This is me and Brittany. This is one of the things we do. Here, she’s cutting a line of coke for me, on her thigh, then I do the same thing for her. We like to share.

(download)

Click here to download:

Filthy_Tranny_Whore.zip (11.06 MB)

The transsexual users guide: Lavinia’s 2009 diary.

The notes that led to the novel and a true story - by Lavinia Sonderburg-Beck

Copyright ©2009/2010 Lavinia Sonderburg-Beck. laviniadarling@gmail.com

First

I love drugs, hanging out in bars, casual sex and fucking with people’s heads.

I also know I’m not a particularly nice person or a good one; though I am working on that now.

So I’m pretty sure that when you read this it’s probably going to confirm your worst suspicions about transsexuals.

But this is not about most trannies. Most trannies are smart, honest, disciplined, good, kind and decent. You can trust them; they are probably more honest than you are. This has got nothing to do with them. They are not like me.

Me, I’ll bleed you dry and fuck with your head. Really, I’m pretty messed up and if you make any generalisations about transsexuals on the basis of my behaviour, you’d be an idiot.

About this

This is not the book. What I did was paste together all my diary entries in sequence. This is that pasting togetherness- it became the starting point for the book that is now Filthy Tranny Whore.

Before you read this, there are 5 things you need to know:

Sex scenes, drugs and swear words

If you’re going to freak out when you read words like cock, suck, shit, fuck or ass you better stop reading now.

Sex is beautiful, and there’s a couple of sex scenes in here because it’s part of my life. So if tranny sex is an issue for you, you out you really should forget about reading this.

I also take drugs and write about them, so the same goes for drug references.

How I write

I write drunk. In fact I am drunk now.

I usually write when I get home after a night out. That way everything that has happened is fresh in my mind. So I usually write drunk. I’ve tried writing sober, but I am boring when sober. I also lie when I’m sober.

So I write drunk, but the next day I go back and tidy it up and try make whatever I've written sound less fucked up. But there only so much I can do to make my drunk stuff read ok without losing what’s real about it.

You need to know this or you’ll read this and come to all the wrong conclusions. And it also explains all the spelling mistakes and messed up tenses and stuff like that.

This is true

All of this stuff I’ve written here is true. It’s all copied and pasted from my diary blog. All I’ve done is tidy it all up so it reads a bit snappier, edited out all the boring crap, and added in a bit of back ground detail and edited it all together so it reads like a story.

If you’ve got a transsexual girlfriend or would like one, it also contains a lot of stuff about transsexuals that you need to know – which is why I’ve subtitled it ‘the transsexual users guide’. Think about it; lots of useless stuff has been written about men and women and their relationships, but there’s no transsexual equivalent.

Oh yeah, I’ve changed everybody’s name. I didn’t in the first draft. So if you have that one, please delete it or I’ll get myself sued.

What this is about

This is about me trying to make money.

I really need to do something with my life other than take drugs, fuck strangers and hang out in bars. Read this and you’ll understand why. I need money to get out of my current situation - so this is about trying to make money.

So if you are a publisher, an editor, have magazine or anything, please pay me money to write a book based on this, or at least an article or something. If you’re not, but know someone in publishing or the media please send it to them.

Seriously, how many real books do you read written by trannies? All the stuff I’ve read is garbage made up by middle age men, you can tell. I can just imagine them beating themselves off as they type out their middle age transsexual fantasies. Men are so fucked up. There has to be a market for the real thing – at least that what I hope.

So please send this link to any people you know in the media. Send it to any one you know who you think has contacts it the media or publishing; help get me out of here.

It’s serious, things need to change. If you don’t believe me, meet me at the Taxi Club  on a Saturday night –  if you want to give me work and want to be sure I’m the filthy tranny whore that I describe, I’ll be there. But you’ll have to buy the drinks.

Finally, if you like what you read, you are an agent or an editor or a publisher and wold liek to see the book that this turned into e-mail me and I'll send it across.

You can e-mail me at: laviniadarling@gmail.com 

Lavinia Sonderburg-Beck, Sydney, September 2009

May 21. Friday Night

Filthy tranny whore

Brittany has taken to calling herself a ‘filthy tranny whore’. 

She’s been saying this a lot recently. Tonight however was the first time she called me a filthy tranny whore.

It’s a compliment. I think.

I think accepting her tranny whore-ness is all part of the ‘self-acceptance leads to happiness’ thing that she’s got going on at the moment.

She’s into self improvement.  And it’s also true; she really is a filthy tranny whore.

Filthy tranny whore: it’s more than a statement of fact – it’s also her mission statement.  And for the time being it’s my mission statement too. I am nothing if not supportive.

Accomplishing the mission is quite straightforward and requires:

1. Someone to buy drinks.

If you’re a transsexual and you play your cards right, you will never have to buy your own drinks again. Not ever.

Some men instinctively understand that rule and comply. Those that don’t end up getting nowhere. So if you’re a guy and want to fuck a tranny you need to remember this: you buy the drinks, you buy them as fast as we can drink them and you do so without being asked.

You could get lucky and, at the very least, we will cock tease you until your money runs out. Either way, you will not regret your expenditure. If nothing else Brittany and I provide excellent value for money.

2. As few clothes as possible.

Four months ago, at Brittany’s suggestion, I adopted a lingerie only policy.

When going out I will wear a nice coat and underneath that coat will be nothing but lingerie – a lace teddy, see through camisole, a silk slip, a frilly panties and bra combo, that kind of thing.

I’d like to think it’s all very ‘Victoria’s Secret’, however, Brittany call this ‘tranny hooker chic’. The idea of the ‘look’ is to look as much like a filthy tranny whore as possible.

To her credit, her advice has been good. Looking like a hooker has paid off handsomely.

