ruination-of-jamielin

Tickled Pink

2011-09-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

Was yours a great summer? Mine was spent in the role of a deliciously frustrated 2011 virgin with a live-in girlfriend. I had some terrific experiences with Emily and Hannah and Joni and not one of them involved any contact between them and my cock. I won't promise to describe them to you, because I probably won't. That creative bug just isn't there.

Then there was Megan. She didn't touch it either. There really was no there there. Somehow though she was the worst of all. It was TOO familiar.

It all came crashing to an end suddenly and rather unexpectedly. You know where I ran. I hadn't been in feminine clothing since April. I'm talking nothing. Not a stitch. As I woke in bed one morning the thought of pulling on a few garments seemed so enticing. The notion stirred my prick.

Panties, bra, stockings, heels, skirt, top, some jewelry, from neck to toes I was all girl. It didn't get me excited. It just made me feel mean. Oh I went ahead and beat off. What else was I going to do?

I've forced myself to try again a few times. Dressing that is. Still nothing. Nothing at all. Is that good or bad? I'm setting wank records without any problem at all though. Trying to find the fix. Ease the pain. My dick hardens so easily. Not on the old fantasy reels though. Being a girl. Wet between the legs. Sucking dick. Like the clothes, that's not working anymore either.

No, there's a completely new brand of perversion swirling around my head. Me wielding my own dick in a not so nice way. Engaging in consensual sex in a particularly brutish and nasty way so that the woman is used, unsatisfied, filled with regret, remorse, memory of pain and inexplicable lusting for more abuse.

Actually, it's not really new though. It's old recycled. That's how I treated Ann. The memory of ordering her to lick her own brown flakes off my dick, then have her come back begging for seconds a few hours later--it's really getting me off right now.

I'm no longer the cuck either.
Her other he is.

Strange as anything though is how wonderfully gratifying and satisfying masturbation is when real pussy's available but intentionally
neglected and how utterly void and
devastating when it's not.

When I stumbled on it, the above picture freaked me out a little. That could so easily have been me when I was 18. I was every bit as pretty. Hair identical color and essentially same style. Features and shape of the face. All I needed was an encouraging girl to shape my brows and apply a little makeup. Wish I would have tried full-on tranny when I could have pulled it off. I so could've fooled guys back then. The thought of being into dick never entered my mind though, but when I think of the fun Ann and I would have had playing lesbians. I know she'd been into it. How long before two girls would have had to have some cock in the party?

Real Simple

2011-09-12T23:11:00.000-07:00

Is it better to love or be loved?

Go!

Short Retirement

2011-05-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

Well that was quick wasn't it? Empty dropped a picture of Laura on me. What can I say but WOW! I've spilled a lot of seed staring at pictures of this woman. Even her smoking didn't dissuade my fever.

My brother had her November 1976 Pet of the Year issue. It came with a removable, just about life-size poster. At least that's the way I remember it.

I didn't much care for the picture selected for the poster, but I just about wore it out looking at the pictures on the flip side. I'm not sure how long I hung on to it. Twenty years? Twenty-five? I pitched virtually all my magazines and mementos only about five years ago. I hung onto my highheels and panties though!

Even though I've been in some pretty lengthy relationships with some horny women, I'd bet that I've cum "with" Laura more than any of them. I had a nostalgic rub this morning just for old-times-sake. I suspect she'll keep me busy the rest of "National Masturbation Month."

A woman now in her 50s or possibly 60s, do you think she still enjoys the occasional thought of getting men off? It's a rather recent phenomenon of models and porn stars acknowledging guys are jerking off to their work, but surely it was understood back then, wasn't it? When her edition hit the newsstand, did Laura think, I'm gonna give a million orgasms today? How many millions since?

Girls today don't stand a chance. I suppose maybe a mega star like Jenna comes close, but back then there were really only two games in town. Hef's and Bob's. If you wanted to get off, chances are it was with one of their women, and Laura was many a lonely guy's main squeeze.

I hold that opinion despite her being far heavier breasted than my usual tastes. Her boobs are just too exquisitely formed. How could I not help myself over and over and over?

Vicki's gotta luv those tan lines too, although back then they probably weren't given a thought. That's just the way it was. And all that hair--can you imagine the braid? Oh, and that hair too. No tattoos either!

As well as so much else of the rest? The stockings, see-through lingerie, cheap costume bangles, the hats, chokers, dark glasses, pearls, bare legs in boots. Near fetishes I carry with me to this day.

Then there's the way she moved so casually from mood to mood. She seemed to pass as sporty, country girl, sophisticate, biker chick, sexual animal. Even now, none of it looks staged. Nothing appears silly. Everything natural. I believed it was her life.

Somehow I think I still do. I must be searching for the woman who drifts along in an endless dreamy erotic state. Almost aroused but always arousing. Effortlessly sexual. Just waiting for the one thing missing from her life--my cock. How can a real woman compete with that adolescent fantasy that's been reinforced by all these years of adolescent behavior?

But back to the issue at hand.

I have distinct recollection of some other pictures that I didn't find. One in the visor, boots and see-through pantie set where she's standing in profile with one leg up on the balcony wall. Another that's the reverse of picture number 1, arms resting on the wall, steaming body glistening. Do I recall a part in her pussy hair revealing lips? As a kid I'd never seen anything like it. Not sure anyone has ever made the same impact on me since.

I was wondering. What was going through my mind back then?

As the annual Pet winner, Laura was obligated to pose for a picture with the publisher. I don't remember the photo but we know of course she was in some state of undress, submissive to him fully clothed.

I can't remember because I was in denial. I probably actually wondered if she had let him fuck her. I was certain there's no way she got on her knees and sucked his dick or let him bugger her. No, she'd save those treats for me!

Many of these shots remind me of an old girlfriend in another way too. Some are obviously scans of personal magazine collections. They have visible scratches and creases. Just like the ones I nearly used up beating away.

Wanna see more? Go here.

Hi Ya Cynthia

2011-05-09T11:11:00.000-07:00

I never intended being gone this long. Life was coming fast and furious. No, not because Emily is holding gang-bangs in my bed. Distraction was welcome. It helped me escape the clutches of the cyber world.

I'm hanging onto the work I've put in the can so there's nothing I can tell. I wouldn't want to spoil future fun. One's even a work of fiction. These will give me a good start when the fetish rage consumes me once more. Although I'm hoping it never does, let's be real.

Hiatus

2011-04-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'll be away awhile. In fact I'm already gone, but I did this in advance so you little wankers wouldn't suffer too much without me.

Until I get back, why don't you sashay yourselves on over to Mandy's T-2. She shows much promise, and I bet if you sweet-talk her just right, eventually she'd get around to blowing each and every one of you!

Here's just a taste.

But I'm a Riot

2011-04-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

A programming note for you. Check out a Stonewall Uprising on a PBS station near you. Fascinating bit of history, I'd sort of heard rumor of now and then, but this is the first time I really got the story. Some incredible background too.

I Wanna Get in Her Genes

2011-04-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

I presume like me, few of you really enjoy a tug with nothing more than a fantasy in the head and a cock in the hand. Even though possibly detached from the former, and most certainly unconnected with the latter, most of us must have that visual stimulation. Perusing dirty magazines was probably how the vast majority of my generation learned in the first place. Maybe younger fellas begin right on the Net.

When I was a boy just beginning my obsession with masturbation, there was of course no internet. We had one TV in the "family room." Playboy and Penthouse magazines had to be secretly stashed away. Under such circumstances, what does one do for wanking material?

I most commonly turned to my Mom's subscriptions. Nothing so racy as Cosmo or even Glamor. Ladies' Home Journal and McCall's were her favorites. Neither of these had many photos, and the quality was generally poor.

Fortunately she also took Redbook. It wasn't much better, but an addict learns to cope. Redbook was directed toward a younger audience than my mother and would have the occasional gossip bit with pictures.

Among those celebrities was a young Princess Caroline of Monaco. She was probably twenty-ish about the time I discovered the one lasting, true love of my life. She was no small part of its inception. I have very specific memories of jerking off to her photos. After waiting a discrete time, I would often save them by cutting her pictures from the magazines before tossing them in the trash so no one would discover the pilfering I'd done. They'd know why you know!

I don't believe I ever once dreamed of meeting the real Caroline, but did wish I could meet--have sex with--someone someday who looked like her. Maybe then I'd even get the courage to talk to such a girl!

To this day I think the name Caroline is very sexy. Approaching 60 the Princess is still a very handsome woman even though her personal life has been filled with tragedy, scandal and sorrow.

Caroline's mother was Grace Kelly. Now even to a compulsive young wanker constantly on the make for erotic stimulation, Princess Grace was an old lady. Part of my mother's generation, such women were beyond my field of vision. I really wanted my peers. School newspapers and yearbooks filled that niche some, but mostly the closest I could get were the glossy young women in magazines. All those years, burning all those images into the sexual recesses of my brain. . . . Is it any wonder I still chase after women just cracking 20 but make no connection deeper than my dick?

In any case I did learn that the Grace of my youth had a youth of her own. Those old movies may have featured a woman grown aged, but the Grace then wasn't the Grace of the when I'm remembering now. Since it was only fantasy anyway, what did it matter? Especially since she was so stunningly beautiful in that pure All-American-Girl way. Serene and lovely, she could pull off a cocktail dress and pearls like nobody's business. While I have no literal memory of beating off to Grace, I know I have. More than once.

I was reminded of these two proofs of erectile function by the discovery of a new lust. Grace's granddaughter is a 24 year-old woman named Charlotte Casiraghi. I think she's the truest beauty of the bunch. My interest not extending much beyond six-inches, I know little about her, but creeping around the web I did ascertain she's an avid horsewoman, apparently competing internationally. She has got to be the catch for the filthy rich European aristocracy.

As much as I like the soon to be Princess Kate, I wonder how did Prince William never have a go at Charlotte? It would seem to be a match made in heaven. Or at least Buckingham Palace. Wouldn't royalty rather than a commoner have pleased Grandmum more?

Maybe William did. Maybe I just missed it. Maybe everyone has, including the stable boys. I'm pretty oblivious to pop culture beyond anything but saturation celebrities.

So what's a young princess to do now? Maybe let Harry have a turn? Take my advice, Harry. HAVE a turn.

No maybe about it. I will!

Bois Like Me?

2011-04-23T11:11:00.000-07:00

I know what bois like

I know what gurls want.

I know what bois like.

I've got what bois want.

I know what bois like.

I know what gurls want.

I see them looking.

I make them want me

I like to tease them

They want to touch me

I never let them

I know what bois like

I know what gurls want

I know what bois like

Bois like,

Bois like me

But you you're special

(I might let you)

You're so much different

(I might let you)

Ooohh would you like that?

(I might let you)

With all due respect and sincere apology for any offense taken by the Waitresses and much love to Patty Donahue, may she rest in peace.

Let Me Try That

2011-04-22T11:11:00.000-07:00

Hush now. It'll get better. I promise. I understand what you need. What you want. Once, long ago, I too dreamed of something hard inside me. Filling me up. Satisfying an irresistible lust. A longing I couldn't understand.

You
want
me
to
stop
because
you
can't,
but
you
should.

You still can. Will you listen to that silly screaming gurl in your head or my whisper of experience? It is better to give than receive.

Sloppy Seconds

2011-04-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

Anyone ever date the ex of a good friend? I've only done it once. It only lasted a few weeks. I didn't like it. Wasn't sure how I'd adjust. No matter how brief a relationship is, for me, there is thought of permanence. In fact, I'd guess that's how I define "relationship."

Am I thinking about more than fucking her right now. Am I thinking about fucking her next week too? Alright it's more than that. I confess, I start weighing that marriage question early, and when I was dating the buddy's ex, I couldn't fathom the wedding day. How do I get around it? Elope?

The friend in question wasn't my oldest friend, but probably my best even if most people would guess the oldest was my best. Got that? In any case, I'd probably have gone with the convention. Oldest friend as best man, and this second guy with the ex as groomsman number one.

I just couldn't wrap my mind around the notion of standing at the alter with my soon to be wife and another guy who fucked her. Having the cuck fantasies that I do, is that weird?

I don't know. Is it common for cucks to wanna share their woman with friends and relatives? I don't. I wouldn't want people close to me to know my wife is a slut. I'd be cool with HER friends knowing she cheats on me. Her fucking old boyfriends and new boyfriends, but not my friends, brothers, nephews or father.

No doubt this is just more of my fraudulent life. I wanna maintain the veneer of decency while secretly indulging my perversions.

Boy's Life

2011-04-19T11:11:00.000-07:00

Eagle Scouts Terry Muller, Jim Evans, Jim Morgan and Life Scouts Henry Cuntersin and Kyle Stitswiler offer tips on winning your Crossdresser merit badge in this 1964 Boy's Life magazine "How To" reprint!*

The Crossdresser merit badge was introduced in 1954 and designed to offer the socially awkward scouts a way to become comfortable with the opposite gender. In just ten short years it has become one of the most popular awards and is now a requirement for the rank of Eagle.

Candidates for the badge, known as "X-men," like Henry and Kyle are eager and disarmingly charming in their simple naivete.

"Girdles, bras, slips, garters, stockings, petticoats! I had no idea girls worked so hard just getting dressed," marveled Henry.

"Still," continued Kyle, "I think it will have been worth it, if I ever talk to a girl."

"Oh, yes. I can see that. Absolutely," added Henry. "Like when I'm married or something. I'll be prepared!"

"Where it will really be worth it, is the formal awards ceremony and dance," gushed Kyle. "I can't wait!"

A blushing Henry giggled, "Eagle Jim Evans is my date."

Jim smiled. "The payoff is after the dance, Scout."

Terry Muller and Jim Morgan shared a knowing chuckle.

*(First three photos and captions are actual unedited pictures and commentary from 1964 copy of Seventeen magazine. Yes, the third shot is none other than Candice Bergen.)

Soles on Up

2011-04-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

I ran a race yesterday. Participated anyway. I was there. It was terrible every which way. After about a week of spring we had a nasty revisit from her meaner sister. Temperatures plummeted near freezing. Wet winds blustered over 30 knots.

I wanted to stay in bed. I lay there in the pre-dawn dark thinking how easy it would be to roll over and sleep right through it. The thought of bundling up, trudging out, and enduring just because I signed up held no appeal. I'm not in race shape and neither was that weather. Even if I was in outstanding form those conditions would not yield a great result.

As I got up, that compulsion hit me. Why not? Sport-bra, tights, teal turtleneck, socks, gloves, tasseled cap and Fila Tracksuit. Just a touch of mascara to lengthen those lashes. From head to toe I was en femme. The only concession made was my shoes. I tried ladies shoes once. Hot pink and black. Like most women's footwear they weren't made for walkin'. They were made for lookin'.

Where I usually run, there are mostly guys. The women who do compete up there are the jocks. Whether they are or not, they look a bit butch. Always hard. As I jogged along back in the pack, I did enjoy the nice ensembles and swishing ponytails of the much more plentiful lasses around me.

What the hell was I doing here? When I left the house there had been this vague thrill of humiliation, but it wasn't like I was in a skort and sport-bra for all to see. And even if I was, it wouldn't have been attractive. Every woman there would have been offended by that spectacle.

No doubt some of them would have found it a humorous offense, but not one would have thought, "that guy makes me hot. I wanna fuck him." Or, "that guy's humiliation makes me horny. I'm going home and blow my real-man husband." Certainly not, "that gurl's got potential. With a little help from me. . . ."

No, I frumped along invisible, just like the many genetic women I was ignoring. The ones too heavy, without style, with too many years. I didn't have the body to pull it off either. No waist or hips, the darted jacket just didn't fit. Colors and the slightly flared leg were the only way the girls would know.

Surely one or two did, but they didn't get it. At best they probably thought I was a pathetic dork who bought the wrong gender clothing. Or if they were generous, imagined I borrowed a wife's or girlfriend's suit on a cold morning.

I didn't feel humiliated. I wasn't excited. I sure as hell didn't feel sexy. I felt stupid.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

The Day After

2011-04-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

New to the story? Start here.

Outside my window the cold gray day was well past dawn when I woke. Emily's almost black hair was splayed about the white pillow, her brown-sugared nose and youthful color so inviting. I smiled at her gentle, almost imperceptible girl-snore.

I slid from the linens and hurried toward the kitchen. Morris was waiting on the deck, intently staring at the door where it would first crack. Angered by my tardiness he rushed past without a greeting rub and dove into his food. The tile cold, I topped off food and water hurriedly, relieved myself in the hall bath, punched the heat up a touch before racing back to bed and diving under the covers.

Futilely avoiding my heat-stealing, Emily rolled onto her stomach. I caressed her ass. A nice ass. Still firm. No cheese. Emily had what it took. There was just that thickness around her waist. I threw my leg over hers, cradling the undershelf of her butt with my thigh. I squeezed her toward me inhaling all the soft scents, perfume, shampoo, deodorant, mixed with club staleness. A little short perhaps, but the talent was there, just wasted.

Morris jumped on the bed, curled at the foot and slept. We all did.

Bright afternoon sun was streaming in framed in block panes warming the bed. Emily had kicked down the covers to her stomach. I nudged them further, nosing the wispy hair of her bush. I greeted Emily and the day with more cunnilingus.

She stirred slowly at first but as she woke her cunt was ground aggressively into my face held firmly in place by hands on head. I satisfied her longing with fingers. First one, then two, three.

"Fuck my pussy, Bill."

A fourth, all nearly to the last knuckle.

"OH! Yes. Make me hurt. Oh, fuck! Nnnnnnnnnnh."

It had been ages since I'd heard fuck noises like these.

"Lick it. Lick my pussy, baby."

Not Emily.

"Get it good. I luv the way you suck my pussy, baby."

I couldn't keep up.

"Ooooooh, that's it." Hands better used elsewhere, she released me.

I soon gave up altogether with mouth and tongue, and watched instead. Emily's face was scrunched in concentration as she kneaded her own tits hard. Her bitten lip threatened to bleed. Thighs flopped flat on the mattress she willed them apart. Inviting deeper, vicious thrusts.

"Just a little more. Fuck me hard. Do it!"

With ears cocked toward the spectacle, Morris watched with dilated pupils from wide nervous eyes.

"That's it. Make it hurt."

Each thumb and forefinger had gone white as Emily squeezed the life from her own nipples. She threw her head first to one side, the other, back again. Then neck arched she used her head as the only available leverage to shove her groin to meet my hand's attack.

"Fuck me, Bill. Mnnnnnhhh. Hurt me." She whimpered to the headboard.

I was terrified.

"Oh, fuck me. Fuck meeeee." In pants, "please. Harder!"

Her hand dropped and became a blur of fingers waving over her clit. I took my cue and dropped my head to nurse the free nipple.

"Bite me."

I applied teeth.

"Harder!"

I slowly sucked deeper pulling her tender flesh into the sharp enamel edges.

"Don't. Stop!"

Stop?

She dropped her boob and grabbed my hair pulling me back to the other tit. Her right hand never missing a beat.

"No! Don't ever stop! Fuck me, bitch!" She tore into her left breast once more.

Causing hurt, inflicting pain, inducing injury with a cock is a matter of pride. A hand is a very different thing. My terror returned. I felt the cat jump down.

"Yes. Oh yes, now. Fuck me."

I was a machine. Out of my depth a fumbling machine. I wanted to make it easy on myself.

"No! Harder!"

A cheap sex toy on the verge of breaking. Put your dick in her.

"Fuck--me!" It was a growl.

