Monday, July 31, 2017


=my sissy pillow book=

Daddy clicked the television off and called me over to the rocker. He had me pull down my panties and bend over his lap. Time for a spanking! I needed one, too. I'm not sure why, just on general principles, I suppose. Oh…wait.  I do know why. Cause I'm a naughty little, sissy! That's why! That's the answer Daddy wanted to hear when he asked me why I was getting a spanking. I've been taught that it's the right answer to virtually every question I'm asked. Let's put it this way: it's never the wrong answer. 

Every once in a while, Daddy pauses between slaps to ask me why I'm being spanked, do I know?

"Cause I'm a naught little sissy, Daddy."

"Good girl," he says, and resumes. 

Smack!
Smack!
SMACK!

—Oh!— 

I must have needed a spanking even more than I realized, because it took a while for it to really start stinging. Of course, Daddy wasn't slapping me nearly as hard as he could—or has on occasion. I was almost going to ask for it harder, but I learned my lesson the last time I did. Besides, before I could even think to ask, it really did start to hurt a little. 


Daddy paused briefly to give me a bit of a fingering. Then he resumed the spanking. 


When he was done warming my bottom, he had me pull up my panties and march myself off to the bedroom. There he told me to lie down, and, standing by the side of the bed, he worked my panties back down to my frilly ankle socks. He then proceeded to lightly diddle my puny, limp, little clittie. He made it a point to point out that there wasn't much left between my legs, which, ironically, woke up the little that is there. 


"When I jerk off," he said,  "I take it in my hand and give it a good yanking up and down. Like I were fucking someone with it. When a weak little sissy like you  masturbates, she just lightly tickles it with her fingertips."


He said this while lightly stroking my clittie with his thick, rough-tipped finger. 


"Let's see if I can find that special spot," he said, having found it already, and knowing he had, by my squirming reaction to his touch, my little squeaks and squeals, my "oh Daddy…Daddy…Daddy…"


Well, you don't need to be Madame Blavatsky to predict what happened next. 



Madame Blavatsky gets it right again.

I quickly got pretty excited, then very excited, so excited I was wetting myself with excitement which Daddy sneeringly pointed out.

"You're wetting yourself you fucking pansy. Look at you wetting yourself like a little slut. Is that what you are? A little pansy, a fucking sissy faggot?"

"Oh yes Daddy," I squeaked.

"Say it. Say it in your lispiest most faggoty voice, you pussy fag, you pansy queer."

I'd have said anything at this point. Confessed to the Kennedy assassination, to 9-11. I'd have agreed if he asked me if I'd like him to cut my throat. I was arching my back desperate not to lose contact with that miraculous, rough-tipped finger of his. It felt like the finger of God reaching down in that section of Michelangelo's painting on the Sistine Chapel. 

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy," I lisped.

"Say it again."

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy," I lisped again.

"Keep saying it."

I did, over and over, like a mantra. And enlightenment was coming. I could feel it building up. 

"Don't stop," Daddy ordered, in one of his harsher tones.

I felt like saying the same thing. "Don't stop." Only my "Don't stop" would have been in the form of a plea. I understood the implication of his order. If I didn't stop repeating the words "I'm a queer little pansy faggot, Daddy," he wouldn't stop touching that magical millimeter to two on my clittie. I said the words faster and faster as Daddy's touch increased in tempo, so light, so tantalizing, so deliciously just…not…quite…enough. 

"I'm a queer little pansy faggot Daddy." The words were baking my brain, warmed by the feel-good sex-hormones flooding my body, the sentence was reforming my consciousness as it passed sentence on my life. "I am a queer little pansy faggot. I belong to Daddy. I'm his toy, his fuckdoll, his sissywife. He can do whatever he wants with me or to me." 

I came hard, kicking my feet, my head thrown back, illuminated by a kind of higher sissy consciousness. The orgasm seemed to last a long time. Then it seemed to come back again, only further away, like thunder from a storm that was moving on. I lay there, murmuring thank-you Daddy thank you. Meanwhile, he took up some of the liquid I'd leaked and smeared it across my lips with his fingers. It was without taste. Impotent. Nothing more than lubricant, in case he wanted to fuck me. This is all I could produce anymore from my clittie: a little wetness to make it easier for a man to fuck me in the ass.

It's all I should have ever been able to produce from that otherwise useless appendage.

I'm a queer little pansy faggot. It's what I've always been. Daddy's girl. His sissywife.

How could things get any better? Only one way: ice cream! Daddy suggested that we have some and it was probably the only thing—short of the sheets having caught fire—that could possibly have roused me out of my relaxed state of euphoria & gotten me out of bed at that point.

Saturday, July 29, 2017


Remote Control Baloney Sandwich

Begin with an army of cars
under a tiara
a brazen discussion of chicken styles.