I’d like to think I do the whole ‘tranny hooker’ thing quite well and have a formula for it - I figure out how little I can wear without getting arrested for public indecency, then I put on a coat.

That’s it. I’m basically as naked as you can be without having to call a lawyer and come up with bail.

Then, I choose a handbag – a fake LV, fake Balenciaga, a real Gucci or a very lovely second had Chanel bag  (I like to accessorise well) and  top it off with an appropriately killer pair of heels – then I’m done.

3. A venue for sex

While we’d all prefer a hotel room with lots of crisp clean white sheets, an abundance of fluffy white towels and room service, trannies like us can be remarkably accommodating when it comes to places where we will have sex.

Brittany has fucked men in cupboards, inside the coat check room, in night club toilets, in the front seats of cars, in the laneway behind Oxford st – in fact it’s pointless listing locations. Brittany will have sex anywhere as long as there is at least a 75% chance of a 4 minute window of privacy.

Some statistics about Brittany:

A: Fully 40% of her sex life now takes place in the back seats of taxis.

B: About 20% of her sex life takes place in nightclub toilets.

C: She will have some kind of sexual encounter in a night club toilet at least once every evening.

4. (Optional) drugs.

Brittany has a strict ‘no drugs’ policy.

No drugs and your chances of sex with her decline 50%.

As with drinks, if  you’re a transsexual and you play your cards right, you will never have to buy your own drugs again. Not ever.

Don’t get me wrong, Brittany is not a filthy coke whore. Drugs are the bonus, not the objective.  However, another one of the ‘gang’, Lulu, is a filthy coke whore – for her it defines the mission.

May 22. Saturday Night

There’s nothing like a friend getting a new set of breasts to bring people together.

I imagine it’s like a new mother introducing her baby to the family for the first time. Every one sits around ooo-ing and ahh-ing.

Everyone wants to touch the new arrivals.

‘So cute’, ’how bueatiful’, ‘so perfect’ – ‘you lucky girl’.

There’s also a discussion about the pain – did it hurt?  Which hospital?  Which doctor? Then there are the discussions about the weight or size.

Then there are the inevitable comparisons with everyone else’s.

So much to talk about. As I said, it probably a lot like having a baby.

Those ‘new breast’ occasions are lot of fun. Last Friday, when Christie bought her new breasts home to meet the family, was one of them.

They were spectacular, she’d chosen to have them under the muscle and positioned very high, so that even when naked they still had the same height and shape that’s usually created by wearing a wonder bra.  She’d also gone for a fully round shape – in shape and size they looked like perfect half rockmelons.

For her debut she had also chosen to have a very deep brown fake tan – so they were this lovely golden brown. They really were porn-star quality breasts.

I was a bit jealous, I know a few of us were and this is sure to spark off some competitive surgery somewhere down the track.

My favourite part of occasions like this is that you get to really feel another tranny's  breasts. It’s a great excuse to touch them, cup your hands under them and feel their weight, jiggle them and touch the nipples to see how they feel and generally satisfy your curiosity.

If you’re a tranny and you’ve just had your breasts done the novelty takes about 3 months to wear off. During those three months you’re prone use even the flimsiest of excuses to show them off. If another tranny expresses any interest or even just notices them as being new, you’re inclined to invite her to touch them – or at least remove your top and show them.

So I make a point of passing a compliment if I notice something new. As a result I’ve got to play with the new breasts of maybe two dozen trannies over the last year or so.

It’s fun, and it’s also kind of sexy. I talked to Brittany about this and she feels the same way.

Brittany is particularly interested in breasts at the moment because she’s back on hormones and her breasts are growing weekly. Her plan is to see how big the hormones make them and when they stop their natural growth she’ll make a decision about surgery. It’s a sensible plan. She is a sensible girl.

For me, Brittany being back on hormones has a special best-friend bonus .

When you are on hormones, you notice your breasts growing, but on a week to week basis it’s hard to discern how much you’ve actually grown.

Because of this Brittany is always asking me how much they grown, so about once a week I get to touch her breasts. Usually in a cubicle of a toilet in a night club, this somehow seems to add to the fun.

Which brings me to last night.  Her ‘can you look at my breasts’ moment took place in an elevator between floors of a club.

So there we were. Drunk and full of drugs. I was dressed, as usual, in lingerie and perched atop my highest and pointiest heels. Brittany was dressed in a skin tight tube dress made out of very sheer cotton and thigh high suede stiletto heeled boots. We were in an elevator, alone, she had rolled her top down to her navel and I had my hands on her breasts giving her my assessment as to their progress.

I have this vivid mental image of how it must have looked – the elevator was lined with mirrors so my mental image is pretty good.

May 28. Friday Night

Transsexual lesbians

Everyone knows that men like seeing two girls get off with each other. Even the possibility that this will happen is enough to make a guy hard.

What you may not know is that two gorgeous trannies doing the same things has an even greater fascination for your average straight guy.

This is an accepted fact. I am sure there are statistics on this.

Brittany, Lulu and I know this well and will think nothing of kissing each other, touching each other’s breasts, caressing each other legs and generally creating this huge ‘lesbian’ scene at a nightclub or bar.

The results are instantaneous. The minute I start fooling around with Brittany, we have everyone’s attention.

It’s all for show. It’s not a sexual thing, though it is a sensual thing. And there’s a big difference.

I’ve discussed this at length with both Brittany and Lulu and the consensus seems to be that we all enjoy this.

How much we enjoy this and how far we take it depends on a number of factors – the night, how much we’ve had to drink, drugs, who is watching; there are variables.

It’s safe to say, that under the right circumstances, Lulu, Brittany and I would be happy to go all the way with each other

I also know for a fact that Brittany and Lulu have – Brittany has teased me with the following story for months.

