new gig NSFW link

I've secured a gig writing porn for a phone sex mistress. No, I don't worship her...it's a gig. Not much, but it pays for cosmetics...I'm a compulsive writer...forgive me....but it is fun...

for those into domme/sissy/feminization porn

Woah, haven't blogged here in a while...a poem for you

Been ages. Schools in session again and the world keeps on spinning...
I have missed you blogosphere
and blow kisses at my followers...

went to the gym today and again
fell in love with the woman who works the front desk.
You know ladies, the kind of woman who can make a t-shirt look glamorous. I wish I had a picture
so you could share my enthusiasm...alas, words will have to do...

to be her for an hour!


The crossdresser has a crush. For L who works at the gym.

45, 46, eyeliner crushed blue and ribbon silver
face cut by age, sharp as a A-line skirt
and as glowing as Venus' curves. She greets
and smiles
and knows not
of my trimmed legs
my lust to be in a body like hers:
tall, curvy, thick, hips that could crush mountains,
breasts to nurse the worst of us,
heart to love the best.

I work out,
and catch glances
of her, as if machines and cardio could imprint
her shape onto my lean coffin frame.

What she would think of me I dare not seek
for I know she is good and straight as she watches her desk,
manages accounts,
and would feel queer
and slighted
at my feminine wiles.

Wicked

and the black smoke is a skirt around my waist
as i shake and smote and bang my crotch against the air...
there is no chorus
only a sharp retort and my skin overtakes your skin
and your mouth overtakes mine
the swallows of our chests and lips
consume us like two snakes
eating each other out of hate

red wig is fracking hot

Howdy yall. It's 90 + and 100% humidity and I'm playing with wigs...wow.

Really, WTF? This is what school administrators do with their time.

Recently, as mnay of you may have read, a high school freshman was suspended for wearing heels and a dress to school. Read about it here. and here.. As an educator these kind of admin decisions make me want to scream. How is this more distracting than drug deals, bored disruptive students who care not for learning, and a test-taking culture than has thrashed out creativity in the classroom? This was a learning experience for all, and it was handled poorly.

Instead of celebrating his challenge he was suspended. Instead of discussing gender representation he was suspended. His mother approved, heck she was the one who challenged him...and the school threw him out because he was...different.

Fucking ridiculous.

Love it, love them: Baby Storm. Keeping fingers crossed

I don't care what the critics say, I say go for it. I think

Couple raises genderless baby.

However on the Huff Post there is a thoughtful and supportive and yes, critical look at the parent's choices.

I agree to not raise the kid in a "bubble." It will be interesting to see how the child sees itself...but are the parent's doing it with the child's best interest in mind? It's easy, in hindsight, for me, as a non cis-gendered individual to think pink hearts and yellow butterflies and wish this was me...but...

I do wonder about the experiment...is it really for the kids, or for the parents? I agree with Dr. Koplewicz that some gender traits are biological and not social, but I think the provocative experiment is good for us, society, maybe not Storm.

Here's to you, Storm, I hope you develop into a stable awesome person. I hope the media stays out of your life.

News From the Front

My secret hands
and my secret desires
can fill a theater
and entertain all the young whores
dressed for a fuck.

My heels make a click,
click.

Oh, comely nights.
in my head
about how to walk,
talk
and I don't mean
there's many causalities

I mean there's no end to the causalities.

Like Batman and the Joker,
the tedious madness
of two minds
that inhabit the same body,

the city,

fat as my psychiatric file.

There is no winner, and no
bomb, nor
truce,
a countless counting
of coups,

a shredded nightgown,
a worn dress,
scrubbed skin
of those who hands mark secret work.


Let's be honest:
I'd love to burn down
like the skirt on the floosie
in the back of the club,

how it turns to ash as she dances
to the music.
By the end of her night

the whore
will wear nothing but a slur and a smile,
her high heels snapped
from all the broken hearts she's tramping.

Booty time

Allright sistas....this southern girl on the cheap found but panties at the local wal-mart for 11 bucks and change, and darn if they don't feel snug and they do add a hint of definition to my posterior, though I want big curves, baby. You know what I mean. I haven't worn other padded butt panties before, but for the price...worth it.

