=cool people=

=birdpost=

=Some Thoughts on Chinese Food, Man=

I'm eating Chinese food, man, 

I'm eating Chinese food,

don't bother me now man,

I'm eating Chinese food.

Chinese food is sloppy, good, & hot

for five bucks you sure get a lot

the sauce is yummy, gummy, & viscous

like warm salty snot;
it tastes good on anything.

Chinese food is the best, man,

it's made by Chinese people

with stony faces

who seldom crack a smile

like Easter Island heads

like the Great Wall of China

but I don't smile either

so that's okay with me.

(Stir-fried by a wiry Taoist
in a disreputable smock
an alchemist presiding
over a flaming wok
Chinese food is most mysterious
you'd think Chinese food 
were the most serious business in the world.

You'd think Chinese food 
were a matter of do or die.
You'd think Chinese food was like a stick in the eye
that just tastes better.
Well, maybe it is, man,
maybe it is!)

Take it out or eat it in
they don't give a damn.
Good for lunch or dinner
& your inner Charlie Chan.
Chinese food is the shit, man,
inscrutable as hell,
 half an hour later
you're starving for Taco Bell.

When you're done they give you 
fortune cookies that say "good lucks!"

but I ask you,
Do they mean it?
Yeah, I ask you,
Do they really really mean it?

What's that chunk you're holding between your chopsticks?

Just pop it in your mouth, don't over think it,
you ever see a Chinese guy eat,
they do it in a hurry,
they got their reasons,
they know a thing or two,
they've been around for forty thousand seasons,
the Ming, the Ching, the Badda-Badda Bing,
their wisdom is indisputable,

so swallow it down, man, 

don't ask too many questions,

everything tastes better like that, anyway!

That's the way you do it.

That's the way you live a life.
Confucius say before you die 
you gotta eat a pound of dirt
& a mountain of flied lice.

Kung pow me some of this

Mu shu me some of that

Szechuan doggie

Hunan cat
I don't give a damn,
just put some duck sauce on it, 
lay it on my Mao Tse Tongue,
just give me some of that Chinese food, man,
goo-goo gaga fung.

—lyrics by Pussy Nagasaki

—music: a guy smoking a cigarette & talking on his cellphone
while waiting for his microwave popcorn to pop (up to 4 minutes on high).

=Russell Edson Pours My Husband a Cup of Coffee=

“We cannot get through the doorway. We can only die in our rubbish…a bravery which the universe ignores.” -–Russell Edson

When I came downstairs this morning I found Russell Edson sitting at the kitchen table. He was scribbling on the back of an envelope containing this month’s water bill. He had already started the coffee.

“Help yourself to a cup,” he said, without looking up. I shuffled over to the coffee pot with my mug.

“You can’t be here,” I said, pouring.

"I'm dead," he said, “Where should I be?”

I saw his point. He died a year ago, in April. I remember because I was in a hotel room and it was May when I found out. It upset me and I wrote a prose poem about it.

“You know…” I started.

“I know,” he said. “You have an affinity. Well, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

I wasn’t going to use the word “affinity” but something a lot more gushy; it was a gesture of kind modesty on his part. I wanted to refill his cup but I noticed that he hadn’t touched the coffee already by his elbow. Probably, I thought, he’d only poured it by force of habit. I can’t imagine the dead have much in the way of digestion. I wanted to do something for him, but what? I knew I shouldn’t interrupt him while he was writing but he was Russell Edson and he was sitting at my kitchen table. When would I get another opportunity to talk to him? I’d missed the chance while he was alive.

“So you still write? On the other side, I mean?”

He set the pen down and looked up. “At first, it surprised me, too. But then why should it? It wasn’t like I had any firm expectations of how it would be.”

“What do you do with the poems you write?” I wouldn’t have thought they had a literary press in the afterlife. He shrugged. “Don’t do anything with’em. They all come out like this.”

He handed me the envelope he’d been working on; it was blank. I suddenly thought of a line from one of his poems: “She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.”

