Posts Tagged ‘ftm’

Don’t Call Me Faggot

Posted: June 20, 2012 in gay, transgender
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
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Actually, I love the word faggot, as long as it’s not used in a derogatory way. But I get called faggot by assholes much more often than your average dancing queen. I think it’s because my sexual identity is confusing to people. Part of me appears incredibly straight, while the other half is so dandy I may as well be vogueing on a pink cloud that pisses glitter on fire hydrants. I can often be found jogging in the city streets soaked in sweat and sporting the worlds tackiest gym gear. I wear baseball hats and well-worn running shoes and I smell vaguely like I pissed myself while doing a triathlon. Basically I dress like a frat boy from 1998. But then there’s often a flock of dirty blonde hair that can only be described as the worlds gayest new wave hairstyle. I also have a slightly surprising “effeminate way of speech”. And after googling around to find a semi-decent descriptor, wikipedia alerted me to the phrase “gay lisp”. I find that incredibly offensive and homophobic, and also sexist as shit. But I’m too busy/lazy to protest it. Anyway. I can see how people get confused when I wander around looking like a jock-douche and then I open my flapper and out pours my inner fancy boy. Words like “gurrrl’ and “okaaay” flow freely. I’ve weirded out every straight-dude convenience store clerk within a five mile radius from my apt by forgetting myself and calling them sweetheart. I’m also very motherly. I am a nurturing caretaker mama bear and often pet peoples heads while soothing them. Also, if you cross the street with me and I see a car even remotely close by, my arm will instantly slam itself into your gut in total soccer mom style.

But even if I were the worlds gayest dude, it’s still pretty shocking to people that I get harassed so much. My wifey prances his homo ass around in leopard print booty shorts and a fanny pack with a tiger on it, and rarely gets shit. There must be some sort of “douche whisperer” pheremone that emanates from my body. A good friend suggested that it’s because I walk the world looking incredibly approachable, which is a very realistic possibility. I am so fucking friendly that it’s almost obnoxious. I’ve developed close relationships with every barista in every cafe EVER. When I take my friends to the cafe by my house, they all mention that this one curly haired girl that works there and I seem to have an intense “thing”. I’ve been chatting her up while sipping coffee for months now, and I sometimes wonder if we are in a relationship (although I don’t actually know what her name is). And I can’t even meander into the neighborhood movie store without getting sucked into a ten minute conversation with one of my “pals”. My favorite dudely-friend at this video hole gets really excited to see me and pushes terrible anime movies into my tiny hand just because we once talked too long about my favorite japanese director . I’m such a people pleaser that even though I know I won’t watch these low budget flicks, I rent them anyway and just allow them to collect dust next to my tv. Which is probably for the best since I feel that tv is a soul sucking sack of shit activity that is only good for once in a while escapism and killing any kind of sexual life with your partner.

But I’m really dragging this story on far too long without actually getting to the point. I get fucked with almost every day of my life. Creepy mother fuckers will shout out homophobic slurs to me on the regular. And ninety percent of the time I turn an almost bored, blind eye to it. But sometimes it gets out of hand. This happened saturday night when I was working the door at a sex worker benefit for the Saint James Infirmary.

“Hi there, we are asking a 5-10 dollar donation”, I politely informed a strange-eyed straight bro that walked into the old-school dyke bar. His eyeballs bugged out a little bit and he got about one inch away from my face to begin his fun-times banter. “Why do you smell so much like sweat?”, he quietly and creepily asked me. I could smell the cheap beer he had been drinking and feel his rank breath literally breeze onto my skin and up inside my nostrils. I told him that most likely it was due to the heat, even though the real reason is because I’m a dirty jock douche that never remembers deodorant. He didn’t like my answer and asked about my sweat stench again, and then asked me if I had done pushups that day. I started to get really weirded out due to his inappropriateness combined with his uncomfortably close proximity to my face. I decided to ignore his sweaty beefcake questions and once again told him what the cover for the door was. That’s when he sneered at me and called me a faggot. That’s also when I thought to myself “not tonight, fuckface”. In an incredibly smooth and almost beautiful ballerina-style move, I picked fuckface up off the ground and swooped him right out the bar. With not even a tiny fidget or verbal protest from his angry and homophobic ass, I slammed the door shut behind him and pressed my foot against it so that he couldn’t come back in.