They were both out without me (I have no idea where I was that night), anyway, they were both at Arq (a club) fooling around with each other trying to get attention. There were a lot of trannies there that night; competition has always inspired some of our best performances.  

So they are fooling about madly when this older guy, Lulu reckons he was about 55, but the way Brittany tells the story he comes off sounding like he was a septuagenarian, anyway the guy comes straight over and within minutes offers them $1000 to watch them fuck each other. A thousand dollars; from my experience this seems to be the going rate for this kind of thing.

His offer includes a room at the Radisson and a gram of coke (I think, for Lulu at least, the coke was the deal maker).

What’s a girl to do?

Now, neither Brittany, despite herself declared ‘filthy tranny whore’ status, nor Lulu or I are ‘real whores’, that is we don’t go out there to solicit men for money, we may have been given money, but this is a different thing - it doesn’t count as whoring.

After a brief discussion they agreed that this really didn’t count either – so Brittany fucked Lulu while the guy just masturbated. The whole thing was over in an hour and in 90 minutes they were back at Arq.

A thousand bucks just to watch two trannies fuck each other – I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of this story.

If they only knew mine.

Ok, so the point of the story is if we want attention we will generally do our ‘lesbian’ thing and it will always work. It’s actually quite funny. If Brittany sees a straight looking guy she likes she’ll immediately start caressing my legs. Sometimes the first sign I get that some guy is cheeking us out is when I feel Brittany’s finger tips on my thigh.

My legs have got Brittany laid more times than they’ve got me laid.

Being a real whore would be easy. One of us gets offered money nearly every night. Of the ten most asked questions that men ask me, ‘are you working tonight’ comes in at about number 9.

Being a tranny can be tough. It’s not an easy thing. It’s no wonder so many of us become whores. The surprising this is that so many of us are not.

May 29. Saturday Night

I don’t have a real life

My tits aren’t real, neither is my hair, my skin colour, my race, my name my accent – you name it and I invent it on a nightly basis.

I’m sort of Asian; I’m, actually half Asian. I won’t be any more specific than that. I’m not Korean, Philipino, Thai, Chinese or even Japanese, you’ll have to guess. Get it right and I’ll let you buy me a drink.

Because I’ve got dusky skin and my looks are kind of hard to pin down, with the right eye makeup and hairstyle, or wig, I can make myself look very Asian.

So the Asian trannies tend to accept me. Which is very important because in the tranny scene the Asians are where the fun is – all the prettiest girls are Asian and western men seem to have this fetish for them, so if I can ride that train I’m a happy girl.

All my tranny friends are Asian too. I have a few and none of them, not one, is a westerner.

Don’t ask me why, I didn’t make choices, this is just how it happened.

For the record, Brittany is Vietnamese. Lulu is Thai, Mimi is Korean, Miranda is Philippine. These are my closest tranny friends.

Miranda has the most lovely accent, it’s a Philippine accent, the kind of Philippine accent that’s got an American 'twang' to it – it’s very international. I’ve made a study of it and can mimic it with some precision. At night when out with the girls I've taken to using it.

It’s so good that I’ve had Americans asking me where I was from – meaning where in the ‘states’ was I from. I always answer that question with some random lie ‘I lived there as a child’, ‘my father was American’, ‘I lived in LA for 10 years’  (I’ve probably only spent 3 months there all up). I lie about everything. I even lie with my accent. Only my close tranny friends know the truth.

So, tonight I’m out with Brittany. I’m wearing a skin tight leopard print dress with a deep V neck; I’ve padded out my bra so my breasts look huge. I’ve coordinated with a pair of very high, very pointy leopard print shoes and I’ve pinned a hair piece to the back of my head so I’ve got ‘big hair’. Brittany looks.... well she looks like someone kidnapped Pamela Anderson’s stylist, force-fed her acid, gave her 3 square feet of pink Lycra and set her to work on Brittany.

To look at any of either of us, it would be hard to imagine we had real lives. I mean no one looks like we do in real life.

Which figures because I really don’t have a real life. This is as close as I come to one.

I’m my own little Barbie doll and at night I dress it up and take it out to play with it.

Meet me in the day time and you’re talking to a different person. I look different, I have a different name and I even sound different, I am different. There’s no way you’d connect the two. The day time me is just another invention.

Neither the day or night ‘me’ are real. So I really don’t have a real life. Not the way most people would define one.

And that’s the great thing.

I can be whoever I want. I can reinvent myself every night. And it’s fun; it’s so much fun.

So, I’m sitting with his sweet little guy, he’s really cute looking, not groovy or fashionable, just well dressed he’s wearing these nice shoes, they could be Versus,  (the rounded pointy ones from last season) and he’s being so charming. And plying Brittany and I with drinks.

We were both waiting for Lulu, she was a no-show. But we were having or own fun, as we do.

So there I was. I was in leopard print with big hair, looking like I may be Asian, talking like I may be from Milwaukee,  I’m completely drunk and this guy asks me ‘where are you from’ and I reply, “I’m not sure yet”.

It was a throw-away line, I mean, I wanted it to sound sort of sarcastic, but I was pretty drunk and so I just kind of blurted it out without thinking it through. But Brittany, she explodes into laughter. I mean, she knows me. She knows me, not because she knows me, but because she’s the same – if you know what I mean, so she knew exactly where my little throw-away line was coming from.

So I start laughing too, not because what I said was that funny, but because Brittany is laughing so hard.

So there are these two very drunk trannies, laughing their heads off and this poor guy in the middle with a ‘what the fuck’ look on his face.

This look of confusion is also funny. We look at each other, look at him and just keep laughing.

Really, I know it doesn’t sound that funny, you had to be there, but now, five hours later. I think about it and it still makes me laugh.

June 4. Friday Night

Poor Steve.

Steve has been in a dysfunctional relationship with Brittany for the last few months.

