A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that's unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.

Said Ludwig Wittgenstein

The way out of a room is not through the door. Just don't want out. And you're free. 

Said Charles Manson

I hate being human. To be expected to communicate is hell. To live in society is to have all your words chosen for you already. Freedom means refusing to say your assigned lines for which defiance they'll kill you or the equivalent thereof. I'd rather be a sex doll.

Please don't tell me you think you're a girl because you get a hard-on while wearing panties or you're such a slut all you want to do is suck cock & get fucked by big hairy "real" men. That is the stupidest dumbest most insulting fucking thing you can say to someone who went through as much pain & loss to become what Ive become. Keep that shit for others who share that "fantasy" because that's all that is—and no doubt it's enough for you if it gets you to cum. But it's got nothing, zero, nada to do with being a woman, genetic or trans. Period.

I never had any sense of myself as a boy.  And because being a girl was ostensibly out of the question, not even offered to me as an option, and, in fact, erased from all possibility by every social—and outward biological—indicator, I was left with only one other option: to assume the role of the marginal. The outsider. The refugee who belongs nowhere & whom no one wants. That experience marked forever the person I am now—a person who feels they haven't any stake in or care for a society to which they never belonged. It can go to hell, for all I care, is my general attitude to everything and everyone outside my immediate circle. And that is a result of—and likely revenge against—the abuse and alienation and exclusion I suffered for most of my life from childhood to my transition. 

Until people like me are allowed to move towards the pole we feel the most affinity towards whether male or female we’ll always be outsiders in a strictly binary society. The other option is to create a third category into which we might fit. A third-sex. Not a third-sex stigmatized & sexualized  & tolerated with a snickering snide eroticized innuendo. But a genuine 3rd sex granted the full rights & respect of the other two. Yet society—our society—insists on a binary, strictly 2-sex system. And one can’t help but wonder why. If it’s not a matter of control. Of making it easier to count & categorize & corral us. It’s time to shake the concrete straitjacket of this two-sex binary fascism at its foundations. From beneath its foundation: where we’ve been buried so long.

In public, I'm a woman. My official documentation lists me as female. My blood hormone levels are female. My body has become feminized. My thoughts, emotions, and sexuality have always been female. If, in public, anyone were to treat me as anything else, I'd be upset. I'd consider it an act of defamation & aggression. If my husband were with me, he'd likely beat the shit out of whoever it was or cow them into an apology, depending on if the offender were male or female. Yet in private, in the bedroom, my husband will use all the most hurtful words & phrases that a cruel society will use to refer to someone like me. Faggot, sissy, pansy, freak, cockwhore, tranny cumslut, nancy boy, queer….all of them. And, in spite of myself, in spite of all the pain & abuse Ive suffered in the past at having these insults hurled at me (& hurling them at me myself having internalized society's judgment), I'll become sexually excited. That's why he uses them. He knows they excite me. He knows they give me pleasure. I've sexualized this abuse over a lifetime to be able to deal with it, to extract some joy from the cruelty. I feel guilty about that. I feel I shouldn't allow it. Intellectually, I know its regressive and dangerous and self-disrespecting. It's politically wrong. But you can't argue rationally with your sexual wiring. I should know that as well as anyone by now. Still I can't help but feel that what I do by getting sexually excited by such cruel terms is as unthinkable as a concentration camp survivor becoming sexually aroused by Nazi sex fantasies. Or a black person having plantation or lynching fantasies. I know that, in my case, the linking of abuse to sexual pleasure was a coping tool that enabled me to survive. The survival of such feelings are a legacy I wish I could've avoided, but it's now too much a part of me to extract. It's another aspect of myself that I wish I could change, can't change, and will just have to learn to accept. Maybe the best revenge I've gotten on society is learning how to turn their hate into ecstasy. The orgasm can be a liberating and revolutionary act.

Before bed, during snack-time, Daddy gave me a surprise present. It was a new onesie pajama with a tutu-like skirt & a cupcake design decorated with lacy flowers on the bodice! It was Awwww So Cute! I put it on to wear to bed & the fun began! First Daddy got me very excited by unsnapping the crotch of the onesie & playing with me while i sucked on a pacifier, which he then replaced with a fat rubber dildo. He told me what a faggot sissy slut i looked like which of course only excited me even more. Then he pulled me over to the edge of the bed. While I sucked the dildo & played with myself, he fingered my pussy and then came between my legs. He told me this is what he wants to do with me with this "friend" he found online…he'll have me suck this guy off while he fucks me…that seemed very sexy to me. But it wasn't until Daddy was finished & he had me lie back that I made a sissycummy. As usual, no one—not even me—can touch me like Daddy does! He got me very very excited & before too long i had a quaking moaning whimpering sissycummi. It was pretty spectacular.

