=sissygirl illustrated #6=

=my book of revelation=

People commonly think of angels as gentle, loving, healing entities full of lovingkindness, the personification of all that's best, the ideal of humanity. Wishful thinking. Sentimental nonsense. They are nothing of the sort. They are bearers of and actual manifestations of revelation—cold, impersonal, inhuman as the universe. They are everything a human being is not. They are the anti-human. The afterhuman. They are pure objectivity, life in it's most brutal form, i.e. without values, subjectivity, emotion, or even consciousness. You might question whether they are living at all but instead anthropomorphic representations of natural processes, chemical, nuclear, etc. In any event, they appear to announce the absolute absence, the annihilation —the disappearance of you.

=sissygirl illustrated #5=

=No means...=

"Now you have this shibboleth, “No means no.” Well, no. Sometimes “No” means “Not yet”. Sometimes “No” means “Too soon”. Sometimes “No” means “Keep trying and maybe yes”. You can see it with the pigeons on the grass. The male pursues the female and she turns away, and turns away, and he looks a fool but he keeps on pursuing her. And maybe she’s testing his persistence; the strength of his genes… It’s a pattern in the animal kingdom — a courtship pattern…’" 

—Camille Paglia

((well, as a sissygirl, i can say that "no" never means "no." it's just a darker shade on the spectrum of "yes."))

=sissyart=

sissy angel ‏‪@fluxpussy‬

My ideal would be to starve to death, growing lighter & lighter until my feet left the earth, like an angel, like Simone Weil.

sissy angel ‏‪@fluxpussy‬

i tried being gay but gay guys were even less accepting of my self-feminization than straight women. go figure. DUH! they like MEN, too!

sissy angel ‏‪@fluxpussy‬ 

i find it easier to give a stranger a blowjob than to make small-talk with him. i understand being touched sexually, but not other ways.

=sissy envelope art=

sissy angel ‏‪@fluxpussy‬ 

as a sissy, ive lost control of my life. but i never had control of it in the first place. what i really lost was the illusion of control.

=sissy tweet=

i just like guys to fuck me. i don't want to have conversations with people. i dont have anything to say. & hardly anyone else does either.

=sissygirl illustrated #4=

=sissy tweet=

you wear lots of pretty pink things & suck lots of cock. what's not to like about being a sissy?

=sissy tweet=

Hunger is your friend. Don't send your friend away by eating.

=sissygirl illustrated #3=

=Max the Not-So-Happy Clown Says…=

Fuck what people think— 

Are they going to live your life for you—that miserable, unimaginative, static existence they think you should live because it suits them that you should live it—even if that life feels false to who you are & is killing you slowly one gray day at a time?

Fuck what people say—

Are they going to take your place in the hospice bed in the midst of the IV tubes and monitor wires after the last operation has been performed and there's no more than can be done and it's too late for you to get up and live the life you always wanted to live?

Are they? Even one of them?

Fuck what people want— 

Will they be willing to change places with you in the casket where you lie dead with all your dreams unborn and never-to-be-born around you? The real you forever unrealized?

FUCK THEM ALL.

Fuck what they think, what they say, what they want.

Let them live their own lives or not as it suits them.

Let them march lockstep to whatever dictatorial societal loudspeaker guides them on their way from birth to death if that's what they choose—it's their choice.

But fuck them if they try to convince you that you must live that way, too.

Fuck them.

You live your life. It's your right, your destiny, the only conceivably worthwhile reason to put up with all the shit & the suffering, the loss &  the heartbreak that this meaningless life entails…

LIVE YOUR OWN LIFE

it's the only conceivably worthwhile reason to ever have been born at all.

LIVE YOUR OWN LIFE.

You only have one & even now it's burning like a fuse that any fine day now will blow you to smithereens.