Come on up to the house

Come on up to the house. The tea is brewing. And if you need something stronger there's beer in the ice box. Nothing fancy mind you, just honest American brew.

The Mississippi will crest in Southwestern Mississippi this week flooding famrland, churches, chicken houses, and juke joints. Sadly, the poor have no where to go.

My heart pours out to them, since many are so poor and cognitively deficient, this flood is literally Biblical to the masses who subsist on corncake and game for their meals (yes, world, the rural South is third world) and do not possess the means to leave town. There world will be under water. Wiped out. Our own tsunami-like disaster.

Mean while in the northern portions of the South, the Mid-Atlantic, gay marriage/civil unions are becoming mainstream political fodder, hopefully trans rights will follow.

And me on my little hill....feeling a well of creative forces move inside. This big ol gal will pick up her guitar and pen this week.

In my personal life...the marriage is going well. We have spent time together sharing, but the lack of interface re: crossdressing/trans feelings are nil, as is the sex. life. as in. nada. And what does one expect when your "straight" partner comes out as a tall awkward girl?

I keep waking up wondering where my hips disappeared to, and feel a nurturing pull towards earth.

Thanks to the wonderful ladies at My Naughty Secret Fantasies for the Crossdressing Poem

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Boy in high heels removed from class

Boy in high heels removed from class

Really? Aren't we trivial

Gender Dysphoria and Gender Bending in Infinite Jest

The Pale King, David Foster Wallace's posthumous novel, or fragmented novel, or faux-memoir, is worth the read for the simple taut, beautiful writing, but on this Easter, this day of re-birth, I speak for us pagans, agnostics, non-Christian folks: that Easter is a symbol of re-birth, making new choices, etc, I choose to reflect on the ways the late DFW wrote about “gender dysphorics” (his term) in his masterpiece Infinite Jest.

IJ is not about trans folks, though many of the minor characters play with gender. The novel is really a a galaxy of subplots that criss cross each other, or nearly criss cross each other, and like Lost, or BSG, if the characters all sat down and a had a pow-wow, many questions would be answered, (as well as raised, of course, in a maddeningly Lost-like kind of way.). I have read the novel three times, the first time barely paying attention to the gender tropes, the second time noticing it more, and the third time, with me out of the proverbial closet, personally and maritally speaking (but not in the larger, hello world, I want a sex change kind of way...which by the way is where I lean and repress, etc.) the gender tropes were up front, and varied.

Poor Tony Krause—a Jewish junkie gender dysphoric. A true gender dysphoric, transvestite prostitute, however we mostly look at the word through Poor Tony's addiction issues. The novel spends a fair amount of time describing Poor Tony's addictions to contrast with the stories and POVs of the recovery drug addicts and alcoholics. Poor Tony is in no way a knock on Tony's gender issues. The poor referring to his addictions and hapless fuckery, rather than his gender identity.

Helen/Hugh Steeply—an agent from the Office of Unspecified Services who assumes the identity of a woman. Hugh is never depicted as Hugh, only as Helen, and the brother of the main character falls in love with Helen. Helen, for me, is more of the accidental crossdresser. A straight, less beatific contrast to Poor Tony Krause, who has seen prettier days.

USS Millicent Kent's father—unnamed, fascinated with ballet tutus. A creepier trans person, albeit we see her through his daughter's perspective, whose tutus he develops a fetish for.

Barry Loach's brother—trainer at ETA who moved away from a Catholic family and became a woman who held billboard's up at Atlantic City entertainments.

Unnamed transvestite thugs—when Don Gately remembers Fax's death, a trio of sirenish large women show up, and Don eventually recognizes them as “fags” (sic)...DG's term.

Though at first these short descriptions may not seem flattering, and DFW wasn't trying to push a TG agenda, but each character represents a large swath of the TG continuum. There are other trans references, and all in all positive, though some characters do not like/or see through/or ambivalent too the characters.

It's actually kind of nice to see a myriad of POVs. Helen gives us the idea of the hassles of really living like a woman. It's funny because he's straight, but a dedicated agent, and really tries (and somehow) miraculously passes. PTK is there for sheer depravity (not because of his gender) but because PTK has a gross and bottom of the well addiction problem. The other peripheral characters are more or less cardboard cut-outs, yet visible and not at all made fun of, but rather accepted with little to no judgement by characters who range from upper crust to junkies.