After that, anything would have been an anticlimax. Literally. Even the end of the world. Still, it was nice to snuggle up & hear the story of the Transverse Rod, which sounds like a porn actor, but is something on a bus. Whatever it is exactly, it required the use of the impact wrench a lot! You can never get too much impact wrench in a story. It does tend to keep you awake, though. Daddy does a great imitation of an impact wrench. I recognized the sound from when I would go to get my car repaired but I never knew what made it until Daddy told me. It always makes me laugh when he imitates it so he puts it into the story a lot.  Once the story was finished, however, i fell asleep pretty quickly, clutching my Hello Kitty doll tightly to my chest.

I attack all those persons

who know nothing of the other half,

the half who cannot be saved,

who raise their cement mountains

in which the hearts of the small

animals no one thinks of are beating.

I spit in your face.

Said Federico Garcia Lorca

Scarecrow in Dark Glasses

The crow predicted your coming to this field

finding the USB cable in the softly whistling grass

which covers a cemetery of a thousand footsteps

the winsome passage of which you can hear even now

as when a salmon takes a violin from its case

& plays a music so sweet at the foot of your bed

that your skull fills up with the Indian Ocean

& you must beg beg beg those implacable hands

to let you come up for air

Dad’s Secret Pornography Stash

Russian tanks came rolling out of the donut hole

just as they were arriving at the Professor’s cottage.

Gilligan, the most recognizable entity within miles,

was perplexed by something simple. Let’s call it

polyphony. The first principles

of dust manipulation. They were left to chance

like a monkey in our collective pocket.

The color orange we can’t wash out.

We couldn’t get old Frida Kahlo off the floor

for walnuts. She was content to lie there

blowing bubbles at the rainforest ceiling.

No one could remember if she hung herself

or stuck her head in the oven or what

& if so what we ever did about it.

Remember, the life you save

may come back to haunt you.

Meanwhile, in another room, boarded up

for winter, their seed propagated a serpent elite

who left for California. Someone downstairs

was shouting “There are no George Washingtons!”

Just before the gunshots we wanted Woolite.

“Here are 98 cents of him!” someone

shouted back. BAM BAM BAM! He, too,

put on his hat & left, taking his soaking wet

boxes with him. “Him and his piranhas,”

said his weeping wife, who’d thrown him out.

Serves her right. Him, as well.

Ah so….

We’ve learned to live with the leopard

under the bed. The head stuffed with dust-bunnies,

the birdhouse with the broken leg.

These are the days Jesus remembered,

Jesus, who these days is Himself just a metaphor

for King Kong & a spicy brand of cheese spread

in an aerosol can who don’t redeem us nothin’.

He is crouched on the floor, holding a silver platter

lengthwise overhead that, combined with its twin above it,

stands in for all our stupid tears.

***A note on "Doms" & "Daddies."  A Dom isn't just some guy who yells at you & orders you around. Some guy who calls you names while you call him "Master" or "Sir," who ties you up, spanks you & fucks you without reciprocation but meanwhile is afraid to get caught out by his wife or girlfriend. Some guy who'll play with you in secret but who's afraid to go out to dinner with you or take you to the grocery store or to bring you home to meet his family or have you come along to hang out with his friends—or even to marry you & make you his wife if thats what he wants.  A real Dom/Alpha male doesn't give a shit what other people think. He doesn't hide behind a keyboard or convention. He's essentially an outlaw, beyond law—he makes his own law & lives by his own code. He knows what he wants, takes it, & everyone else accepts it—or else. THAT'S what being Alpha is all about. Theres no bluff or bravado about him. There's no posturing or threatening. He's polite, courteous, affable, even compassionate because he isn't scared of other people. He knows-if it comes to that—he can handle whatever situation arises. He owns his ground & everything on it. He's the kind of guy other guys want to be! Thats the kind of Dominant/Alpha my husband is & that's why I'm so head-over-heels devoted to him & why theres nothing & no one else here or anywhere I need. If he wanted to strangle me to death this afternoon, I'd kneel down obediently & let him strangle me to death. I could think of no better way to die. To me, thats the only kind of love that counts—and, having against all odds found it,  I count myself the luckiest girl in the world.