=Sissygirl Illustrated #2=

=Playing dead for Daddy=

Once she knew where our "date" was heading, she asked
if I wouldn't let her take a handful of Xanax first to ease
her passage out of life. How could I refuse? I'm not an
insensitive monster, after all.  She sucked my cock like
a real pro and then I flipped her over & fucked her ass
good & hard while the drug took effect.
She cried a little when I put the bathrobe tie around her slender neck
 but she didn't struggle. I think she'd entertained hopes that it was only a game.
Only at the very end, when her body was in its last
struggle for air, did she put up the feeblest of resistance.
But by then it was too late; the Xanax had taken effect
& she was oxygen-starved. She wasn't very strong to begin
with…hardly more than 125 pounds or so & no muscle
at all…if she'd ever had any muscle, the hormones had melted them away.
She went relatively easily, almost, I'd like to think, even eagerly.
She didn't suffer much, I assure you.
Look, I only gave her what she fantasized about. Her
blog was full of stories & references to erotic death & she'd written to me herself about such fantasies. She shouldn't have tempted fate so enticingly if she didn't intend to pay the piper when he came a-calling.
Anyway, what's done
is done and she's "done." She died sexy, just
as she would have wanted, panties down around her ankles with a tummy & a pussy full
of man's cream. Now that it's over, if she could, I'd think she'd
tell you that she didn't mind going the way she did,
that she wouldn't take back what happened.
I'm positive that she'd thank me. 

=sissyart=

=My Literary Hero/ine=

Dolores, a.k.a. William T. Vollmann

=sissyart=

=sissygirl illustrated=

i think this is probably true. she's hotter than a good 90% of
the genetic females you see every day. i think most guys would find the wiring of their cocks temporarily rerouted from their usual inhibitions about fucking something with a "cock" & be turned on by a girl like this in spite of themselves. they'd be halfway inside her before they even knew it! i'm not even in the minor leagues of the league she's playing in & i found plenty of ordinary—and ordinarily—straight guys willing to shove their cocks into me. there's also the never-to-be-understimated "kink" factor involved. guys, even the most straight-laced, are pretty damn kinky when they open up to you. they're just used to hiding it from women who can be unforgivingly judgmental about kinky shit. transgirls are usually a lot more understanding. after all, they were once guys—sort of—themselves. and they are, after all, the embodiment of a certain type of kink. plus, when you've been discriminated and persecuted against as most transpeople have in one form or another, it gives you a greater sensibility for the unconventional, the marginal, the forbidden in everyone. 

=one chance to win=

=orgasm denial: day 34=

 34 days since my last sissycummie. It's easy to remember because the last time Daddy let me make a cummy was on our anniversary, September 16th. He knows i really need to make one by now so he intensifies the teasing. Last nite
he had me sit on his lap through the entire second half of the Knicks basketball game fondling me. i buried my face in his shoulder practically the entire time whimpering. every time there was a time out he stopped touching me to change the channel in order to avoid the commercials! There was no way he was going to let me cum anyway. But still!!! i never hated commercial breaks so much in my life!

Later, in bed, he started up again. The only "relief" he gave me was to stick his fingers into my sissypuss, which let me leak some honey . Then he told me to pull my panties up, get on the floor like the slutty sissy faggot i am, & suck his cock. After that….he turned on his Kindle & read a Parker novel!

This morning he played with me some more. i thought he was going to let me cum he brought me so close…but no…he turned me over, bit me hard on the ass, then smacked me even harder & said "That bacon isn't going to fry itself." Because of the hormones i'm on, my clittie doesn't stay hard for long—actually it doesn't get hard at all. Just a bit swollen. But it softens right up to the size you see above within seconds of the cessation of direct manual stimulation. Then it leaks some sissie honey (ah relief!)  & then i sort of "forget about" it. Although, not entirely…

