=dear diary=

Today is the ouch side of being a sissy. Electrolysis day. Daddy drove me to my appointment and we hit a tremendous traffic jam. But it was okay. Daddy had devised a way to pass the time. He had bought me a pink bubblegum lollipop a week ago and I've been carrying it around in my purse ever since. Now he instructed me to take it out and suck on it like it was a cock. I did what he said, of course, really giving that lollipop the full treatment. "Baby if that thing could cum, it would," Daddy said approvingly. He had flipped up the bottom of my sundress and was playing with my little clittie. Of course, this made me redouble my efforts to get that lollipop to cum. I carefully licked all around the top like it was the knob of Daddy's cock, flicking my little tongue teasingly on its underside. Then I showered it with kisses.  I opened my mouth in a soft "o" and swallowed the head, pumping it via the stick back and forth over my tongue. Whoever happened to be in the car or truck next to us at any given time were getting quite a show if they bothered to look my way. I kept my eyes mostly closed or I'd have been too embarrassed to continue my performance. No, that's not entirely true. The play of Daddy's fingers on my clittie were driving me crazy enough to continue no matter how ashamed I might have been. Anyway, it was the most enjoyable traffic jam I've ever experienced. I wouldn't have minded a bit if we were still in it. If that traffic jam lasted forever.
It was truly an example of the old Zen proverb that the journey is more important than the destination.

Especially when the destination is the electrolysist's office.

*     *     *

Electrolysis wasn't so bad today, though. It only hurt a little bit and the electrologist didn't do any especially sensitive areas. Although she did leave a bruise under my lip again. My face is mostly cleared by now, thank god. It's taken a lot of persistence  People who don't know any better just don't know how hard it is to transition…how painful it can be, not just psychologically, but physically. Who would go through it if they didn't absolutely have to? Who would voluntarily show up every week, week after week, and pay to lie on a table for an hour and let someone stick a needle-probe into each follicle on their face and electrocute the hairs one at a time and do this for years? Because unlike the silly fantasy stories about hair removal you read on the internet where it's all done in a couple of hours, that's how long it takes—years—to correct the damage done by nature.  I'm nearing the end, but the closer you come to the end, the further it seems you can still go. The horizon keeps receding; the goal is never quite reached. You can always be better, smoother, prettier. I guess that's not much different than any woman feels. At least I don't have to shave very often. I don't have to wear makeup to conceal a beard. Those days are over. The horrible stain of masculinity, that disfiguring birthmark is all but eradicated from my face forever. I can look in a mirror now without seeing a horrible bestial mask rising from under the surface, turning me into someone else. Turning me into a monster. Like in a werewolf movie.

It's worth all the ouch in the world to be cured of that.