Overhead, I heard the floorboards creaking. “That’s my husband. He’ll be coming down for breakfast any minute.”

I felt flushed, helpless and flustered, like the housewife-witch on some doofus television sitcom. How was I going to explain the presence of a dead poet in our kitchen, because somehow I was responsible, he told me so himself, simply by having an "affinity" for his work. I needn’t have worried, though. With every footfall on the stairs, Russell Edson faded a little more from view. He timed it perfectly, bowing out so gracefully I felt like crying, just as my husband reached the final stair.

He left nothing behind but the cup of coffee, untouched, piping hot, waiting on the table as if freshly poured.

I kissed my husband good morning and he took the seat Russell Edson had been sitting in not five seconds earlier.

"Coffee's exceptionally good this morning," he said.

Otherwise breakfast proceeded just like it always does. Later, after the dishes were cleared away, I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out this story on the envelope containing this month’s water bill. For awhile I had this wild idea that in the days to come the unwritten, undead prose poems of Russell Edson would now start flowing automatically through my pen, that I would be his amanuensis from the Great Beyond, that this was the real reason why he visited me. But no, nothing like that happened. After that morning, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.

=The 2nd American Civil War=

=The Cable Guy=

Okay, so this is pretty weird. I’m in a video store and this guy makes me his slave by forcing an outlet for a coaxial cable into my anus. Really, you can’t make this stuff up! When plugged in, apparently, I’ll be a sort of receiver for all of his x-rated fantasies. Right from the start, I’m somewhat intrigued, yes, even turned on. Maybe I’m receiving a program already and no longer in full control of my faculties. Who can tell? I see myself in a miniskirt and high-heels. I find myself getting turned on when I think about his promise to “complete my installation.” I really can’t help myself.

=merry xxxmas!=

Ho, ho, & more hos!

=sissygirl illustrated #12=

=The Last Phone Call=

I'm on the phone with my mother. Halfway through the conversation I'm horrified to realize that I've run out of things to say. This constitutes a real crisis because by some unwritten rule based on arcane calculations the origin and justification of which she alone knows, my mother has determined that all our phone calls should last at least forty minutes.

Forty minutes is the proper length of a mother-daughter call and outside of natural disasters and sudden health emergencies requiring nothing short of immediate ambulance transport with lights and screaming siren there are to be absolutely no exceptions to this rule.

Whether she's actually looking at the clock while we talk or has some kind of internal timer that tells her when we've hit the quota I don't know, but she has the time down to the second and I don't have the nerve to ask how. There's no way I could pose the question that wouldn't sound alternately suspicious, displeased, accusatory, disappointed, and condemning; in other words, sounding an awful lot like her. But I am curious.

Usually I make it to the end of the allotted time with no more than two or three uncomfortably unscripted moments to suffer through. Tonight, however, we somehow managed to cover all the usual topics in record time. These topics, always following the same order, are: What I've been doing with myself lately. What's new on the job front. What's going on in my social life,, specifically, who am I dating. The answers to these questions, even embellished, hardly require more than two or three hundred carefully chosen words. After that, it's a desperate attempt to perform CPR on a brain-dead conversation about the weather, television, and current affairs, which drives me into even deeper despair as our opinions on all of these topics are invariably diametrically opposed.

Finally, we lob the question "So what's new with you" back and forth at each other with various types of tricky spin until we're too exhausted to continue and we agree to call it a draw until next week.  That's where we are now, except there's twenty minutes left on the clock, not just two or three.

Suddenly I feel like I'm six again, sprawled on my belly across my mother's enormous bed, reading a chapter book. I've come to a strange word, a word all twisted up like a tight black knot.

"Sound it out, honey," my mother suggests. I try and try but just can't get it out; it's at the back of my throat, practically strangling me. "Bring your book up here, sweetheart," she says. "Show me."