I can't. Don't give in.

Em lifted her head. “You–grrrrrrrrr!” Our eyes locked.

Arm tired, hand cramped, I crammed deeper.

One hand flew the other yanked. “Bitch!” Emily growled again.

I was lost in her nearly black eyes growing bigger in passion, amazement.

“Oh!” Her feminine voice returned. “Bitch." She jerked once, gaping mouth in a silent scream.

Tit in mouth, hand in cunt, I watched mesmerized but intent for signals how to help.

She hung precariously suspended in climax, clinging to the warmth and pleasure. Her stomach spasmed. She breathed. Another spasm and another. Her strength was failing. Failed. Her head fell back to the bed.

She rolled away from me. Fetally she lay clutching her abused womanhood. I edged beside her gently caressing the curves of her body kissing her back, shoulders, neck. Astounded my cock patiently waited. It's turn would come.

How many ‘dates’ would a girl have in nine years?

I covered us, and we dozed again.

Violet shades of late winter twilight silhouetted Emily. Propped on her hand she lay next to me running her fingers through the hair on my chest. Had any of the boys she'd experienced had chest hair? Surely so. I was conscious of a hard-on. Was there even hair on their balls? What was she thinking? Of them? Of me? Excited? Confused? Comparing? Contrasting.? Considering? Contemplating? Calculating?

I hadn't cum in days. If my bank teller had given me the chance, where would I be now? Knowing what I know now, where would I rather be? The sexual teasing of the past day had indeed left my testicles a bit achy. My dick sore from the constant erection. I was a man yet any one of the boys Emily had previously bedded would have known what to do. I hesitated.

"C'mon. We need to get up. I gotta go home."

"I thought you were home."

"Whatever. I gotta go. I'm in big trouble."

I stretched and yawned before grabbing her. "Yeah ya are. And that big trouble's stickin' out right here between my legs."

"I'm late for work."

"What? You gotta work today?"

"I was supposed to be there at four."

"Four?" I jerked my head toward the clock. Nearly five. "Did you call?"

"Not yet. I'm trying to figure out what to say. C'mon. Get up and get in the shower while I call in."

"Do we have time?"

"I duh know."

The warm water felt good washing over me, but there was my still semi-hard dick. Em had offered me nothing. No big deal if I was alone, but now. . .

Emily's blurred body approached, the glass slid open and she stepped in. I couldn't help it. What I saw was the roll like an old-fashioned cork life-belt.

"How'd it go?"

"No big deal. My boss said he'd cover for me. He likes me."

Likes you?

Emily nonchalantly grabbed the soap and began lathering me up.

Wait!

"How'd you get so sexy?"

Was that jealousy?

"Hannah thinks you're hot."

"Who's Hannah."

"Don't get any ideas. But we really need to get rid of some of this hair. You shouldn't be hiding this Abercrombie V."

"'Ambercrombie V?' What the hell is that?"

"Not Ambercrombi, Abercrombie, dork. How old did you say you are again?"

"Old enough to be your very dirty-minded uncle."

"If my dirty old uncle looked as good as you, I'd wanna fuck him too."

Emily's flattering banter, slick soap and soft hands were doing the trick. There was nothing semi about it. I pulled her slippery body toward me for a kiss. After, she looked up at me. Biting her lip, remnants of last night's mascara streaking down her face, she was darling. Why can't the rest match that face?

"Sorry. ABercrombie then. What's an ABercrombie V?"

Stepping back she grabbed me just above the hips. "These. They are so sexy 'cause they point right down to him. He's a frisky boy isn't he? It seems like he's always like this."

As if I needed help, she primed me with a few pumps up and down the shaft. The sensation on my starved cock somehow forced it harder still, and it hurt--a wonderful pain. Even the ridiculousness of referring to "him" as a detached separate animate entity wasn't dissuasive.

Staring transfixed, with agonizing deliberateness, Emily slowed then gingerly ran her hands back and forth along my length.

I was torn. PLEASE! She shouldn't even be doing this.

She softly pet with the short-cropped, chipped paint nails of a little girl.

MORE!

Her eyes never leaving me--him--she whispered, "You were blessed."

Oh. Fuck. Does she have any idea? Now? Is it time? Can I masturbate? Pleeeease?

With a sudden flurry she jerked me a few times. Juggled my balls with the soap. "Oh well. I guess we don't need to bother with this do we?” She gave me a quick peck. “He didn't get stinky last night."

Dressed, I lay on the unmade bed listening to the muffled hairdryer's roar as Emily blew her hair at the lav. I contemplated what was left of the day. Em didn't want me to help her pack. She just wanted some time to gather a few things, then she'd drive herself back.

I'd have time to jerk-off, but I didn't want to. I wanted to save it for her. I knew the cum would fly, especially so with her watching. I wanted her to watch. Watch her see. See, what I like. Like this. This here. Here in my hand. My hand. Not your handy pussy. Pussy that's right there. There. That's fucked up.

We climbed the flight to Emily’s front door. Her only door. Identical to hundreds of other only doors among the dozens of identical squat boxes perched here and there in the apartment complex's asphalt and grass patches that satisfied some zoning bureaucrat’s notion of suburbia.

She led the way looking absurd in my sweatpants, flannel shirt, and Carhartt jacket. Her panties still on my floor the only things of her own were sneakers and a bra. Yes, girls like Emily dance in clubs wearing sneakers.

Under the missing dome for a bare bulb, Em stopped short of her door, turning to say goodbye. Her beautiful unadorned face framed in my very own, very fem, Peruvian style cap. I tugged on the tassels.

“See you soon?”

“Yeah. In an hour or so.”

I crossed the braids under her chin. “Sure you don’t want any help?”

“No, I’m sure. I told you, I’m just gonna get a few things for now.”

“Okay.”

I let her stretch up on tip-toes to kiss me.

“Alright. Go inside so I know you got home safe.”

Another quick kiss. “Bye.”

“Bye."

Emily spun and pushed the door open.

"Love you," I blurted behind her.

Just like that it was closed again. Losing sight of her swallowed me whole.

Feeling Better

2011-04-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

How funny! I never noticed that TGCentral has its blog rolls divided into two lists: 1) TG Captions & Fiction Blogs; 2) Adult TG & Related Blogs. My Ruination appears in category two. Guess where my nemesis falls?

I'm NOT the only one who knows!

I had this terrible, lovely, awful, wondrous dream about J. a couple nights ago. Will one of you please remind me to write about it later? Just ask about J. and the big screen.

But for now some available time and rediscovered motivation leads me elsewhere. Tune in tomorrow as we return to our feature presentation, already in progress. But in the meantime. . .

Eden's End

2011-04-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

As far as I can tell, none of you have followed my Profile suggestion of reading The Garden of Eden. You do read books you can hold with both hands don't you? With this it might still be a problem for some of you.

Any decent used book shop is likely to have a copy. Hell a new a paperback should cost you only around $10.

Don't read a review or "Cliff Notes." Trust me. Enjoy the surprise. You'll like it more if you've read Hemingway before, but it's not necessary. This book is particularly for the girly-boys forced to read him in high school or college lit and hated every page.

Comrade? Have you finished Martin Eden? Well then, no money shot for you!

Oh the Irony!

2011-04-12T11:11:00.000-07:00

I recently had a bit of a meltdown as two successive comments accused me of making up my blog. Accused was my word. It was actually only inquiry. I tried taking it as flattery, as though the style of my writing suggested fiction rather than gossip. It didn't work. I fumed for a couple days before finally letting them have it. Of course harsh words said in a moment's heat led to regret, but the bell was already rung.

As the time passed though, I wondered at my reaction. Why did I care what some stranger thought about my writing? Some of it is jealousy. There's a very popular blogger who is a complete fraud, but he's constantly getting his dick sucked by other dreamy eyed sissy cuckold wannabes who leave breathless comments of praise for his fantasies portrayed as reality. At least that's the impression I have as I do strive to keep away from his blog. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of even one more visitor.

It nagged at me though. That wasn't it. What was it? It fell on me like the sludge that are a ton of Communist bricks. Why hadn't Comrade Perfect Lips called me on it?

My WHOLE LIFE is a fraud! I'm phony everywhere. No one knows the sick perverted little fuck that I am, except maybe my cat and YOU.

It crushed me thinking that in the end it was only my cat. That none of you believed me. I worked hard at being true. Truer than true. Distilling the monotony of perversion to its essence.

Yeah, I cheat. I kipe photos in the vain hope of attracting visitors that might take the time to read, but the rest is me. Yet I failed. You don't believe. What am I missing. How is the truth absent? Do I refine too much? Filter and edit? Is raw better? This post? This stream of consciousness?

I gave in. I pulled out some clothes the other day. I'd forgotten the pain of ill-fitting heels, the delightful constriction of a bra, cheek cupping fit of my favorite boyshort panties and the absolutely glorious brush of skirt on bare thighs.

I ate my cum too. Two days ago. Yesterday. Today. I might again tomorrow. I didn't want to. Coming down I stared at the melting white gobs of jelly in my hand. Suddenly I brought it to my mouth and slurped it up. Gulped it down. I forgot the stickiness in the throat. The bleach taste I remembered. I did it so I could tell YOU.

I'm sick. Every minute of every day, I'm sick. When I smile and shake your hand on a business deal, I'm sick. When I pick up your daughter for a date, I'm sick. In the pews, I'm sick. Waiting on a traffic light, I'm sick. Jogging down your street, past your wife, I'm sick. At the family reunion, I'm sick.

I'm not that nice guy. I'm scum. Pathetic twisted little loser scum who's not who he appears to be. Who doesn't deserve any of what I have although deserving it would be so easy. Just a little decency, but instead I'll keep on using.

Today I will not edit. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Cuck-a-doodle-doo

2011-04-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

"What did you say?"

"I get off on being cheated on."

Emily stared blankly. "Huh?"

"I want you to have sex with other guys."

Emily was completely off balance. She didn't know how to answer. She probably really believed she loved me. This was new material for her. She'd had absolutely no exposure to perversion with me. We'd simply had sex a few times.

"Why?"

I was mentally masturbating now. Weaving a fantasy aloud hardened my dick. "I don't know. I just do."

"I don't understand. Why would you want me to be like that?"

I abandoned all sense of caution or restraint. "I don't either. I just do. Lotsa guys."

"That's so sick. Why would you want to share me with other guys?"

"I really don't know. I couldn't believe it at first either. I used to be such a jealous guy. Then, when a girlfriend I really loved did it. I wasn't mad. I mean I was, but I wasn't. It made me mad, but it made me want her more."

I didn't look at her. I played a part as the shamed. My cock ached for attention, betraying me as the perverted. I wanted to jerk-off. Shock Emily. Humiliate myself while regaling my tale of depravity. Our prior bouts of straight sex couldn't have given her any inkling of this.

"I don't know. That other men wanted her. Were with her. Inside her. It made me want her all to myself, but that she wouldn't be. I dunno. That she chose to do what she pleased. Please herself. Please him. Not please me. Tell me 'no.' Say 'yes' to him made me nuts. Everything about me became about being with her. I can't explain it, Emily. It's just so intense."

I lifted my head toward her. Her back against the headboard, she hugged her knees squeezing a pillow to her chest. The dim light camouflaged her face.

"It made me crazy. Whenever she wasn't with me, I was sure she was with him. It hurt like hell thinking of her making love with him, but at the same time. It was so sexy. Thinking of them lying together. Embracing. Him inside her. Her pulling him deeper. Consuming him."

Emily remained silent. I dropped my head and whispered. "I couldn't control myself. To make myself feel better I stayed home and masturbated while she was out having sex. Then I'd be desperate and lonely and terrified she wouldn't come back, but then she would, and I'd feel wonderful and alive, and I adored her, and I would be happy beyond anything possible until she'd leave again."

When I looked back at Emily her forehead was resting on her knees. I reached out and gently touched her. "Emily, I know it sounds awful, but it's not really. It could work for us."

She rested her chin on one knee, looking at me. "No, it couldn't."

"Yes, it could. The freedom. The power. You won't believe what it will do for you. To do whatever you want."

"But I don't want to do that." She lay a cheek on her knees and turned away.

"Honey, that's because you've never really had your way. I've seen what it does to a woman. How she comes alive--beautiful." I was getting cold myself and moved under the covers. "Com'ere." Emily slid in next to me, and I held her.

"Look, you've just gotta understand how guys are. There are the women who let us fuck them, and the ones who don't. It's the ones who don't that we respect and desire and love. Then if they give in and fuck us, they become one of the rest--whores. And that's how we treat 'em. We take them for granted and use them and want somebody else and cheat on them."

"So that's how you thought about me because I slept with you that first night, isn't it?"

"Sorta, but I really liked you too, and you're really cute and sweet and I didn't want to. I wanted to respect you and love you. I could tell you were a good girl who just didn't understand that giving into your sexual desires was destroying your chances for your emotional desires, but well, there was really nothing I could do about it."

"So then, why did you call me?"

"Because, Em. I started thinking about you sharing your body with other men. I thought about all those weekends I didn't call and some other man was inside you. Making you cum. I can't explain it."

"I haven't been with anybody else."

"Well you shoulda been. You should never be without sex. Without orgasms. The idea of you having an orgasm with another man. It's indescribable. It excites me so much. Makes me want you so much. I had to see you again."

"And now what? This is all fucked up now."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is. YOU fucked it up."

"Why don't you move in?"

"What? Now? With you?"

"Would you rather move in with the cat?" I thought that was funny. "Of course here with me. Now. You can come and go as you please. You can see and do what you want."

"You mean sleep with other guys."

"Whatever. If that's what you want. It's your body and your life." I was amazed by the way my cock tingled every time I encouraged Emily to have sex with other men.

"But I told you. I don't want to do that."

"Then don't. Sleep with girls instead." I tried another chuckle.

Emily didn't see the humor. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well where are you? I don't want--I couldn't stand you fucking skanky dogs."

"No, sweetie, no. I'll be totally faithful to you. Only you."

We lay quietly for a bit while Emily chewed on everything she'd heard so far. "And you'd be happy with that?"

"Happy's a hard word, Em. No, I won't be happy that I can't make love to you. I'll be desperate to be inside you. Insanely jealous of you sharing yourself with other men, but that longing--the need--the desire--the fear of you leaving, that will keep me happy. Seeing you alive will make me alive. It will make me behave and respect you--love you."

"And you've done this before?"

"Not exactly. I won't lie to you. I've had girlfriends who cheated on me, and I loved it, and I loved them. But the cheating was about them. They were selfish. This would be different. You'd do this for us."

"And you wouldn't cheat?"

"Honey, I've cheated on girls before. You know who I cheated on?"

"Who?"

"The girls who let me treat them like they were my personal property. I've had girls who would never say 'no.' Whenever I took a notion, whenever my dick got hard, I just shoved it in them 'til I came without so much as a 'thank you.' They didn't respect themselves. Why should I respect them? So I didn't. When an opportunity came along, I didn't give it a thought about fucking another woman."

Collecting my thoughts, I paused. Fantasy had meandered its way into real life. This was more than dream or fiction. This was me. Did I want to do that? Emily lay in my arms, not stirring.

"There was one girl in particular who broke my heart. We were supposed to get married. Obviously, we didn't. It's a really long story. She was cheating on me. Openly cheating on me. Or maybe she was cheating on him with me. Whatever. Everyone knew she was unfaithful, but I never once thought about cheating on her. You know why?

"No--why?"

"Because my whole life was consumed with being with her. When she wasn't with me, and she wasn't with me a lot, I was completely preoccupied with the next time I would see her. Other women didn't even exist for me."

"So then what went wrong? It didn't work did it? Why didn't you marry her?"

"She married him. That was a long, long time ago, and I don't want to talk about it. I want to focus on you--on us."

"Well what about us? I mean, I really wanted to be with you tonight."

"You mean you wanted to have sex. Have me be inside you? Make love with me?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't, did you?"

"Well. . ."

"You stopped me, didn't you?"

"I was mad. I didn't want you to think I was just some slut you could treat like that."

"Exactly. You know everything I'm telling you is true. You know that when I put my dick in you I lose respect for you, but you needed to be with me. You're a real woman who needs to be with a man. Feel a man inside you. But society says that man has to be the man you love, but doing that makes the man you love, love you less, not more. I understand that. I know you need that. And when you see how much I love you and want you to be happy and prepared to accept your needs, you'll see that what society says isn't important. It's what we think that matters."

"I just don't think I could ever be like that."

"What you're too pure? You only have sex for love? That's just because since you were a little girl society has given you that message. Boys can go fuck a hole in a tree but little girls must wait for their Prince Charming. It's BS. It's your body and you should be able to feel good."

"I do feel good when you make love to me."

"Emily, are you really trying to make me believe that you fell in love with me four hours after we met?"

"No, but I was falling in love with you."

"Em, that's bull. You were horny. Your body wanted my dick inside you so you could cum. Your brain fooled itself about luuuuv so you could get laid."

"I'm NOT a slut like that."

"No, you're not. What is a slut anyway? Why does the word even exist? Earlier tonight you called me a man-slut. There's not even a word for it with guys. So why should there be one for girls? It's your choice not theirs. Why should society deny you pleasure? Look, a slut is a woman who sleeps with a man because he wants to. They've given up authority over their body to someone else. A woman who's in charge, who sleeps with men because SHE wants to is NOT a slut. Who was that girl you were talking about on the phone tonight?"

"Huh?"

"The girl who's sleeping with Michael and Josh."

"Amber."

"Why do you think she's a slut?"

"Because she jumps back and forth between them."

"Are they passing her back and forth?"

"Huh?"

"Do they know about each other? Are they okay with it?"

"No. I mean they know about each other, but they hate each other. They even got in a fight one night."

"So she's in charge then? She decides who she's gonna fuck and who she's not?"

"That's for sure!"

"Why do you think she does that?"

"Because she's a slut."

"How about for orgasms? How about because it feels good for her? How about because she enjoys Michael and Josh fighting over her?"

"Well that's just being a bitch. I mean she's using those guys, and they're really fucked up about it, and I hate her."

"What about Michael and Josh?"

"What about them?"

"What do you think of them?"

"I think they're stupid. They should dump her skank ass."

"Do you think less of them because they're having sex with Amanda."

"Amber."

"Right. Amber. Do you?"

"Yes. I think they're stupid."

"But if they wised up. If they dumped her 'skank ass' would you respect them? Still be friends?"

"I don't know. I guess, yeah."

"Why?"

"Because they got rid of that slut."

"Let me try this. Why do you think Michael and Josh are sleeping with Amber?"

"Because she's a slut."

"Because it feels good? For orgasms?"

"Probably."

"So why aren't they sluts? Why are they only stupid for not dumping her? Why is what she's doing worse than what they're doing?"

"I don't know. It just is."

"Em, do you like this?"

"No, I don't!"

"I don't mean what we're talking about. I'm talking about lying here in the dark. Holding each other talking."

Squeezing in she snuggled deeper. "Yes. That I like."

"And you didn't lay me to get it, did you? If I had fucked you and cum in you, do you think we'd still be awake talking?"

"No. Probably not."

"I'm still attentive because you've left me wanting. I want your pussy. I want to fuck you. It's taking all my will-power not to pin you to the bed and give you a good fucking."

"They why don't you?"

"Because I respect you. I respect you that you wouldn't just lay down for me tonight. That even though you wanted a good fucking too, you wanted something more and knew that just spreading your legs and fucking me wouldn't get it."

"But you can't hold out forever. Guys aren't like that."