Seriously, I felt sorry for him, he was in way over his head with Brittany. She had disappeared about 20 minutes ago, she said she was going to the ladies and simply never returned.

Steve was too scared to text her as they’d already had a fight about how insecure he was.

Here’s the deal: If Steve texts her, it will prove he is insecure and Brittany will be angry with him.

If Steve doesn’t call her, she will get angry as it will prove he doesn’t care enough.

I’d be insecure if I was going out with her too. This was never going to be an easy relationship for Steve, and now, downing his fourth beer, he was telling me all about it.

I know moments like these. It’s the moment when your friend’s boyfriend finds himself alone with his best friend’s girl friend and wants to have a some sort of discussion with them about ‘the relationship’.

This is why women go to the ladies rooms in groups or pairs. I should have followed Brittany.

I am only vaguely interested in conversations like this. Relationship counselling is not my thing. Relationships are not my thing.

Poor Steve, he just couldn’t figure her out. It was all ‘she’s so tough’, ‘she won’t let me in’, ‘what does she want from me’ and ‘what am I doing wrong’. The answer to the last question is ‘nothing’. No matter what Steve did Brittany would still be fucking with his head.

Now, I could tell him why. I could tell him about trannies, but what’s the point. He’d never understand.

Trannies: your old friends and family cut you off or disapprove and relationships are strained. Half the people you pass on the street look at you like you were a freak. It’s almost impossible to get work commensurate with your talent, education or skill. Meaningful relationships are hard to find. Most men end up treating you like shit. You go through a lot of physical pain. Hormones take you on this crazy emotional up-down ride. And this is just where it starts, I could go on.

Unless you’ve gone through it, there’s no way you can understand us. So while I feel for Steve and while I could tell him all sorts of things, there’s nothing much I can do but send him to the bar to get me a drink.

Steve; it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. It’s not him, it her. It’s us. But as I said before, there’s no way he can ever understand.

So Steve gets back with my drink and all I can really do for him is listen. So I did.

It’s not like I was the centre of attention tonight, but having Steve going all ‘relationship’ on me was limiting my options, no guy was going to hit on me while they thought I was with him. And it’s not like I could just stand up and say ‘you’re boring now’ and walk away.

So there I sat, listening.

I’m not sure how therapeutic my presence was, I kept gazing around the bar hoping someone was going to come and rescue me. I saw Miranda, but she thought I was ‘with Steve’ so she just game me a wink and moved on.

I was getting drunker and, despite having my ear, Steve was getting more and more sullen.

Steve was a rarity. He was really into Brittany and not just for sex. He liked her company; he took her out, in public, during the day, to straight places. He bought her gifts, picked her up when she was drunk, drove her around and, according to Brittany, was also hung like a Shetland pony. He was a tranny dream.  He just couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong.

Tonight I looked ravishing. I teased up my hair into this big, tousled  ‘bed hair’ nest of a thing and had on this black lacy baby-doll dress thing and these really high peep-toes shoes and it’s all being wasted on Brittany’s relationship dramas.

After another 20 minutes of sympathy and alcohol my luck changed. Steve decided to leave.

Steve leaving would make Brittany angry, it would prove he didn’t care.

If Steve stayed, it would make Brittany angry, as it would prove Steve was weak and needy.

As I said; it’s a head fuck. And it’s all quite deliberate on Brittany’s part.

Soon after his departure I found Brittany in a corner with a Bloody Mary in one hand and a Lebanese guy in the other. She asked me where Steve was and when I said ‘gone’ and she was straight on the phone to him.

She was predictably furious. It was all ‘how dare you go, you could have texted me, how can you leave me stranded....’ that kind of thing. Sure enough by the time the call was over it was agreed that he’d return at 4am to pick her up. Poor Steve. He was clueless and powerless. It makes you wonder what kind of relationship he had with his mother.

At about 3am my luck changed again. Neto, my regular casual fuck had arrived. I know what he’d come for. Within minutes he was on his way out. With me. Ten minutes later we were at his studio. Eleven minutes later I was naked.

Neto isn’t his real name, I think ‘Neto’ means grandson or something, he real name is Luiz Eduardo Tavares Silva (how sexy is that) and he’s from Brazil.

Neto was about 10 years younger than me and absolutely drop dead gorgeous. He’s got this lean smooth, hairless tanned, tight muscular little body and thick, wavy, dark hair that falls nearly to his shoulders. He’s a honey.

He came to Australia at 19 to go to university and stayed. Even though he’s got a Masters in Commerce he works as a bicycle courier – he figures at 24 he’s got plenty of time before he has to go home and get a career. We’d been fucking casually for about 5 months now.

Sex was Neto always good but never imaginative. With Neto, there was a routine:

I dropped to my knees and slowly unbuttoned his fly, pulling out his cock and sliding it into my mouth. I sucked him slowly and gently, running my tongue over every contour, until he was very hard. Sometimes I would stop, and just spend a moment licking his head, like it was an ice-cream, before sliding it back into my mouth, he groaned with pleasure.

He then sucked my cock until I was firm as well. He liked to sink his teeth gently into my shaft, he was gentle with this, it never hurt, and the firm pressure of his teeth pushing into me feels so exciting.

Then it was my turn to suck his again.  

His cock wasn’t huge, I reckon about 7 inches (he said it was 8) but his shaft is extraordinarily fat. It was fatter in the middle than it was at the head or the base, so it kind of looks like a barrel.

I suck him until he gets really, really hard. I feel his cock almost pulsing in my mouth, like it’s about to explode, then I stop before he comes.

Naked we roll lazily onto his bed. At first we face each other and kiss, deeply. We explore each other mouths with our tongues. He slides his head down to my breasts and takes each one, in turn, into his mouth, his hot wet tongue playing with my nipples. I squirm with pleasure.