My mother is propped up against the pillows where she sleeps alone since Daddy left, except, sometimes, when she lets me join her, wandering lost into her room after a nightmare. Now the bed seems more like a desert, a wasteland of sheets like sand shifting beneath me as I wade and flail hopelessly toward the horizon, like the only survivor of a doomed caravan.

My mother has slipped over the edge of the world; in her place only immense distances on every side. I'm so alone on this great empty bed I want to weep but who would hear me? Then I look down at the forgotten phone in my hand; it might as well be a mirage.

"Oh mother," I cry. "Oh mother."

"Tell me darling," her disembodied voice says calmly, nearly inaudible over the terrible wind that will eventually smooth everything over. "Tell me all about it."

=some medical assistance to help your dreams come true=

=The Little Girl and the Very Deep Hole=

There was once a little girl who dug herself a very very very very very deep hole. No one had ever paid her much attention and she thought that by digging a very very very very very deep hole they would be sure to notice her. Well, at the very least they would notice her hole and shortly after that they were sure to notice her at the bottom of it.




So she took a shovel from her daddy's garage where all the garden tools were kept and she found a place in the yard that wasn't too conspicuous or too inconspicuous and where none of her mother's precious pretty flowers were growing and that wouldn't damage her daddy's all-important lawn and she started digging away. She dug all afternoon and into the night and all through the next morning, too. She kept right on digging for days and days and days. She probably slept at some point; common sense tells us that she must have eaten something; but when she slept or what she ate we can't say. 

Mostly she just dug

       

 and dug

                 and dug 

                                   and dug

and dug.

The question is asked: "Where did she put all the dirt that she dug as she dug? Surely there came a point when she could no longer just throw it out of the hole above her or it wouldn't have been a very deep hole. 

Well, fortunately for her (and us), these aren't the kinds of questions you have to answer in fairytales. Instead, you just dig. You don't worry about where the dug dirt goes.

The sun went up. 

The sun went down.

Stars twinkled above her.

And then they twinkled out.

She dug through her whole childhood. She dug through her teen years. Then she dug through her twenties and thirties. She kept right on digging until she lost track of how long she'd been digging altogether. That's the thing about digging. There is never any end to it. There is never a bottom to a hole. Wherever you stop is the bottom. And where she finally stopped it was pretty far down. When she looked up, she could blot out the whole sun with the tip of her forefinger. 

"This must be deep enough," she thought and waited. 

And waited and waited and waited and waited. She refused to call up from the bottom of her hole because that would defeat the whole purpose. What she wanted was to be found at the bottom of the hole. But no one was finding her.

Then she realized she'd made a very fundamental mistake. She'd brought the shovel with her. There it stood, stuck in the dirt where she left it when she stopped digging, two feet away. How was anyone going to dig her out of the hole if the shovel was down here with her? Even worse, what if someone saw the hole and thought it was just a hole and decided to fill it back in without looking first to see who might be at the bottom of it? Suddenly it occurred to her that what she might have actually dug by accident was her own grave!

Darnit! This hadn't been a very good idea at all, she began to think, with a frown. Somehow she'd gotten her fairytales all bollixed up. What she should have done was build a tower from which she could let her long hair down, not a tunnel underground. A tower gets you noticed by princes. A tunnel gets you cold and damp and crawled on by worms. No, this hadn't been a good idea at all.

Now at this point in a fairytale something unexpected and miraculous happens and everything turns out for the best. But not so much in this fairytale. By now the little girl wasn't little anymore and no longer a girl but a mature woman with long white hair and brittle yellow nails and a cracked voice that could hardly carry halfway up the incredibly deep hole she'd dug for herself even if she had been inclined to call for help at this late date which she wasn't. 

In fact, she'd grown used to the dank and the chill and the worms and the moles and the roots and the tiny dime-sized view of the world above that she could see through the other end of her hole the way you'd look at another planet miles and miles and miles away as if through the eyepiece of a telescope. So she stayed there and no one ever did notice her and eventually that was just fine with her because on the plus side no one ever bothered her either and she came to forget why she ever wanted to be noticed in the first place.