The old school butch dagger that owned the bar came over to check and see if I was okay. She told me that she has had to kick this guy out on multiple occasions, and then went outside to make sure he was gone and that I was safe. After my new butch daddy (I wish) made sure everything was clear from creepies, we all went back to watching the dolly parton talent show that was happening. A few hours later, which were all spent watching dirty queers tongue-fucking on the dance floor, I realized that fuckface had returned. The fact that F.F. had decided to come back to torment me hours later showed me that he was not just a fag-hating asshole (just) who maybe would punch me and move on with his day. No. Now he was someone who was obsessing and had something major against me. There was way too much thought about me going on in his head and I started to get freaked the fuck out. He stood outside the door and I stared at him for a minute. With a crook of his finger beckoning to me, he said calmly that he was back to kick my ass.

There were friends milling about outside that stood by me as I walked towards him. Now, a smarter man may have shut the door yet again and called the cops. Unfortunately, I barely cheated my way through my midwestern alternative highschool. So there I was, standing outside on the street, and interacting with the crazy.

I told him to go away and to stop harassing me. Tough as shit queers quickly flanked both sides of me like gay soldiers, and we asked him to leave. He just kept staring at me with his crazy pupils and going back and forth between calling us faggots, and saying he was going to hurt me. The situation escalated after he hunched down and made a motion like he was going to bulldoze right through my tiny transsexual ass. I watched him reach into his pockets and that’s the point when my heart pretty much pounded through my chest It was thump-thumping so hard and so fast that I wondered for split second if I would have a heart attack. I was worried he was so crazy that he would yank a weapon from his pants pocket and shoot me on the spot. We kept telling him to go home and to stop threatening us, when my friend put their hands up and he shoved them. And that’s when I lost my mind.

My fear and anger rose all the way up and out of my throat and I thought I was going to explode or burst into flames. Up to the moment where he touched my friend, I was merely petrified that the guy was crazy enough to do some serious damage on me. But when you touch someone I love, I will flipthefuckout. I immediately rushed towards him, but luckily someone grabbed me tightly around my waist and held on for dear life. I screamed a chorus of “I’m going to kill you’s” combined with “You homophobic psycho” over and over again for about thirty seconds. Then my senses came back because a few people had dragged him away, and I was rushed back inside the bar. Wifey and another pal sat there and held my hands, calming me down as best they could. I was scared-angry-helpless and so full of adrenaline that I was visibly shaking. Just another saturday night in gaytopia.

The next day an old friend from highschool called and I mentioned my shitshow of a night to her over the phone. Instead of pretending to be sorry for me, she immediately talked about how non-violence is imperative in her mind.  And then informed me of what I should and shouldn’t have done in that situation. “I just don’t understand people who identify as queer, and respond with violence. They should know better”. For a split second I felt shamed. From her words I knew she was implying that I had fucked up. I felt like a starved attack dog with a hot dog looming in front of me. But a split second later I remembered that she hadn’t even come close to experiencing one ounce of violence in her life. The reality is, until you are in this sort of intense position yourself, you have no idea how you will react. You can tell yourself all day long what you would do. You could have a well-formed plan of action that involves high kicks or fleeing the scene or pissing yourself in an attempt to weird them out. But until you are there, in that intense as hell moment, you will never really know just what you will do. And no matter what anyones opinion is, in my mind, there is no right or wrong way.