Lazily I rollover onto my side he draws me close and we explore each other with our hands and fingers. He always feels amazing, he was so firm and his skin so smooth. Together we’d generate so much heat; the movement of our bodies lubricated by the sweat from our skin.

I feel his hands move hungrily over my breasts, my cock, my ass.

I slowly slide my ass up to meet his cock.  He grinds his cock into the flesh of my ass for a few minutes. I can feel how hard he is, his cock is hot, I can feel its heat. I wiggle my ass against it eagerly. Then, as he starts to slide his rock hard cock gently into me, he reaches one hand over to my cock and starts pulling me slowly and rhythmically. 

As the tip of his cock move inside me, I feel a burst of pleasure as my ass closes around it. He pauses for a moment as I pushed myself down on it. I gently rock my hips and press hard down on his cock until it is deep, deep inside me.

He starts to slowly grind his hips into me. I can feel his cock’s gentle pressure inside me. I can feel the heat of his body against my back as he does, I can feel the warmth of our sweat on our skins.

Then slowly he would start pumping, gently at first, then harder as he pushed deeper. All the time one of his hands was pulling my cock gently, as I grow harder and harder.  

He gently takes my right hand and brings it to his ass. I knew what to do and extended my index finger, he guided my finger so the tip was just inside him.

As he starts to push my finger inside him he pulls me harder and faster, I could feel the heat and pressure, I was holding it back, trying not to come.

Then, just as I was about to explode, he pushed my finger deep into his ass and we both came at the same time. It was beautiful, I could feel my cum, hot and wet on his hand. I could feel him explode inside me, his cock throbbing.

Breathless and exhausted we lay there, still, silently holding each other as a wave of intense pleasure flooded over us. It was a quiet, gentle moment.

After wards we just lay about smoking and talking, not about anything in particular, about stuff, about the sex we’d just had.

Last night I also talked about Steve and Brittany.  Neto laughed and called me a ‘silly little girl’ (despite being 10 years younger he acted like he was older and wiser, I think this is some Brazilian guy thing). He said that Steve and Brittany were always going to fight, Steve was never going to understand, and he’d always come back and pick her up and that any time I spent comforting him was time wasted. ‘You silly girl’, he was right, but I knew all that anyway. What was interesting was to discover that Neto understood that too. He was more insightful than I’d given him credit for, a likable trait. I’m not sure I was conformable with that.

I never stayed, I don’t, want him to see me in the day light and I certainly don’t want to face Saturday morning shoppers dressed like a hooker, so, as usual, just before sunrise I left.

June 5. Saturday Part 1

Brittany

“I’m a gold digger…? I am way worse than that honey. I am a strip mining operation”, Brittany took another slow drag on her cigarette and lazily exhaled into this guys face, she ashed the cigarette and continued in his calm, collected and measured way that made it sound all the nastier.

“A gold digger?” She paused for effect, “these (she wiggled her empty Martini glass in the air) are Martinis, not diamond”. Again she pauses, takes a drag on her cigarette before continuing, “does mummy know what you’re spending your lunch money on?”

How cool was that? I thought, as abuse goes, it was really good. Brittany has this evil tongue on her – I can barely hope to write stuff that good, let alone pull it out of thin air while drunk in a crowded bar. It’s classic Brittany.

Nobody was making this guy buy us drinks. If he didn’t want to, a polite ‘no’ would have sufficed. But this guy keeps buying them. Finally after demanding what was evidently a Martini too far he just makes this snide little remark to Brittany. Big mistake.

There’s no telling how she’ll respond, at any given moment. She was just as likely to make sweet talk to keep him happy, as she was to cut him to pieces.  She likes to say that she is ‘capricious’, she uses words like that from time to time. Capricious, it’s such a Brittany word.

She can do and say shit I could not ever get away with – or have the nerve to try. She just knows instinctively when she can get away with stuff.

Sometimes Brittany and I will be walking down the street, between watering holes, and something will happen – you know, some guys will snigger and whisper to each other as we pass, or some passing yahoo in a car will leer out his window and yell something stupid – and Brittany will yell right back. She’ll put on her best ‘man voice’ (you know, drop her voice a few octaves), and scream “suck my 8 inch cock” (or something like that), and follow it up with a howl of drunken laughter. She’s a lot of fun. Even walking to the bar with her is an adventure.

So Brittany delivers her little ‘lunch money’ speech and this guy just stands there blinking for a moment before coming out with a feeble sounding ‘fuck you bitch’ before storming off. The minute his back is turned this big fat grin just spreads across her face and she bursts into this evil cackle of laughter. It was contagious. Fuck, we are both such bitches sometimes.

June 5. Saturday Part 2

Lulu and filthy coke whore-ness

Poor Lulu, at the moment she is a bona fide filthy coke whore.

I know it sounds judgemental. But I have my reasons.

Tonight she disappeared at about 3 am and never returned. Which is not a surprise. What was surprising is the guy she disappeared with – Derek. Derek is notorious ‘tranny trade’ and a thoroughly charmless man. What he lacks in charm he makes up for with coke. I know Lulu and her standards are quite high. In the last few weeks she’s exchanged her standards for coke a few times. And it’s got me thinking.

Some back ground first: Lulu is the only one of the gang that’s had a sex change. In fact Lulu has spent about $70,000 on plastic surgery.

In my book it’s money well spent. Lulu looks the way Brittany and I will probably end up looking a few years down the track.

Lulu looks like a sex toy – really, she looks like one of those inflatable Asian sex dolls. She is perfect. In fact if she sits really still she looks like one of those ‘real girl’ latex doll things. It’s remarkable

She looks so perfect that she doesn’t look real – if you know what I mean. She is skinny and has these very large firm breasts with nipples that are always hard. (I know this for a fact because I’ve touched them). Her skin is also this flawless creamy brown, she is hairless and smooth – she is the archetypical perfect Thai tranny.