And that is pretty much the happiest way a story like this can ever end.

=merpansi=

=glub glub glub=

=the sissy journal=

Absolutely essential for any sissy is the sissy journal. Part diary, part workbook, part scrapbook, it is where a sissy records all her private thoughts, feelings, desires, goals & sissy activities, both real and imagined. Here, too, a sissy can paste photos cut out from magazines of her favorite fashions & celebrities, make-up tips, hair-styles, girls she'd like to model herself after, cute kittens, horoscopes… and, well, whatever else catches her sissy fancy!  She can collect stickers, draw little pictures, record her secret crushes…there's just no limit to what a sissy can put into her sissy journal. 

Any kind of notebook will do, but the cheapest, most unadorned kind is probably the best, as it will allow you to easily modify it accordingly & it won't intimidate you by its fine quality. (Sissies can often relate best to cheap, flimsy stuff!) Of course, the very first thing a sissy should do is decorate her sissy journal to make it as glaringly sissy as possible! When she carries it around with her it should announce to the world in no uncertain terms that "i am a sissy!" i never go anywhere without my sissy journal & neither should you! You never know when a sissy thought will flutter into your airy head & you don't want a single one to escape on its pink fairy-wings! 

Nowadays, presenting to the world as a woman, i'm not self-conscious at all about carrying my sissy journal everywhere—although it does signal to the world that i'm a somewhat juvenile woman, which is hardly a problem, since that is exactly what i want the world to know. There was a time, before transitioning, though, that my sissy journal did send out a message that left me feeling self-conscious & vulnerable. So i can empathize with your discomfort. But what of it?! One of my greatest discoveries in life is that you're never going to attract the people who will truly appreciate you as a sissy—or as anything else for that matter—unless you send out the vibe that reflects who and what you truly are! If you keep pretending that your'e a man, you're only going to keep attracting people who expect you to be a man. And that's hardly what you want!

Carrying around your pink sissy journal with all its girly stamps & stickers is the perfect way to get that vibe out there. It's practically like wearing one of those old-fashioned sandwich boards wherever you go advertising yourself as a pansy. At home, i like to leave my sissy journal lying about the house just in case Daddy would like to browse through it & read all my secret sissy thoughts. A sissy, as you know, has no right to privacy, especially when it comes to her Daddy (or Mommy, as the case may be.)  As you can see in the above picture, my sissy journal is "secured" with a piece of pink yarn tied in a simple bow that all but invites entry. That pink yarn, btw, is a piece that i previously used to decorate my little limp pee-pee.  Of course, a casual observer would have no way of knowing that, but i do (and now you do)…and Daddy does (as does the occasional inquiring cat who can sniff out the truth)…and that is what matters! The important thing is that you begin to consolidate and intensify your identity as a sissy, primarily to yourself, but also, indirectly, to all the world.

=cool people=

Promote a revolutionary flood and tide in art.
Promote living art, anti-art,
promote NON ART REALITY
to be fully grasped by all peoples,
not only critics, dilettantes
and professionals.  

=eyechart=

=sissygirl illustrated #11=

=cool people=

=cat, dreaming=

on moving day

         showers

  salamanders

    stalagmites

             & coo      

      folded air

           silence              

       the easel 

 unauthorized 

 machine gun

the corner is everywhere                     

           the cat

       the muffin

    the doorbell

          the clue

=cool people=

=What Daddy Thinks of me…=

(This is a copy of the email Daddy sent me this morning. As you can see, he doesn't think very much of me…except as a perfectly obedient Stepford-type sissywife. Which is really all i want to be!)

There's not the slightest question that you're a total sissy faggot and a sissy slut at heart. I know you can and do whatever it takes to be a world-class man pleaser.  You're a pretty little sissy faggot pansy powderpuff homo bitch and a little pink cunty cupcake. A fully emasculated and feminized, ball-less, dickless excuse for a boy who's got a teeny tiny pretty pink-ribboned sissy clittie. You're a cockgobbling, mincing, prancing, sissy faggot cumdumpster and fawning manpleaser. And most of all, you're MY wonderful pretty little sissywife!

