake driven through my heart if it came down to a choice. I am your mother, after all, and that's something you should never forget. When this need comes upon him, I'm sure his mind is clouded, his judgment skewed, and it's to save him as much as it is to save myself and you children that I deny the beast inside him. Those are the times when you hear me telling him to leave and not come back. I don't mean never come back, as you kids might misinterpret, lacking a sense of the subtleties of adult language as well as all the facts of the situation, which dearth of information I'm attempting to rectify, at least to some extent right now, but I mean don't come back until your madness is over, until you resume something resembling your human form again. My apparent cruelty is really kindness, for I know it would just tear your father to pieces inside if he ever in his madness harmed us. What I'm trying to say is, I'm doing this for his own good. I don't mean to scare you, which is why I've waited until now, and forsooth—yes, it's an odd figure of speech and I would feel ludicrous ever introducing it in regular conversation but this kind of tale told at this hour of the night is anything but regular and requires such a word, don't you think? This is the fairy-tale hour—so forsooth, then forsooth…I've lost my train of thought. Well, I guess the point is I love you children more than life itself, more than my own soul, and I would never do anything to hurt you no matter what anyone might say. I'm not specifically talking about your father here, but, well, should he come to you as well in the middle of the night like I am, if he should come to you at the fairytale hour, don't believe a word of what he tries to tell you if it contradicts what I've said here. For I am telling you the truth and your father, while I'm not saying that he is lying, I'd never say that, but I honestly don't believe he knows what the truth is, his mind being pulled this way and that, by the moon's influence, like the tide. He means well, your father, as I said, and you never should forget it. But he's a man flawed in the flesh, bitten so deeply by something it's injured his soul. We must forgive him for he knows not what he does at times, his judgment is clouded, his passions out of control But he's your father and he loves you and you shouldn't fear him. He would never hurt you on purpose and I'm here to make sure he doesn't by accident. Now go to sleep. Good night."


My father came to me sometime in the night, shaking me gently awake. His face was scratchy with beard and his breath smelled sweet and dangerous. He said, "I don't know what your mother has been telling you and I won't ask you, that's between you and her, and I won't put you in the middle, but I want you to hear the truth from me. Many are the stories you'll hear, most of them untrue,  I'm no saint, I'll be the first to admit that. I have my flaws, but I am not a monster. Your mother…how shall I put it…your mother lives in a world of her own, a world of fantasy. She's locked away inside this other world like an ice queen inside a snow globe. She can be sitting there beside you but she's really a million miles away. She's a star you can't reach, even by rocket, within the normal span of a human life. I've tried, I hope you will believe me, I've tried my best. She's drained the life's blood out of me to the penultimate drop. You're looking at a man depleted, fighting for his life. When I lay my head down upon her breast at night she stares down at me disapprovingly and says, "What are you doing?" This is what she does…makes you feel the fool, the invalid, the pervert. When I touch her…nothing. I might as well be touching a table, a fire hydrant. It was like this from the start but I thought it would get better. I asked everyone I could think of to ask…what am I doing wrong? I asked my brother-in-law if he has the same trouble with her sister. It was an awkward conversation but by the very fact that I broached the subject with him you can judge my desperation, my earnestness in finding an answer. He told me he didn't have the same problem with your aunt and I was at a loss. Meanwhile, drip drip drip, I see my life draining away. The face in the mirror looks ten years older than it should and I'm twenty years older than I want to be. I figure that you're old enough to hear this and if you're not, you'll remember it later. I have a feeling that my time is short. You never know when the silver bullet is coming or where it's coming from. I want you to know my side of it because I know that I'll be cast as the bad guy in the piece forever more. Life isn't as simple as a fairytale, no matter what your mother tries to make you believe. Above all, I don't want you think that I'm telling you she is a bad woman. She loves you, as a mother should, has made sacrifices for you children, lord knows. but that doesn't make her any more perfect than I am pure evil. I'd say you'll understand this when you're older if you don't already but that's not true. Some people never learn. For some people it's always fairytale time. Your mother is one of them, I'm afraid. She used to lay out my clothes for me on the nights that I'd go out. I told her I was going bowling but she knew damn well that was a lie. She knew where I was going and why. She laundered my clothes when I came back. She knew! How do you think that made me feel? She might be even stiffer and less communicative than usual the following day but she never asked me not to go. Not once! Instead, she lay out my clothes on the bed after dinner, making sure the shirts went with the pants and the socks with both. How do you think that made me feel? If once, she said "don't go," if she threw her arms around my neck and said "please…just don't" do you think I would have ever left? But not once did this sentiment escape her lips and I can only conclude that's because she never felt it. She was glad to see me go out the door, knowing I was taking with me what she didn't want in her house…in her bed. Her bed! Because it was never mine. I never felt at home there. I never drew any comfort or basked in any love between those sheets. I go a little crazy out there. I can't count them all. Married, single, old, young, women, men…I didn't discriminate. I met them in bars, in bathrooms, in motels, in bus stations…you name it, I did it. I'm not ashamed of anything. It's my nature. I'm a very sensual person. I burn inside with passion. That's not a bad thing, no matter what anyone tells you. I might have been satisfied if only I could have had what I should have had by rights of marriage. But a person must take what he or she can if it means survival. Your mother, she says you haven't gone potty in several days now. She says you need an enema. Turn over on your tummy. She asked me to give you one when I got home.