I’ve had my ass kicked so many times that a fist smashed in my face is almost a familiar feeling. My skin welcomes a closed hand like an old friend, and I rarely even bruise. Out of dozens of street brawls, I have won a total of one fight (Unless you count the asshole I sparred with in my boxing class, but he was probably thirty years my senior and walked with a distinctive limp). I can wrestle decently and have a magical superpower of being able to headbutt. But since wrestling doesn’t work with street fights, and I never remember to use my skull of steel for the greater good, I consistently lose. And I am still unashamed/unafraid to fight back. In the probably close to 27 years of getting the shit kicked out of me, I have not once thrown the first punch. And I can’t think of a time when I ever would. But if I want to fight back, if I want to defend myself, or my loved ones, or in one case two elderly dachsunds on the street, that is my fucking business. I’m not required to adhere to anybody’s ethical standards but my own. And until you have been gaybashed over and over again, until you get so used being punched in the face that it doesn’t even wreck your day, I don’t want your opinion.

You know what I’d like to see happen? Instead of queers shaming each other and creating books of rules for one another, I’d like to see more action done on how to protect ourselves. The one lovely bit from my almost fistfight last saturday was that I got to see homos banding together. I feel so loved and protected and grateful about the people that lined up next to me. I wondered to myself if this was a small taste of what stonewall felt like. Why has some of our community grown so vapid that fashion and dance parties have moved up to the top of the list? It sometimes feels as if people forget that we are still discriminated against. Our complacency due to slightly less visible abuse has created a problematic stagnancy. We are tolerated, but we are still not equals. It’s almost easy to forget that we don’t have legal rights and that transsexuals are being murdered, when we get to see episodes of Ru Pauls Drag Race on tv. The reality is that we are still being harassed and beaten and raped and treated as inhuman every single day.

I’m tired of being called a faggot. I’m really over fighting random dudes that are threatened by my soft face and prancing muscular jock douche body. I’m sick of hearing about my community getting shit on in a thousand different ways. But I’ve grown used to it. What I’m more concerned with is that we have created such a stockholm syndrome around ourselves, that we don’t even realize just how poorly we are still being treated. I wish everyone would remember that we have a huge fucking brawl looming around every corner. That we are not equal, but merely tolerated and objectified. And it’s not that we can’t enjoy skinny jeans and skinny ties and all sorts of flufftastic amazement. I truly adore shit talking the dude wearing toe shoes in the gym just as much as anyone else would. And I’m not ungrateful to the person who got me to stop wearing baggy camouflage cargo pants ten years ago. Believe me, I will forever be indebted to her keen eye, for she is the reason I actually get laid once in awhile. And to the people that suggest I attempt at using hair products once in awhile, you also have my sincere thanks. You too get me laid. Which helps make my world a better place). But besides helping me get drilled while simultaneously looking stylish, we are far from the end in our struggle to be recognized as humans. So whether or not as a community we slam the bar door and call the cops, or we use our god damn gay fists to protect ourselves, we should know that we still have one hell of a fight in front of us. And I hope we all can line up right next to each other just like those queers did with me the other night. While wearing tiny shorts and fanny packs.

A Series Of Vaguely Sexual Distractions

Posted: June 5, 2012 in sex
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
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In an effort to clear my mind a bit from the recent death of my dog, I have thrown myself into a variety of awkward distractions.

I attempted to have a very nice date with a very nice girl. She was foxy as hell and had an ass that made you jerk your head fast as fuck to the right and think to yourself “WTF is this shit?”. The tiniest creature with a booty like a shelf, and I couldn’t stop staring in mild shock. Because she was so slight, I spent a large amount of the time we spent together wondering where this ass actually came from. I do indeed enjoy body parts that are kind of disproportionately shocking. I once was in love with a with a short girl with oddly large hands and feet. She was very self-conscious about her lovely hands and would often complain to me about how much she hated them. I would reassure her that her hands were beautiful, and then stare at them with the worlds most massive boner. And by massive, I mean in comparison to a baby carrot cut in half. And perchance that half would also be halved, if you wanna be a dick about it. When I find someone with a mouth full of crooked, fucked up teeth, a gigantic ass and possibly one leg substantially longer than the other, I’m throwing in the towel and getting hitched.