There's nothing stopping me from taking matters into my own hands…or fingers…except…well….i vowed to Daddy i wouldn't touch myself & he'd know if i did because i wouldn't respond immediately as i do now to his touch. Besides, it never feels the same when i do it as when Daddy does it, telling me what a sissy faggot i am, & other humiliating things. So i don't touch myself…or i do so only very fleetingly. Although i'm turned on a lot it isn't so intense that i have to do anything about it & though i can orgasm i really have to concentrate on the sensations & think sexy thoughts to bring myself over the edge. In other words, since i have to make a real effort to cum  it's so much easier not to... to resist the temptation to play with myself to the point of orgasm. By the time i got myself there, i'd have had too much time for second thoughts & regrets that i'd be breaking my vow to Daddy. His disappointment in my lack of obedience would be worse than any physical punishment he might mete out to me.

but, gosh…34 days is a long time!
when it's such a long time i really start to shed my inhibitions pretty rapidly. i'd do anything Daddy asked for a touch of his big rough hands and knowing fingers. Anything! Which, of course, he knows & why he likes to keep me like this… 

And paradoxically enough, i like being kept like this too!
Only a masochistic subby sissy slut would crave this kind of perpetual frustration & humiliation.
i'm absolutely hopeless.
i don't even try to resist my degradation any more.
The worse the better!

=The Hunt for the Unicorn=

Of course they killed the unicorn. What other earthly use did they ever have for it? Now they say there’s no such thing as a unicorn but there have been many unicorns in the world & there always will be. The unicorn is anyone they can gang up on to murder. They want to kill it so they can mourn its death and after a while they can forget it even existed and they can begin looking for it in vain all over again. They murder it just so they can lament that there’s no such magical thing as a unicorn in this mundane world. Just so the bastards can say: Oh, but wouldn’t it be a great thing if they did exist?

THE REASON UNICORNS ARE SO SELDOM SEEN IS THAT YOU MUST GO TO A BLUE FOREST AT MIDNIGHT AND FEED THEM FROM YOUR OWN HAND YOUR STILL BEATING, STILL HUMAN HEART.

=new sissy book=

click here:

Natural Born Sissies on Kindle

Daddy & I wrote this book together. Well, he wrote the first novella in the book and I wrote the second. His is a lot better, I think. It's a much more get-to-the-point, down-and-dirty hardcore sexual romp; in fact, because the sissy in the story is based on me some of the dirty stuff Kimmee experiences made me more than a bit squeamish  & that's saying something. For instance, I get very embarrassed about being eaten out & even though I know some guys really like doing it, I can't help but feel painfully self-conscious no matter how squeaky clean I am back there. I'm so self-conscious of this that I can't even write about this kind of thing in a fantasy sex story, although I will write about being strangled to death without a problem! Weird, right? Anyway there are realistic descriptions of stuff like that in Daddy's story that I would never write myself, being way too sissy-prissy, which is what I think makes this book more interesting than any book I could write myself.

As for my novella…well, it's also something of a departure from the stuff I usually write. While every bit as sissyish, the story is a lot more personal than most of my porn. The plot was born of a fantasy that Daddy engendered while we were fooling around in bed a month or two ago. What if my biological Daddy had taken me on a camping trip with his friends when I was a teenager…a camping trip during which I would be made to be the campsite's sissy, charged with sexually servicing all the guys, including my daddy? The more I thought about this fantasy the bigger and more elaborate it became and eventually it took the form of my novella "Cupcake"—a kind of fictional recreation of my life back then as I wish it could have been lived. "Cupcake" ended up becoming a lot more emotional than the mere sexual fantasy with which it began and resolved, at least as fiction, a lot of traumatic issues that haunt me to this day. There's a lot more set up than I think there should be in an x-rated story but when the sex does come it comes over and over and over again. It was a personally rewarding story to write and I hope that at least some readers will find it a stimulating read. 

Anyway, you can check out "Natural Born Sissies" at the link above. Amazon will let you read a few sample pages of Daddy's novella, Skool Daze, to whet your appetite. 