What is the purpose of this blog

After some 200+ posts, this may seem like an odd time to finally get around to articulating the "purpose"of this blog—inasmuch as anything in life has a purpose except to make the inevitable horrors of aging, sickness, and death a little more bearable in the meantime. Also, it seems to me the blog itself might be the fact of its purpose, as Wittgenstein might have argued. Or as Haruki Murakami wrote, If you don't understand without an explanation, you won't understand with an explanation. But here's an explanation anyway. 

First of all, what this blog is not. 

It's not a repository for recycled x-rated sissy blowjob pictures, facial cum shots, and distended rectums leaking bodily fluids. There's nothing wrong with those pictures or the blogs that serve as relay stations for such titillating images, and, in fact, I repost and re-recirculate such pictures myself occasionally when I come across one—usually sent to me by my considerate, perpetually horny hubby—that strikes a particularly resonant  personal chord. 

But there are more than enough blogs and tumblr sites doing that kind of thing. 

Same with x-rated sissie stories & fantasies. Although you'll find those here, too. 

Nor is this a site where I obsessively revel in the humiliation and degradation of being a feminized sissie, transgirl, pansy—or whatever term you care to use. But then again, I do enjoy the sexual humiliation, especially in fantasy and role play, that comes with being a sissiegirl. It remains one of my most powerful & dependable orgasmic triggers and Daddy pulls it often.

The point is, orgasm via sexual humiliation is not all being transgendered is for me.  That's because, for me, it's not just a fantasy. It's a full-time lifestyle. Not just a "lifestyle"—it's my identity. I'm not just a sissy when I get horny & when I toss off I get up and go back to my regular life where I expect the kind of respect and consideration to which everyone else is considered entitled. I'm not a sissy only behind locked doors, in the fugitive interstices of my ordinary life, when the wife & girlfriend are away, and the rest of the time I suffer quietly & exquisitely with the guilt of my secret. I understand that life, though. I used to live it myself and thought I always would. I never expected that I would end up living as a sissy all the time. But as such, I can't exist always in a state of abject humiliation. I can't constantly be groveling and reveling in debasement. No one could effectively live that way. I have to walk around in the world just like everyone else. I have to look in the mirror and like the feminized sissiegirl I see looking back because there is no other me!  

And that leads me to finally answering the question "What is the purpose of this blog?" 