But back to the almost nice date. Even though she was a sweetheart and a great conversationalist, our time together was quickly tainted by the perversions of a deaf bull terrier. He is a very sweet, cuddly creature that I am currently dog sitting, and we have become the best of friends already. But after a few days of our new bestfriendship, I realized that he also happened to have a slight humping issue. Slight is a bit of an under-exaggeration. The awkward reality is that my bff is obsessed with trying to have sex with me. And don’t try to cesar milan my ass into thinking it’s a dominance thing. Bullshit. I see the lust in his eyes every time he watches me get dressed. His lip curls everytime I smile at him. This dog wants me. I’ve started going into the bathroom just to put sun block on, for fear he may see my glistening, lotioned up scar-nips and become overly excited. So after mildly asking him to please stop riding my leg and trying to crawl up my dates shirt for about 30 minutes, I finally remembered that he had arrived with a spray bottle. Worked like a charm! For about ten seconds.

best friends

Once I grew accustomed(stockholm) to a large beefcakey dog velcroed to my pants leg, I then put my focus into impressing my date with my superior eating contest skills. I was born to ingest copious quantities of food in lightning speed time. I really should travel around the world entering myself in eating contests, but I’m too busy swallowing without chewing to get around to it. I laid in my bed and chomped ever so casually an entire box of Captain Crunch while we watched videos on youtube. I used my right pec as a table top for my bowl, and my left pec as a pillow for her head. She kept making tiny hints that she wanted to share my cereal, but I was unable to understand them. Her hints, btw, involved actually saying that she wanted a bite and gesturing with an open mouth. I was very hungry.

The next night I decided to be mellow and just go to a short performance to take my mind off things. I did my usual routine and got cracked out on black coffee and went to this show alone, as I prefer to do. That is when I can actually tear myself away from my hermits den and pretend I’m a semi normal human being. Some people wouldn’t be caught dead going to a dance club or a party by themselves. I am the exact opposite. I can think of maybe four people out of a shit ton of friends that I would go to a party with, and those four are so thankfully RUDE that they couldn’t care less what I do at said party. Flying solo allows me the option to flit about all night long without being obligated to check in with people throughout the night. And to real talk, going alone also allows me the much more frequently used opportunity to ditch out at a moments notice. I love a good old fashioned slip away. Without even so much as a faretheewell, I often discreetly dance myself right out of a club and back into my dark cavern of too-much ice cream and reality tv.

Said performance turned out to be a live sex show, and I soon was lost in the abyss of filth. Admittedly, with a name like “Cum And Glitter”, I was pretty well aware that gay sluttery would somehow be involved. And no matter how tired I am, that sort of entertainment rarely ceases to be interesting for me. I lip-flapped to my porn wife Courtney Trouble while scoping out the the crowd, which was an intriguing mix of hotshit porn babes, old-school fetishists and weird straight dudes in renassaince outfits hoping to find their inner sex nerd. I liked it. Once the show started and the few people I knew settled in to work their assorted jobs, I snuck awkwardly backstage to see if I could get in the way somehow. Several of my pals were already busying themselves with pouring fancy made up drinks for the patrons. And regardless of the fact that they obviously had it covered, I decided that I was somehow useful to them. I deemed my sober ass “head bartender” and haphazardly filled cups with cheap champagne while shouting orders to nobody listening. I was later rewarded for all my unnecessary work with a pair of mystery panties that now lie quietly on my nightstand in hopes of creeping someone nice out.

A cute acquaintance of mine came up to me and offered to drink my piss out of a glass. And no, we were not in the bathroom, and no, my pants were not down. I immediately felt extremely special and attractive, like my pee must be so amazing that people would just randomly look at me and desire it. But then I observed that she was drinking something suspiciously yellow out of a glass. Knowing that we were not currently serving lemonade, I quickly realized what it was. Not only was she guzzling somebody elses god damn piss, but the also-cute piss giver was drinking her own glass of it as well. It’s a very interesting sight to see someone sip their own urine ever so casually out of a plastic cup. Again, I like it. But I no longer felt special. My urethra was just one of many urethras to be added to her collection of urethras. Heartbreaking. Not that I’m even into pee fun. In fact I’m completely indifferent to any bodily fluids besides ejaculate (do not spit on me, I will be annoyed). Although I will say I did once yank my most likely tattered briefs to the side and urinate all over my ex girlfriends bed just to shock her. After I marked her bed that day, we started randomly peeing on one another to torment/crack each other up.