"No, I can't. That's why it's up to you. YOU have to say 'no.' I'll do everything possible to get in your pants. I'll beg, plead, manipulate. You've got to say 'no.' You've got to be strong, and that's why eventually you'll have to find other guys for sex. Otherwise you'll get weak and give in and everything will get messed up."

"But so will you. If I don't let you, someone else will."

"I already told you. I won't even have time to think about someone else. I'll be all about you. You'll see."

"But guys need to cum or else your balls start hurting."

I couldn't help a little laugh. "Sounds like someone's used a line on you before to get his dick wet."

"My first boyfriend. I wouldn't sleep with him. I never did, but he used to beg me all the time to 'go all the way.' He said he couldn't hold out much longer his balls hurt so bad. I finally gave in and sucked him a little. It was a mess. He came in my mouth, and I pulled away."

I thought I was going to make a mess of my own.

"He tried to grab my head. He was shooting in my face, and I was fighting him to get away. There was cum everywhere. All over the car, my hair."

It was the first time Emily had explicitly mentioned sex with another man. In this case a boy. A boy who had experienced something I never had. His dick in my girl's mouth! Once upon a time that would have turned my stomach in jealousy and hurt. The abuse. . . Now it threatened to split my cock open!

"I hated it. It was awful. I wouldn't do it again, and he dumped me for some slut who would fuck'im. That's when I learned if I was gonna have a boyfriend I'd have to let them sleep with me. Give them blow jobs. Not be a tease so their balls wouldn't hurt."

"I'm sorry, Em. I'm sorry those guys were such assholes. I'm sorry they hurt you, but that's the way we are. We're led around by our dicks trying to get laid."

"You can't help it if your balls hurt. It's the way your made."

"That's a lie, Em. It's what masturbation's for. Trust me. Those guys you were 'teasing' would go home and jerk off."

"But it's not the same, is it?"

"It's nothing like making love to you, but it does the trick."

"But it doesn't stop your balls from hurting does it?"

"Of course it does, Em. They don't know the difference. Only my head does, and it'll keep trying to get the real thing just like those other guys."

"Oh."

"It's why I've got two hands, Em. If one gets tired, I can use the other."

The conversation seemed to have petered out, and I was thinking about sex. I couldn't believe I'd maintained an erection throughout this entire discussion. At that moment it was a flip of the coin between a genuine desire to indeed pin Emily to the bed and give her a good fucking. That and stroking out a climax while she watched.

"I just thought it was expected."

"Huh?"

"If I went on a date."

"Oh."

It would be so sexy if I could ejaculate right now. Without touching myself at all. To do that for Em.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How old were you with your first boyfriend?"

"Fifteen."

Nine years.

"Bill?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Do you really love me?"

I had told her I loved her hadn't I? I desired her. My hard dick made certain my mind never doubted that. There in the dark her warm body felt good. The extra pounds didn't matter. That she dressed for shit didn't matter. That she knew nothing of mutual funds or mortgages, politics or poetry didn't matter. There was that wet scent between her legs.

"Yes, Em. I do. I love you."

What's the difference anyway?

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-three."

A boy to be sure but a piece-o-shit man to a fifteen year-old girl.

"Okay."

"Okay, what, Em?"

"I'll move in."

(Read more. . . )

Shut Up and Sing

2011-04-09T11:11:00.000-07:00

It's a Celibation

2011-04-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

She was out on her feet. The only thing between her and the floor was me. Drunk duty was not what I'd had in mind when I called Emily.

"C'mon, Ashley. Let's go outside awhile." Two of the group had swooped in to help the drunk. "Here let me have that." One twisted the drink away from Ashley, thrusting it at me with a hissed, "here, asshole."

I swallowed my instinctive, fuck you; instead silently taking the tumbler and watching Ashley dragged away.

"I see you'll fuck anything. I'm glad it wasn't just me you were screwing-over."

"What? Emily? I didn't do anything."

"Where have you been the last three months?"

"I don't know. Work. You know. Around."

"Sleeping around is more like it."

"Even if it were that easy, I haven't."

"Why haven't you called?"

"Why haven't you?"

"Girls don't call guys. Guys call girls."

"That's BS. You've called me before."

"I've called you back. I never called you."

"Fine. I just called you about an hour ago. Did you invite me over here just so you could bitch at me?"

"No. I told you to come over so you could apologize to me."

"Okay. I'm sorry. I should have called sooner."

"And?"

"And I apologize for being a jerk."

"And?"

"And I'm sorry, I'm an asshole."

"And?"

"And. . . ?"

"And you're sorry that you're a man-slut who sleeps around and tried to fuck my drunk friend."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm a man-slut who tried fucking your intoxicated friend."

Emily eyed me.

"Do you forgive me, Em?"

"I don't know. I'll think about it while we dance." Emily began tugging me toward the dance floor.

Pulling into the drive and waiting on the garage door to open, it was nearly 3:30 AM.

"Shut up! She did not." Emily was yakking away into her cell phone. "That's disgusting. Get out!" She cackled. Even privileged with both sides of the call, it would have been impossible for the conversation to be anything but inane and juvenile.

I eased the car into its spot then watched in the rear-view mirror as the overhead glided back into place. I opened my door and before swinging out I turned to Emily and asked, "coming?"

Without missing a beat in her conversation Emily opened her door and climbed out. "She's such a slut. Could you believe what that skank was wearing?"

I led the way inside. My cat was waiting. I let him out the back sliding door.

"You know she's totally gonna fuck Michael tonight then go right back to sleeping with Josh."

Josh sounded like a lucky guy.

"Look. I gotta go, okay? What!? Yes. I am not! You're a slut! No, you are. No, I really gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay slut? Slut! Okay, slut." Having finally settled on their mutual degrees of sluttiness, Emily pulled the phone out of her ear and set it on the counter. "She's such a slut. Not a good girl like me." She threw her arms around my neck pulling me down to mash faces with her for the third time tonight. First on the dance floor, then in the parking lot and now in my kitchen.

"Did you miss me?"

"Of course I missed you, Em."

"Then why didn't you call me?"

"I've told you ten times already, kitty. I got busy with work and stuff. I know it's stupid, but I hadn't called in such a long time and hadn't heard from you--well, I figured you didn't want me to call."

"I like it when you call me kitty. I missed that."

"Me too, kitty." I kissed her.

"You were wrong. I wanted you to call. You shoulda."

"I know. I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?"

"What do you think?" She kissed me. "Speaking of kitties, where's the cat? I missed him too. What's his name again?"

"Morris. I just put him out."

She kissed me again. "Mmmmmmm. You know what?"

"What?"

"I think I'm getting sleepy. You think it's okay if I spend the night?"

Hours of drinking and dancing had left Emily's scent strong. I reveled in it. I luxuriated in making out with her pussy, cleaning the soft folds of flesh contrasting the hard button of her clit. I sucked her tender lips into mine, alternately darting tongue then stabbing fingers into the recesses of her body, stroking her engorged g-spot. I answered Emily moan for moan, both totally immersed in the momentary pleasure.

But my cock was growing impatient. It needed to feel Emily from the inside too, and I began easing Emily down. Slowing the intensity. Making my attention on her cunt less sexual and more loving. My kisses straying further--the inside of thighs, her mound, belly. My hand sustaining gentle pressure and warmth as I maneuvered slowly up her body--tits, underarms, neck. I lifted my hips so I could reach my cock and wipe spit on it before sliding home.

"Is this all you think I am? Some slut you can fuck, whenever you want?" She stiffened and began backing up the bed.

Oh fuck! No, I called you at nearly 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night because I wanted you to join my stamp club. What the fuck do YOU think? "Of course not," I answered. "I've missed you, Em. I think about you all the time."

"Then why didn't you call? Where have you been? Why aren't we together?"

"How many times do I have to apologize to you? I told you work got crazy. I should've called, but I didn't." Even if I didn't, my wiener knew when to give up. Like a tortoise it shriveled toward cover. Think man! You've got to score. "I'm sorry," was the best I could manage.

"Don't you know I love you? I want to be with you? I want us to be together?"

Love? Where the hell did that come from? No, I had no idea, and it wasn't something I'd contemplated or wanted, but sensibility and desire were competing for control of my brain. Time. Borrow some time. Say something! "I don't know. I mean, no I didn't know."

"How could you not know?"

I was doing gymnastic mathematics in my head trying to calculate the chances of getting laid with squirming from this entanglement later. Not good. "I don't know. I mean, I'm not sure how I feel."

"You mean whether I'm a slut or a girlfriend?"

"No. Well. I mean. I like you. I really do."

"Like? You LIKE me?"

"I guess you're not the right girl for me."

"What in the fuck does that mean? Ten seconds ago you were ready to fuck me, but now I'm not the right girl? What kind of asshole ARE you?"

I didn't say you don't have the right parts. I'm sure your pussy works fine. It did before. "I mean. Well. . ."

"Well what? Am I your girlfriend or just some slut to you?"

"Well every girl I've ever fallen in love with has cheated on me."

This seemed to instantly mollify Emily. "I would NEVER do that to you. I'm not like that."

"I know."

"Then what's wrong? You can trust me. I don't want to be with anybody but you."

"I know that."

"Then it's something else." Emily's compassion was quickly morphing back into anger. "You don't think I'm good enough for you, do you?"

"No, that's not it at all."

"You do. You don't think I'm hot enough for you. You think I'm fat."

How could she read my mind like that? "That's not true. You're very sexy and cute."

"Cute. That's just a nice word for ugly."

Emily truly is cute, not ugly. She is a bit chubby and somehow I'd communicated that opinion to her. She knew she was onto something. That I called her because I wanted to jerk off into someone, and I thought she'd comply because she couldn't do better.

"It's not you at all. I mean not that. You're too nice."

"This is bullshit. You're a fucking asshole. I'm outta here."

"I get off on it."

"What?"

"I get off on it."

"Get off on what? Using women? Being an asshole? You're a dick!"

"I get off on being cheated on." (Read more. . .)

Holiday (Celibate)

2011-04-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

About to cancel, loud pumping music filled my ear.

"Hello?" She was shouting.

I answered, "Hey, Em."

"What? Hang on."

Slowly the music faded, then suddenly muffled. I didn't know if she'd gone into the toilet, outside or where.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Em. It's me."

"Who?"

And so the dance began. We played a few minutes fencing for position. I wrangled an invite to come "hang out." About forty-five minutes later I arrived, relieved she was still there. She pretended not to see me at first then offered a profuse greeting before turning away with feigned disinterest.

Fine. I'll pay your price to get what you've got that I want.

I was not introduced and left to my own devices. I didn't know her friends. Emily and I had been on a few dates. We'd had sex more. We were never boyfriend/girlfriend. We weren't even friends, just acquaintances who fucked.

I flagged a waitress and ordered a drink. I nudged one of Emily's girls. Intruding into their conversation I offered drinks.

"No, thanks."

"Sure."

I asked the waitress to check with the rest of the group and put the round on me. Giving her a credit card I asked her to ring me out and bring the bill with the drinks.

I was pretty certain they knew who I was even if I didn't know them, and Emily's crowd was not going to let me off easily. Desperately I searched for anyone to talk to.

I took a chance with a couple of women nearby. "I love your bag and your shoes. Where'd you get them?"

"What?"

"I said, where'd you get your shoes?"

"Does that ever really work?"

"No really. I'm not hitting on you. I've been looking for a pair just like those in red. Size 11."

"Is that so?"

"Size 13, actually. You don't think I could pull 'em off, do you?"

"I don't know maybe."

"Look, I'm really just in the doghouse for showing up late. My girlfriend's pissed and you can really help me out if you let me talk to you awhile."

"Why were you late?"

I chatted them up a few more minutes until the waitress returned, and I excused myself.

I got off super easy as there were just the two drinks. I gave the server a nice tip and asked her to offer my new friends drinks on me. I turned back to Emily's young friend whose drink I had purchased.

With glassy eyes she slurred, "who are you?"

"I'm Bill."

"Do I know you?"

"I don't think so. I'm a friend of Emily's."

"Mmmmleee?" She turned and looked back toward her, then back at me. "Are you sleeping with her?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"I duh know. You wanna sleep with me?"

"Why don't you ask me that sometime when you haven't had so much to drink?"

"My boyfrien' don'. He dumbed me. Now he's fuckin' some sssslut. But I don' care cause lotsa guys wunna fuck me. You wanna fuck me, don' ya?"

"Of course I do. Who wouldn't?"

"Sure ya do." She leaned toward me, lost her balance and fell into my arms. Her head rested on my chest. "Lotsa guys do." She lifted her head toward my face without opening her eyes. "And we're gonna too." With an exaggerated nod she dropped her head again. (Read more. . .)

Bonus Coverage

2011-03-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Gary Wright

Have any of you ever had a dream that caused you to cry? I'll spare most of the lead-in mentioning only a bizarre little stretch where a cousin I haven't seen in years was doing a song and dance number as an apparently unintended Truman Capote impression. Figure THAT one out.

The dream continued to evolve until I was in the arms of a woman. Face to face we gazed into each others' eyes. I was overwrought with emotion. I was helplessly and completely in love with her. I told her so.

Recognizing the happy passion of my sentiment, she whispered "don't cry."

"I can't help it. If you want a man who never cries, then I'm not for you."

I woke, my cheeks literally wet from tears. That was disturbing, as was the fact that the woman was Helen Hunt. Someone I can't say I've ever thought about unless she was there on the screen in front of me. In fact, the only thing I can remember seeing her in was Castaway. . . .

Sort of makes sense now.

And You Wanted to Be My Latex Salesman

Probably about time for me to update my blog roll. There are a couple of sites that provide links to just about everyone such as Andrissa or TGCentral, so instead I promote sites I particularly enjoy, and those sites whose authors participate in the blog world by commenting.

Bored

Maybe I've only just noticed, but there seems to be a growing fascination with interracial among TG/Cuck/Submissive/Sissy blogs. I think it's getting really boring, if not offensive. I'm sorry. There's no way around the inherent racism.

"My woman is fucking other men."

"You poor dear."

"And they're black!"

"Gasp! How horrid. How could she possibly humiliate you so by breeding with one of those--those. Well you know. One of--those people?"

Only Her Hairdresser Knows for Sure

Who likes braids and pigtails?

I adore them.

Most of my friends do not.

They assert that they're "butch."

Those guys all universally like ponytails though.

So how about you?

Is this just particularly my thing?

Are those guys right?

Is it a sissy deal?

What do you think?

We Have Ways of Making You Talk

And walk, and dress like a woman.

I'm still resisting.

It's getting harder.

Uhhh, more difficult.

The longing has blossomed.

Desire grows.

The eventuality looms.

Disappointment still lies over the horizon.

Barely.

JamieLin's Couch

Don't you absolutely LUV this sofa?

It matches my blog purrrrfectly!

More Ketchup

2011-03-28T11:11:00.000-07:00

Valentine's Day came and went. Just like Christmas, then New Year's, I thought somehow the holiday romance would help me get a date with my teller. I don't know what was wrong with me. I couldn't do it.

My only consolation was that there was still no ring. No flowers or other tokens of affection. I'd been admiring her such a very long time. How could she still be available? There was no way. It just wasn't going to happen.

But my 2011 virginity was a burden and shame. My desire a mania. I had to ask out Sarah. Maybe that's where my mojo went. In my obsession, I wasn't really looking anywhere else. She was the only shiny toy on my list. I had to have her. But maybe, just maybe, when morning came and Santa hadn't brought her, then I could move on.

Desperation masquerading as courage I asked her out. Like a teenage boy I felt just the slightest stirring of an erection when she said "yes."

She likes me after all!

How much time had I wasted? Why didn't I ask her sooner? So much frustration and disappointment was going to be wiped away. Three long days I had to wait. Would Friday ever get here? During my excited feverishness I saved myself and gave up masturbation. Santa was coming after all!

But when the happy occasion arrived, I quickly realized that my gut was right all those prior months. She wasn't interested. I have no idea why she agreed to go out. Boredom I guess.

If she wasn't talking about herself, or an "asshole" ex-boyfriend, she was questioning why I'd never been married. She all but declared I must be gay. Not in a sexy way. Just dismissive. Despite this conclusion, she did throw-in a few interview questions. Do I want children? Can I support a wife as a stay-at-home mom?!

Needless to say I made no effort to extend our date beyond the planned activity and dumped her back home about 10:30 p.m. Hope and a broken New Year's resolution left me horny as hell, but the thought of going to the house and rubbing one out held no appeal.

I grabbed the phone. I looked up Emily. It'd been since before Christmas. I hesitated, then hit "call." Several rings. I was gonna get voice mail. Should I leave a message or not? (Read more. . .)

Blew Crush

2011-03-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

Is there a crush fetish? Ever since I can remember I've always had a crush.

Not Megan or Angelia. Women with whom I have actual contact. Before that, too many years ago there were the girls. Crystal in kindergarten, First-
Grade Stephanie, right on up to the Pom Pon Girls and Court-Warming queen of my high school. Even when I'm involved, there's always someone. Okay, there are those few times when my crush became my relationship, but it wasn't long before a new crush appeared.

I certainly appreciate the beautiful. I've written before and here that I'm smitten with Kate Beckinsale. There are countless other unattainable lovelies of momentary infatuation. Movie stars, singers, magazine models, internet one-offs. But it's see 'em and forget 'til next time.

It's admiration, not a crush. I'm not sure it really even qualifies as lust. I may wanna get hard and cum staring at Kate's image, but beyond the visual, she's not in my head. The scene of my fantasy is detached and unrelated to the pictures before my eyes.

The imaginary sex is with a "real" person. Honestly? It's usually an ex-girlfriend or a complete stranger I've conjured that I may meet tomorrow. She is not a celebrity. Since learning to beat-off I've been this way. I was rubbing myself raw staring at Playmates but my fancy was flat-chested, skinny-legged Libby.

But oddly her pointy butt wasn't jabbing me as I savagely banged her doggie-style. My brain was weaving fabric of romance. A date to the movies. Holding hands with her in the dark. A first kiss. Being SEEN with her at the school dance. Like an old-fashioned film, sex was implied, not explicit.

And so it continued. Anita, Melissa, Lori, Lisa, whoever my crush may have been. The fantasies were sweet. Naive. Little changed from the flights of fancy had by that kindergartner who adored Crystal and her "silver" tresses. I'm certain of this--never, not once did I imagine grabbing them by the hair and shoving my dick down their throat. All I really dreamed about was being with them. In their presence. Enjoying their company.

When I debauched myself those girls weren't there. As I try teasing out the memories of those times, the really obscene ones, no one was. It was all about me and avoiding all the other moments of my life. My meager collection of purloined feminine attire, searching for things to shove up my butt, those were definitely NOT the things I'd do someday--when I was all grown up.

The dreams I had for my adult life were love, marriage (with Libby, Anita, Melissa, Lori, Lisa. . .), kids, apple pie and mom. Where did the perversion come from? The debasement? I know it was escapism. Looking for a new sensation that would make me forget how far away that nice, that normal dream was. Why did I find my fix there?

In any case, nothing's really changed. Just like when I was 12 I compulsively beat-off. I look at random images of beauty or hard sex. I fantasize new experiences with old flames. Old experiences with strangers. Impossible experiences with anyone.

All that time alone thinking sex, but not once do I imagine what it would be like to undress my bank teller, taste her flesh, be inside her, let alone be nasty. I'd had this crush for a long time. I daydreamed of her when I wasn't sexual. How our first date would go. What it would be like to kiss her. Taking her sailing. What sort of swim suit would she wear? Singing to her. Introducing her to the family. Love, marriage, kids, apple pie and mom.