It's to show that being a sissie is not just a fantasy but a viable way of life. That it's a very real option. That not only can you live a sissie lifestyle but that you can do so happily, healthily, even proudly. That it can be more than just a well-concealed, strictly segregated sexual kink, but an integrated part of who you are in your everyday life. In fact, the more you integrate all parts of your life, the more creative, more enriched, the more rewarding and enjoyable that life becomes. That goes for being a sissie as much as it does for anything else. I'm trying to show that being a sissie doesn't have to be the humiliating negation of yourself as a person—as stimulating as this can be in fantasy—but that it can be a truly positive aspect of your life. That you can be proud of yourself, proud you have the courage to be who you are no matter the challenges, the misunderstanding, the ridicule, and stupidity that society throws your way. It takes balls to have no balls and be a sissy in this world.

I think we're already seeing this new positive attitude dawning with the truly amazing explosion in mainstream transgender awareness. Old prejudices, along with old people, are dying out. The notion of strict sexual binaries, of either/or thinking in terms of gender identity, has been shaken at its foundations among thinking people and cannot be repaired no matter how frantic the efforts of moral demagogues, transphobes, and other self-righteous arbiters of other people's business.  And while you can never underestimate the power of ignorance in the short term, in the long term survival depends on facing the facts. And the facts are that transgenderism exists, has always existed, and will always exist. There are many more colors on the sexual spectrum between male and female. Until now, they've been largely invisible. But people's eyesight is steadily improving all the time.

I'm a sexual being, a thinking being, a creative being. Just like anyone else. I just happen to also be a sissiegirl. So while this blog has plenty of sex stuff on it, there are also stories and artwork that has nothing to do with sex, or even my gender identity as a sissie. I am not a caricature of a person with cum dripping off my face. Not all the time, anyway. I'm also an actual person living an actual life.

I'm certainly not the first person to live an openly trans/sissie lifestyle. But I think we're still seriously under-represented all the same. We have a long way to go before we're "normalized." A long way to go before we're seen as much more than a specialized subset of sexual deviancy and fetishism. Not that I object to that either. I love to be fetishized and objectified, tied up, spanked, physically, verbally, and erotically abused.  Many openly transpeople are understandably militant in staying away from openly portraying the kinky/sexual element of their thoughts and imagination for precisely the reasons I've indicated above: they don't want to be reduced, as we so often are, especially on the internet, to representations of sexual objectification. But I don't have a particular agenda and I don't feel like being cheated out of the exhibitionistic pleasure I get in sharing my sordid fantasies & images alongside my more "elevated" creations.  I'm not denying the fact that I'm a submissive, Daddy-loving, cock-craving sissiegirl. I am—and I'm proud of it. I'm just saying that I have other uses, too, besides being a handy cumbasket. 

And that's what Bad Pussy is all about.

=snapshots from a sissie marriage=

While he's out with the guys Daddy has me
send him selfies practicing my cocksucking skills.

=A simple way to tell if you're just a cross dresser or truly transgendered, part 4=

1.) You're with a guy & you've just given him a blowjob lasting twenty minutes. After he cums copiously down your throat, he pulls up his jeans & heads for the bathroom where he takes a pee before announcing that he has to hit the road. "Thanks,"he says. "Maybe we can do this again some time." Meanwhile, you've still got a raging hard-on bulging in your panties. You can't believe he's leaving you like this! Even if you don't say anything, what you're thinking is, "This is bullshit, dude.Where's my orgasm?!"After he's gone, you're cranky and pissed off. You rub yourself off to a desultory but essential maintenance orgasm. "Maybe we can do this again sometime?" Fat chance! In your dreams!