But back to the show. I FLUFFED someone for my very first time! A fluffer is somebody that gets the performer turned on before they have sex. When requested as a fluff, I excitedly made my way over to where the performer was. I had never fluffed anyone before, and I felt as if this was a brand new role for me. It was like I was born to fluff. I imagined to myself that the stars aligned when I was born, and spelled out the word “Transsexual Fluffer Dude” across a creeped-out moonlit sky. I almost wanted to add that title to my resume but then thought better of it when I remembered that the companies I tend to work for would most likely not be amused. I would like to say to non-porn people that this is not typical, and queers do not get fluffers, we are lucky if we get a god damn fruit plate. But since I was born to fluff I happily obliged anyway. She laid herself down on a massive pile of colorful costume clothing and beckoned for me to come closer. Because I am a slutbag that is respectful of those that prefer safe sex, I had handy a wad of black latex gloves in my back pocket, and quickly snapped one on and we began our fancy fluffy finger session(that phrase just grossed me out). It was a very short, anti-climactic fluff. I’m surprisingly shy and awkward as hell and there were people milling about that were being less fancy and not getting fluffed. I’m not even sure she even needed one anyway, as her role in the performance was to ram a strap-on into a guys asshole. But I won’t complain, as I finally learned of my lifes destiny. Also, we maybe just wanted to fool around backstage for a minute, and she just referred to it as fluffing so we had a good excuse.

In the week since my girl has passed I have eaten total of twenty-two late night pancakes and one order of chilli fries (I only regret the chilli). I allowed a deaf bull terrier to molest myself, a date and at least several friends while half-heartedly whispering “no, stop, bad dog” and spraying him with a water bottle. I have fluffed and almost peed in a cup. I have had fun times, and I have sobbed hysterically while listening to the same god damn Adele song on repeat. But mostly I have spent my free time being a sad boy and writing about intense shit. I have decided to write a book, so have been really digging into my past as of late, and it’s been really emotional for me. Which is obviously not in this ADD inspired blog. I am lucky that if I want some distractions, this city has a million to be had. Be it fun, enlightening, fucked up or just weird. Sometimes I just need to leave my mind for a bit and lose myself to the land of strange entertainment. And if I don’t need an escape, I can sit in front of my laptop at 3 am like a creep and post a video of a dog molesting me.

Meatloaf Molests Me from tuck mayo on Vimeo.

Sexless In The City

Posted: May 9, 2012 in sex
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,
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It’s been four hours since I left her house.

It was fun. Extremely fun. So fucking fun in fact that it felt like I should have paid twenty-eight bucks for an all-day pass of it. I wanted a strip of cheap neon plastic clipped around my tiny, transsexual man-wrist as I feet-beat the pavement in search of more of that FUN.  I could have spent an eternity in that ass. Eating over-priced beef jerky and sipping on a frozen lemonade during my breaks, I would stare at this great set of round town in wonderment. But happiness always has to end at some point, and this time it was a three-fold, mega-helping of cheap delivery that eventually would send me stumbling on my way back homo.

After the first round of my “welcome back to the fuck-club”, we decided to regenerate with some lemon chicken and two quarts of chow mein. And by we I mean me. And by me I mean I ate the HELL out of that delivery. I ingested so much dirt-cheap funky delivery grub that it was almost inhuman. I actually impressed myself with the speed and accuracy that my body dished out on those paper plates of food-poisoning. I’m also fairly certain that I chewed a total of three times, and would like to request that you please stop judging me and my gluttonous behavior.

About three seconds after I had finished testing the boundaries of my stomach, I suddenly felt so nauseated that I was floating on a filthy cloud of holy-shit-im-going-to-fucking-hurl. Writhing in what I can only assume was hell, I NON-CONSENSUALLY spent the remainder of the night trying not to vomit all over my poor date. And to top it all off, after just a few precious moments of me waiting for my stomach to stop screaming, my dates’ own gut jumped into the land of regretsville, and decided that our newfound illnesses should become twins.

