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

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.

A sigh

Personally ladies, this spring has been good, but psychically rough. Like it or not I am/was a latent trans woman, like many of my generation, mostly because of socio-political-technological reasons. Transwomen/men today benefit so much from the internet. Not that it is an excuse, but growing up in such a kudzu culture... it took me a while.

Geez, if I were a teenager now, dealing with these same issues, my life would have a different arc.

That's not to say my life to date isn't valid...it is. But everyone else views your lifestyle as a choice, not necessity. You know that ennui, trans people, how there's that fuzzy, gauzy past, our past sexuality, our past identity, past whatever, that exists, that acts as a standard to the growth of the trans personae, the true personae.

Regardless...a friend asked me today "What do you want from this self?" It was an old friend, a straight friend. "What does this voice sound like?" He meant the tone...and all I could say was aggressive, confident, proud.


And I thought about that. And what that meant.

And I hadn't thought about what I wanted, I was just too busy being me for the first time.

I came up with an answer, that may change...




My hobby is mirror.

Lipstick, rouge and heel
peel back my skin and skull cap
and like a goddess spring forth
into my bathroom,
my smoke ring
like a laurel
upon my gigantic pretty head.
From lips smack truth,
pink, or brown, or fuck hot red,

and black, deep pitch, and yes, I suppose

I am a freak
and showed up at the wrong address, the wrong party,
my real body somewhere else
doing whatever manila chore it does when it isn’t with me.
‘cause I mean who wouldn’t
want to be with me?

I be illusion, drum, and wail
give me a scarf I can make seas sick
with my pitch and bob.

And so what? The stork is not a smart bird,
after all, I am not weak, and though my smile
makes you sick, some clown
in a dress, some perv with the nerve,
you say, I am iron, to reforge myself,

to be iron is to destroy stone.







Note: Manila is meant to recall vanilla. Lately my girlie self has been more...aggressive...thus the diva turn in tone towards the end. In my small town I am very aware of how most stones (trans-phobics) react to difference. Down here, from my porch, I better be ready to back it up.

Ciao!

Guilty as charged: sexual arousal while dressing

To say that I get aroused while dressed is an understatement.

However 9 times out of 10 my arousal is less sexual and more personality-centered.

Last night, after several glasses of champagne and much senseless Facebooking with old friends, I tottered around in my 3 inch sexy sandals and found myself eager for some sexual action.

My orientation is straight-bisexual. Let me explain. I am attracted to women. I am not attracted to men, however I fantasize about being the love interest of men. Yeah, figure that out.

Oh. I've experimented before, and always it was enjoyable, but I've never been in love with a man. Never. The few flings I've had never lasted longer than the event...no crush, no strings, no attachment. When I'm out and about it's the ladies I'm looking at, for fashion, for sexual pleasure.

When my wife was pregnant with our children she told me to get porn, the playboy channel, read erotica, call a phone sex operator, just don't fuck around. And she closed up shop for 12 months (w/r/t the second child she closed up for 18 months...yes 18 months w/out sex will make anybody whacky). Perhaps it was the booze, but last night I found myself calling a phone sex service, not for fantasy, but just to talk about crossdressing, submission, and the various sexual fantasies I've had over the years. It was fun, but frivolous and stupid. Like I could use that cash back, but it didn't break the bank, and it was as expensive as a shrink session. So be it.

I bring this up not for kinky confession, but to address the issue that crossdessing and transgenderism is sexual. It is erotic and arousing. Sometimes we deny that when we try to intellectualize our experience.

Transgenderism is a wide and wonderful ride.