It's absolutely crazy. I knew nothing about her. Yes, I'd seen her dozens of times but our longest interaction had been at most two minutes. Most of them were a perfunctory 30 seconds or so, yet I was already off into the sunset without any thought of how she'd react when I kneel over her in bed and offer her my dick. Tell her I want to bugger her. Fuck her best friend. And on and on.

This compart- mentalizing can't be normal. Or at least the lack of control can't be. I dream of normal, but I'm a pervert. I'm not really a sissy, a queer, a TS, a cuck or anything but a sex-addict of sorts who medicates by the process of orgasm. Now get outta my way; let me get busy cumming and feel better!

Breaking the Silence

2011-03-23T11:11:00.001-07:00

I've been lurking about but can't remember the last time I was in a skirt, panties, bra or even high heels. It's just not something I think about these days. Strange too as my dry spell, or as I prefer to think of it now--my celibacy, has endured. I've not been laid in 2011!

So my notion that crossdressing was a replacement for the real thing doesn't seem to be holding up. Alternatively I believed it was a manifestation of depression. An attempt to fill the void of nothingness. Feel something. Anything. But that emptiness has certainly been there, magnified by the cold and dark of winter. Still there was absolutely no compulsion to pull on my polka dots, mount stilty highheels or slip on that satin nightie.

One day boredom compelled me to try shopping. My apathy was unpurged. I was lost among the racks. Not uncomfortable or out of place. Just disinterested. I confess the shoes and boots were still an attraction. As a fetish for the feet of a genetic woman, not me. Flat I yawned and gave up.

So the first couple of months this year were pretty traditionally male. Albeit a loser male. Too big a pussy to ask her out, I continued silently lusting after the bank teller.

On a more positive note, I made a diligent effort to get ready for the summer triathlon season. A lot of running and weight-lifting condi-tioning a base for the arrival of better weather.

Even more conscientiously I worked at perfecting my masturbation. No matter what the circumstance, inconvenience or lack of privacy, my 2011 resolution was not to miss a single day of self-gratification.

Despite that earnest endeavor there's been no sissification. No transvestism. No humiliation other than life itself. Nothing to share. Not that anyone's reading anyway. I know wankers visit in the hope of finding a titillating picture that will engorge their dicks so they can spank off. I'd been tempted to make some offerings now and then but was plainly and simply too lazy to bother.

Home Improvement

2011-01-15T11:11:00.000-08:00

Fred and his Bad Side recently reminded me of a funny story. A couple months back I was helping with some insulating work in the folk's home. I had been pestering them to get it done for years. Finally seeing an unbelievable deal at Lowe's I bucked up for it myself; roped a friend into helping out and more than doubled the attic insulation with recycled cellulose for less than $300.

But neither saving the planet nor cash on heating bills is the point of this tale. As I was lifting some planking I discovered a childhood skin mag that belonged to my brother. It had been hidden there for more than 35 years. Memories--the smell of dust, furtive glances at sordid female images, confused certainty, and dry prepubescent boners.

No offense to the ladies, but the industry wasn't quite as "reputable" as it is today. Nice girls didn't, and the quality of women in this b-list rag shows it. The exceptional gal on the leash above notwithstanding.

I don't believe I ever bothered reading the articles back then, but I find them rather humorous now. And before I certainly didn't get the joke about "Agent 0069!"

Oh, and in case any of you are wondering, no panties, bras, dresses or even heels. Completely missed out on the non-incriminating Christmas shopping season. There's still just no urge to get back into it, but ironically I'm on a serious dry spell. Have I suddenly gone over the hill? In my hetero horniness, am I coming on too strong? Whatever it is, I've lost my mojo!

If it wasn't for banging chubby little Emily from time to time, my left hand would be demanding I buy it a ring and propose matrimony by now. . . .

Somewhere

2010-11-06T11:11:00.001-07:00

Neither my heart nor my hard-on are in this world right now. Check out my latest on Jerk-Off with JamieLin. I know what you're thinking, but I don't want to be her. I want to breed her, and I have no desire to share her with any of you sissies or so-called real men either. I want to possess her. Control her. Own her. I want her to watch me fuck her girlfriend. Then I'll watch her eat my cum from her friend's pussy. Then swap.

Raging heterosexuality. It's been that way for awhile. It's what I think about masturbating. It's what I fantasize when having intercourse. My cranium's clear of cock but my own.

Why should you care? First of all you shouldn't, but you do. Why? Because you've got an erection that won't go away until you give it attention and then hours later it's back again. Your mind's bored with the function. It needs distraction while you beat it. Think about that.

No, really think about it.

I've promised you things. I've tried. I've written a lot of stuff, but I'm just not happy with any of it. I don't know if it's because I've got too much to say or too little. Probably I'm just lazy in addition to busy hunting pussy and getting a lot of other more constructive things done in the real world.

Still,
I fear one day, sooner than later, I'll be back. Not because I loathe it. Not because I feel guilt or internal shame though I certainly hide it from a non-accepting world. No, it's just simply a time waster. It's much like six-inches up and six-inches down except in the end there's no pop!

Just Dew It

2010-10-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

If you wanna wear a dress, shove a dildo up your ass and jerk off, then Gurl-up like you've got a pair and do it. Don't make pathetic excuses that you haven't any choice because the world doesn't love you. Dropping out and turning on to satin and lace isn't the answer.

It's just easy.

Peeking In

2010-10-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

I just can't tell you when I'll get around to posting again, but can there be little doubt it will happen? Things are going really well now. How long until it comes crashing down? I pull on a skirt? Hook a polka dotted bra? Drop my panties? Pull my pud? Dream of sucking dick like a pacifier and blissfully slurp my own cum?

Like creeping traffic at an accident scene, I look askance at what I expect to come my way sooner or later. Odd. I will then be the object but there's not dread, neither horror, nor embrace. Just is.

In the eye of my storm I'll enjoy this interlude of heterosexual normalcy.

Normalcy?!

Since You Asked

2010-10-13T23:11:00.000-07:00

I have somewhat mixed emotions about removing prior posts. I guess I sorta thought I'd given warning, but maybe it just wasn't plain enough. However, I figured that participating readers didn't go back and read old posts anyway. So for the lurkers who cruise by, snag pictures and never offer anything in return, well I didn't regret that in the least.

In fact, I took great humor in seeing all those visitors bother reading comments for the first time. The traffic on the comment posting page was up over 500%. If nothing else, let that be a lesson. If you like bloggers, let 'em know.

As a sign of appreciation, I kept on my blog roll everyone who ever left me a comment. I had a few others, but they don't have blogs, or are trying to break away from the porn side.

I've thought about matriculating elsewhere and being strictly invitation only. I'm not sure. Would you really like bringing back some or all of the old posts? Can you remember a particular favorite? Which was it? Why?

As I walked through that intense period since early August, the retrospection just made some things clear. I won't say it cured me. I'm not sure a cure is what I need. Maybe it is. If so, then I've still got serious issues. If I'm addicted like an alcoholic, then I'm just kidding myself thinking I can have one or two. How long 'til I'm a raving scabby kneed sissy wearing a cheap wig, smeared lipstick and a stained dress?

No, my solution is a little different. A half measure--perspective and understanding. Having that has moderated my behavior but it's not gone. I still LUV jerking off. I still enjoy dressing in women's clothing. I still get off dreaming I'm a girl. I still fantasize I'm me sucking cock and getting fucked in my ass.

Now I understand why, and it's less consuming. That's important. I was just drawn too deeply into the drowning vortex. Losing context and contact. That's changing. That's good. Whether it can get where it needs to be, that's left to be seen. Whether I wind up back where I was, the threat.

Be careful what you ask. Most of all be very careful the answers you read. I'm gonna share some of mine over the next few posts. You might not really want to know. If it hits too close to home, how might my knowledge affect you? If you lose dressing, emasculation, debasement and masturbation, what would be left?

Requiem for a Sissy

2010-09-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

I believe it's in Prozac Nation where Christina Ricci's character comments something like, "the thing about depression is you'll do anything to feel different." Can there be any more different feeling for a male than being a woman? Maybe not for those truly transgendered males, but for the rest of us, it would seem to be the antithesis of what we are. And if what we are led us to the pain of depression, then shouldn't a painted face, manicured nails, tits and ass in sexy lingerie, a pantied pussy, dresses, heels, styled hair and a cock in the mouth fix it?

I've long noticed that my dressing is a response to disappointment and sadness. Once upon a time, I thought it the reaction to being a loser in love. After all, that's how it started. Not that I had lost love but had no love at all. When the other kids began pairing off, going steady, making out, I was still afraid to talk with girls. I wrote earlier about being shut down by a mean bitch in the seventh grade. I made no real effort again until my Senior year in high school.

Instead I became my own girlfriend. By day I still longed for the popular girls. I knew it was impossible. They couldn't be mine anymore than the models in glossy magazines. But by night they were. Masturbation became the biggest real in my life. The process was distracting, and for the few brief moments of orgasm everything was right in the world. There was no pain, worry or absence. Only pure contentment.

Attainment became a ritual. Not always elaborate. In sheer numbers simple was frequent. Beating off was at least a twice daily event so time wasn't always available, nor privacy. But when they were, detail and complexity prolonged expectation and preoccupation. Nirvana was coming with cumming and delaying cumming extended the distraction from all that was missing. When opportunity was provided, the ritual became more substantial and protracted. Not merely pornography, but dressing in my limited collection of womens clothing, self-sodomy and genital torture stemmed the onset of gratification, and its accompanying crash.

Then the consequences. Shit stained towels and torn pantyhose. Even a bleeding ass or an injured dick. And no girl. No companionship. Still alone. No closer to changing that. Just another missed opportunity for socialization. But I was comforted. The one thing that could never be taken from me was jerking off. It might not be much, but I would have it always.

Requiem II in Bb Maj

2010-09-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

Finally an aggressive girl pursued strongly enough to catch me. I was trying to remember the circumstances where we wound up alone in the school parking lot after dark one winter night. My first real kiss. I progressed from there to a technical virgin in a matter of a couple weeks. Had I not been so inexperienced, I would have seduced her, but all new I accepted "no" too easily. She never got me off, and I was too embarrassed to masturbate for her. Still, her toothy blow jobs were exhilarating if painful.

With the help of her parents, that fizzled. A few brief encounters with other girls and another "relationship." Our privacy was more limited and we had only one serious sex session. Me performing oral sex on her. I didn't have a rubber so I never even tried. When I planned and prepared, I was never given the chance. She'd used me for a date to prom. I was unceremoniously dropped after.

But soon was my moment of truth. I was never more pursued in my life. Both of my friends' dates from prom were after me. My first kiss wanted me back. There was another girl who yet a third friend was after. He talked me into seeing the Spring Musical in which she was performing. After, we offered to drive her home. The problem for my friend was that I had the wheels. Ann convinced Charlie I should drop him first. He knew the gig. At his house he gave me permission. Still bumming over my prom date, I wasn't interested yet.

Then there was THE girl. The one I'd had a crush on since the 7th grade. Literally my dream girl. There were others, but I'm not lying when I tell you that SHE would have been my pick from the whole school. A little too much drink at an after graduation party. Well way too much drink. She was there. Inebriated I chatted her up. I have only a vague recollection, but I remember asking Missy for a goodbye kiss. She obliged. Right there in front of God and the world. As I had to go she grabbed my arm, "call me!" Mike, Ann and I left the party.

I did call her. We even went out. She didn't chase. Her expectations were the opposite. The spider comes to the widow. The rest were still in the game too. Ann however was on the hunt. She'd seen what happened between me and Missy. She knew how I felt too. Drunken blather had proceeded my approach at the party. Ann had no more bait than any of the others. She was just prepared to let it be eaten without a struggle. A couple weeks after graduation she took my virginity. That was it.

All others were forsaken for Ann's snatch. I've written before so I won't bore you again, but she was a living pocket pussy powered by the energizer bunny's collective tenth generation. Not once did she say no. What's more, it was never just going through the motions. Her enthusiasm was unbridled.

Yet even she couldn't quench my zest for jerking off. I was still at it twice a day. Sometimes alone. Sometimes just inside Ann. She was my new prop. My new ritual. I delayed my own gratification and focused on her orgasms. So much better than my solo sessions, the pain was masked. The emptiness filled.

Eventually the high began fading. It wasn't enough. Fuck her ass. Ooooooh! I felt that, but it's losing its pop. Make her go braless with her shirt open to the naval so all can see what's yours. Now I'm revved again. Fuck her in public while those two black guys watch. Make her suck your dick after pulling out of her rectum. Cut off vaginal sex. Only grant her anal.

What next? The spiral can only go so far. It could have gone farther. Ann was willing. Ready to eat pussy, and share it with me. She was probably more than eager for extra cock too, although we never talked about it. I was a mean jealous little fuck. She wavered on giving me permission to have sex with other women when she wasn't present. Sometimes she'd say yes. Sometimes no. It didn't matter. I'd lost my mojo. Life had become nothing but Ann. All the things that I had pulled together the year before. All that had made me so attractive to all those young women, I'd given up for getting high off Ann's cunt.

The end finally came. I don't remember exactly how. I pushed her away for months. Months! But my pusher kept offering me a fix. I took the hit. What else was I going to do? Once it was truly over, it took me years to recover. I didn't lay my second girl for nearly six months. A slumming event to be sure. My third nearly nine months after that. Eventually conquests became easier. But the pattern was always the same. I worked hard at satisfying her. I wanted to leave her wanting me again whether I wanted her or not. But in the end, the fuck always wound up with me masturbating in her vagina or ass.

She was a pussy for my cock to rub around in. I didn't care about her politics, job or accomplishments. Was she physically attractive? Was she another one for the record books? Black, white, younger, older, blond, brunette. . . . Was she the kinda girl I could line up to go back to back following up another woman? These were the things that counted. Just like I looked forward to the next issue arriving in the mail so I could rush and rub one out, I was always on the lookout for the next cunt who'd let me jerk off inside her.

And so it continues. All these years later, I'm still just wanking in girls.

Discordant Requiem III

2010-09-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

Emily was nothing but jerking off. I don't know how I convinced myself I was attracted to her. I did though. The compulsion for a living prop was too strong. I need that ritual too.

Last Friday, Trish finally broke down. I was beginning to think she would disprove my rule. If you wait long enough a "relationship" will always make one last call. We needed to talk. What the hell was there to talk about after two months?

The scene is always so predictable. There's the feigned disinterest. The return of property, no matter how token. Bitterness revealing hatred leading to tears allowing comfort giving way to physical contact that leads to passion and bed. Once inside it is glorious masturbation.

"Have you had a better fuck since we broke up?" That never fails to piss them off. They love to act insulted.

Some tell you to stop. "Get off me!"

Too late. Consent given can't be revoked.

"Hell. Just lie to me. Tell me I'm the best fuck you've had today."

The great thing about Trish was she must have been really horny because she kept on fucking me back. We said lots of nasty things to each other. She didn't forget to throw in some remarks about me sucking dick and getting fucked in the ass.

When we finished we lay there apart, quietly in the dark. I knew it was my cue to pull on my pants and get out of there, but she rolled over and rested her head on my chest. I stroked her hair, and we dozed. At first light we fucked again. Tenderly and quiet this time. We didn't speak but kissed. I knew in her mind we were reconciled. I knew it was my last jerk off in her.

I ejaculated. She went to pee. I pulled on my pants and was tying my second shoe when she came out. I didn't give her confusion time to morph into anger. Taking my things I left, tossing Trish in the bottom draw with all the other old magazines that once made my dick so hard. The piles of images, false, that I had once been certain were the girl of my dreams, only if. . . . Who was more phony? Me or them?

I closed the door without any regrets or pangs. What did Trish care if I fucked her one more--two more times? What's one more--two more logs? There'd be another. In the meantime, I had other ways to entertain myself.

Myself. Just me. Alone. Damn! Somehow I just became too comfortable being alone. I don't need anybody. I don't want to need anybody. It's just so much hassle. But when you don't need. When you're not at least a little vulnerable, the other side just can't deal. The fear's all on her side and that terror is destructive.

But I don't want that. I don't want someone to be able to destroy me. All I want is someone to masturbate with then be put away 'til next time. That being all there is, even nearly seven inches ain't much connection on which to build a relationship.

Is this really all I am? Is this all I've got? All I want? It is safe. It's empty. I kid myself I'm looking, but I chase young mindless girls who don't know shit. How can I hope they'll capture my head let alone my heart? And let's face it. There's not a captive cock in the world except thinking makes it so. Dick is never satisfied with one, and right now, like always, it's in charge.

Requiem's Suspended Fourth

2010-09-24T11:11:00.001-07:00

Trish was the spark for this latest flaming episode. The breakup directed a flurry of activity toward other things. One of them some cleaning and straightening. It was there where I found the tinder, fuel and gasoline. Letters from J.

Out of place, at first I didn't recognize them. I knew the handwriting, but these letters weren't with her other things. The dates! Then it started rushing back at me. These were given and sent to me after her marriage. She begged me--her "true husband" to hang on just a little longer. She "promised" to make up for all the "hurt," the "failure" and the "destruction" her "weakness" had caused. On and on she gratefully admired my strength that gave us hope. Berated her abuse. Pleaded for me not to let go. She'd be "home" to "our home" soon.

I was angry. Did she ever mean those things? Did she believe them when she wrote them? Was she lying to herself or me?

Was she so narcissistic that she'd manipulate me, keep me that way even though she offered nothing in return? If she truly loved me, why didn't she break my heart hard? If love was genuine, why aren't we together now?

I hate her.

I love her.

Do I?

Can I love anybody? Was she really just another glossy? A fantasy portrait painted by a great Master? Would I have tired of her also? Was she just another jerk-off toy with the adornments of romance that, perhaps more dogeared than most, would nevertheless have landed in the bottom drawer with the countless others?

The narcissist--is it me? Callous to be sure. I have been since finally "resolving" my obviously unresolved issues over J. Is she just an excuse? Permission to be a cad?

My memory seems different. I recall connection. Endless conversation. Laughter. Intellect. Fun. Passion. Yes, sex too. There's always at least some of that. But so, so much more. I wish I could see her. Hear her voice. Inhale her gentle scent. Caress the skin of flesh I savored. Would I restore her? She me? The way her memory has entranced me now at this computer?

Despite knowing one another's whereabouts all these fourteen plus years, we've not breached our silence. Because it was a lie? Because it was all too real? Do I want her to call because I love her still or just because I want to know what that would feel like?

Isn't that just more masturbation?

Why can't I find someone else? There was once. In case it's not obvious, I've never married. I've asked--J. She said "yes." Yeah! Right! I wanted to marry D. too. She was before J. Almost ten years before. I didn't. I was still in school without means of support for a wife and family. I wonder if I'd have just taken the plunge we might have worked it out somehow. Lots of people do.

I've done lots of thinking about D lately. There were many similarities between my relationship with her and that with J. Space. Neither ever seemed clingy. Both could make me laugh. Both could challenge. I was always, always happy to see them both and each made me certain the feeling was mutual. Never glad to see them go, I always wanted more. When apart I longed for them. And weird as it may sound given that J. was with him so much of the time, my separation wasn't panicky. Dumb as shit on a stick, I KNEW she loved me and would come back. And here I am, still subconsciously waiting?

Fuck! Is THAT why I want her to call? Is ALL this nothing more than the inability to accept I was a fool?