You and I both know that left to your own devices, you're fair game for any man with a tiny bit of confidence and a cock.  If men only knew what a helpless sissy you are, you'd surely need kneepads because you'd be spending hours at a time sucking cocks, licking balls and generally being degraded and made into the sissy faggot pussy-face punk that you are, craving cock and cum in your mouth and in your soft, smooth little sissy tummy.

As if you need another affirmation, here’s one anyway.  “I’m a pretty, sexy, obedient, man-pleasing gay sissy faggot.” I want you to memorize and repeat this to me later and you better not have forgotten a single word or else I’m going to put you over my knee and spank your sissy ass red. And I don’t mean a playful, sexy spanking. I mean the real thing. A real beating until you’re crying real tears. Got it? If you don’t, you will. I promise.

Christ, you’re such a fairy-faggot. I can so easily see you in a very fancy party dress and pink caribou mules, swirling and twirling around with a tiara in your hair and the commentary would be "She moves so gracefully and dances with such gay abandon..."  

You’re such a cliché. I mean everyone has known the skinny little four-eyed pansy who reads books and writes poetry.  The pink powder puff types like you. Fucking sissy...no wonder they used to bully you in school. Just look at you! You practically beg for abuse without even realizing it. I don't know how you got through a single school day without being raped five or six times. But you probably would have enjoyed that wouldn't you, you fairy-slut.

I know you're too timid to try something like this, but then again, you're sissy and flirty enough that in the right frame of mind you might do it. The mere possibility that the guy following you up to the roof might rape your sissy face and then your sissy ass would surely excite you. And the icing on the cake might be when he's finished wiping off his cock with your panties, he'd stuff them in your faggot mouth, lift you in his strong arms and throw you right off the roof!  On the way to certain death, you'd spurt a sissygasm on your tummy, you sexy fucking whore!

Here’s another one even more up your alley. You're an abducted sissy princess in the Hyperborean Age and before you're rescued by Conan the Barbarian, you're defiled and degraded by the king of the Priapic Giants. You better get that monster wet in your sissy mouth before he pulls out the beads and rapes you to death! Or maybe that’s just what you want. I’m right, aren’t I, sissy?

Hope daddy's horndog descriptions of what he thinks of you have titillated and excited you, you gorgeous little sissy bitch. If not, too bad, you’re getting a face full of my cock anyway.

xoxoxo                        ~Daddy 

=Sissy Meditation #2: Tend to the Temporary Paradise=

When was the last time you thought about the "Big Picture?" Well, don't think about it anymore. As big as the picture is, you're not in it. The world doesn't need your thoughts; the world has no place for you. Isn't that clear by now? As far as the world is concerned, you might as well not exist at all. As far as the world is concerned, it would have been better for you & it, if you hadn't. As it is, you inhabit the margins & cracks, you're kneeling on the other side of the glory hole, a wall always between you and the world at large. That's the way the world wants it & the sooner you understand that the better.

You exist as a real person only in your imagination. In other people's minds, you appear only as a sexual fantasy. This is your place in life—accept it & you will be as happy as an extravagant & endangered creature like you can possibly be. In other words, give up the idea of making a mark on the world: you can't, you won't, & it was ludicrous of you to ever have believed you could, even to try. Did you try? It's hard to tell. Your efforts hardly scratched the surface; they didn't leave a trace. 

Leave Society to those who have a stake in Society. Society could collapse tomorrow and you'd be more a part of the rubble that remained than you are of what exists now. You are an outsider, a freak, a sexual circus act. You belong with the prostitutes & porn stars, the misfits & loners, with all those who've always existed in the darkness outside the communal campfire. There in the dank alleys & public restrooms, the peep show booths & the front seats of idling cars, in moonlit playgrounds & motor inns which rent rooms by the hour those who belong will occasionally slip away from the bright shiny world to visit you, hidden in the illicit shadows. 