Divorced, part wolverine,
I’m a diva of the air
forming a compass
in the humidity.

It was a bad bit of combat
a piece of punting pie
say goodbye to the robot in the gravel
the gold medallions on the plate
why do we want a blue hocus-pocus
is there no other way
to dip your foot in quartz?

I thought I could never feel anything again
then I painted myself white
& waited for a wino
who called himself Mr. Bag.

My house is a crazy Volvo
no one’s driving.

In a moment or eight
the corners will be on fire
and where will you be then
my disheveled porcupine
my skidrow crow?

Wednesday, July 26, 2017


=The Daddy-Thing=

Let me interject here a few sentences concerning the whole “Daddy-Thing.”

Many sissies have one. Who knows how that works exactly? A little boy is born a sissy, develops a crush on his Daddy. If he were a little girl, no biggie, right? Everyone understands; it’s universal. But, because he’s supposed to be a boy, what would be fairly common, even normal, and oh-so-cute in a little girl becomes a complicated, thorny psychosexual problem in the case of a sissy. What’s not to get about a Daddy’s girl? It’s simply charming, if it doesn’t go on too long. Doesn’t get too overtly sexual. But a Daddy’s boy? What the hell? There’s never anything right about that!

It must be confusing as hell to be a little sissy with a crush on your Daddy and no socially acceptable way to express it or have it acknowledged.  No wonder why sissies grow up so fucked up and reach adulthood with a mind still stuck in pre-adolescence. These are just my theories, you understand, based not on any particular psychological expertise, nor systematic peer-based research. I wasn’t schooled as a psychiatrist or a psychologist, you understand. I’m just reporting my observations from the field. My anecdotal research, you might say, as a sexual predator whose special prey is sissies. I might not have a Ph.D., but, man, let me tell you, I sure could write a book about sissies and their need for a Daddy figure.

The way I see it, as long as society doesn’t recognize and accept the existence of sissies like my little Kimmee, the longer these little orphans will be vulnerable to the likes of big bad wolfish “Daddies” like me. Outcast from a society that won’t recognize them, accept them, nurture them, give them a place and a function, a society that decries and denies their very being, that won’t acknowledge their right to dream and desire to be who and what they are, so long as this is the law of the land, these lost sheep will always be vulnerable, always potential victims.

Feel guilty?

No?

Neither do I.


—a relatively sane analytical excerpt from my extreme porn-novel-in-progress "Sissy Babygirl," which is turning into one sick, twisted piece of shit that's disturbing & depressing even for me to read even as i write it because i've come to understand that on some level i want this psychopathic "daddy" fuck to do to me what he's doing to Kimmee in the story, which is basically murder her by slow degrees. It's suicide by infantilization. 

For the first time, it occurred to me that this is what is at the heart of the extreme infantilization fantasy, at least for me (and i'm fairly sure for some others as well): the conscious—or subconscious—longing for death, to be "nurtured" and "babied" to death, because adulthood, because life itself,  is just too overwhelming, too horrible, too sad & too painful to (teddy) bear. 

Take away my mind, my memories, my sex, all of which torture me, take away my independence, because, in fact, I can't utilize it in any functional way, & when you take away all that, finally, snuff out my life. It'll be easy. Just hold my head under the water. Put a pillow over my face. I'll have no strength to fight it just as i have virtually no will to fight it either. 


I can't wait to finish this novel so i can put it behind me once and for all. Then, i'm afraid, i have another sick one to write. After that, i hope i'm done with getting this twisted shit out of my system once & for all. I find i can't really write simple porn anymore. It often bores me. I have to add some theory, autobiography, personal reflection etc in order to keep me engaged with it. I have to make it serious, exaggerating situations to the darkest extreme to make obvious the stealthy undercurrents running through taboo desires, societal hypocrisy and repression, the everyday cruelty between people and the existential crisis that is often displayed ritualistically in such practices as BDSM. 


As a result, I run the risk that readers will think that I really get turned on by the things I describe. Often I do. Or that I approve or endorse them. I don't. Except in fantasy, where it's no use pretending it's not what turns you on. At the same time I'm perfectly aware how dysfunctional it is—and how tragic. What I'm trying to do is tease out "why" these things are a turn-on rather than just being the helpless subject blown to and fro by these dark desires. 