Ramblations

2010-09-23T11:11:00.000-07:00

Do you like phony blogs? Some of them are obviously tongue in cheek or so over the top, how could anyone not know they're fabricated. Those are totally cool with me. In fact, from time to time they're really hot tracks of my own fantasies with little twists and turns. Sort of like the difference between masturbation and a skilled handjob from a little hottie.

I do however despise frauds. There is a very popular blogger out here in Sissy World who's lying, and I can't stand him. It's obviously not someone on my blog list, but otherwise don't ask me to name names. I won't do it. This isn't about getting in a pissing match, and I won't give him the publicity, although he probably gets a lot more hits than I do. I don't know as I've not been to his blog in ages.

Why am I offended? I don't know. I guess in part because I was initially suckered too. I figuratively got on my knees and sucked his virtual dicklet. I mean, I raved, panted and slobbered over his pathetic excuse of a man-clit. When incontrovertable evidence appeared that he was lying, well I felt like a fool. Worst of all, in my own mind, it's my opinion he's a plagiarist.

This may freak you out or it may inspire you or it might get you hard or it might just make you cum.

Yes, yes! I know I sometimes bitch at my readers about not posting enough comments. Although actually, what I try to do is encourage comments and thanks those who do. I'm of course not alone in this.

Many bloggers pathetically moan, whine and cry for more attention. This is about them, not you. They're almost universally internet glory holes. Offering comments leaves you with dirty knees, cum on your face and not so much as a thank you.

Now why should I care? Just like women who've had bad experiences with dicks and don't want to put out, my readers have left comments with others then felt rejected and abused, making them less likely to praise my wit, appreciate my taste in women's clothes and properly admire my big dick. Or small dick as the mood strikes me for how I want to feel about it that day. It stays the same. It's my head that changes from day to day.

I really do luv reading all your pervy stories and ideas, whether here, on your own blogs or comments on others. It's what makes our world go round.

I don't generally watch commercials but every now and then one captures my imagination and I'll watch it every time I catch it on the DVR fast forward. I liked this one so much I had to search for it on Youtube. Does anyone else think this chick is hot? She's what I mean by being a sucker for cute. I'd jump over dozens of horny glamor girls to get at a simple gal like her.

Where do you think the best location for a sissy friendly vacation might be? I'm not looking to get laid or suck cock or get hit on by men or even be full on drag. Where could one go and safely run in a skort and sports bra? Wear slut heels on the street? I was thinking South Beach, but what do you think?

This girl looks so much like someone from my college days. Well except for the cock in her mouth. I, and many others tried, but to my knowledge no one came close. I did manage to take her out once. I had some very coveted tickets that I used as bait. If I laid a hand on her, I'd be surprised. I know I didn't even get a kiss. She of course had the reputation as a lesbian, although we never knew of her dating girls either.

Does More Not Equal Less?

2010-09-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

I've been on a bit of a X-dressing bender lately. It might be nothing for you, but as well as wearing panties with my civies every day, at home I've been dressing head to toes every day for weeks. Often spending hours en femme. Last night I had the opportunity to be out for over two hours in my favorite Adidas skort and a ladies tank.

However, I think it was last Tuesday I'd slept in a pair of mens shorts. I woke up after only a couple hours with an over-whelming desire to dress. I didn't fight it, but pulled on some fuchsia pantyhose, a polka dotted bra, matching panties, a black-n-pink flowered satin nightie and my highest 5.5 inch sandals. I fell back in bed content and passed out for an hour or two more.

Then I woke with another tremendous need--to pee. Somehow sitting on the toilet wasn't going to be enough. I walked out the back sliding door, clipped across the deck and down onto the lawn. I didn't go too far as my heels were digging into the soft earth. I pushed the panties and hose down my thighs, held my nightie in a wad at my stomach then squatted down, knees together technique, and let go my stream.

I felt absolutely womanly, but why the fuck did I do that? Why did the notion even occur to me?! Absolutely bizarre and inexplicable.

Essentially the same thing happened last night. Up too late again, I finally went to bed in a simple pair of girls boxers. Two hours later I snapped awake and had to dress. Stockings suspended to bustier, g-string, heels and a nightie. I went out into the moonlight to pee again. It feels so wonderfully vulnerable! But I wasn't done. I had to beat off first. Finally finished, I contentedly drifted off with the flavor of cum on my tongue.

After a few more hours rest I feel fresh and ready for the day. After removing the satin garters, I swapped out my stockings and nightie for a skirt and pair of groovy polka dotted thigh high socks. Oh yeah! A much more comfortable, and as far as I'm concerned, sexy pair of boyshorts too. I've got an hour to enjoy them before I must get ready for work.

I really do not understand. In the past, a little bit of a binge would quickly subside the urge. Now it seems to be feeding upon itself. More, more, more. Always more. This was not my plan.

Do Desparate Times Require Desparate Measures?

2010-09-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

After a dog's drunk from the toilet once, should it bother him to do it again and again?

Another dry week and not a legitimate prospect in sight. I'm not sure how to explain this. Usually business provides enough contacts that at least there's always someone to ask for a date. Might not get a "yes," but the possibility's there. Last night out I saw nothing even interesting enough to bother with a chat and the risk of rebuff.

I stopped by the bank this morning. I'm hot for a teller there. She of course wasn't working. So I called Emily and asked her if she'd like to meet for breakfast.

Em must have been in bed when I called. I rolled into the IHOP half an hour later and she was already there wearing an oversized football jersey, jeans, sneakers and a thin little yellow headband pulling the hair back from her face. About this headband thing, she wears it like girls do for applying makeup, not aerobics or Olivia Newton-John "Let's Get Physical" style.

Anyway, I swear I wouldn't have recognized her. If it hadn't been for her big greeting smile, I was ready to walk right past her. No makeup. Not even those cool glasses. Could her belly really have grown two sizes in a week? Oh my gawd, was that start of a double chin there before?!

My favorite hot-pink and yellow polka dotted boy shorts were hardly necessary for encouraging me to keep my pants up. I know somewhere under there she's got the real deal, and it tasted mighty sweet, but as I sat there I couldn't help concluding I'd rather stay home, dress up and masturbate than get with her again.

I know, you're probably all thinking how absolutely evil and shallow I am. Is it any wonder? But when you get down to it, who should really pity who? I may like to pretend I was slumming, but if the world knew the pathetic truth about me, they'd have a different opinion.

Maturbation Poll Results

2010-09-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

Have you ever masturbated

with one of the opposite sex? - 31 (68%)
with one of the same sex? - 15 (33%)
with a group? - 3 (6%)
been caught and tried covering up? - 31 (68%)
been caught and continued? - 7 (15%)
while one of the opposite sex watched? - 28 (62%)
while one of the same sex watched? - 10 (22%)
while a group watched? - 3 (6%)
at work? - 26 (57%)
while driving? - 22 (48%)
while flying? - 9 (20%)
on the phone with a pro? - 8 (17%)
on the phone with a lover? - 22 (48%)
on the phone with someone who didn't know? - 19 (42%)
in plain sight but unbeknownst to others? - 12 (26%)
proud and in public? - 1 (2%)
while viewing this blog? - 26 (57%)
other notable? (Please do share.) - 2 (4%)

Total votes cast - 45 (participants could choose more than one answer)

This poll was closed September 15, 2010.

I'd say my experiences are pretty much standard. At least measured against my participating readers, who I would like to thank. It was a dismally small turnout given that during the week of the poll I had about 15,000 page hits.

I was shocked that being discovered wasn't universal. I mean the way we beat it, I don't know how you've avoided it. I've been caught red-handed and red-faced twice--Mom and a male friend. Neither time was cool! I've also had a girlfriend find evidence of what I'd been up to although not flagrante delicto. She wasn't cool either!

That's a lot of driving while jerking. Guilty! I've never heard of an accident being caused by this, but after seeing those numbers I'm beginning to wonder, is it just not publicized?

I'd imagined the pro phone sex-line number would have been much greater. Are we all just too cheap? Even if I wasn't, I'd probably still not do it. Lack of trust is probably the biggest factor. I wouldn't trust her representation that 1) she's hot, and 2) she's into it.

You pervs beating off while chatting up some unsuspecting soul ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You're not? Me neither. Not common, but I've done it.

Maybe my poll was confusing. The "with" and "watched" numbers were very close to the same. I sorta expected watched by the opposite sex to be greater than with because that would match my own experience. I guess I should have included responses for whether YOU'VE watched.

Equally surprising to me were how many voters had masturbated with or been watched by the same sex. Were these adolescent experiences? Full on homosexuality? Confessions of doing it alone, so why not do it openly? How'd that happen?

And you lucky few who've performed with and before a group. Please, please, PLEASE share. I mean how many times have I fantasized about my girlfriend telling her girlfriends about how I like to jerk off, then making me strip and prove it!

Please, someone tell me exactly how does one pull off continuing to pull away after being caught? There must be some good stories there.

Honestly,
I expected more plain sight action. For me, it's usually in a car parked at a restaurant or shopping mall with a girlfriend when the mood hits us. She's ready to leave it at a little making out. I'm not. I wank while she watches while the world still goes on around us.

I'm very sad that there's not 100% participation in Jerking Off with JamieLin. Please do cum back
and try
again!

Back in my college days, it was late morning at the Student Union. Busy as hell. I went into the crowded main floor men's room. The wall of something like 10-15 urinals are full but after a few seconds I get my spot. I'm staring at the white porcelain six inches from my face, but you know how your eye begins to wander a bit. The guy next to me has his head thrown back a bit, eyes rolled back and mouth gaping open. Then I see he's stroking away.

Why? I mean I know why, but why here? Why not wait for a stall? Why not find a more private bathroom. I see him working away with thumb and two fingers, and I begin wondering if that's why. He's tiny. Four inches if he's lucky. He's like a flasher. No one will ever see that worthless dick unless he shows it off in a men's room. I didn't stick around for the climax. I had no interest in witnessing the end. I imagine he had lots of women with the same attitude. Pathetic loser!

Now I used to jerk off at school on pretty much a daily basis too. It wasn't because I wasn't getting any. Those WERE the days when Ann would give it up at the drop of my shorts, but she didn't go to school with me, and I'm sure you all know how hard it is to find privacy in the communal arrangements of college life. So I'd always pack a copy of Penthouse or Playboy, then between classes I'd head to a secluded lav, I had my favorites scouted, and leave behind a creamy load in the toilet.

Once after my last morning class I was well beyond the point of no return when I heard the door's gas spring groan as my idyllic sanctuary was invaded. The latch on the next stall rattled followed by the thudded bang of its door shutting. I slid back on the seat and pointed my erection into the cold water. I stared hard at the glossy pussy picture in my hand. Almost there.

Between the two stalls I notice a blue Flair pen being drug along the bottom of the divide. My first squirt launches into the bowl. I'm panicking but cuming. I can't stop. "What is that? Is it a camera? What the fuck is this guy's problem?"

I want to jet but my dick already is. Jet after jet strikes the water. My orgasm lasts forever as I watch the pen crawl back and forth along the painted panel.

Finally! I'm done. I give a forceful shake to discharge the last dribble, yank up my pants, throw the magazine in my book bag and I'm gone in ten seconds.

I don't really remember my thoughts once I'd made my escape. It was probably just relief. But it wasn't too many days before I was back in my favorite stall for another go. As I took care of other business before getting down to my real business I scanned the walls which were light with graffiti. One blue inked item particularly caught my attention.

"Meet me here, noon on [such and such a date a few days earlier]. Put down papers if you want to suck or be sucked."

See prior poll results here.

Yikes!

2010-09-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

"She wears it well." Did I say that?

I met Emily for dinner last night. She is cute as hell. She's gotta be! The brown eyes, hair and freckles were all true. She showed up wearing these really cool pink and black cat-eye glasses, and I don't know what to call it. A sequined head band? She wore it across the crown of her head framing her face beautifully. I'm sure that sounds awful, but it worked. Trust me! More than once I felt a stirring that threatened to tip over the table.

Problem

is,

she's

a

lot

less

Lucky

Star.

And

way

more

Beaula.

I can't believe I did that, dry spell or not. I need to keep my pants on and ease outta here.

But on a happier note, in the spirit of Jerk Off with JamieLin, check out these two Madonna videos: "Lucky Star" and "Like a Virgin." I beat off more than once while watching those two back in the days of real MTV.

Feelin' Like a Lady

2010-09-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

Wanna feel like a man? Fuck someone who wears a dress! At least it'll help a little.

Maybe forced is too strong a word, but I willed myself to dress this morning before work. Out on the back deck my skirt did feel especially good with today's cooler breezes. The fabric and fit in the pre-dawn darkness was pleasant but not arousing. Maybe the desire's been quenched.

Saturday night's to blame, or maybe the luck and charm. That and the friend of friends and a little too much gin. We wound up at her place, and I got to eat some yummy pussy. Was I starved! How long had it been? Six weeks? That WAS magically delicious. I had unprotected sex again. The possibility never entered my mind. I guess a condom in her drawer would make her a slut. Anyway, intercourse just seems a requirement. I didn't cum. She made the pretense at least. It's so hard to tell with a woman you don't know.

When we woke Sunday morning, we did it all again. This time I finished with a nice jerk-off. She was a real trooper about it too. She lay there with her head on my chest and helped by massaging my 'tain't. We chatted a bit while I stroked away. Now and then I'd ask her to kiss my mouth or squirt more lotion on my dick and she would. I asked if she was getting bored, and she said "no." Somehow I kept my head and didn't start raving about sucking dicks and stuff. Remember, she's the friend of friends.

She put up with that for half an hour. I finally shot my load. Gosh I wish I could cum like that all the time. A couple good blasts went flying. She just kept watching and rubbing 'til my last spasm subsided, then she kissed me.

"That was hot!"

"You're right it was. Thank you. Do you really think it's okay for me to jerk-off?"

"Sure."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"No."

"You don't think it's creepy?"

"Not at all."

"I luv jerking off and with you watching and helping it's like just one giant continuous orgasm."

Emily smiled her cute right-sided smile, brown eyes laughing on either side of her crinkling freckled nose. "It's totally cool. I like it, but I'm gonna go take a shower. You wanna come?"

"I think I just did."

"I know. I think you got some of it in my hair! Com'on, old man." She pinched my butt.

"In a minute, okay? Get the water warm for me first."

"Okay."

She bounced off the bed, and I watched her asslessly walk on chubby legs toward the bath. She had such an adorably cute face, but even at just 22 she's got a pretty good start on a paunch, and she was missing the curve to her hip. Right now she wears it well. Sort of like Madonna back in her "Borderline" days. It all looks as tasty as pastry, but she's dangerous.

Not only am I a sucker for cute, what if she plays along with letting me masturbate as a regular thing? What if she keeps letting me talk and feeding me pussy and not sucking my dick, and I get hooked? What if I can't get an erection anymore because she lives up to her potential and becomes a little tank but she knows all my secrets so I can't leave her? What if for excitement I keep pushing things and pushing things further and further so that I CAN get hard? And what if before I know it I'm on my knees in a skirt with a cock in my mouth while she's video-taping and. . . !?!?

What'd I do with that number?

The Tribble with Trannies II

2010-09-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

This is not another space story. I learned my lesson. You're not interested in that. Maybe this post doesn't belong here at all but in Jerk Off with JamieLin.

There once was a purpose. Now it's gone. A bit of reminiscing I guess, and that same old nagging question--how did I become this thing I am?

GEEK!

Girl?

Only if!

But

no

,

no

Butt

!

Just

a

Gurl

.

.

.

Do

it

to

yourselfer

.

What

shall

I

be

If I grow up?

Lost, is it here I'll be found but where?

Space Invaders

2010-09-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Was it yesterday, last week or longer? The six friends had been on a rigorous hike in harsh back woods country where only the most fit survive. Today they were blazing across the galaxy on an alien spacecraft.

By telepathy, their captors comforted them that terrible experiments and "anal probes" were the frightened creation of feeble human minds. Their civilization was far too advanced for such crudities. However, even at light-speed the trip would take more than a decade. Therefore, certain special arrangements had been made for their comfort.

Defying the odds, the dangerous ship-board operation was a perfect success and no more would be necessary. Using brain-wave scans the most amenable subject was selected, and based upon images captured during periods of self-arousal the choice was obvious.

The mental signals continued, "we believe you will find your fellow being, Michael, a most willing supplicant as the five of you remaining males utilize the body we have created for him."

When those lights descend from the night sky,
keep this image in mind!

It's a Wonderful Life!

2010-09-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

Always concerned for my faithful fiddlers, I spent way too much time this morning updating Jerk-Off with JamieLin, as well as searching the internet for a future post I'm working on. The topic had me visiting a lot of sites featuring beautiful women, and I just didn't have time for the routine. I didn't check out the usual suspect sissies and the prevalent perverts typical for my cross curiosity.

Having arrived at a point where I was ready to stop for the day, I decided to get on with the day, but there of course was that one last thing. There's always time for THAT. So I undid my pants right there in front of the computer. How absolutely delicious! Nothing happened.

I hadn't had a hard-on all morning, and there wasn't one now either. Wearing man-clothes and staring at pictures of gorgeous females wasn't enough for my demanding cock. It knows what a loser I am and won't pretend anymore! If it was going to give me what I wanted, I must return the favor.

So here I sit in a cute little turqoise and purple plaid bra and panty set, a jean skirt, studded belt, over-the-knee socks and five and one half inch spike heels. The screen saver's all set up with my favorite images of beautiful faces skewered on massive slabs of man-meat. At one time or another I've wished I could be every single one of them.

I particularly love this picture borrowed from Tabby. A fantasy. I'm the one with the dick in my mouth, but as I've mentioned many times before, I have trouble with the never to come true impossible genuine transformation to a girl, so in my head, I'm me. All male.

The girl next to me is thinking, "oh my gawd! How can I follow that up? He really knows how to suck dick!" The middle blond is a friend who thought it might be fun seeing a guy humiliated. She's decided she was right. The girl at the far right is the dude's girlfriend. Her boyfriend's enjoying my ministrations just a little too much for her taste. She's certain he's enjoying me more--and will again!

Finally, the brunette? The one who seems to be enjoying it the most? The girl egging on the guy to brutalize and degrade his little cock-sucking slut? The one urging him to grab my head and thrust with his hips that massive penis down my receptive throat? Well you know who that is--MY girlfriend--whose idea this was to begin with!

Oh yeah. My cock? No problems there now.
Ravin' and ragin'! Ready to get to it.

Lines Form on My Face'n Hands

2010-08-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

This time of year, I have many opportunities to be outside without a top. For you tuggers out there who haven't yet accepted your true status, a top is a "shirt." Yard work, jogging, to the lake, whatever.

Well this morning I was doing some of that damn man-grooming, shaving the back of my neck between haircuts, when I realized the creases left by my bra were still plainly visible.

I checked the front, and looking hard I could see traces there as well, but they weren't nearly as obvious. I checked out my back again. I guess I'm just fleshier on that side. I can't even fill an A cup gurls! Well there was no doubt on the flip. Particularly under the arms. The bra's outline was plain as day.

What a delicious stiffy all this was giving me!

I stood in the tub as far away from the looking glass as I could, at least seven or eight feet. Even using the water spotted little mirror to look over my shoulder I could see the lines like a bright neon, "I'm a sissy!" Since I was looking in two mirrors, the perceived distance was actually closer to 30 feet. How many people could see that?

The realization then hit me. I did a quick mental search. Unaware, had I ever gone out in public like this? Probably not but maybe. I'm becoming more and more careless.