2.) A guy has just used your body as a fucktoy every which way from Sunday. He's filled your tummy & bottom with every last drop of cum he can squeeze out of his balls and left you damp, wrung out & hung to dry. The one thing he hasn't done is touch your clittie long enough for you to make a cummie. But that's okay. It was hot and swollen not too long ago but now it's softening in your moist panties & strange to say, but you sort of feel like you've already had a kind of "shadow orgasm." Whatever it was, you feel a warm, all-over, post-orgasmic glow, a physical and emotional high that you realize is in good part due to having given him an orgasm. It's almost as if you've shared his orgasm! You wish he wouldn't leave only because you'd like to snuggle up against his shoulder & have him hold you. When he says "maybe we can do this again some time," your heart skips a beat. It means he really enjoyed you. Later, after he's gone, you don't touch yourself. There's no need to. You feel completely satisfied and content. You can't wait for him to call again. 

If #1 sounds like you, there's a good chance you're simply a crossdresser.

If #2 more closely matches your experience, you might very well be truly transgendered.

=snapshots from a sissie marriage=

=brainwashed=

=A simple way to tell if you're just a crossdresser or truly transgendered, part 3=

1.) You fantasize about being castrated, either surgically or chemically, and, yikes, it gives you like the biggest hard-on ever! How can a fantasy about being rendered impotent and unable to cum give you the hardest, sploggiest cums?! It's a paradox for the ages. But who cares, so long as it feels so good. Once you're finished cleaning up the mess you've made, you hardly give it another thought. As for letting yourself be castrated in real life…are you crazy? Not on your life fella, no matter how hot it might be as a fantasy! You want your hard-ons! That's the whole point of the fantasy!

2.) The fantasy about being castrated gets you incredibly hot. It's probably your most powerful ograsmic trigger, the culmination of your entire series of feminization fantasies. Sometimes you let yourself succumb & cum to it; other times you let your erection subside & instead simmer the rest of the day in an all-encompassing sensuality. The idea of being castrated permeates your everyday thoughts, not just when you're sexually aroused. You consider testosterone a kind of poison that has disturbed your thinking & ravaged your body since puberty, changing it in ways that you find distasteful to disturbing to downright alienating. Castration, in other words, is not exclusively a sexual issue for you, but a kind of cure. You begin to seriously consider the options available, chemical and surgical and find that chemical castration is usually the first step prescribed when undergoing a full-scale permanent transition. You are advised that by beginning hormone replacement therapy you will soon become sterile. That your sexual drive will sharply diminish, becoming more like that of a genetic female's. That your production of semen will eventually cease altogether and you will no long ejaculate upon orgasm. In addition, you will lose the ability to achieve and maintain a sustainable erection. Penetration will no longer be possible. Some tumescence is likely with sufficient stimulation and orgasm possible depending on the degree to which you were capable of orgasm before hormone replacement, but it will be more like the orgasms you may have experienced before you reached adolescence.  That after a certain time, these effects will be permanent and irreversible. At his point, you will be effectively castrated. Upon hearing all this, you don't hesitate to make your decision. You begin the process immediately, getting your first injection of Estradiol and a prescription for Medroxyprogesterone. You've never felt more sure of anything in your entire life. You wish you had done this years ago.

If #1 sounds more like you, then you're probably just a cross dresser. If #2 is more in line with how you think, then you may very well be transgender.

=A simple way to tell if you're just a crossdresser or truly transgendered, part 2=

1) A strange guy has come over to your apartment & you've sucked his cock & he's fucked your ass. Now as he gets dressed, you slip into your Japanese kimono-style robe & pad barefoot into the kitchen to put coffee on. You feel satisfied and content. You light some incense. When he comes out of the bathroom, you ask the guy if he'd like a cup of coffee before he leaves. You offer him a scone from the batch you baked earlier that day. You don't tell him but you baked them especially for this moment, just in case.