Since I hadn’t had sex in almost thirty years (two months)(maybe one month), we decided against our better judgements to push forward with our gey fuckaganza. Simultaneously trying not to hurl and not to cum, we had such a please-don’t-puke-mega-fist-fest that it was worthy of an award. What kind of award I am still unsure of, but an award nonetheless. If I absolutely had to take an educated guess, I think said award would look like a dolphin-shaped dildo glued onto a piece of cardboard. But again, that’s just a guess.

So yeah, it’s been about two months. Two long-as-hell months since I’d fucked anyone. Minus a maybe incident that appeared to be sexual in nature (if getting drilled inappropriately by your ex after you ran into them at a friends holiday party is considered sexual). But I chose to ignore that, as I was staunchly CELIBATE. It had been so goddamn long that I had started to linger in the vegetable aisle every time I went grocery shopping. Friends would have to tear me away as I eye fucked the 2 for $1 cucumber section. People should really try to not underestimate the sensuality of a jumbo-sized cucumber. But I digress. I had made the decision to transform from a total transsexual slutbag to a weakly bearded, hermit-like nun creature, and stuck to it. I’ve been such a slut for so damn long that literally nobody believed me when I said I was celibate. People actually would crack up when I told them of my newfound virginity. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or amused, so I just chose indifference and carried on.

horny

I’ve spent YEARS in the porn industry. Eight hour days of skimming hundreds of hardcore videos and writing descriptions for them. Phrases like “cock swallowing granny” and “spunk guzzling meathound” rolled as easily off my tongue as “hello.” I’ve been a porn blogger, a one-hit director and plowed my way through plenty of queer flicks. I’m such a pervo that recently I very casually went to an arcade-style glory hole for a boys night out. I “watched” on as three of my pals expertly nursed on mystery-cocks thru a raggedy hole in a wall of a video booth. The floors were filthy, the walls that I shouldn’t have been leaning on were SCARY and the air reeked of feces. The not so hot porn that played was over a decade old and kept flickering on and off at random. My favorite part was the very tweaked out senior citizen who kept offering to share his “party” with me. And then some serious fucking soul jams started playing and we all raced into the dimly lit hallway to dance like maniacs with our new arcade friends.

I’m basically trying to say that ever since I quit drinking five years ago, and finally became comfortable in my own skin, I have literally had such an insane personal sexual revolution that it’s almost astonishing. I finally became aware of what I wanted and how things actually felt and who the hell was laying next to me. And never once did I burn out. Not for one second was I bored by sex of any kind. Until now. After a shocking series of events, I had suddenly stopped wanting to fuck. And I felt lost. I felt myself disassociate from my body and slowly float above to watch as life continued on. I had become completely and utterly detached.

My sex drive crept very slowly, and very quietly away from me. It took six months of complete and utter skankery to accomplish this horrifying new truth. After my ex and I broke up, I was completely devastated. I loved them so fucking hard that my heart crumbled into a million tiny tear-shaped shards of sadness when we stopped dating. And besides the fact that I was then walking under a perpetual rain cloud of misery, I had also lost some of the best sex in existence. The way we fucked was so incredibly intense and powerful that I actually felt enlightened. It was a constant give and take of the purest form of an animalistic lust like I had never experienced before. They couldn’t keep their hands off of me, and it was never a question that both our bodies were a filthy-romantic playground for eachother. She wanted me so damn badly that even I could fucking taste it. It was through her that I realized that I was a power switch. And it was through her that I realized that I really need somebody to want to fuck me. Not just to “service” me, like so many dates had done in years past. Not just because it made me happy. But because they NEEDED to. Just as badly as I needed to fuck them. Is it that strange of a desire?

So after we ended things, I decided to distract myself by drowning myself in a sea of sex. Soon I found myself on a different date almost every night of the week. Some fun, others awkward as hell (fuck you OkCupid), and some that made me run screaming in a sweat-soaked panic. Exhausted and spread so thin it was scary, I chugged black coffee late into the night and pushed forward in my quest for sad-times relief. Soon, though, I was frustrated, as I realized that almost all of my new “friends” appeared to be stone bottoms(not to be confused with regular bottom identified folk).