Earlier in the week I'd put my cock back in her panties after blasting a tasty load. Snacking's been a snap lately, but I need a meal! Anyway I went about my business then remembered an errand. As usual before leaving, I peed in the toilet and peeked in the mirror. Grotesquely made-up eyes stared back.

I'd completely forgotten about playing around with makeup to get myself in the right sissy-wanking frame of mind. That had been probably three or four hours earlier. Anyone could have come to the door. I might have stepped out to get my mail, throw out the garbage or some other mundane outdoor task that didn't include the bathroom routine of leaving home.

I'm gonna get busted! But then that's what I really want isn't it? So no real woman will ever waste her time with me again, and I won't have to expend effort on a pointless relationship when I've already got the one I want. Jamie and her left hand sittin' in a tree. P - U - L - L - I - N - G!

Unlike a GG, I can't get away jogging with nothing on but a sport bra, but as long as it stays warm I don't plan on missing any chances for running with lines drawn and on display!

It's so not fair! Why can't I be intelligent like her?

Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

2010-08-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'm more than a little disappointed so few visitors are taking a look at my new daily feature: "Jerk Off with JamieLin." It's what you gurls are looking for, very little text. Just the picture(s!) that got me off that day.

Another milestone--200,000 hits. I'm a little dubious of that number. I think the counter I'm using might be double counting. Kinda like you gurls when you claim to have a six inch dick. I just don't know, even if you do.

So here's Kim, a Canadian who could probably talk a boy or two into giving up their cock for you. Why Kim? That's obvious. Why Canadian? Well magic visitor 200,000 was some clever wanker from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. He knows where to go to when he feels like pulling his panties down.

Now admit it. You do too.

Because I give you fairy non-fuckers what you really want. Now relax. Go to your happy place. You CAN feel the first whisp of that cock as it touches your lips, can't you?

One day your day is coming sissy. I know you'll be ready.

Part Time Sissy. Full Time Loser!

2010-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'm all beat up. I've rubbed the urges right out of me. Over and over again. I've left her clothes lying about where I've stripped them off. Usually in a post-orgasmic state of disgust. Ordinarily I'd straighten up. What if someone drops by? Who cares? I like them there. It's sort of like I fucked a girl, and she left her clothes behind. Come to think of it, I did. She did too. It's sexy. I can't resist. I dress again trying to stuff my half-boner into boyshorts so her skirt won't tent or her jeans bulge. I jerk off again and am satisfied but not gratified.

No apology from Trish. No insults either. Not even the obligatory "I've got some of your stuff." Not a word. Nothing.

My left hand's the only date I've had since. Just like junior high I'm really looking forward to Friday though. Then I was going steady with both hands and a poor gurl too, wearing a pilfered pair of my mother's pantyhose, her bra, only borrowed, and a pair of wedge sandals I stole from my brother's girlfriend. Between bouts on a bed scattered with magazines I'd walk the darkened house searching. What can I find to shove up my ass that will feel right?

Don't give me that shit. You know damn well that candles and flashlights have sharp edges, peeled bananas are too limp and cucumbers as cold as the cheerleaders you dreamed of dating. Maybe this perfume bottle. . . .

Minutes would slip away into hours. Although I knew the clock was ticking--Mom and Dad would be home soon--it was complete escapism. I didn't need the cute girls at school who paid no attention to me. In fact in my Friday night world I gave them no thought. I was my own girl, and it felt good. Better than any school dance, the movies or bowling. My best friend and best girl were with me always--in my pants.

So much time and so little's changed. Friday's gonna feel SO good. Poor no more, only frugal, the discount racks at Kohl's are in order after work. Would a man buy closeouts for his girl? The clerks know better. An underwire bra is a must. Can you believe I don't own one? Home for a bit, but pathetic as I am, humiliation's demanded. Back out for that. It's gonna hurt, but I deserve it. Then blissfully home for some comforting if not comfortable clothes. Some self-lovin' rubbin' and lounging and insertion and rubbing some more.

Fuck the real world and the real girls who live in it!

Vacation

2010-08-02T23:11:00.000-07:00

For some crazy reason, I agreed to go on a trip with a young woman I've been dating. We were gone for eight days. First to her sister's, then a cousin's and finally an aunt's. Her mother was at her aunt's.

At every one of these homes, we had to "behave." We stayed in separate rooms, and I was told in very certain terms that stumbling into the wrong bedroom in the middle of the night was not acceptable. When I tried getting a little action during travel time, that was also rebuffed with comments like, "is sex the only thing you want from me?"

Hmmmm. Well, you don't have any money. . . . So yeah. I guess that's about it!

"Why of course not. I think you're just wonderful. I'd want to be with you even if we never had sex again."

Tell me. Am I the only guy who has such big dreams of getting laid twice a day on vacation and always winds up getting less than when I stay at home?

So anyway, that's why I said the abstinence was "sort of enforced." It wasn't done for the purpose pervs like you and I would enjoy. The effect was similar though.

As the time passed, I was getting hornier and hornier. I started having terribly stupendous impulses to put on a skirt or some skinny jeans. At one point I helped my condition a bit by stealing away for about ninety minutes while I did some shopping. In the end, I came away with nothing, but this was a lesson for me. I'll never travel again without some ladies clothes!!!

Now no doubt you're all wondering why I didn't treat myself to the regular wankings I have at home. That's an interesting question. I suppose it's in part because my restricted access to the typical entertainment I'd enjoy. I could have yanked one or a dozen off in the shower, but that's not really my thing. I did work up regular hard-ons while lathering up, but I didn't finish things. The best I can guess is that, unintentional or not, I was enjoying the denial--and anticipation. So I put my hobby on hold.

You weren't thinking masturbation was my bad habit were you? Oh no! That's just GOOD--CLEAN--FUN!

So we had a long drive home Saturday. Finally. In bed. Balls deep. Nibbling and kissing away as I furrowed deep and wide to plant the seed I'd been saving.

"See? Wasn't the wait worth it?"

No. It wasn't really.

She was wet and horny and hot and having a good time.

Still, as I pumped away in the dark, I was still laying the same old young pussy. That wasn't enough for the twisted desires built over a week. I needed the relief of perversion.

"Maybe. . . ."

"What do you mean, MAYBE? It's awesome. I've wanted you SO bad all week. You feel so good inside me now."

Bad habit number one. I knew the right thing to say. I just couldn't do it. At moments like that, my mouth has the mind of my dick.

"Maybe it'd been worth it if I'd been kept waiting for the right reason."

"Like what?"

"Like you cutting me off because you were getting some new cock"

"What?"

"You know. You were fucking some other guy. Letting him satisfy all the urges I can't."

Trish said nothing. I on the other hand was on auto pilot.

"Wouldn't you like to fuck someone else? You can you know. You can do anything you want. You're so hot. You can fuck anyone you want anytime. ESPECIALLY if you stop letting me have sex with you. Except to make me give you head. Just so long as you let me jerk off. Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't you like to have some extra cock now and then?"

She still didn't reply but I could feel her stiffening. Kinda like my cock that somehow had increased a notch or two on the hardness scale.

"I'd certainly like to." Bad habit number two.

I continued, "you don't suck cock, but I will. Can I suck your big-dicked boyfriends? Please? Will you order him to slide it way down my throat?"

Trish started squirming. Pushing me away with disgust on her face she cried, "what? Are you gay?"

I was really hot by now and hung on tight. "I'm gonna make myself cum just thinking about your boyfriends pounding my throat." Her struggle tuned me up, and I knew I wouldn't last long like this.

"You're a fagg?"

"Does that cock inside you FEEL gay? Does a gay cock get hard in a pussy like that?"

"Fuck you! Get off me!"

"Yes. You are fucking me, and I will get off IN you."

"I mean it! STOP!"

"Maybe you'd like to know what a gay cock feels like? How 'bout I pull it out of your pussy and shove it up your ass?" Trish has a terrific butt, and I've wanted to get gay on her pooper many times! I knew the answer though, so I'd never even suggested it before.

Trish was getting more frantic.

"It feels SOOOO good. At least all the gay cocks I've had up MY ass did!"

She bit me and screamed. Not a good scream.

"Just like a girl. That's why guys like getting head from me. I don't use my teeth!"

"STOP!" She was trying to hit.

Now I knew better. I was so close. I almost gave in, but my brain finally started working and I relaxed my hold some.

"Mmmmm. That's hot. You won't let me fuck you anymore? You're pussy's too good for my little dick? You're going to make me jerk off and squirt my nasty load in my own mouth? Fine. I'll take any cum I can get!"

She finally managed to slide out from underneath me. "You're fucking sick. You sick fucking faggot!" She gave a hard swing and her knuckles caught me against the side of my thick head.

"I am. I'm a dick-sucking, cum-eating faggot, and I want you to watch. . ."

Leaping from the bed she screamed, "get the fuck out."

I crawled after her as she raced across the room and slammed the bathroom door.

I stood outside the door, "Trish come out. I'm gonna cum, baby. Please come watch me."

"Get out NOW you faggot."

She said it again. That magic word just drove me on.

"Baby I can't last much longer. I'm gonna cum on the knob, then lick it off like it's a hard cock. Come watch me--Come MAKE me!"

The door swung open. Cock still in hand I tried grabbing her with the other as she rushed by screaming, "GET OUT!"

"Baby, PLEEEEAAAASE let me eat you out while I jerk off."

She picked up the phone and gave me a cold stare. "I swear to God. If you don't get out now, I'll call the police."

Somehow I knew the jig was up. I walked back to the other side of the bed and picked up my undershorts and started sliding them on.

"I'm not kidding. Get out now."

"I am."

"No! Take the rest of your clothes and get out NOW or I start dialing!"

I did pull on my pants before grabbing the rest of my things in a bundle and out the door I went.

Except for Amanda, every woman I've met since Vicki I've told I want to suck cock. I held out with Trish for two months, but eventually there it is. It's a really bad habit because the reaction has been universal. For all the pretense of tolerance and the like, there's a definite NIMBY attitude.

Still, there is an upside. It made time for my hobby. After some more teasing and time in proper attire, I succumbed to desire and had a tasty cum as described by Sheen V. Unlike last winter's month-long abstinence, this duration was right on to build a terrific load.

As I stared into the face of my cock, stream after stream firing into my gaping mouth, I wondered if I'd ever stop cumming. There was only one regret as the creamy white stings kept pouring into my starving mouth. It was then I remembered my camera. The batteries had died during the vacation. I'd never be able to get a picture of my mouthful for all you sick readers.

Not a problem. There'll be another time. THAT'S a certainty.

Bad Habits

2010-07-31T23:11:00.000-07:00

More about that later. . . . It's too late right now. Or should I say too early? Clothes pins on my nipples under a bra, my skirt's already bunched up around my waist and the panties are cutting into my thighs as I tease out a good hard-on.

Like the creamy center of an Oreo cookie, I want what's inside soooooo baaaaad but that also must wait. I'm too tired to enjoy it properly. Still after nine days of sort of enforced abstinence (more about THAT later too) the cock in my hand feels so good. . . . I just wish it wasn't mine. . . . Or maybe that one wasn't mine and I had two. . . . Or three!

I hope I'm not repeating myself. . . .

Is there a First Time for Everything?

2010-06-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

I had a very visceral response to this picture from Tabby's blog. It reminded me so much of my own reaction the first time a cum-filled pussy was being thrust in my face.

Passionate youthful exuberant intercourse. Young energy. Sweaty bodies devouring one another I was deep inside her, again and again and again. Why wasn't the comfort of a warm pussy ever enough? Even then?

"Ann?"

"Yes?"

You already know she was my first. Still, even with so little experience my brain was working. Taking me elsewhere. Further. Beyond the limits of Ann's tender folds.

"After I've cum in you, I want you to make me eat your pussy. . ." My voice trailed off as I spoke the forbidden. What would she think of my wish for faggotry?

Between erotic moans she grunted "okay."

Why did I ask her that? I sporadically humped enthusiastically then carefully. Matching my head's pace of excitement and dread.

I wanted her atop me. Grinding her cock-pounded desensitized-cunt hard on my face. Bumping her clit on my nose. Orgasming time after time releasing gobs of slimy cock-snot into my gaping mouth.

Then I didn't.

I'd been there before. How many times had I lay flat on my back? A Penthouse propped open, longing not to be but taste, fuck and possess the lovely face, beautiful curves and soft moistness. Without reason the idea. . . . No. Compulsion to eat my own cum, came simmering beneath my fantasizing. Then, at the moment, I couldn't. It took such will. Even the slightest taste. Will I didn't have.

Was that it? The immediacy of Ann's presence? Would she have the sexual power to break my masculinity? To feminize me? Or worse--homosexualize me? What was I thinking? What did I really want? More than a taste? I only knew for sure I wanted something.

Overwhelmed and beyond stopping myself I reflexively gave in. I prolifically ejaculated.

Ann rolled us over and lifted herself off me almost before my spasms had subsided.

"I want you to eat me!"

She walked on her knees toward me as I began pushing myself back on elbows.

"No."

Trapping me against the wall, Ann jabbed her cunt at me.

"Do it! Eat my pussy!"

I turned away, terrified by what she held inside her body. "I don't want to."

"You know you do. Now eat it."

My horror was genuine. I was repulsed by the desire of mere seconds passed. "No, pleeeease?" I implored her desperately.

"I don't care. You will. Lick me. Eat it--ALL!"

Cum oozing from Ann fell on my shoulder. I whimpered.

She relented. I would not eat cum that day. Ann was tender. Apologetic.

"I thought it was what you wanted. I thought it was part of the game. I thought you were only pretending to not want to do it." Even she was too embarrassed now to say aloud what "it" was.

I said nothing. I was still too sated to tell the truth. A truth I wondered if she now knew. I did want to eat my own cum. Was that the truth? Or was the truth I just wanted to eat cum? I needed to eat cum? Was I desperate for a woman to help me?

Don't think about that now. Too scary! Wait for the courage--or was it honesty--of a hard dick?!?!

Stationed in the school parking lot after practice, quickly servicing all the jocks before they meet their "nice" girlfriends, don't you wish
YOU
could be this teen tramp?

Oh crap!

2010-05-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

It's been building for a few weeks. The notion giving way to desire that grew to longing. Finally the compulsion. Now here I sit in my skirt the real world spiraling out of sight once more. Where will it stop this time?

Lots of new girls on the blog rolls. I think you'll appreciate them all, and each one deserves your encouragement.

I must say I'm particularly fond of Vickie. Take her quiz. In my opinion she's a rising star!

Any guesses why I love this photo?

This is She

2010-02-21T11:11:00.000-08:00

I had another dream. My recollection picks up with the dream already in progress. I woke in bed and found lying near my feet an unconscious, beautiful but nondescript blond. Although I was looking at her, I somehow knew she was me. I noticed around her face the pillow was wet. I wondered if I had ejaculated in my own face? I didn't remember that, but suddenly I was overwhelmed by an urge to masturbate and cum in my mouth.

I was no longer disembodied but myself again. The blond had vanished. I went to lock the door and discovered the knob had been removed. I couldn't lock it, but the urge to masturbate was overpowering. I couldn't help myself. Regardless of the risk of discovery, I had to.

I started imagining excuses for my behavior should I be caught while simultaneously thinking of a way to get in position while perhaps offering some concealment. I can lie on the floor ass against the bed on the side away from the door. I'll say "I'm only exercising."

Things are very sketchy from that point on. Was I imagining what it would be like to be caught, or was I caught? I could hear my brother saying "bullshit. You're jerking off."

I woke and the dream was over--or was it?

Buckle Up!

2010-02-15T11:11:00.000-08:00

Even in my flaming episodes, I've never really considered myself a strap-on boi or gurl. The idea certainly appeals. Domination is irrelevant. That I could take or leave. What I don't want is punishment. What I do want is to be fucked. As much as I want her, I want her to want me!

I remember once reading a story by a girl, (or probably an editor posing as a girl) who wrote about her strap-on experience. I remember her description exactly. "It's lucky guys have feelings in their dick 'cause [fucking] is a lot of work!"

So strap-ons have never held a lot of appeal. I don't want it to be work. I want to please her. From time to time I have been intrigued by the notion of a double-dong shared pussy to pussy-boi. I've always doubted that it would work very satisfactorily even if I could find a willing partner.

I've always been curious about ben-wah balls. Back when I was younger and more attuned toward dominating, sending a gal out into the world with things I'd stuffed in her pussy got me hard. I loved the fantasy of that something giving her sexual stimulation throughout the day, but I never invested in a set, and back in those days the $40 to $50 was indeed an investment! But as my views somewhat moderated, I was again curious about the balls. If they work as advertised, they might be an ideal accompaniment for a strap-on.

Then there are those devices that advertise electro-mechanical stimulation of the female. That seems counter-productive. What's needed is something that will drive a woman toward fits of thrusting, not passively ride buried in my ass. Of course there is a bit of buzz about dildoes that fit inside the woman. I've long wondered why they'd not been available for ages. It's simply too obvious. So I'm sure it's been tried before, but they probably didn't work. Has someone finally designed a product that does?

I'm really puzzled by the notion of felating a strap-on. Certainly as an act of submission or humiliation its symbolism is unmistakable. Still, it just seems dull. However, I recently had an inspiration--double-donging pussy to mouth! She gets cock, fingers, lips, tongue and the visual of her little boi blow. "C'mon baby. Deep throat it for me. Rub your nose on my hard little clit. That's it you fucking whore. Take it all!"

Despite my lack of experience or compulsion, I've recently noticed a strong reaction to well-equipped women. I'd love to have this post's top picture in better quality. When I saw it my response was immediate. It may seem very different from the image of my prior post of Franchesca, but I don't think so. Neither strikes me as overtly sexual. For both, the cock-wearing seems somehow incidental--casual. I wonder too if working on my psyche is the combination of virility mixed with apparent weakness. Neither could be described as a prototypical Domme.

Then again, it might be nothing more than two of my favorite things: beautiful sexy women and hard cocks! Or is it hard cocks and beautiful sexy women?

Is it I can't remember? Can't decide? Can't admit it?

Which is it for you?

Purple Panty Parade

2010-02-02T11:11:00.000-08:00

I like these in pink.

But in her very last comment on this post, Gi Gi Euginia implores you to wear Purple Panties for her.

Will you?

Then tell her all about it. Better yet, take a picture and post it on your blog, or ask permission to send her the photo--if you're man enough!

Where Have All the Good Times Gone?

2010-01-29T11:11:00.000-08:00

My goodness! It seems I'm not the
only one in a non-productive funk. Almost all my favorites have gone dim. Only Badside keeps cranking them out.

Here's another old post from my blog's prior iteration. At that time I was in the final throws of a relationship with Vicki. She was the first person who heard me--well you can read for yourself.

Vicki and I were engaged in some good old-fashioned in and out, when I started talking.

“You know what I wish?”

“Mmmm. No.” Kiss. “What?” More kissing.

“I wish we had a girlfriend so you could eat her pussy while I fuck you.”

“Uhnnnn. Yeah? What about me?”

“She'd eat your pussy too while I fuck her cunt.” Kisses, caresses and nibbles.

“Ohhhh, that feels good. So you get to watch me eat pussy. What do I get?” She hugged me tight around the chest, squeezing me close, deeper.

“You can watch me eat pussy too!”

“Mmm, mmm.” She sort of giggled and smiled. “That's not exactly what I had in mind.” Her eyes closed she kissed me more urgently.

“What do you want?”

“Only what's fair.”

“What's not fair? You're eating pussy. I'm eating pussy.”