I'm shutting up. Go be fab. Be reborn. Happy Easter

To the Crossdresser at 20

Thank god for Prozac. Went cold for the better part of two weeks and kinda had an anxiety, well...shit...I guess... a gigantic expunging of neurotransmitters that had been pent up for so long....whew...anyhoo...back to normal operating levels...Happy National Poetry Month...the woman at the party is me...or us...or the speaker's female self.


To the Crossdresser at Twenty


The sunlight on the left side of your face
makes you look so pretty,
your hair a golden aura,
your skinny legs in ragged jeans.

The guitar will come late
to the party,
as will children,
and the kind of sanity
one only thinks one has a handle on.

Relax,
you're prone to clenching
your muscles so tight
your teeth grind at night.
You have been given the gift to rebirth yourself.
I have minor regrets.
Make your parties wild,
and large, and include yourself
in your own plots
to help others.
A little self mending never hurts.

You will attend meetings.
You will keep scratching
to make more of a life
out of beer cans
and note pads
and the hidden cache of clothes
and so many stacks of books.

Don't neglect the girl
at the party,
she will carry you when you cannot carry anything
other than syllables and apologies,
they are like paper lanterns in your hands,
the light flickering through your fingers,
the shadows, like jailed men
lean and swing in the thick summer air.

April is National Poetry Month

Thanks for the response on the last poem. This one is a little darker. I'm trying to quit drinking and live healthier and that includes being more emotionally honest with myself and my wife.

I am currently reflecting on my sexual history and dysfunction and trying to just figure out me. Sometimes I find it so awful that I can't choose. Isn't gender supposed to be natural? Isn't our sexuality?

I don't know anything...



NEWS FROM THE FRONT:
A Crossdresser Contemplates GID & Guilt


My secret hands and my secret desires can fill a theater
and entertain all the young whores
dressed for a fuck.

My heels make a click,
click.


Oh, comely nights.

There's a holy war in my head
about how to walk,
talk
and I don't mean
there's many causalities

I mean there's no end to the causalities.

Like Batman and the Joker,
the tedious madness
of two minds
that inhabit the same body,

the city,

fat as my psychiatric file.

There is no winner, and no
bomb, nor
truce,
a countless counting
of coups,

a shredded nightgown,
a worn dress,
scrubbed skin
of those who hands mark secret work.


Let's be honest:
I'd love to burn down
like the skirt on the floosie
in the back of the club,

how it turns to ash as she dances
to the music.
By the end of her night

the whore
will wear nothing but a slur and a smile,
her high heels snapped
from all the broken hearts she's tramping.

draft: working title "A Few Notes About CrossDressing"

What binds me to the earth,
which is to say,
what binds me to my body,
are the tight straps
of the camisole and the bright flash of satin
against freshly shaved skin.

It feels not like a cheap thrill,
or the sexed up joy one affords the mad,
but rather
it is the feeling of newness,

like how a new car's steering wheel rides the palm
or how a new pair of shoes
and a crisp new haircut feel
in the rush of spring
and the bright A/C of summer.

This awareness
is the spirit enlarging and enlarging
and reaching beyond its airy walls,
a conjoining of elements.

I just found it pertinent you know,
just in case there were questions
if I am found in the rubble.

What I like:the spiritual imagery, though as a rule I avoid those tropes, very overused. I like some of the lazy meandering rhythm. Will get back to you on the ending

How's your April springin'

Down South, the flowers are peeking, and the days are bright but raw and wet from the swales of cold Atlantic weather that are making the fields as green and slick as the shell of a grasshopper.
And Spring brings new clothes and new ideas and newness and newness.

Like a new haircut, or even a new pair of shoes.

Here's to you, and I'll be posting some verse for National Poetry Month, drafts, and perhaps mock up notes and sketches.

And speaking of the picture, can you guess which box would apply to me?

Gratitude and Attitude

No thrift store finds today, alas.

A local funeral, which in these hinterlands causes small town traffic to snarl, gave me pause.

I have gratitude for what I have. I must change my attitude.

I must love myself.

My sinuses make my head feel like I'm shrinkwrapped in wet cotton.

I am as small as a bean.