A stone bottom is a rare bird that apparently only a dandyboy like me can attract. Unsure on why in the world anyone would think my horny, goofball ass would be a stone top, I went ahead and filled the role anyway. The reality is, I do indeed LOVE topping the shit out of someone. Treasure the hell out of it really. Nothing makes me more excited than shoving my hands and cock inside someone. And if I really HAD to take a pick, I would probably pick being the strap-wielder without hesitation. Admittedly, just being called daddy(or grandpa, or mr mayo) sends me so fast over the edge that it makes my tiny friend hard in a split fucking second. But I don’t want to fucking pick. I refuse to. I’m not going to jump back into my joyous youthful days of hating my body and not getting my needs met. Fuck that.

My piggy switch hungry boy ass wants variety. I could care less if you identify as a bottom or a top or a switch, as long as you’re down and excited to fuck me too. I love getting drilled as much as the next person, and am not in the least emasculated by this fact. I’m a dude. I have what I like to call a pussy. It likes to get fucked. I am comfortable with this story. And by fucked I don’t mean some sort of gentle fingerbang like I had in seventh grade with that quiet boy whose name I can’t remember. I mean fucked.

It’s so strange that people assume that because I’m a man that digs topping, that all I want is a blowjob with submissive, adoring eyes staring up at me. Wrong.com. I want what every married straight bro wants on craigslist. I want to get violated. And I want to violate YOU. I want to get my chest punched over and over until I see bright red while you call me your dirty boy. I want to smack someones ass and thighs so hard that my handprint is left behind so many days that it makes wearing shortshorts awkward slash exciting. And you can go right ahead and cross my barely there boundaries in so many ways that I need therapy for three highly expensive and useless years. I want a hot as shit fuckfest. Then I want to end it with the world’s sweetest spooning session.

It’s not sustainable for me to service the world and never get off. It actually began to give me issues. Does being trans make me a freak? Do people not like fucking guys with numerous holes? Am I so hideous that someone wouldn’t want to touch me? After several dates showed complete disinterest in fucking me, I became wild eyed in my search for an orgasm. Wandering the streets, I drifted in and out of so many random holes it was almost astonishing/gross/impressive/mentally ill. I remember my favorite OkStupid date that stood out above the rest. It was about one am when I walked her to her door, and I was tired as hell and ready to head home. But when I tried to say faretheewell, she grabbed my hand, wrapped it around her throat and said “I want you to hurt me”. Not one to back down to a non-subtle challenge, I decided to oblige her request and follow her inside. Let me tell you, it got DARK PLACES real fucking fast. I haven’t had that kind of twisted fucked up and dark role playing/abuse in years, and this was a one night stand. Originally I had just intended on getting to know one another over coffee, but then it was like we reenacted a lifetime movie in her room. And her bed, btw, was coated with so many fucking teddy bears that I began to doubt my own moral fiber. Feeling cozy after we had just jumped into the depths of we-are-going-to-hell together, I told her that she could fuck me too, if she wanted. No thanks, she promptly replied. What!?! WHAT?! I hate my life, I whispered quietly to myself.

I finally started to hook up with my foxy friends, because I knew they were switches. Eventually I had managed to completely horrify one of my besties by literally fucking every buddy of ours. I had to placate him by babybirding bites of caramel ice cream until he forgot that I had plowed pretty much the entirety of his two-story dirty queer punk household. It took a lot of ice cream. In another situation I had to ask an out of town date if I could meet her at a coffee shop, because I awkwardly realized she was staying with two people I had already slept with. One has to wonder what the poor dear thought of me, knowing that I had pretty much run naked throughout every single room in the house she was crashing at. I had become a horned up Kimmy Gibler from Full House, and It just felt like way too much. And once I had found this queer switch group of horned up lovelies, I was desiring something more than just an orgasm. And so my sad story gets even sadder.