“Me eating pussy, you sucking a guy.”

“Is that what you want?”

Her eyes were closed, breath quickening.

“You want to see me suck a big dick like mine?”

She answered with another passionate kiss.

“Will you eat pussy if I do?”

She was humping into me harder.

“Can we get a girlfriend if I do?”

“Yessssss!”

“Promise?”

“Mmmmmmnnnhhh!!!!” She whimpered, clinging with all her strength, she was making herself cum. I thrust inside one last time and let her grind against me.

A woman climaxing on my cock is more gratifying than any orgasm I've ever had.

She slowly started relaxing, easing the tension, chest still heaving. I was careful to keep my weight off her as I kissed her neck, bit her lobes, blew cool air across her face. Still deep inside her I was easing her back so I could continue. As her breathing recovered, I held her and began slowly working myself in and out, bit by bit lengthening my stroke. Propped on knees and head buried in the pillow beside her I fixed her hips, my thumbs across that soft spot where leg meets body, my fingers firmly gripping her ass.

She began responding again. I sensed her face turn to mine, and I met her. She kissed me softly. I moved in and out of her luxurious folds and stared into her eyes. I whispered, “deal.”

That's how it first came up. She brought it up again in bed the next time, and then again. The other girl was in the picture less and less, and me sucking cock more and more. I LOVE to talk and fantasize during sex. I was thrilled to have her get into it. Of course when I fantasize about being a girl, I think about it. This wasn't really so different.

Then it started becoming part of foreplay. As soon as anything went further than a kiss, I was confronted with another dick. It bothered me, but I'd quickly get warmed up and be right back into it again.

The real shock came when it was first dropped out of the blue. We'd been watching TV one day. She was sitting on the couch next to me, feet curled up under her hugging a pillow. Without her eyes ever leaving the screen she said, “ooooooh I'd like to see you suck HIM.”

I was pissed. Did she want to see ME suck him, or was she really thinking about HER fucking HIM? Stupid to be jealous of a TV actor I know, but it's what I felt.

No one else was there, but I also felt violated. She'd taken our play out of the bedroom without permission. Didn't she know the difference between fantasy and reality? Didn't she know that I did things, told her things, shared myself with her as a matter of trust because they'd never be repeated outside that sanctuary?

This sounded too much like she was thinking about making it come true. I should have had a talk with her right then. Explained how what I said in bed was for bed, not for “real life.” I didn't. I'd started this, and it was exciting. I certainly didn't want to go back to a turn out the lights, don't say a word, get it over like you're doing it to yourself in the john over lunch break sort of sex life.

It was a delicate situation. She'd exceeded my boundaries. She was running with it just a little too fast for me. I needed to slow Vicki down or speed myself up.

I Guess I'm Not a Cuck

2010-01-03T11:11:00.000-08:00

Reading my comment and Rogue's take on it has made me do a lot of thinking about that past relationship. I'm beginning to think I changed the story for my own protection. The truth hurt too much. Okay, I can never know the objective truth. Maybe J was just a cheater. Maybe she is repeatedly cucking her husband. Maybe that would have been me if things had turned out differently. I doubt it.

I had written a lengthy post about it. I'm not going to publish that story. My conclusions must suffice. We were in love. There can be no doubt sex was part of it, but that was hardly all the relationship. The competition with another man may have emboldened my feelings. I'm certain the romance did. There's just no way to tell of the romance without ending plausible deniability.

I can express no opinion on whether she loved the man who she chose as her husband. I can only wonder, if she did, how did she let us happen? I guess, see paragraph one?

The point of all this is, although I may have been cucked, I'm not a cuck.

That year I was more alive than ever. For years after I dreamed of the call that never came. A chance meeting on the street. Interminably it seemed I kept the romantic hope, but time fades, especially once efforts start working hard forgetting the love.

Instead, I embraced my fear of her unfaithfulness. I enhanced and amplified it. Perfected it. Made IT the desire. I dreamed of us together but never together. Her promiscuity leaving me abandoned over and over again. Gangs of teenaged boys invading my home gang-banging my wife. Myself shamed time after time as the foresaken. Even together, my love would be unrequited.

These fantasies turned to fetish. J became unnecessary. Any woman who would deny and cuckold me could restore the life I had then. It was a lie.

I need to stop. I need to forgive myself. I did everything I could. I was ready and had the means. I offered to marry her, let her move in with me, or run away with her. I was ready for any of these solutions before she tried calling off her wedding, after her father, family and fiance said no, and even after her wedding.

She was the weak one who couldn't walk through. Maybe I need to forgive J too. She changed me. I've been cold ever since. My heart's been untouched thereafter. I've walked out on women without a tinge of remorse. They've left me and momentary pangs followed swiftly behind them leaving not a hint of anxiety or regret.

To where? Passing through one question confronts another. All I know is there must be more than what's been the last ten plus years. If I fell in love with J, I must be capable of falling again. Now I gotta figure out how that happens. . . .

"I don't want sex, Linda. Anyone can have sex."

"Yeah, Stacy? What do you want?"

"I want romance."

"You want romance? In Ridgemont? We can't even get cable TV, and you want romance?!"

Then There Were None

2009-12-30T11:11:00.000-08:00

Out with a whimper and not a bang? Monday was my big day. Thong panties, cable knit tights, skirt, bustier, satin top (which doesn't really work), pearl ear rings, pearl choker, ladies watch, eyeliner, mascara, three and a half inch mary janes finishing with a ladies knit cap. Sort of a brimmed beret? Once again, I surprised myself. Even without trying to cover my shadow, or paint my lips, one could see hints of a woman. That cap helped tons! I suppose a decent wig might too.

About dusk, all dressed up I went for a ride to a local shopping district and had a walk about. I added a scarf to hide the beard. I didn't venture indoors but stuck to the sidewalks. Cold weather and evening light left me unnoticed. It still felt exposed. Somehow the thrill was gone. Even less of a rush than jogging in my skort. So long as I stayed on the street, I was passable. What did I want out there?

It brought back another one of those childhood memories. A backyard camping adventure. I'm not sure how old we were, probably eight or nine. It seems hard for me to believe, even back in those innocent days that my parents would have let me stay out overnight younger than that.

Anyway, the neighbor kid and I would stay out fairly often. Sometimes on his back deck. Usually further from the house. We often fished some. Played cards. Strip poker mostly. Almost always talked about things we didn't understand--women and "fucking" them. We took turns simulating sex. One on top of the other, dry humping with no purpose. No, I didn't always volunteer, or even secretly long to be in the woman's position. I didn't like it. Although being on top left me pretty nonplussed too. I had no idea how to stimulate myself. I assume he didn't either.

What walking those cold slick sidewalks brought back was a memory from one of those long-ago nights in particular. I decided to take a walk away from the yard--nude. My friend wouldn't go. It wasn't far, but felt a world away. My little dick hard as granite, I tried strolling casually. The cool night air on my body caught each little hair that stood on my energized skin. I recall the sensation of thrusting my groin ahead, piercing the night as I walked.

My goal was probably no more than 50 yards. I couldn't make it. I'm not sure why I chickened out. Fear of something in the dark? Concern over being naughty? I just don't know why I turned back. I only remember the excitement of nakedness.

What's common with that experience and being in womens vestments? Why was the remembrance cued now? Especially since the kick was missing?

Without an answer I went home.

I was so nervous it was like being on a junior high date, except this time my skirt went up, tights and panties came down. Overexcited, I actually had a moment of trouble getting an erection. I played with my titties just a little. I stroked. I took no chances. Heels went over. The purplish head of my dick was just inches from my gaping mouth. I rubbed and came.

Not much else to say but that it was disappointing. Intensity and volume were both missing. I'd anticipated the first, but not the second. At least for me personally, I believe I pushed the denial too far.

The only other time I'd really tried something like this, I had gone five days. Then, like now, I had eaten directly from my dick. I could feel the streams hitting the back of my mouth, pooling at my throat.

When I finished, I literally gagged not expecting my shut mouth to be filled. I had to hollow its shape so I wouldn't spill. I was disgusted, fascinated and horny as hell all at the same time. I stomached the load in a gulp, savoring the after-taste in my still hungry cockpit.

That's what I'd hoped for. Had driven me so long. I got hardly a taste.

Maybe the next day might be better. It wasn't. "Feeling like a girl" was closer to normal, but volume was way down. The third day the same. It appears my body has stopped producing semen. Okay not stopped but drastically slowed. I had expected cum flying everywhere. Instead, what I got was no more than a third ejaculation on a busy day.

I would hardly say it was a wasted 32 days. It was an experience. Not all have happy endings. I think I discovered a few things, not least of which will be in New Year's post.

My Honey!

2009-12-28T11:11:00.000-08:00

Do you want her for you?

Or do you want her to catch boys for you?!

Envy

2009-12-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

I know. I know. You're tired of hearing about it, but the last video clip on this post by Tabby has still got me hooked. I like all 15 seconds of it, the swapping of cock, the way the young girl's tongue sticks out as she slides off that meat, but the ejaculation is so sexy! It fills me with such desires. . . .

Perhaps the most surprising thing over my period of denial is the developing fetishism about male ejaculation. I've never been much into video. Too real. I preferred the fantastic perfectly posed air-brushed versions of sex. But lately, witnessing male orgasm seems an affirmation of my chastity. Even teasing myself, the lack of release has detached me from sex. I'm no longer there, male or female. I am the asexual voyeur. Others enjoy what I can't.

Before I never felt cheated. I knew the gig. The actors created the porn for my arousal. I got off. Yes, he had the real thing, but my orgasm was very real to me too. It was satisfying. I didn't feel deprived. It was another form of sex I enjoyed. I never really thought about the women being with other men and feeling jealous. I had my sex life, they had theirs.

Now, having ended all sexual activity with others, it's different. And since I stopped allowing myself orgasms, very different. And days I'm not allowed to masturbate at all, I still watch other men have sex. I let myself get hard, but absolutely no touching. Very, very different.

I AM jealous. I long to feel a cum. I am a cuckold. Or at least I imagine I feel like a cuckold.

This is too close to a hard topic I've avoided writing about. It sounds ridiculously melodramatic, but it's painful so instead I self-medicate with this denial game and X-dressing. Fun for now, but eventually, I must deal. Until then, I only cope . . . .

There. That's better.

Can I Get a Ruling?

2009-12-19T12:34:00.000-08:00

I sooooo want a pair of boots like Florencia's. Two pair actually. Her in hers. Me in mine. Going at it like bunnies!

Sadly, I'm sure they're probably designer creations going for a $1000 or more. They're completely cute, and nothing I've found so far comes close. Everything's too mannish or old lady.

Still, it doesn't keep me from hoping and my search continues. I know they'll help balance my shoulders and slender up my legs. I'll totally wear them!

Deborah!

Is it a step wearing makeup in front of the family for the first time? Even if done subtly although plainly? It was just some mascara and eyebrow filler, but there was no denying it was on.

How often do we really look at our family members? I know I'm guilty of not doing so. At least I was until I started this craziness. Now I'm checking. Maybe I'm not the only one. . . .

By the way, interestingly yesterday set a new record for visitors. Blew the old record away actually. In fact, numbers suddenly jumped a few days ago. Not sure why that is.

Although the crowd is quiet, someone must be liking something. Anyone care to offer their opinion?

We're ALL Cucks!

2009-12-18T11:11:00.000-08:00

Look at your hands.

Look at the screen.

She's sucking him.

Or he's fucking her.

Maybe he's sucking him.

She's gettin' pussy.

He's gettin' ass.

What are you gettin'?

Do we love jerking off because we're cucks?

Or did we become cucks because we love jerking off?

Long Way Around the Barn

2009-12-16T11:11:00.000-08:00

I’ve got a pretty good guess that I started manually masturbating when I was 11, not quite 12. If you’ve followed my blog, you’d know that I gave myself orgasms by the physical exercise of climbing when I was about five or six years old. At that young age, I thought of this masturbation as “feeling like a girl.” The act was purposeful, intentional and I knew it to be naughty. I have no specific recollection of the ability lasting past the second grade, and I’m absolutely certain it was gone before age ten.

Probably not much before my twelfth birthday, I discovered manual masturbation. I don’t know how it happened. There’s no magical memory of an “ah ha” moment. No one showed me, that’s for sure and there was no one to ask, because besides being bad, playing with yourself, “beating off,” was about the lowest thing one could do except suck dick.

Before that accidental pre-teen discovery, sex, feelings, orgasm nor emotion had yet been connected in my mind. I could not then understand why one would beat off, suck dick or have his dick sucked. I knew sex only as “fucking,” and that was an act of accomplishment--conquest. Like scoring a touchdown or hitting a homerun.

Then somehow through happy happenstance the gift of masturbation was given to me and sex changed. Now I got it. Sex feels good. THAT’s why one fucks or has his dick sucked, because it feels like what I can do to myself. From that time on, jerking off became connected to women and girls. Looking at mostly images of women and mostly fantasizing about girls I knew.

I have pretty much jerked off on a daily basis since, quite frequently multiple times. For years, and I mean YEARS the routine was invaried. Get a magazine. My men’s magazines were usual, but sometimes school year book and school newspaper photos of popular girls were my choice.

If they weren’t available, whatever might be at hand would do, a girlfriend's Cosmo, TV Guide, Ladies Home Journal even a hotel’s welcoming brochure. I hated not having at least one passable picture.

Sometimes, my girlfriend's magazines became preferred over the real thing. The memory of the December 1989 Cosmo featuring Claudia Schiffer is very vivid. When it arrived in the mail, I couldn't wait to get my girlfriend out of our apartment so I could beat off flipping through those glossy pages!

At first when I was younger I propped myself up to look at the pictures, then I discovered it was better to prop up the pictures so I could recline more. And there I was in a position in which I would spend a significant and important part of my life–flat on my back, dick in hand, lost in dreams and feelings.

Does having so much sex in the passive female prone position affect one’s mind?

The availability of women is not an impediment. Interpersonal sex did not change my masturbation. I would still have my daily solo cum, even if it meant jerking off in the only place I could find some privacy–the toilet. I am at least bisexual. Heterosexual and autosexual. I must have both.

So reaching twenty straight days is quite a milestone for me. There’s no question. Before this, it would take more than a year to find twenty days collectively. Until the last five years when I first started actively flirting with teasing and denial, I may not have missed twenty days over a decade.

I do love to masturbate. I honestly don’t know what I’d choose if confronted with never having sex again with a woman, or never again jerking off, but I bet I’d give up women. I’ve enjoyed a fair number of women. A few were pretty horny, and a couple welcomed sex every day, but the number of sex acts with women pales in comparison to masturbation. It’s the far greater part of my sex life, and I think the more difficult to give up.

That’s a long way to go in order to arrive at the point which is Pamela’s comment about what I hope is my impending orgasm. She says, “[I’m] in for a good one.” I hope so, although my limited experience tells me otherwise. Surfing around our little community, I see men in chastity describe “release” as giving them the most powerful orgasms of their lives. My experience has been the opposite.

Stating the obvious, there are two parts of a male orgasm. The first is ejaculation, the second are the pleasurable muscle contractions which I called "feeling like a girl." I’m gonna ignore the alleged multi-orgasmic males that claim to have mastered the ability to orgasm without triggering the physical response of ejaculation.

When I've self-denied, I've always experienced teasing. Since age 13, the longest I've gone without touching my dick by masturbating is no more than 72 hours, if that long. I don’t really remember the ensuing orgasm, but I will note that delayed gratification did not improve it to such degree that I began practicing it, preferring the daily routine.

In recent years when I learned about this idea of male chastity and denial, I've always included teasing and edging. Until now, the longest experience I've ever had was five days. I did that once. Like now, it was self-imposed. Unlike now I teased myself much, much more. Although the other person didn’t know it, she participated by a particular act done by her acting as my trigger. I didn’t make it. I finally gave in to temptation. The control had been mental. Once I accepted the game was over, physiology took over in nothing flat and my release was almost instantaneous.

My ejaculation was indeed very powerful. Certainly shaming an ordinary solo session where I’m lucky to shoot a couple inches into the air followed by one or two dribbles and oozes. After five days the number and volume of ejaculation was much, much greater. Four or five good strong thick streams.

But feeling like a girl was absent. That first cum was only a relief. The pleasure wasn’t there. There was a certain indescribable sensation of tingling and warmth through my loins, but it was not an orgasm. It was a terrible, terrible, terrible
let down.

A LOT was going on back then. Those five days were probably the worst manic phase I’ve ever had. It was my first real playing with public cross dressing. I was teasing constantly. Barely eating. After my cum, which was done lying on my home office floor, I stumbled into my room, falling into bed still wearing my five and a half inch heels. I was reeling but soon passed out and slept the sleep of the dead for several hours. I just don’t remember my recovery or any other part of the blurry aftermath.

I’m taking much better care of myself this time. This behavior may be manic obsessive but mild. I won’t argue with anyone who says my behavior is stupid or even mentally unhealthy. I don’t know, but I am sure I’m not out of self-control. Is my willful behavior causing physical consequences in altered hormones that make me “braver?” Make things like wearing a skirt in public seem reasonable? Make me have a palpable visceral reaction to watching another man ejaculate? That, I don’t know.

I have no intention of immediately going back into chastity. I'll be curious to see what the second orgasm is like. Is it powerfully pleasurable, or in fact just ordinary? Healthy muscles are necessary for a good orgasm. It's part of my incentive for staying in shape. Are there specific muscles which can only be exercised by sexual activity? Are my limited tease sessions enough to keep them in shape? Will sexual enjoyment be diminished because they've not been enjoying their usual workouts? Is an orgasm an exercise that must be practiced to remain skilled?

Only time will tell. At least I hope so!!!!!!!!

There's not a thing she's doing YOU can't do!

My Own Girl Friday

2009-12-15T11:11:00.000-08:00

Before a slate of afternoon meetings, I'm working from home this morning taking care of some administrative drudgery. The sort of thing perfect for a college intern, so how appropriate I'm finishing the tasks in a cute skirt!

A job well done!

Francesca

2009-12-14T11:11:00.000-08:00

When this image appeared on Rebecca Molay’s site about a month ago, I was breathless. I had to track down more, and the gentleman who did the guest post, “ConMan” from Rachel’s Haven, was kind enough to share where he found the photo at X-Art.com.

I hardly know where to begin, so I’ll start at the obvious–her perfectly formed little breasts. Tight, brown upward pointing nipples of perfection direct one to her intent but expressionless, subtly made-up face. The very blond pony-tailed hair is the ideal length. Very girly but short enough to be sporty too.

The collar on her neck accentuates its slenderness and twists the mind with the first hint of naughtiness in this apparent innocent. Her slight shoulders are flawless expressions of feminine vulnerability. Waifish arms the embodiment of weakness.

The just barely sun-kissed skin drawn across ribs evoke memories of a time past. Powerful memories of sexual awakening and mystery when differences between men and women were more distinct rather than today’s subtleties like her relatively modern navel piercing. Without tattoos, Is she a modern woman or from another era?

I’m teased by friends who don’t get it. Typically liking big boobs they see only flat chests, calling my preferred women “boy bodies.” Francesca is a woman. Youthful, she is neither a boy nor a girl, the curve of her hip betrays both her femaleness and maturity. All supported on fit but weightless thighs.

Then the object of her gaze held so naturally, what must therefore be masculinely. Yet gripped in a woman’s long slender fingers. Her visage possesses no overt impulsive lust but almost detachment and routine. She appears completely at ease bearing a penis. It’s possibilities. Pleasure. Function. Love. Weapon. The contrast of powerful phallus held by its owner’s gentle feminine touch contorts the mind.