Whats a mirror anyway
but summation by exclusion
of everything you're not
a reflection of the missing you
by means of absence
a mother scolding her child
why can't you be more like ——
an image disembodied as an astronaut
a floater in the eye
a supermodel lost in space...

Something my husband wrote to me today which struck me as particularly funny. Well, the way he put it was funny. I'd heard similar from many of the married guys who used to come see me. I never make the same mistake. I never  take my husband for granted. When people wonder why a guy would ever choose to be with a transgirl when there are so many genetic girls out there…well, this is part of the answer.

********************************************

In my not so humble opinion, there's definitely no better wife or girlfriend than a sissywife or sissy girl.

CIS wives seem to have a natural and cultural proclivity for being miserable conniving cunts who put their hubbies last, behind "the kids", "my mother", "my family", "my friends", the mailman, the parking lot attendant, the dog groomer, etc.

Sissy girls know that they exist to serve daddy's needs and desires and taking care of daddy is the most fulfilling thing to do.

GOOD GIRL!!!

Fairy Tales I’d Like To See Rewritten With an Actual Fairy as the Heroine

Sleeping Beauty

A long time ago, a King and a Queen had a child after many years of futile trying. She was the most beautiful, the most delightful, the happiest little girl anyone had ever seen. They called her Rose.

The King was so overjoyed and so proud of his beautiful new daughter that he decided to celebrate with a great feast. So many people were invited that when it came time to invite the Kingdom’s thirteen wisest crones only twelve places were left at the table. Whoever was in charge of the invitations fucked up royally. One wise crone had to be left out. So they excluded the most amenable, least obnoxious crone of the bunch, figuring she’d understand.

Well she didn’t. She was sick and tired of her good nature being taken for granted. She’d had it with being the reasonable, undemanding, understanding crone. She crashed the party just as her twelve colleagues were bestowing their magical gifts on the pretty child. Seething with anger, she said that Rose ought to enjoy her life as a pretty girl while she could, because at the age of thirteen, bang, the girl was going to prick her finger on a thorn and find herself changing against her will. No more sugar and spice and everything nice. She was going to change into a boy!

Of course, this upset everyone. They were aghast not only at the violence of the curse but that it had come from the heretofore sweetest old grandmotherly crone in the kingdom. But there was still one crone left who hadn’t given her magical blessing and she saw an opportunity to advance her cause with the King. She couldn’t undo the curse already cast by her crone colleague, but she could soften it. She confirmed that, yes, unfortunately, Rose would now have to live some of her life as a boy but it wouldn’t have to be forever. The boy part of her life would be like a great waking dream from which she might awaken once again as a pretty girl. If only she could get a handsome Prince to fall in love with her and kiss her while she was still a boy…

Well, that hardly seemed like much of a consolation! What were the odds of that ever happening?! It seemed in spite of the good crone’s blessing, Rose would be destined to live her life miserably as a boy, no matter what, unhappily ever after.

Well the King did what any King, or for that matter, good father does. He tried to take every possible precaution to insure that Rose never pricked her finger on a thorn. He employed a massive army of gardeners to scour his kingdom and clip from every rosebush every thorn, which was a hell of a lot of thorns, thorns by the truckload, and all these thorns were buried outside the palace walls in a great thorn landfill, cordoned off with fences and scary-worded signs, where Rose was forbidden ever to go.

Of course, even this vigilance was fated to fail in the end. It always does. One day, during her thirteenth year, while the king and queen were not at home, Rose went poking around the palace, snooping into places she had never been before.  Wow the palace was more humongous then she imagined! She eventually came to a wooden door that was normally secured but this day had a key in its lock. She couldn’t resist turning the key and behind the door she climbed a narrow staircase that led up into an old tower. There she came upon a gloriously romantic bedchamber and an ancient chambermaid arranging the most amazing bouquet of flowers Rose had ever seen.

“What are those beautiful flowers,” Rose asked.

The old crone said, “Why they are roses, dear.”