Your true home is always mobile, even if you have an address & a front door; your true home is contingent on circumstance, as fleeting as the desire of another, as secret as a browser history & a hidden email account. You are a quantum nomad, both here & not here, pitching your tent under a man's swollen balls as you wander the desert, an impromptu oasis for those seeking a kinky, confidential, no-strings-attached encounter. As far as the world is concerned, you only exist at the tip of a man's glistening, swollen cock—and only in those moments before he cums inside you. This is the world that should concern you: this tiny, temporary paradise in which you find yourself like Eve offering the apple….this world always leading to the Fall & no other.

=Sissy Meditation: Snooze & Lose, You Loser=

Why not spend the whole day in bed today? What have you got to do that's so important, anyway? You're just a sissy; the world can easily turn without you & does every single day! That's one advantage of being a useless pansy. You're completely inessential. No one needs you unless they need a cocksucker or an easy fuck—and if by chance one of your "boyfriends" does come around you'll be right where you belong. So don't even bother to get dressed today. Revel in your uselessness. Stay in your nightie or girly pjs, pile your bed with your favorite stuffed animals (you do have stuffed animals, don't you sissy?), gather together your glossy magazines full of fashion & gossip, maybe even a romance novel or two. Wuthering Heights is a good choice, if you're feeling in a particularly gothic mood.  Turn on the TV, open up the laptop or tablet, & surround yourself with screens broadcasting mindless distraction. Mindless distraction is the state of mind you're seeking; it suits a sissy better than any other, a pleasant, brainless hum. Cruise the web for your favorite porn sites & read the most titillating parts of your favorite stories. Check out the online pics of other sissies for new ideas on how to make yourself even sissier than you already are. Luxuriate in your own frilly and frothy frivolousness. This isn't a day to deny yourself anything. So forget the diet & indulge your unhealthier appetites. Hedonism is the order of the day! Be naughty! Bring a box of chocolates to bed with you or a plate of brownies or fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Pop a bowl of warm, extra-buttery popcorn & hug it to your tithes, mechanically munching piece after piece while your freshly painted toenails dry. Yum! Whatever your secret vice—enjoy it to the fullest. Have your favorite vibrator close to hand. Lying in bed conserves energy and it's got to be discharged somehow. What better way than with a mind-blowing orgasm? You're surely not going to use your energy for anything else today. Follow with a nap. Then repeat as necessary. 

=i'm a sissy; here's how you can tell=

=sissy homework=

If nothing else, i guess the very fact that i so diligently completed this assignment illustrates the depth of my submission & the desperation of my need for approval…both of which, maybe more than anything else, define my personality as a sissygirl. This isn't even the best example. When i used to sexchat with people online, i'd often be given "assignments" in the midst of a chat that later, offline, i would actually carry out to the letter, no matter how debasing or humiliating. The person i'd been chatting with could have no idea whether i'd carried out his instructions or not, but i'd know. And if we hooked up again online, i wanted to be able to honestly tell him that i'd followed his orders. i wanted to be able to show him that i was an obedient & perfectly submissive slave, that i was entirely under his control. What's more, carrying out his instructions—even if he wasn't there to oversee my actions—gave me a sense of security, a sense that he was watching, whether he was or not, that was unquestionably sexual in nature.  There is no more intense, no more exquisite pleasure than the pleasure i get from the feeling of being owned, controlled, & disciplined by another in a situation with sexual overtones. When addicts speak of the irresistible euphoria of heroin, i think they must be talking about the euphoria i feel in submission. As a result, i am extraordinarily susceptible to strong-willed controlling types of individual who demand i give up my own will—which i'm only too willing to do!—even to the point of self-destruction. Other people can be very dangerous for me; in fact, just like heroin, they can be the death of me. Of this, i am well aware & i usually keep my distance from others, knowing well how porous my boundaries are, how easily someone can step over them & capture my unconditional surrender. My behavior is often misinterpreted to my benefit, giving others the impression that i'm a lot more self-assured & self-possessed than i am, that i am distant & even aloof. Conventional societal norms also protect me from the bold move that would enable practically any man i meet to simply grab me by the wrist & force me into the nearest car, bathroom, or alleyway where i would unresistingly do whatever it was he told me to do & never speak a word of it to anyone.   