Off to the thrift store to look for bargains

it's tax season, which means in these hear parts, ladies, the upper class rids themselves of last year's fashions in order to get those blank donation slips one can file with the irs...

usually I find something cute, or at least cool.

Records, tables, a cute top, some basic belts, or something to pull an outfit together.

Will report.

NSFW post....yes, some lit porn for you

Yes, ladies, I know. Porn? Really, Cass?

How trite.

Well because I'm slightly graphomanic I often rent my talents to a variety of adult enterprises, either for a small fee, or for credit with whatever service they provide (usually boring adult streaming video, free pics, the occasional credit with a phone sex provider. And this means that I don't cash in on what goes for pay in the adult entertainment world for freelance writers...).

And since I have vowed to update this blog more often... guess what ladies.... enjoy some hardcore sissy porn.

Don't judge, please. I am a classy lady, for the most part.

For this type of post I like to combine a raw rough element with a sensuous ear. Let me know if you like.

Written for Mistress Jade for her nite flirt journal and blog. She wanted something trashy and hardcore for forced fem callers and patrons

It is untitled:


My cock was a steel rod in my wife’s panties. The satin rubbed against my head and pre-cum spotted the front, but one could hardly see it because they were black and the light was low. My nipples were hard, the icy hot I had rubbed on them made them hurt, and as I slipped on the flimsy cotton top, a bright red, low cut tank.



The truckers like this top. This way I remind them more of the skanky sluts who roam the bars. Perfect for the truckers who will stare at my flat, smooth, chest, stare at my cock pressing up under the short denim skirt that slides up my long shaved legs.



Mistress Jade has commanded me to roam the truckstops and whore her slut’s mouth and ass out for money and pleasure.



I have given Mistress Jade my squirt log-in information. And now she controls where I will go, whom I will meet, and how many cocks will cum on my skin, on my hands, in the mouth, in my sissy cunt.



Tonight she has commanded me to the truck stop on 113. The men who travel through there have written of a glory hole in the back stall of the men’s room. And now I am driving there, my heart stammering in my chest, my head so filled with lust I can feel it lifting off my shoulders.



I pull into the truck stop, there are a half dozen men roaming around the rigs. I stop, apply a second round of bright red, cheap lipstick, adjust my long blonde wig and step outside.



It’s cold, and my nipples hardened under my top. The skin on my legs are alive with frosty air, and my sissy clit is throbbing. I need to get fucked….



I head to the bathroom, anyone looking my way can tell I’m a sissy fag dressed in his wife’s sluttiest clothes looking for cock. I fool no one.



The bathroom stinks of piss, otherwise it appears moderately clean. Little graffiti, lots of wear and tear. I go to the back stall and open the door. A rough glory hole has been cut in the wall. My mouth waters and I drop to my knees to try out positions.



The floor is cold and hard against my knees. I wish I had brought a towel. The smell of piss floats up to my nose. In the bowel floats a small dark turd.



I am on my knees less than ten seconds when the door opens and the sounds of men fill the room.



“Yeah, I thought so.” One of them says.



There are three of them I can tell by the way they move their boots.



The stall next to mine opens. A man steps in and unzips his zipper. I stare through. All I see at first is his jeans, but soon a long flaccid black cock is pushing through the hole. It’s long, six inches soft, and the head is enormous. I slide my tongue over the head. It’s silky, and salty and the man behind the stall moans. I start to suck the head, my tongue swirling around the head and down the shaft. I don’t use my hands yet, I just savor the taste of his skin, the heat, the smell of his sweat as it floats through the air.



He starts to push his hardening cock through the hole faster, I speed up my mouth to accommodate. He’s horny, and I can tell from his grunts and how he presses against the wall in front of me that he’s been on the road and is horny. He speeds his thrusts, and I back my mouth off his shaft and focus on the head, sliding my tongue over his piss slit. He moans and his cum shoots into my mouth, down my throat, and out the sides of my mouth. I continue to suck, sliding my tongue over his cock. He groans and I use my hands to milk him for what he is worth. He pulls out and the sweet salty taste of cum if on my tongue and lips.



He stumbles out the door and one of his buddies enter. He unzips, and thrusts his short fat cock through the hole.