“Roses! I’ve never seen roses quite like that!”

The crone smiled and thought to herself, that’s because you’ve never seen a rose with thorns, you silly little bitch. She chuckled in a grandmotherly way, with a grandmotherly twinkle in her eye. “Would you like to have one?”

“Oh yes! More than anything!” Rose exclaimed.

The old witch pulled the largest, reddest, prettiest one from the vase and Rose, having never encountered a flower with a thorn, took hold of it without looking carefully along the stem, and, thereby, pricked herself. She immediately fell into a swoon and by the time the King and Queen returned, she was found lying in bed, unconscious, a teenaged boy in the first flush of puberty dressed incongruously in girl’s clothes.

Well the Queen fainted dead away and the King went off his rocker in a rage. No son of his was going to be a panty-wearing fag, etc. No one in the kingdom was ever permitted to mention that Rose—who they now called Rob—had been anything other than a red-blooded American boy. Even if what he really looked like now was a skinny, prissy, bookish effeminate androgyne dressed awkwardly in clothing that would have befit any other boy of his age.

And that’s how things remained. Rose felt like she was living in the Twilight Zone. Everyone insisted on calling her Rob and referring to her has he or him. They expected her to like the stuff that boys liked, to do the things that boys do. And no one expected her to “act like a man” more than her father. Couldn’t he see that she was still Daddy’s little girl? Even worse, perhaps, was the way her mother now acted. She seemed to be so proud to have a son, but her pride was a great burden to Rose because she knew it wasn’t based on the truth! How could no one see that she was really a girl!? It was as if she and everyone around her had fallen asleep and were living in a bad dream.

Meanwhile around the entire kingdom a hedge of thorns grew—all the thorns that had been cut off all the roses by the King’s gardeners all those years—had sprung up to form an impermeable barrier, like barbed wire. Anyone who tried to climb it was inextricably impaled there and died a slow, miserable death. What’s more, the king had posted ferocious guards with dogs outside the kingdom to keep out anyone who might try to sneak inside. It was rumored that there were handsome princes out there who actually liked girly boys like his son. And the King would have none of that! He wanted to keep that knowledge away from Robert at any cost!

Most of these girly-boy loving princes were understandably deterred. But as it happened, one did rise to the challenge. He was a rough-around-the-edges sort of Prince from a kingdom called Brooklyn. He’d seen an ad on Craigslist that the boy had surreptitiously posted online like a cry for help from within the barricaded castle. The prince decided to come to the rescue. For all the doom and gloom predictions, this latest Prince didn’t find it any trouble at all to reach Robert. He began to think all the horrendous tales he’d heard were nothing but a lot of old wives tales. Suburban baloney. In Brooklyn, he had guys like the King and his henchmen for lunch. Thorns, guards, dogs…fuhgettaboutit!

There was no barbed wire. No armed guards. He met with no resistance as he climbed up the stairs to the tower-bedroom. Everything was surprisingly easy. Maybe almost too easy? For the first time, he was on his guard. He knocked on the door and when it opened he didn’t see an awkward unhappy boy but a beautiful princess just waiting to be awakened by the kiss of a real man. And he was just the real man for the job.

With one deep smooch, the girly boy began to open up, like the tightly furled bud of a rose that had been waiting all winter for the first touch of spring sunlight to blossom. The Prince took the boy in his arms and kissed her again and then again for good measure. And just like that she was once again the girl she had been from the start. She was once again the beautiful feminine Rose.

“Go put on something pretty,” the Prince said, “and let’s split this depressing hell-hole.”

They came down from the tower hand in hand, Prince and Princess. The King and Queen weren’t too happy about it, but what could they say? What was done was done. The curse they were living under had been broken as well. Slowly, but surely, the fog over their memories was lifting and they both began to remember back to an earlier time when their son had indeed been their daughter. Or at least, they thought they remembered such a time. She sure as hell never seemed to be much of a boy, that’s what the King kept telling himself over and over. It was as if everyone were waking up from the same weird dream together.

Still, the Prince and Princess thought it best to put the memory of this unhappy time and place as far behind them as possible. Families sucked and they had a way of dragging you back into the past so that you never changed. So the Prince took the Princess back to Brooklyn where they were married and then he took her even further away to a magical emerald kingdom called Seattle and they lived happily ever after.