In other words, I wish I were constituted otherwise, but I'm not and I have to learn to deal with it. This is familiar territory to me, constituted as I was in what I feel was the wrong body to begin with, in the wrong society, in the wrong world…essentially in the wrong life. I take as my motto the words of Terrance, "nothing human is alien to me." Not because I'm human, mind you. But because I am the alien.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017


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Long Distance Llama Phone

Orange juice with an evangelist
oh boy!
I went to the silent matinee
in a pair of sobbing chinos
I committed 3 pagan suicides
I was always parallel to north of nothing
I had a perfect constitution for marriage
but I was opposed to the proper corridor
It was a happy ending anyway
albeit in illegal pajamas
Everything was permitted
but let me be clear
I have no more respect
for helicopters or anything else
corrugation, for instance
nothing
noodles
You can slobber your jowls all you like
I salute the silence
I am not confounded
by the roaring door
I have a long distance llama
on the phone
I’m sipping ballerina wine

Monday, July 24, 2017

Wednesday, July 19, 2017


Make a snap decision. Save some luck. You have the option for another time. Get a grip, but on what? Pu-pu platter. Later, man. Caw. Caw.

The Fucking Happy Poem
This is the happy poem
I wrote it to make you happy
Happy
Happy
Happy
I'm smiling as I write it
You should smile as you read it
There's a happy face in every line
Guaranteed!

Smile
Smile
Smile
Read it in the morning
Read it in the night
Read it in between
Read it whenever you feel yourself getting sad
Read it with a smile
Happy Happy Happy
Don't stop smiling
Not even for a goddamned second
Happy Happy Happy
Smile Smile Smile
Remember: a frown is just a smile
gravity took over
So lift the corners of that mouth
to the ceiling…
Heart attack can't get us down, nor broken bones,
emphysema, a cornucopia of cancers,
hemorrhoids, shingles, eczema, 
the heartbreak of psoriasis, 
stubbed toes, Alzheimers,
 that disease Lou Gehrig got that I can never spell,
all mere technicalities,
strokes, car crash, train wreck, suicide, slips in bathtubs,
natural disasters, war war war,
why be so negative?
fatal tumbles down the cellar stairs, three-alarm fires, car bombs, smoke inhalation,
Smile Smile Smile
dog bites, domestic abuse, avalanche, spontaneous combustion,
choking to death on a donut hole,
pit bull attack, diabetes, nephritis, 
accidental electrocution, drowning,
There's a tombstone out there with your name on it
Oh so what?
Cheer up
Don't be a gloomy Gus
murder, yes even murder!, asthma, homicidal exes,
terrorist attack, dying forgotten in a nursing home,
raped and stabbed and left to bleed out in a ditch,
Have I left out anything?
Sure, but there's no reason to let it get you down
Come on let me see those pearly whites
even if you haven't a tooth left in your head
Smile Smile Smile
Happy Happy Happy
So happy
So happy
so 
so 
so 
Happy!




Tuesday, July 18, 2017


Time to assess the situation. Are you about to cross the yellow line? This weekend: a basket. Mako shark. Same day service. Boogaloo. Plunk.


Monday, July 17, 2017



Don’t be afraid to use extra nose. Chimney. Licorice cat. Your boots have that springy energy. Twins?  Forsooth young Tim! It’s all wood.

Sunday, July 16, 2017


Assume you know who. Release or relapse. Eyeball it, then use a fork. Guarantee X. Someone is thinking mix-up. So what? Ninja. 30 across.
Dear Pale Blue Outsider

Just an hour ago we were asleep.
Well, I wouldn’t call it sleep.
It was something, but I haven’t figured out what.
The Chinese were amazing
but they couldn’t control the river.
It was a long metal thing with a dip on the end.
It was this.

Goats in a paradise. Cataroo.
Those were good dreams, sweet
as pineapple. Stood on a chair
and the whole damn thing toppled over,
pulling down a picture.
Grandpa wept.

Sometimes you step off a curb
but the silence wipes out
the entire city. Please, there’s one thing
you must understand about
human life, it’s an obvious fact.
He showed me his collection
of Indian arrowheads.
All eight of them.
He had them in his pocket.
There was laughter,
but it wasn’t guaranteed.
Sometimes these things
just don’t want to be written down.
Listen, I could tell you something
or other about it, but then
you’d offer me a baby aspirin
and I’d be zipping off to Zanzibar.

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Pink the Bottom Labrador

Blackety black
manhole-over
stipple crack the door
magpie sharpie toaster
tarpaulin
sleep gore
whack the puff in progress
happy pack a moot
gangsters at a turnstile
blue pelican
bra
clue
boot
your passport
lasting happiness
trapped inside
& more
all the shiny pennies
running across the floor

Play the great man today. Bread for all! Transgression of oils. It’s possible that a hand comes back to you. Beware the deceitful udder.

Friday, July 14, 2017


Better to be a pickerel. Salad. Umbilical tongue. Time honors no noon. Fruit under cover. Wicked pencils. Escape in a mini-car. 2 Stooges.