Now I like big ones, especially in my cunt, but short fat cocks are fun because I can suck them down to the crotch hair and really inhale the scent of the man who’s topping me. And I do that, and slurp his meat down, my lips sliding down to the base of his shaft. He stinks of sweat and lust and he bucks at my motions, moaning hard. The third man opens the door to my stall.



I manage to look up at him briefly, but go back to sucking, concentrating on the fat head, sliding it in and out of my lips.



I know what the man behind me wants.



Every time I go out for Mistress Jade, I apply generous amounts of lube to my ass. No need to get ripped…what an unnecessary pain. Sometimes to get me horny, I take my wife’s dildo and slam it up there and walk around the house to get my ass warmed up for the main event.



He was big, beer bellied, and when he unzipped his pants he pulled out a long hard red cock that curled up like a horn. He pulled up my skirt as he moved behind me. He pulled aside my thong and in one long hard motion slammed his cock into my ass. I moaned and hummed on the cock in my mouth. The man behind slide his monster dick in and out of my hole. I felt my cunt open up wide for him. He had masterful control as he pumped it in and out of my cunt. He grunted as he fucked me, and the man on the other side of gloryhole moaned loudly.



My mouth filled with sperm, I gasped for air as the cum rolled out of my mouth and over my chin. The man behind me slammed me harder and harder, seeing my head was free. He pushed my body against the stall and came in my cunt. His hot seed spread deep into my gut.



I gasped for breath, licking the cum off my chin.



The man behind me spat on in my eye before walking out. The man with the short fat cock peeked in and smiled.



“Nice job bitch.” He opened his wallet and threw down a twenty.



I licked my chin and tilted my head back. Cum ran out of my cunt.



I waited till they left, and knowing the cops would be making a round soon, head to my car. My cock was so hard I rubbed it through my skirt as I walked. Anyone who would see would see I was jerking off.



I came loudly and longly before I opened my door. The cum stain spread wide over my skirt. It soaked my panties.



I jerked off twice more before I got home, swerving in the road as I came.



I wonder what my next assignment will bring.

transition: the mind

Yours truly is currently on a spiritual path, or should I say back on the spiritual path. No fear, loves, I'm not packing the New Testament (cue: Seinfeld sound byte: not that there's anything wrong with that) I'm talking real transformation.

I acknowledge that I am powerless to my gender: which is female. It is how I express, love, live, and perceive the world.

I acknowledge that how I perceive myself is not at all how others perceive me, and that my sense of self is opposed, if you will, or polarized perhaps to how others sense me.

What is the same? The heart, the love, the mind and the action.

It dawned on me that I must bring the two halves of my life together, to be whole. How that will look, I do not know.

Regardless if I begin hormone therapy or if I continue to inhabit two worlds, what is clear to me is that mentally and emotionally I must be the one person.

A mental, or spiritual transition must occur for me to progress.

No more despair, or shame or paranoia about if I will piss off the wife and family.

I cannot control how they feel, I can only control how I feel, and to be honest about my feelings.

I acknowledge that I cannot go half cocked into my spiritual journey without care and caution.

Sorry, ladies, I've rambled on for far too long.

Ciao

Cass

Blog set to music

My tumblr blog set to music.

how far?

Once upon a year ago I took f hormones for a week till they messed with m BP...considering them again. Does anyone have any regrets?

K...i need to talk to an endocrinologist ANY ADVICE NEEDED

omg...i need estrogen...i'm pretty sure....going crazy this weekend...any advice...i don't want to loose my penis function....maybe i do...but i think i need to curb my t levels...

For Cisgendered Spouses, Partners: sex with crossdressers

This isn't an advice post, but it is. Inspired by my own marriage. We don't have sex. Very often at least, averaging less than once a month since I've been out as a crossdresser/tg person. Not that I blame her, her man doesn't want to be a man, most of the time...so how does this translate to the bedroom.

Truthfully, I don't know.

I think that if your partner is willing playing with clothes might be satisfactory for both parties.

I am not saying you should get girlie with your SO, that would be great, but let's hold the panties and nighties for another occasion.

Suggest, instead, at some point in the foreplay that she wear some sexy underwear for you to rub, kiss, massage....to moisten and excite her. Heck get her off and then have her masturbate you with the aforementioned undergarments, in that matter you achieve skin on clothing contact, part of which is part of the attraction of the role of a woman...all those sexy clothes.