=A Successful Therapy=

(for H)
How was this woman

going to understand

me I complained

about abusive relationships

but excitedly described how

turned on I got

when this one guy tied

my hands behind my

back and pissed in

my face. Well she’s a

therapist I told myself

she’s heard worse so

let me go further I told

her about my fantasies

of being raped and murdered

masturbating in the woods

as a child in the attitude

of girls found dead

in serial killer movies

thrilled by the idea

some guy hiking through

would spot me lying

disheveled in the dank 

leaf-bed and then what but

it never happened

what did is this one guy

had me take off my stockings

hand them to him

and turn with my back

to him and I thought,

this is it he just might

strangle me tonight and I

didn’t object I never said no

to anything they wanted

it’s like I’m too embarrassed

to embarrass him whoever him

might be just like I was

with daddy saying no not in the

vocab too scared to too

and I got super wet instead

why lie waiting to see what

might happen, the tv

was on, muted, tuned to

Chopped: Redemption

the ingredients laid out

like body parts in front of each

contestant cheese and fruit

and chunks of meat unrecognizable

and he didn’t strangle me

obviously only used the stocking

to gag me but none of this

is actually the problem

the problem is this

need to be metaphorically

abused ends up leaking

into real life relationships

that aren’t at all sexual

and this need of mine

broadcasts itself seduces

all the wrong kinds of

abusers by wrong kind I

mean those who sublimate

their sadism into everyday

life. I’m like a lighthouse

calling the wrong ships

to harbor all the cutthroat

pirates so its hopeless, you

see, solitude is the only

prophylactic I can trust

a nun in my tower.

What you need, she said

is to find a non-toxic

dominant who’ll leave

the whip and chains in

the bedroom and care

about you as a person

not take advantage of

your need to be taken

advantage of do you think

such a person exists, I ask,

not believing it for a

moment, a fairy-tale 

as far as I was concerned

I know they do she says 

but how do I that’s something 

I can't tell you, she says then

how can I that’s what

we’re here to find out

and for this I paid,

I think, ninety-five

dollars, and it was good

advice, she was right, but

I didn’t find what I was

looking for in that office

on 15th street but years

and quite a few men later

on Craigslist where I’d

placed an ad so what I’m

saying to you now is

you never know what

maybe she opened my eyes

to recognize it when it

finally came through the door

that night behind its

hard-on or maybe I was just

damn lucky not to be

carried out of that apartment

the next morning
in a bodybag.

I'm no longer communicating; I'm broadcasting. I'm not looking for dialogue; I'm delivering a monologue.  I'm delivering a monologue to no one. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's to pass the time or to entertain myself or to hear myself thinking. Maybe I just want to hear my own voice. What's the sound of one hand clapping anyway? Why do people talk to themselves or whistle in the dark? Are they ever really talking to anyone else? I don't think I'm looking for signs of intelligent life in the universe. It's too late for that. If any intelligent signal came back I'd almost be disappointed, I think. I've lost interest in whatever the universe has by way of an answer. Communication exists only obliquely, in listening in on other solitary broadcasts from individuals as distant from each other as stars, many of which have already flashed out. Once an exchange is begun everything is lost, everything becomes garbled & stupid & meaningless. We can only absorb what other people (is there really such a thing) have to share in absolute solitude. Why should that surprise anyone? We were alone before coming into the this world and we will be alone again upon leaving it. Eternity is a lonely place. Not a place, really, but an aspect of time. We can't share it with anyone. We can only experience it alone.
—M. Satai

=sissyart=

=how not to draw a cat=

"Take a picture of yourself & post it you fucking pansy," Daddy said, after cumming in my mouth. I'd been kneeling by the side of the bed, giving him a blow job. Now, he pushed me back on the floor & handed me my cellphone. "Let everyone see how content & fulfilled you are with a belly full of my spunk. Then get your sissy ass downstairs & get breakfast started."

"Yes Daddy," i said.

And here i am.

=sissyart=

=sissyart=

An insecure gang of lying fucking hypocrites. That's what a society is. I want no part of it. What I want most of all is to be a thumb in its eye.

—Antonin Artaud

=a pubic service announcement=

=The Apsergers Sonnets=

15.