=sissygirl illustrated #10=

=Daddy has a cock; but i just have a little pink pee-pee=

Daddy has a cock; but i just have a little pink pee-pee.

That's what i had to repeat, over and over, last night while Daddy diddled me. He had just finished fucking my face. Ordinarily, i would say that i'd just finished giving him a blow job, but that wouldn't accurately describe what happened this time. No, this time it wasn't a blow job…it was a face-fucking. Daddy had me kneel at the side of the bed, a fat pink dildo stretching my sissypuss, & he ground his crotch into my face. He shoved his balls into my mouth one at a time, forcing me to suck on them, then he wiped them all over my face, getting his manly musky scent all over me. He slapped me with his thick cock & called me all kinds of nasty names—cocksucker, faggot, pansy, cum-bucket, whore, slut, queer—well, it wasn't so much the names themselves that were so nasty but the harsh, aggressive, dismissive, angry way he said them. If i didn't know better, i might have thought he really did hate me; perhaps some part of him does, hates me for turning him on, hates me for making him want to dominate me. It can get very complicated. But there was nothing complicated about the way he was fucking my face. It was very raw & elemental & basic. It was very brutal in its simplicity. That's part of the appeal. There's no more thinking at that point. Not long before he came, he said that he was getting pretty "ornery" & that there might be things he wanted to do that i wouldn't like but that i had no choice but to just go with the flow. He left me to wonder what he might be talking about. i'm afraid to ask so i don't. But i know he's right. He's engineered things so that i'm entirely dependent on him now. Only five years ago, i was a totally independent person. But that's all changed. Now i'm just Daddy's little sissygirl. He's right: i really don't have a choice; i really do have to do anything he says.

Daddy has a cock; but i just have a little pink pee-pee.

The more excited i got, naturally the harder it was to concentrate on my line. i said it more and more slowly, enunciated more deliberately, sounding sissier & sissier each time. Soon, i sounded almost like a six-year-old. That pleased Daddy a lot. He asked me if i'd like to make a cummy. Yes Daddy, i said. What kind of cummy? A sissy cummy, i said. He thought it had been a long time since i last made one & asked me how long it had been. Not that long, i admitted. Thanksgiving. He was surprised. Really, he said. i reminded him how i'd sat on his lap while we were watching an old movie on tv & he had diddled me until i was squirming & begging him for relief & he'd let me cum. God, it had felt so good! It was one of my best cummies ever! At that point, it had been a little over thirty days since i'd been allowed to make a cummy. That seems to be the new norm: i get to make a single cummy every month. Thanksiving, Daddy said thoughtfully, continuing to diddle me. How many days is that? Only eleven, i answer, since it's now after midnight. Hmmm, Daddy said. Only eleven. I thought it was a lot longer. That's not long at all. Damn my memory and my honesty, i think. And all of a sudden, i'm so good at math?! Well, Daddy says, that's what you get for being such a smarty-panties. No cummy for you tonight. Just like that he stops diddling me, leaving me on the brink. He tells me to pull my panties up. That's enough for tonight, he says. i make a little whimper of frustration & pull my panties up & that's that. But, wait, it's not quite over yet. Daddy gives me a sissy homework assignment for the next day (which is now today). He wants me to write fifty times:

Daddy has a cock; but i just have a little pink pee-pee. 

i've got my pink sissy school notebook ready & i'm going to start working on my assignment right now. 

=in lieu of a suicide note=

=When Mike Tyson Kisses You=

Mike Tyson stuck his tongue in my mouth. He stuck his tongue in my mouth and wiggled it all around. He stuck it way back there so that I thought I would gag on it but I didn't, I didn't dare gag on it, I was scared to gag on it because I was scared that he might take offense if I did. 