Ok, so Lulu is a filthy coke whore and it could have something to do with us.

Let me explain: from my experience, men like girls with big cocks. I know this is true because men are always as asking me if I have one and how big it is.  Men always ask this, they are, generally speaking, two of the first 5 questions they ask me.

Question 6 or 7 is usually about their chances of touching it or sucking it.

I’m getting weary of being asked the same stupid questions by men. I’ve stopped answering them.  In fact I’m so over it that if the subject of my cock comes up in the first few minutes of conversation, your chances of a favourable answer to questions 6 and 7 will be very low.

Lulu will answer your questions. Unfortunately Lulu’s answers are not always the answers they want – and Lulu is confused about this and somewhat disappointed.

While Brittany and I are really happy to have cocks, Lulu is one of those trannies that wasn’t – she’s not upset about her decision. Nor is she unhappy with the quality of the Thai workmanship that’s gone into her transformation (and I’ve seen her vagina and it’s perfect too, it looks like one of those airbrushed vagina’s you see in porno magazines) – anyway, despite being the most beautiful of all of us, she gets the least action. It’s weird.

I know whatever is going on with Lulu is more complex than that. I’ve got some other ideas about this, but nothing’s crystallised yet, so I may come back to this subject another day.

June 9. Wed Evening

Neto is a great fuck

Our relationship is simple. About once a fortnight, on a Friday or Saturday night, sometime between 3 am and 5, when we are both drunk, we’ll have sex. It’s all over in about 90 minutes – our entire relationship takes place in this small span of time. Even though I’ve been seeing him for months, we’ve only spent about a dozen hours together.

In all those times we’ve fucked, not once has he walked me down stairs and seen me safely into a taxi. Not once.

That tells me exactly where I am with him and I will happily fuck him until the day that changes.

I know what I’m like. A lot of physical intimacy usually leads to some level of emotional intimacy and that leads to expectations. Neto is great because for some reason it hasn’t. Not yet anyway, and I’m safe fucking him until it does.

June 11. Friday Night

I reckon all men are only about a dozen bourbon and cokes away from being gay. Ok, maybe not from being gay, but from fucking a tranny.

Is there a word for men who are not gay but into trannies? There is a serious deficit of words in the English language.

I have met so many men that will hit on me, tell me how ‘not gay’ they are, and then ask how big my cock is.

So, for the record:

They are not gay.

I’m not gay either. Trannies are not gay. I only like straight men.

Gay men are gay. That’s why they’re called ‘gay men’.

Gay men are most definitely not into trannies. And we are not into them.

I hope I’ve cleared all this up.

Which brings me to Trent.

It was something like 3.30 am and it was not looking good for me. Brittany was with Steve, her boyfriend, and they were having a deep and meaningful moment. Lulu was yawning. I don’t think she was going to last much longer. And I was with this guy; Trent.

I was never going to fuck Trent, there was no chance. He was all wrong. He had that yuppie look that I hate, chinos, a Polo shirt with the collar flipped up and a TAG watch, an entry level TAG. It all gave him that try-hard look that young real estate agents have.

It was a boring and very generic young white guy look. I’m not into that.

Ok, that’s not entirely true. I can be into that, I guess the truth was that I was just not into him or ‘that’ tonight.

He also had that obnoxious yuppie attitude that makes my skin crawl, you know the one.

Anyway, Trent was an idiot. I’m sitting there looking like I’d just jumped out of a cake at a bucks party - a lacy black body suit, frilly little lacy shorts and a black lace corset top with these really hot leopard print stilettos – and all he’s doing is talking about how boring his girlfriend is and how much home prices have gone up in the Eastern suburbs. This was history’s worst small talk. Wish I had a tape recorder and I would have taped it and transcribed it for you. There’s no way to really communicate how dull it was. The thing is, I don’t think he had a clue how boring it was to listen to.

I wouldn’t normally endure stuff like this, I’m quite good at blowing men off, but I didn’t want to sit alone. Not that I was really alone, it’s just as I said, Brittany was having a D& M with Steve and Lulu was sleepy – and besides, Trent was buying me drinks.

Ok, this  is too much detail and you don’t really need to know.

It was getting late and Trent was moving away from small talk and into the subject of what are you doing later tonight. It being later tonight I said, “this” charming and witty am I not? Trent politely feigned amusement and continued pressing onwards.

Digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself as he went on.

Some of his conversational gems: ‘”how long have you been dressing up ?” “Are you always a girl ?” Stuff like this gets you nowhere with trannies.

I told you, he was an idiot – and you know how much I hate stupid questions.

I was scanning the room looking for someone to rescue me. I was pouting, crossing my legs, batting my eyelashes; I was turning everything on to try attract someone else.

Despite looking right through him, Trent was of the impression my performance was for him.

There was more stupid conversation, then this statement came out, “I’m not gay you know”. Which brings me back to where I started.

The question for me is why? Why do men want me to know they are not gay?

I don’t think it’s me they’re trying to convince. Trent, with all that tedious talk of his girlfriend (Belinda I think it was – Belinda, if you’re reading this, dump him, he’s boring and he cheats and he has secret fantasies about transsexuals, e-mail me and I will tell you everything).

Anyway, I’ll start that again.

Trent with all that talk of his girlfriend, and there was so much talk of his girlfriend, and then telling me many times that ‘he was not gay’ – none of that stuff was for my benefit, that was for his benefit – poor Trent was all confused and trying to convince himself he could sleep with me and not be gay.

If you’re asking me to validate anything, you’re talking to the wrong girl. Come to think of it, if you’re asking a girl like me to validate anything for you, you’ve got issues.