I had now decided that I wanted a CRUSH. I wanted just a moment of some sort of intimacy. Or maybe even an actual sleepover? So I started asking people out that I thought were cute. But anyone that I was even remotely interested in held the notsoshocking title of emotionally unavailable. I would get random facebook messages from hot queers asking me out for “dates”. Quickly becoming excited at the possibility of a fun new person to get to know, only to realize that they did indeed want me, but for only one thing. I apparently had become San Francisco’s Walking Strapon Service (check your local newspaper for weekly specials). A robot fucker with a key on my left ass cheek, and if you turned this invisi-key, I would fly about servicing the world in exchange for thai food and sometimes a milkshake. And regardless of whether I asked them out or they asked me out, below you will find the variety of options offered up.

I would love to go on dates with you! I should let you know that I am partnered and we are looking to spice things up in our marriage! (cute!)
I would love to go on a date with you! I just got out of a relationship and really need to get PLOWED. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I can spend one hour every two weeks, because I am busy getting over my recent breakup and am highly emotionally unavailable. (super cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m actually a lesbian, going through a breakup, but have always wanted to try fucking a transguy. (cute!)
I would love to go on dates with you! I’m dating ten people from fetlife, and would love for you to join my list! p.s. I recently went through a breakup! (fuck you fetlife)(cute!)

Charmed, I’m sure…

What the fuck!?! It was like a choose your own adventure game, except all of the routes were the exact same. That being said, I went ahead and just fucked them anyway. All of them. Every last inappropriate person. And it was the wrong move. I had finally pushed myself too far. I had actually creeped myself out. A hard thing to do when you are a total creeper, which I am. But the lack of emotion, the lack of sweetness and the lack of interest in getting to know me finally shut down my body and mind so badly that I became suddenly disinterested in anything sexual. When a sex-positive pervert no longer wants to fuck, the only thing that can be done is to take drastic and immediate measures. So I did. I went celibate. Cold turkey, I let everyone know that I was no longer available for anything remotely sexual, but that thai food and shakes were always lovely. And I’m so fucking glad. It was the only way to feel like myself again. The thing is, as much of a slutbag as I am, I’m actually incredibly romantic. I can’t live without tenderness. I cannot fuck so much and never have the sweetness of a spoon. I love the spoon. I’m so affectionate that I’ve made the coldest of new friends used to getting kissed square on the mouth. Or in the mouth. I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am. I’m a perverted romantic and nothing will ever change that. It is a possible combo, and I would like this identity to be respected, please and thanks.

After a few weeks of celibacy, my soul climbed right back into my body and I felt more alive than I had in years. A smile plastered itself onto my face for no reason whatsoever. I started taking long walks just to enjoy being alone in a city full of people. And soon after that, my sex drive came back like it had never left. I felt like a young boy that really wanted to lose his virginity asap. In my fantasy of being said young boy, I am carrying a book satchel and wearing knee socks. I kept steadfast in my celibacy though, because I had set a date and I wanted to stick with it. Not because I really gave a shit about being timely, but because I knew it was what I needed. I even went on a date during my prude stint. We wandered around San Francisco on a search for the best baked goods and I mayhaps ingested four pounds of these sugary-laden delights. She was so charming and graceful and had the sweetest face. And even though I didn’t fuck her, it was the best date I’d had in ages.

So now my celibacy is over. And I’m so god damn excited about it. I have an always-hard detachable cock, I’m single and I live in a city full of hot as fuck homos. I almost feel like I have a new lease on life. But I’m only interested in going out with people where the story isn’t already written. I want to get to know people. To see if we actually like each other. I want to crush out on someone sweet and new and fine as hell. I want that flushed excitement and chemistry, whether it’s with a hot one-night stand or someone I really dig. And maybe that means I’ll be having no dates for an eternity. And maybe that means having to go on seven chaotic dates a week again. But for now at least, my romantic and newly slut ass wants the mystery of the unknown, and that’s all I’ll accept.

sidenote-casual encounters can and will still happen in the future, but not until I get my spoon-on.