2) You get off your knees and hurriedly leave the highway restroom where you've met a strange guy for a quickie. You walk quickly, head down, to your car in an unlighted section of the parking lot, hoping no one notices you. Praying your car won't malfunction, you sigh with relief when the engine starts right up. You don't start feeling at ease until your miles away. When you get home, you strip off your girly clothes, scrub off your makeup, and take a long hot shower. You can hardly believe what you just did & swear you won't do it ever again. You don't start feeling normal again until you see your familiar "manly" face in the mirror. You crack open a beer. Plop down on the couch. Turn on ESPN.

If #1 sounds like you, there's a good chance that you're transgendered.

If #2 is more your speed, you're probably just a crossdresser.

=you can tell when i'm getting really horny cause i start posting pictures of myself with captions indicating what a willing little cum-basket I can be=

=A simple way to tell if you're simply a cross dresser or truly transgendered=

You can tell that you're really transgendered if after you wipe your mouth & get up from the floor with your tummy full of cum you still want to put on a dress to go about your business for the rest of the day. You don't just feel more comfortable having sex presenting  as a girl,  you feel more comfortable doing everything that way. 

Conversely, if you're a crossdresser, once you've orgasmed, you put on a pair of ratty jeans & a day-old t-shirt & meet your friends at the sports bar. You don't think about dressing as a girl again until the next time you get horny.

=I Tear Myself to Shreds & It Feels Good But Just for a Little While=

You said the anger would come back just as the love did.

--Anne Sexton

I feel under tremendous pressure to be human

Some days, like every day, it seems impossible

I look at my face on the table

My face a 5,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of a photograph in the dark

My face a 14-letter word for I’ll never be me

How do I make an appropriate expression?

I hold up a piece—what is it—part of a nose?

I hold up a piece—what is it—corner of an eye?

I want to bury myself in the backyard

I want to lay patio stones over my corpse

I want to listen to a family bar-b-cue from across the country

I was born far outside of any family

I was born from an egg left by nothing in the bestiary

I hatched at the bottom of the closet

My father a flat suit on a hanger

My mother a pair of shoes with one loose heel

My brother a golf club

He once sunk a hole-in-one

What raised me were hushed voices in the kitchen

What raised me was a stuffed parrot on a pole

What raised me was the fear of dogs

What raised me was a voice on the phone or was it in my head?

I’ll never be anything but faux normal

Did I tell you I bashed my skull against the bathroom tiles

This so I could regain a modicum of sanity

This so I didn’t have to see that smug churchgoing face again

But I see it again goddammit

I see it everywhere

I do

I do

I do

=sissy happiness is=

=message to my daddy=

=story of the day=

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GARY

Jesus was getting reckless. As if hanging out with whores, homosexuals, drag queens, alcoholics, crack addicts, fist-fuckers, coprophiliacs, emetophiliacs, and meth dealers wasn't already troublesome enough for us, His chosen image handlers. 




It got Him bad press from the official organs, and plenty of it, but at least He had plausible deniability. He was ministering. 




At least, that's what we called it. 




The problem was that His propensity for the low-life progressed. It got worse, harder to whitewash in any honest, unexpurgated gospel, such as the one I was determined to write. 

First it was the Nazi tattoos and then it was the kiddie thing. 

I tried to warn Him that He was pushing the envelope of this "nothing human is alien to me" thing too far. That it was going to come round and bite Him on His Holy Ass. 

I argued that some sins were best left to the imagination, that some transgressions were bad enough when entertained in theory, that there was no good theological reason to act them out. Fair or not, some poor bastards were born to go to hell.




But, no, Jesus argued, that was the whole point of the incarnation experience. To experience this shit in the flesh. All of it. The good, the bad, and especially the ugly.  

He was quite the zealot on this particular point.

So He got Himself inked with two full sleeves of swastikas and flaming skulls and "Kill the Jew" slogans. He suffered the little children to come unto Him and then they suffered Him coming on to them. 

Later on, sifting through the papers that survived, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John were grimly determined to put a positive spin on anything He did and redact the rest. The effort drove at least one of them certifiably insane. 