Thursday, July 13, 2017


Concentrate: the first person. Scoot-worthy. Then, it’s purple. Shoelace. Tulip concentrate. Don’t be surprised. Surprise! Mookie Blaylock.


You may lay solids. Display a fold. Everything’s easier sad than done. Havoc, your ticket. Something zooming in. Oh, the astral cornbread.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017


Today was "needle day." It's a day that comes around once every two weeks. We have this sexy little ritual that we do, my husband and I. It's much more fun than when I used to get my shot in the doctor's office. They were just too damn professional there for my own good. After Daddy gives me my injection, he swabs it with alcohol, and peels a Hello Kitty band-aid over the injection site. Then he pats me on the rump and says, "all done sissy." I turn around and give him a nice warm kiss. "Thank you, Daddy," I say. Maybe it's the hormones…but after I get my shot Daddy is always especially randy. I don't think he's even aware of it. But I invariably end up getting an injection of his sperm along with the estradiol valerate. 

I remember the first time that I got a hormone shot. What girl doesn't? I'd managed to find a doctor, now retired, who would administer the shot based on informed consent. This was harder 7 years ago than it is today. Informed consent meaning that I wouldn't have to go through the laborious—and in my case—totally unnecessary two-year counseling requirement, along with the one-year trial living-as-a-woman before I would be cleared for HRT. Instead, I simply had to demonstrate that I understood what I was getting myself into and that I was sure I wanted to go through with it. At that point, I was already living as a female and I knew without doubt that I wanted to transition. 


The doctor conducted  a short interview, asking me questions about my past, my sexual orientation, my reasons for wanting to transition, my state of mind, and my general health. He explained what I could expect in the way of physical changes and that up to a certain point the effects of the hormones would be reversible. But after six months or so, it would become more and more likely that the physical changes, including sterility, would be permanent. 


Then he asked me if I was ready to begin feminization.


"Yes," I said. 


I was somewhat intoxicated by the way he put it. "Are you ready to begin feminization." It sounded like something out of a sex-fantasy story. Out of one of the many sex-fantasies and stories I'd composed myself. I sat there in a kind of dumb trance. Then, suddenly, to my absolute astonishment, I realized that he meant right then! I'd just assumed that I'd have to return for another appointment. After waiting so long, I couldn't believe it was going to happen just like that. But it did. It was like a dream. We moved from his office to an examination room. I felt like I was floating. I sat on the examination table as he prepared the needle. And within a matter of a couple of minutes, the journey of a thousand miles was over. I had begun "feminization."

 I am far from you. I have nothing to say to you, 
but I am here and I know you are here.
—Milan Kundera
Globule, the Prime Meridian

Home is where the harmonica is

manichean daydream

            toothpaste
the taste of wasted haste
               guys secretly named Max
flyover brownstone substrates
knobby backhoe rollers
doggone
knapsack
the song of rotten molars

grotesque until the eyeball
by then
       the cock’s complaint

semaphore
open door
the corkscrew (boo!)
air
plain


Sunday, July 9, 2017

Your Month-by Month Horoscope for Any Year

1.
Write down a list of everything you want to happen in your life and concentrate hard on turning each of them into a piece of concrete. Chew gum.

2.
Yes, it's one of those days. Things crawling. Stay close to the woodwork. That may never happen. (You know what I mean). Think: owl.

3.
It's a busy day & you have a lot to project. Ceilings. Monkeys. Who have you become? If it's far-fetched, it's time to fetch it.

4.
It’s a fine time to do whatever. Grow a scab. You could experience a trigger. Go ahead, grit your teeth. Fireflies. Pick a card, any card.

5.
Guard it today. Don’t believe in yourself so much. Maybe 72%? Make promises they can’t hear. View muddled. An old lady with a walker.

6.
Bear in mind: the equator. To swim you might have to fit in a fish. A window opens. Two sticks of dynamite; no match. Who's Mr. Drastic?

7.
Check your breath. Your mouth a trench: the unsaid. No standing anytime. One-thirty, the fire hydrant. Dog-shaped shadow. He's in red. 

8.
Take time to return the flavor. The moon angles upward. Unpredictability becomes your new m-o. Cut the nerve. Buddy-up. Smile audaciously.

9.
Insincerity wins any day but this one. A big hug could make all the difference in a beehive. A cat watches the baseboards for good reason.

10.
Love behind the greens. Transit your partner. It’s an excellent time to have feet. Forecast a future crime. Use small words. Partridge.

11.
Cultivate a pitfall. A cigarette pack is not a lobster. Spot yourself in an empty landscape. Plan an intersection. Blink a lot. Page 49.

12.
Keep the other hand firm. Instigate? Tongue luck. Many paths are wise to avoid. Flypaper. Don’t underestimate the sizzle. Butternut be real.