June 12. Saturday afternoon.

Your last straight day on planet earth

Over the phone you could hear that Brittany was laughing her little head off “you filthy tranny whore” she cackled.  “What do you mean a ‘dozen bourbon and cokes away from being gay’” she said, “I reckon I could get them there in 8”.

Not only did we have a game to play, she had a goal. Tonight will be fun.

June 12. Saturday Night.

Across the road from the Taxi Club (the tranny bar where we usually meet) is the straightest bar on the street, the Courthouse, it’s a low rent dive that’s open all night. The chosen haunt of drunk Irish back packers, and people too badly dressed to get in anywhere else, it’s a venue of last resort, so we only go there when we are crazy. On Saturday nights they have live music, usually some girl singing power ballads to a drum machine while being accompanied by a guy on a synthesiser. It’s pretty tragic.

We were going to try our sordid little game here.

We may be the only trannies lunatic enough to come here, and we come for that reason, we are instantly the focus of attention and there is zero tranny competition.

You hear a lot of stories about trannies that have had the crap beaten of of them on the street, it’s true.  Things can get ugly late at night, so I make it a rule, no matter where I go, to flirt with the bouncers and get to know a thing or two about them.

The bouncer I been flirting with at the Courthouse was an Islander called Pheu, or something like that, they always have these huge names, so this ‘Phue’ was a considerable abbreviation.

Pheu always gave me a nod and a smile, I always made small talk. We had an understanding. If any evil shit went down I knew I’d have back up. It’s why we felt safe playing our game there.

Tonight Brittany looked devastating; she had on this pink frilly party dress that looks like it had been designed by some Japanese girl for her Barbie doll. It was all frou frou and this cotton candy pink colour.  It’s a style I call ‘jail bait’ and her personal contribution to fabulousness.

I had on my favourite leopard print V neck mini dress and matching shoes. So I looked like a hooker.

Brittany and I would take it in turns to teeter off to the bar for drinks. And we were drinking fast. This place is fun drunk, and kind of terrifying sober.

Maybe it was too early or maybe we were just too out-there looking, but it took nearly 30 minutes before the first guy came up and said ‘hi’.

He was clearly interested in Brittany, some guys are just really into Asian trannies and Brittany looks way more Asian that I do. She dyes her hair blonde too and it’s quite sexy – that whole Asian chick with dyed blonde hair thing is quite exotic.

Anyway this guy is plastered, his friends at the table across the bar are leering at us, clearly they have put him up to this, they all looked like they we in their early 20 and knew nothing.

He was also poorly dressed, very hairy and was wearing trainers, not Brittany’s type - while it may have taken him 8 drinks to fuck Brittany it would have taken her 18 to fuck him.

After about 2 minutes of drunken banality he lurched back to join his friends, who all slapped him on his back as they congratulated him on his daring. Poor bastard. He’d probably really would love to sleep with a tranny, but while he’s hanging out with all that ‘hetro’ peer group pressure he’s doomed to waste his little life living in a very straight box.

Ten minutes later some guy blew Brittany a kiss, Brittany did her best to tease him over, but he never got up the courage.

About 15 minutes later we nearly got lucky again, he was about mid thirties, really clean cut, he nervously walked over avoiding eye contact as he did, but the poor guy lost his nerve and instead of making a move he asked Brittany where the cigarette machine was,  ‘it’s right behind you’.

There was nearly another chance when some guy sitting alone at the bar started making eyes at me, I can tell when  a guy is doing the ‘eye’  thing, this went on for a few  minutes, until his friend returned from bathroom and they picked up their conversation.

Anyway, this game was going nowhere, but we didn’t care, it was heaps of fun and we were getting nicely drunk.

Another ten minutes or so passed before we got our first real shot. A group of three young guys came over and asked if they could join us. Two of them were really friendly. Really nice, sweet guys, again, in their early 20s. The third one was the one we both picked as the real possibility.

The poor guy, he was the drunkest and quietest of the three and he simply could not keep his eyes of Brittany, we can read the signs. Clearly, he was fascinated, and by the look of it he’d never been this close to a tranny before, you can tell. So he sat quietly, stealing glances at Brittany while his more confident mates laid on the charm

I don’t think they wanted to fuck us, I think they just wanted to talk so they could have a story to tell the next day about how they talked to these tranny prostitutes in a bar. I’m cool with that. As long as they are buying, Brittany and I are nothing if not generous with our time.

The oldest (I can’t remember his name) and most sober one bought us a round of drinks and the conversation resumed, he started taking about the band, the singer was currently belting out a redition of ‘the power of love’ we were both laughing at it. He was funny, they were sweet. Brittany asked then how much they had to drink. I knew what she was establishing. They estimated they were on their ninth or tenth round, but for purposes of our competition it was close enough to the magic 8.

It was fun and after about 5 minutes of fun Brittany declared ‘I have to check the parking meter’, which was a pretty stupid lie as there’s no meter after 10 pm, but they weren’t local so didn’t pick up on it. Besides, Brittany doesn’t drive.

I knew what she was doing.

She stood and picked up her hand bag as if to make for the door, then paused, turned casually to the quiet one and said, words to the effect of ‘it’s not safe out there, can you take the walk with me?’ They looked at him and peer group pressure got him of his stool, Brittany took his hand and out the door she went.

We kept talking, the older one kept being funny and was speculating as to what the worst power ballad the band could perform, it was agreed that ‘I’ve never been to me’ would sound pretty dreadful.  

Anyway, it was about 5 minutes later, I could tell because the band had completed a rendition of “they built this city on rock ‘n roll” and were half way in to ‘hotel California’ when the older guy’s phone went off, it was a text.

He checked the message and told me it was from ‘Anthony’. It seems ‘Anthony’ was outside and he had to go (Anthony being the guy that Brittany had walked out with). Seems that Anthony was ‘very drunk’ and needed ‘help’.