Me, I had to write my conscience, it's always been that way, which is why you've never heard of me or my gospel, which contains the only good news almost nobody wants to hear.

But I was there, remember. They weren't.

The unsolved spree killings across the Levant over those three years—I don't even want to go there. 

Towards the end, Jesus was hardly making even a minimal effort to cover His bloody tracks in spite of all our desperate pleading. It seemed as if He'd gone completely off His nut, like His old man before Him in certain of the grimmer passages in the Old Testament. 

We trembled in fear. Our bowels did loosen, as we put it back then. Maybe it was hereditary. If the Father could work Himself into a cosmic psychopathic homicidal rage over trifles, wipe out entire settlements for being "unclean," men, women, children, all the livestock, every chicken, etc. why not the Son? Maybe the forbidden fruit didn't roll far from the tree, after all. 

We hardly dared to voice the suggestion out loud. None of us wanted to believe it. 

But instead of toning it down as we gently suggested, as if out of sheer spite and contrariness, with each murder Jesus just grew more and more outrageous. Think Jack-the-Ripper, the Boston Strangler, Hannibal Lecter, and John Wayne Gacey all rolled into one and then dialed up to eleven.

Think that and you still have no idea how bad it got. 




He was the Son of God, don't forget. He could do anything a man could do but He could do it better. He could do it infinitely, divinely better and everyone likes to dwell on that. What they don't want to consider is that He could also do evil and do it infinitely, infernally worse.

And He did. 




"Lord," we begged, "show some care."

Jesus went right on, scattering clues behind Him like mustard seeds, all but writing His ineffable signature on each murder scene, taunting the authorities, rubbing their noses in their human fallibility.

I simply couldn't understand it at the time. I remember thinking it was almost as if He were trying to get caught and, of course, it becomes quite clear in hindsight that's just exactly what He was trying to do.

But why?

"I have to know in My flesh, in My bones, what it is to be a human being," He once said to me. "The entire rainbow, every shade, the full monte, the whole enchilada. It's easy just to be the best. But if I’m not also the worst of the worst how can I forgive the worst? You tell them the truth, Gary, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I'm depending on you."

This was before the others threw me out of the inner circle, afraid my conscience would get the better of me and I'd snitch. I was forced to follow from a distance, the thirteenth apostle like the fifth forgotten Beatle, reporting on the aftermath of Christ's grisly rampage of redemption, filing my reports in wax-sealed amphoras and leaving them with the Gnostics who in turn buried them deep below the desert sands. 

I kept His secret. It weighed heavily on my soul. But I would never betray Him, I swear to you. I had faith, for what that's worth.




It was, as is commonly known, Judas who ratted him out. The cops had dirt on Judas, some unsavory misdeeds from his past, and they were tightening the screws. What's more, they knew he was Christ's number one accomplice, his right hand man. 




And it's true. Judas was no saint. 

He was right there with the Savior, luring victims,  disposing of bodies, aiding and abetting the raping and the butchering. He was Christ's tattoo artist, his partner-in-crime. 

But the authorities had a hard-on for Jesus and they were willing to let Judas walk to get to Him—walk right into a noose as it happened. That "suicide" always seemed suspicious to me, just a little too neat and tidy, but that's another story.

This gospel is about Jesus and how He loves you even if you're a serial-killing nazi child molester. 

He loves you because he's been one, too. 

He's been where you've been, walked a mile in your Doc Martens. In your Prado heels, too. Jesus has been where you’ve been, been who you are, whoever you are.

He loves you because He loves Himself and there is literally nothing you could possibly have done that He hasn't done and done one helluva lot more horrifically. 

He forgives you because He knows, He really knows what it's like to be human. 

He gets it.

And He got over it.

He rose from the dead.

And He's here to tell you the very good news: You will, too.

=2 questions=

They say things always look better in the morning. Sometimes all that means is that when the sun comes up it's brighter & you can see better how crappy it all is.

=full disclosure=