“No” is the strongest stimulation to “yes”

--I. K. Bonset

When I wake up I've got my daddy's cock

in my mouth. I don't remember what

got me here or why. I'm in Pennsylvania.

His fists slam the table. The cutlery

hums. The parakeet cocks his head

listening to the fault lines under the linoleum.

I feel like a jigsaw puzzle. The whole

kitchen floor might unconditionally surrender. 

I pencil in my eyes and mouth. The lipstick

is all my fault. The man instructed me 

with great gentleness to spread my cheeks

and show him my pink rosebud. The peas 

shuddered in the cream. His gray 

erect thumb. The fork frozen like that forever.




=sissy journal pages=

=a sissy wager=

=The Aspergers Sonnets=

16.

The yard was a galaxy of dandelions

over which I crabwalked with a spike

in my hand and the command to dig,

dig them up by the roots. Daddy, your story

is too big for my mouth. Sad to say

no one stops saying right then and there.

The mirror reflects the wall like the wall

to another room whose secrets I’ll never

know. Who, then, is that startled woman

looking back at me? I hope I run out

of stamps on the morning I write the letter

telling you where I am.  In a jar

a dandelion will refuse water, the sun,

love, everything. You’ll never get the root.

=daddy's cupcake=

=sissy journal pages=

=a poem with a little something extra=

=females of the future (and the future is now)=

i couldn't have said it better myself.

actually, i did say this, but not any better and certainly no more succinctly.

=please=

=Carole Maso=

If language is desire, if syntax and rhythm and tone and color create worlds of desire, if we see, if we live out on the margin, then how come we so often write between the lines? We who are ostracized, estranged, despised, denied rights of every kind? Why do we write as if we were inside?

Why does realism equal verity? And whose verity is this? Why does realism equal accessibility? Might there be ways outside the standard models that could afford both reader and writer a few more options? 

Would disrupting or upsetting the lexical surfaces, and the deeper structures, disrupt other contracts (social, political) we have entered with those who have continually tried to dismiss us?

If we joyfully violate the language contract, might that not make us braver, stronger, more capable of breaking other oppressive contracts?

Might our pleasure, our delight, our audacity become irresistible finally?

Would celebrating through the invention of new kinds of texts—ones that insisted on our own takes of the world, our own visions, our own realities—would this finally convince both us and others that we are autonomous, we are not them, but we are nonetheless joyful and free? In short, we are complex human beings and cannot be so simply reduced or read. 

MIGHT WRITING BY WOMEN, BY PEOPLE OF COLOR, BY GAY MEN AND LESBIANS AND TRANSGENDERED PEOPLE BE AN ACTIVE REFUSAL OF THE DOMINANT CODE, A SUBVERSION OF MEANING AS IT HAS BEEN TRADITIONALLY CONSTRUCTED, FOR SOMETHING  MORE STRANGE, ELUSIVE, OTHER?

=high heels for breakfast=

i needed something really impractical to wear while frying Daddy's bacon in the morning so
i bought these marabou high-heeled slippers. the heels are a little thinner & a little higher—5 inches—than i'm customarily used to walking in so they are going to take a bit of practice. but in this case, practice not only makes perfect, it's also fun.

for the time being, they pose an ever-present hazard that while cooking at the stove i just might trip or turn an ankle & fall face first into the frying pan. so i have to use extra caution. no quick moves & a constant awareness of where the kitty is at all times (she's often sitting quietly right behind me waiting for me to kneel down & brush her). these are not shoes you make any sudden moves in, anyway. they not only encourage mincing, they practically demand it as a condition for survival. 

all in all, though, i love them. they're so silly & stupid & absolutely sissy. 
in other words, so me.

gosh this looks like fun.
i wish i were a cartoon sissygirl in one of this artist's cartoons
instead of being a real person.

=perfect match=

men like to take advantage of me.
& i like it when they do.

=return policy=

Where can i return this? i'm afraid it doesn't fit.
i'd like to see something in a vagina instead.

=between a cock & a hard place=

portrait of the artist as a young sissy