I am guilty as any and surely more than many. I objectify models. Not just in pornography, but all graphic images including film. I am a pure voyeur. Although I may tease myself about it, I don’t seriously entertain dream dates with Kate or meeting the famous.

Even from the youngest age, I didn’t fantasize about fucking the women who accompanied my beating-off. They were pleasure for my eyes. Visual masturbation. The pictures did not illustrate the story board in my head. I did not join the scene. Even now, looking at blow job shots, the compelling desire to experience sex as a woman, making me want to “be her,” is only for that captured moment. What must she feel? Be feeling? Right then and nothing more.

If anything, the image of Francesca should have conjured desires to be on my knees sucking her cock. Anticipating in fear and longing her wielding that prick to ravage me anally. Instead, somehow my mind instantly processed a very peculiar craving--to be inside her. I wanted her in bed an old-fashioned, kissing, missionary love-making.

I was genuinely curious.

Is she kind?
Gentle?
Intelligent?
Athletic?
Conversational?
Interesting?
Interested?

What’s her voice sound like?

Is she refined or coarse as a cussing sailor?

Mostly I wanted to know, is she as complex as the bewitchment her vision has cast upon me?

Don’t worry. You’ll not be reading about me in the tabloids as some hopped up stalker. I’m not jetting off to London, New York, Los Angeles or wherever she may be. I am soundly grounded in the fact that she is pure fantasy, albeit a very unique feeling one.

Porn’s not supposed to be like that. It’s supposed to be about getting us off.

It’s supposed to be like this.

Fixed the Glitch

2009-12-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

I lost a lot of writing this morning. I probably made a mistake in my html edit, but whatever, rather than point out an error, Blogger just deleted huge chunks of my post, and of course with the stupid auto-save, there's no way to get it back. Let THAT be a lesson. Compose elsewhere and finish on Blogger.

Work Related

We're nearing year end so that "use it or lose it" deadline is looming. Yesterday was a personal day. Today a vacation.

I'm leaving on that quick car trip this afternoon. Sadly my outfit won't be ready. I found a vintage pea coat that I think is quite trendy for both boys and girls. The sleeves were way too long, so it's at the tailors and won't be ready until Tuesday. Just as well, its too, too cold for my skinny jeans!

At left, me on my very
special dream date with Kate!

Cosmetics

Chaste Hubby had a recent post about eyebrows. Well, that got me thinking about my own. Maybe they could use some work. I did some research and discovered I’ve got a somewhat feminine brow. A man shouldn’t have a unibrow, but they should come inside the eye. A woman’s should start about even with the eye. Mine do.

So I went to work with the tweezers, working from underneath I really cleaned them up. I certainly didn’t make them as thin as a woman’s, nor did I try arching them (the peak of the arch should form a line with the pupil and the tip of the nose), but they are no doubt more groomed.

Being enthused by this change, I decided to try some cosmetics. I’ve never been into them before. I think I’ve only played with a girlfriend’s makeup once. I looked so silly and garish, I thought I’d been turned off forever. But here I was giving it another go.

With a little internet guidance and all the time in the world, I went to work. Shadow, eyeliner and mascara. I must admit, it was fun. I wish a girlfriend had introduced me and was helping, but what can I say? There it was again. A new experience. A girl experience. I “feel like a girl.”

I won't lie and say I looked good. I'm sure it was awful, but nevertheless amazing. With the information I'd learned, the transformation was shocking.

Even my pathetic amateurish efforts made my eyes pop. In a good way. I may not have looked good, but I looked different. Maybe a little like the eyes of a woman? There might be some potential. My mind started cooking possibilities.

I remembered when I was a kid, my sisters used to tease me about my long eye lashes. I had a cousin who threatened to sneak into my room one night and cut them off. Did these jealous girls have an influence on me? No boys ever envied me. I was so intrigued, I decided I needed to play this just a little further.

The next morning, after taking care of things at home, including checking in with my sissy friends, I put on my Maybelline Great Lash mascara. I smudged on just a hint of liner on my outer lower lid too. Nothing more than that still makes a striking difference. I don't think anyone could see the cosmetics. I mean, if it was a child's game of "Can You Find the Differences," it's obvious. But without a before and after, there wasn't any proof other than it looking beyond natural.

Out the door, I was off for some Christmas shopping. Despite the brilliant sun and snow glare, I left my sunglasses at home. The list is pretty short this year, especially with no girlfriends. Christmas gifts were my great treat shopping for women's clothes. I hate shopping for myself, but I do like shopping for girls. So I guess I love shopping for my other self, too.

I was out several hours. I was craving eye contact with women. I got plenty too. I wondered, what do they see? The overall image screamed man, work boots, jeans, flannel shirt and Carhardt jacket, but when they saw my eyes, they had to be getting a different signal. Do they recognize I'm wearing mascara, or because it's unexpected, do they struggle to make sense of why "that guy's eyes" are so different. Given the many deep stares I got, can I say compelling?

Whenever I purchased anything I always went to the youngest, hippest looking gal. Although they couldn't insult a customer, I thought younger women might be more accepting and who knows, even offer a compliment? My last two buys were single items from different stores. The first was another mascara in a more natural color, medium brown. The second was a medium brown eyeliner pencil. I thought it'd be hard to be more obvious other than just asking. Like I said, I got some hard eye-contact, but not a word of it was spoken.

. . . That is the Question

It's been 15 days. I didn't sleep well last night, but I don't think it had anything to do with self-denial; however this morning my desire feels rather muted. So far, I've improved my odds to 1 in 17 after crediting myself with three tasks. Trying on and purchasing the jeans, trying on and purchasing the booties, and wearing mascara in public.

Little Pantyboy said..."Can't wait to hear about when you finally get to cum. Just remember: good girls don't let cum go to waste."

I've known LOTS of good girls, and pretty much everyone did, but this naughty gurl's not.

In order to make my wish come true, I've changed the rules of my game just the teenciest. Getting to the moment remains the same, but when the moment comes, IF it comes, I can give in to the instant gratification, or I can wait up to 24 hours--with additional conditions attached of course. I'll spare the details, but there's more chance involved and real challenges. I think there's a small but fair chance I'll miss out.

But it's as overwhelming as the urge to orgasm, so the changes are necessary. Then I can shoot straight into my mouth, hot, wet and gagging!

Genetic Girl Boobs

2009-12-10T11:11:00.000-08:00

POLL RESULTS
Natural no matter what. - 26
If a woman needs some help, augmentation is fine. - 11
Bigger's always better. - 8
Does it matter? I'll still be jealous. - 28

This poll was closed December 9, 2009.

Don't you hate listening to a girl whine and moan? How much worse when he's a gurl? Seventy-three votes is a little better, but my, aren't you stingy bitches?

Anyway, it was a curious result. I sort of tend to throw away the last choice as being the obvious cock-in-cheek pick, not that we don't all feel pangs of jealousy from time to time imagining what it feels like to have real boobs straining to burst our bra, straps digging into our back and shoulders.

Natural more than doubled the other two choices, beating the DD crowd three to one. Is it just us, or does that reflect a broader cultural sea change? I hope so!

Ever since first seeing her in Much Ado About Nothing, I've adored Kate Beckinsale. I'd like to castrate the butcher who botched her boob job, although I don't forgive Kate her own responsibility. She was stunningly beautiful and had absolutely no need for any work.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Wank

I did something I haven't done in ages last night--sleep in a satin negligee. It's black with little, barely pink polka dots and a flowered print. It looks very cute with my new purchase from Target. They really caught my eye, but when I spied they are literally called "Chasity Bootie Slippers," well you know I had to have them.

So despite being a jockette rather than a glamor girl or sex kitten, I slipped into bed quite girly, and have had a very delicious morning as a result. The slippery fabric just feels so good in and out of bed. The new booties are toasty warm and with the A-line hem on the nightie, help my legs look a little skinnier. It's not just the feel but even the look turning me on a bit.

So as usual I'm doing my naughty surfing when I checked in at Being Femm. Tabby had a very sexy post on swim suits. I really fancy a style I'd not seen before in both a traditional bikini and tankini. I'd call the bottoms a micro-skort. Florencia at right is not modeling the style but she is gorgeous nevertheless.

Tabby also posted a few video clips. The first features a little tramp who is very cute and very nasty. Have I dreamed of being her for a day!

The last little video snippet showed two women giving a guy a very nice nut. He launches a gooey stream of jizz right into a bespectacled babe's face, and I was so envious, it made my balls ache every time I played it, over and over. I wanna CUM!

It sounds so silly. Nobody's stopping me but me. It's been two weeks and the days aren't bad, but after a good night's rest I wake up so horny, I can't believe I'm managing to hold out. But it is a different experience, and I do think it's starting to play on my mind some.

Yesterday, I had no issues shopping in the Womens Department or makeup aisle. Let them think what they will. I was a trifle concerned when I tried on those booties, but I did it just the same. A woman came up behind me as I was taking the second one off. I slipped back into my man boots, got up and turned my attention once more to the shoe rack. Hugging the booties to my chest, I pretended to browse further.

The woman asked, "where are the mens or boys boots? My son wear's a size 6 and it seems he's in-between. Men's aren't that small. Boys don't go that big."

I turned to her face, which revealed nothing, and replied, "I think they mix mens and older boys together. I'm pretty sure I saw some boys boots on the next aisle."

I turned and walked away. I have no idea whether her question was legitimate or strictly done to tease me because she saw.

One thing that's not happening is, I'm not going boy-crazy. I am out in part gurl-mode, doing the shopping. Or maybe it's all gurl-mode--a lesbian gurl. Part of me is watching young women and seeing how they dress in real-life rather than fantasy models, but I'm also looking at them with wanton lust. When New Year's comes, I'm going to be ready for some slumming because I'm gonna need a sure thing!

Verdict is In!

2009-12-08T13:40:00.000-08:00

I was surprised. The walk from the Juniors Department to the Mens Dressing Room was less mortifying than I expected. Weather no doubt contributed to the thin crowds today, but those who braved the conditions weren't paying attention to me. They had their own missions and couldn't be worried about a X-dresser in their midst.

I carried my choice inside. The size 5 were gone but an identical size 7 were available. Sheen was probably right, anyway. Like all girls it was probably just my wishful thinking that I'd be a size 5. I slipped out of my shoes, then the slacks slid down my bare legs freshly shaved last night. As I slithered into the girl jeans my manhood was squirming to get out, or in, or something!

I couldn't believe the charge of such a simple thing. Putting on a pair of girls pants, identical in every major facet to my own I'd folded and laid on the bench, had me getting harder than a "slant-eyed drill instructor!" I'd not realized how low-rise they were. The zipper was no more than three inches. I buttoned and zipped them up only to be disappointed.

They didn't look too bad, but definitely didn't fit. My biggest fear was realized. I don't have skinny girl calves. Too much running. The pants bunched rather than riding naturally. They were actually too big at the butt and hips--can't really say waist because they didn't climb that far. Sheen was right but for the wrong reasons. There's no way I'm gonna find a fit.

Still, a commitment's a commitment. I peeled them back off and carefully hung them on their hanger, dressed and headed back to the Juniors. I didn't even bother to see if anyone was noticing. I hung them back on the rack and did some more searching. I discovered a different discount rack in another nook and stumbled upon a pair of berry colored Mudd Jeans in size 5. They weren't quite as obviously girly as the Candies, having a standard 5 pocket design, but they'd do.

Can you believe I thought that even for a second? "Yeah, I'm gonna wear these for the next poker night instead of my Levi's."

I made the walk a second time and repeated the change. Oh, my gawd I'm lucky I didn't ruin the jeans right there in the dressing room by either ripping out the zipper with my hard-on or at least staining the crotch! I am a size 5. I've seen many, many worse fits on GG. In fact, I was in the store with some of them that very moment.

They fit like a glove. Obviously they're completely different from anything I own and will take some getting used to, but I didn't want to take them off. Okay, I'm not really ready for that, but this was even better than the athletic stuff I bought last month. Regretfully I slinked out of them and dutifully dressed again. I'm not sure why, but I was a bit more self-conscious on my return this time. Still, I did a bit more browsing and selected a size 5 skirt too.

I then went over to look at ladies shoes. I didn't see what I was looking for, so over to hats and gloves. Not quite what I had in mind there, either. Off to lingerie. No suitable boy shorts at all, let alone in purple. So I went and rang out.

As the clerk started scanning the purchases, she said "these don't have a price."

I hadn't noticed. "No problem, I think I saw another pair that weren't in my size, I'll go get them."

I don't think she heard me. If she did, she was as cool as they come because she didn't bat a lash. The ladies who had just walked up didn't either. I'd have believed they thought it was just a weak joke I was making except they didn't offer even a contrived chuckle in response either.

As I walked once more to the Juniors, I wondered, "did I just imagine saying it? No, I did say it. It counts."

Finally I paid and walked out with my new skirt and pants for less than $13! So now I'm stuck at work counting down the minutes until I can go home and put on my new jeans. I need to do some more shopping too. I've got a few other items I'd like. I've got a bit of a road trip coming up Friday, and thinking there's an outfit I just might be brave enough to try out of town.

Is this a Fetish?

2009-12-06T19:11:00.000-08:00

I guess I'd say I'm a leg man. Nothing's more likely to get me interested except a cute face, which is license for a multitude of flaws--physical and otherwise. Not that Terry could ever have been anything other than perfect anyway, but what a face!

Of course it's not just legs. I like it all, boobs, butt, stomach, back, neck, clavicle, hands, hair, navel, labia, clitoris, eyes, nose, mouth, teeth . . . and arms! Friends make fun of me when I spot a woman and proclaim, "nice arms." I mean it. They're very rare.

I think ladies with nice arms are far too under-appreciated. And let's face it, the girls rarely give them a thought, and we watchers pay. Strange too because women are most likely ogling a man's "guns." You'd think they'd be more conscious of their own.

If you start spying you'll see two common flaws. The first are flabby, fat upper arms, particularly triceps. Some people struggle with their weight, and it's certainly not fair expecting everyone to meet these idealizations, but the second deficiency is inexcusable.

Dry, scaly, flaky, dirty elbows. Do you wash? Do you moisturize? If you can't be bothered, maybe you should think about a different outfit or perhaps opera gloves next time you leave the house!

So beyond taking care of those two problems, what makes for pretty arms? Well, the hair's got to go. An easy proposition for most lasses. Then make them thin and undefined. I don't like my ladies cut in general, and arms are the place I'm least forgiving. What can I say? I think biceps are a mannish signal just like broad shoulders and a thick neck.

Così lei non ha delle braccia perfetti come la bella ragazza?

If you're a GG, don't be afraid to hit the gym. Muscularly defined arms are better than saggy blobs. Chances are you'll be like most women and won't grow much muscle anyway. If you're just one of the unfortunates who works and works but still carries a lot of weight on the upper arm, then recognize the limitation and wear the right styles just like us bois. They're called sleeves. And turn down those invites to pool parties or pray for rain.

After I've extolled their virtues, tell me that you don't look at this picture, sigh and think to yourself,

"if
only
I
could
have
her
arms!"

New Territory

2009-12-04T05:57:00.000-08:00

It's been over a week now. Eight days and nights. Believe it or not, I haven't gone this long without an orgasm since my days at camp. I think I was 13. I can't really remember them well. Moments and events for sure, but day to day not so much. It was an all boys camp and there wasn't any shenanigans that I know about. We did catch a guy jacking off once, but there was very, very little talk of sex. I'm sure at home I was masturbating constantly by that age. It's hard to imagine that I so effortlessly survived ten straight days with hardly a thought of it.

I decided Sunday to limit my goes to twice per day. I'm not liking the odds, and I've done nothing to improve them so far. If this keeps up much longer, that may have to change. I've been out for a run in full-fem attire including my flared capris, but it was after dark. I did have to run past an emergency street crew working on a gas line under glaring flood lights--twice. Coming and going. They didn't say anything, but I KNOW what they were thinking! Still, it doesn't count.

The first few days I just wasn't into the cock. I wanted pussy. It IS a different feeling. Almost like being a kid again. I can get hard and stay hard with the slightest cues. My dick just twitches with excitement as I surf around and see beautiful women. It feels so much like sneaking into my brother's old box and looking at those Playboys. Just like then, the feelings are wonderful and confusing and frustrating. I didn't know how to play then, and no play is allowed now.

Yesterday morning was a bit different. My mind drifted gay all the way. I was mesmerized by that perfect penis. Running my tongue up and down its shaft while my hands glide over that muscled chest. I gently squeeze his balls. Pumping that stiffness in my hand, I first sucked one ball, then the other, at last popping that cock in my mouth, sliding it down my throat and receiving his cum. . . .

I was right on the edge when I remembered the game. A minute or two later the screen changed, and I immediately let go. Damn bitch! My dick just hung there in the air, pulsing with an oily sheen. I reveled in the feeling of my raging hard-on, engorged to the point of splitting open, searching for the stimulation that would let it spray gobs of cum everywhere that I could then spoon into my starving mouth.

I looked so big. So inviting. I wanted it in my mouth so bad. My cock. Any cock. And that hunger makes me want to change the game a bit. When I cum I know it's going to be a choking load, and I want it in my mouth, fresh, hot and gagging.

There's just no practical way to play and accomplish that too. The rules are such that I don't know when I'm going to get to cum, I play for nine minutes stroking to the picture of that delightful dick, if his picture comes up on the screen saver, I have 60 seconds to cum before the screen goes black. If I don't finish in time, well thanks for playing. Better luck next time. The purpose is of course to ensure I'm genuinely teasing myself with each masturbatory fling. I'm not sure what to do because when that time finally comes, gawd I want it fast, wet and gooey in my mouth!!!!

I had a Dream Last Night

2009-12-02T12:45:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a dreamer. Maybe it's because I do too much daydreaming. Many nights pass where I have no recollection of any dreams. When I do, there are rarely detailed memories, only feelings. This morning was different. There was a very clear snippet.

I was on my bed engaged in self-fellatio. I heard some giggles and looked just in time to see the legs of children scampering up the stairs out of sight.

I realized this wasn't my own room but one of those 60s style motels with all exterior entrances and a big front window right next to the bed. The vertical blinds were louvered open.

My first thought was, "how could I have been so stupid to do this for everyone to see?" Immediately followed by, "who cares? Who are they going to tell? And so what? Who's going to say anything to me?" I left the blinds open and started sucking again.

The dream was over.

Why did I dream this dream, and why did I remember dreaming this dream? I can't suck my own dick, not that I wouldn't if I could, but why wasn't I just jerking off? Something I can do prodigiously! Is sucking one's own dick worse than pulling it? Is it more humiliating? More honest about how far I'd go? Then why wasn't I sucking someone else's dick?

Why children? Now they weren't
really part of the dream. As I
said, I didn't really see them, just their feet between the open steps of those old motel designs. I could hear them laughing about what they'd seen. Is it because children are non-threatening? Is it because children often do giggle about what they don't understand, they don't really judge things but simply accept them as they are?

Leaving the blinds open and getting back to it, well that's the easy part. I do wish I didn't have to hide my "depravity." That it's all just good clean fun that doesn't impact how I treat people. Or does it? If it does, why? Because it's depraved, or because it's hidden?

and the Answer is. . . .

2009-12-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

Go ahead. Just do it. Admit it already.
You can't tell your girl, but you can tell us.
Hundreds already have. . . and still counting!