We were standing at the top of some stairs going a long way down. This was in a banquet hall. He'd been telling me about his change of heart since becoming a man of God.

I was scared being so close to the edge of these very steep stairs with a man like Mike Tyson. There was a gleam of the old madness in his eyes leftover from the days when he  brutally knocked men out cold even bigger than himself within seconds of the first round, threw couches and armoires through plate glass windows of New Jersey mansions, drove Bentleys into trees and dragged women down hallways, stairways, walkways by their hair to curbs. This gleam was in his eyes even though his mouth was moving around words about God and remorse and redemption and living the right way.

He was saying all the right things, the good things, all the things you wanted him to say, but there was still that gleam of star-fire in his eyes.

I don't like to prejudge anyone, not even by past reputation. I like to hold open the possibility that we're all capable of change, even profound, unlikely, yes, even miraculous, impossible change. Even Satan must theoretically be capable of change. Otherwise, what hope is there for anyone, or this world?

But, let's face it, this was Mike Tyson. His periods of sanity have been notoriously short-lived, subject to sudden and unpredictable eruptions of violence that have consistently defied explanation. Time and again, just when you thought he'd gotten his head on straight, he'd lose it. Bad things followed. Things that were recorded in the headlines of tabloids that for once didn't have to be made up.

We were both attending an event being held in his honor. 

We had been standing there talking. Rather, he had been talking. I'd been listening. The whole time I felt that he was perfectly capable of throwing me down the stairs at any moment. That he could lower his shoulder and give me a shove without hardly knowing what he was doing. I could hardly think of anything else. I don't remember what he was saying.

The gleam in his eyes signified to me that he was beyond good and evil even if he wasn't aware of it himself. He could do anything, good or evil, at any moment.

This was Mike Tyson.

This is what He was.

Mike Tyson was God, I thought, and a shiver of transconscious recognition went through me. Of course. Revelation, when it comes, is the most obvious thing in the world. Like a freight train. Standing there at the top of those elegant stairs carpeted the deep rich color of wine or spaghetti sauce or blood, I realized that Mike Tyson was god, or the very closest thing to God I was ever going to be so close to ever in my mortal life. At the foot of those stairs I could picture my body, small in its elegant black dress, broken like a hieroglyph.

Mike Tyson's tongue was way back there in my throat, tickling that thing back there, that little thing that looks like a punching bag, a speed-bag, I think they call it in boxing, the uvula is what the anatomist calls it. It's the thing that helps you talk, forms consonants; it seals off your nasal passages so that you don't breathe in foods or liquids, so you don't drown when you drink a glass of milk. His tongue was pushing that thing back and I felt like I might start gagging, but I didn't.

I calmed down and let him wiggle his thick, fat tongue at the back of my throat, groping around back there, searching for what? It seemed as if he were trying to tell me something. His tongue was moving around in this very intimate way, trying to impart some message, a secret, perhaps. This is like glossolalia, I was thinking. This is Mike Tyson speaking in tongues.

It's like a communion or a baptism or Moses hearing God talking from a burning bush.

I stood there petrified until it was over, which took a long time.

I had forgotten all about the stairs.

I had forgotten all about everything. 

When it was over, I could barely make my way over to the wall furthest away from the stairs. I fell heavily into a chair. I sat there for a long time feeling as if I were under water. Or as if the world was under water and I was looking down into it.

Months, a year, two years later, Mike Tyson's tongue is still in my mouth. It will never truly be withdrawn. Once Mike Tyson's tongue has been in your mouth it stays there forever. Once you're kissed by Mike Tyson, you stay kissed. I feel it in there now, that tongue, wiggling around, fat like a bloated snake, saying something or other.

But what it's saying I can't say. 

Mike Tyson's tongue has swallowed my tongue, it has taken up residence, rooted to the back of my jaw, and I can't spit it out.