I had no idea what to make of this.

At this point Brittany walked back in, they asked where Anthony was and she indicated to the door, within a few seconds they were on their way out. The older guy kissed my hand, (can you believe that?) and said how nice it was to meet me. The feeling was mutual; as they walked out Brittany gave me this huge Cheshire cat grin.

I was dying to know what happened.

The story goes something like this. She’d led him outside and around the corner into the dark alley behind Kinselas night club; there she made a move on him. It was a slow move at first. She put her hand around his waist and the other on his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. He didn’t respond, but nor did he move away, he let himself linger in the moment for a while.  After a few still moments she made a slow move on his cock, at this point he pulled away and started walking and apologising.

Evidently there was some muttering about having a girlfriend and how he’d better get back to his friends - before heading the wrong way down the alley. The poor thing. There was more detail, but you get the idea. Brittany had freaked him out. Brittany was glowing as she told the story.

He must have been too terrified to return, which is why he texted his friends to make them leave.

Though it wasn’t sex, but we both agreed that it counted for something. And it kind of proved our point. He was young, straight, had a girlfriend, was out with his straight friends and after  just 9 drinks he allowed a tranny to kiss him and touch his cock in the back alley behind a nightclub.

There is no such thing as a straight guy.

We sat there giggling like naughty school girls until we’d finished our drinks.

June 26. Saturday Night

I’ll fuck nearly anyone, but I’m not going to fuck anyone who thinks I’m a slut.

I had a Cosmopolitan in one hand, a cigarette in the other and Oscar’s hand slowly working its way up my thigh. I was figuring I’d found some fun for the evening.

His small talk was going ok, nothing serious, nothing arty, nothing at all sentimental. He was in fact talking about the music.

Gay clubs around here always tend to play the same terrible dance music. It’ pretty generic. If you weren’t drunk or full of drugs it would be boring. Oscar was pondering the ‘why’ of it all. Why do gay clubs always sound the same? It’s a good question.

He was slowly making his way up my leg, and I could tell he was enjoying it, he was caressing my thigh like he wanted to experience every moment of it. Unlike a lot of guys, it wasn’t some mad rush for the top.

He’d finally made his way to the very top of my leg; his fingers were curled along my thigh along the point where my thighs met my panties.

He paused momentarily, I know from experience this was to gauge whether I’d allow his hands to continue their journey.

Then it all unravelled for him, he asked “how big is your cock?”

I took a lazy drag of my Dunhill and, doing my best to impersonate Brittany, exhaled very deliberately into his lovely tanned young face. I get asked some really stupid questions.

More than just stupid, they’re insulting: if a man starts off a conversation along these lines it means one thing: he’s basically telling you he thinks you’re a slut.

Think about it this way, would he have asked a woman that question? Maybe not that particular question, but you know what I mean – such a direct personal, intimae and sexual question? No.

I’ll fuck nearly anyone, but I’m not going to fuck anyone who thinks I’m a slut.

Oscar was by any standard quite cute. Exceptionally cute. About 30, if I had to guess, clean, tanned, muscular, his cologne was lovely (Tom Ford I think) and he was dressed well. He was wearing a Brietling, so he had some money too. If you’d seen him you would think I was an idiot for writing him off like that. But the thing is I just want some guy to treat me nicely and talk to me like I was a real girl. Sure, you could say I’m asking for it, and yes, I do dress like a stripper, but so what?

Another thing appealed to me about Oscar was that he had chosen me and not any of the Five Thai trannies at the table across from where I’d been sitting when we met. This wasn't just any table of five trannies; it was a table of the very, very hot Thai trannies. They we gorgeous, and they knew it.  As far as trannies go they were the gold standard.

I could see them as Oscar made his move on me – they were looking. And they were jealous. I loved that. I’m not just flattering myself, trust me, I know this stuff, these girls are very competitive, he was very cute and I know what they were thinking.

 The ‘Five’ as I call them were a tight clique and kept very much to themselves. Sure, they are friendly in that way all trannies are to each other, but very few outside their clique ever shared their table. I know that a guy like Oscar choosing me, very publicly, over them, would enhance my perceived hot-ness.

I care about this kind of thing because I am vain and superficial.

Also, if not for Oscar I would be alone. Brittany was a no-show tonight; some drama with her boyfriend, Steve, was going down and Lulu had disappeared about 25 minutes ago; though she said she was coming back ‘soon’.

Also, I don’t like to be seen sitting alone, even if I’m never alone for long.

And it’s for those reasons I let Oscar’s question slide, “darling, just keep buying me drinks and you’ll find out”.

I didn’t really let the question slide. I had a new set of plans for Oscar.  If I wasn’t going to fuck him, at least I could fuck with him. 

‘How big is your cock?’ Asking that question of me was like showing all your cards. I knew just how to play him. But before I get into my game plan, you need to know a couple of things:

Lulu and at least four of the Five are post-op transsexuals.

Oscars question about the size of my cock indicated a preference – hence his attention to me and not them.

I planned to use this knowledge to give Oscar a surprise and Lulu a ‘present’. Have I mentioned that I am evil? I’m not sure if I mentioned that. It may be useful to know for future reference.

Ok, Step one was to lead Oscar to believe that he was going to succeed in his quest. This was relatively easy. At the panty line Oscar had paused before asking his ‘cock’ question, his hand was still resting there. I simply wiggled my thigh against it, as if to communicate pleasure, and he continued his journey.

I placed my coat, which was on the back of the chair onto my lap, which allows him to move his hand directly onto my cock. He started stroking it gently. I became aroused which I am sure satisfied him that he’d found what he was looking for. As I harden, my resolve usually weakens, but not tonight.

I placed my hand bag (I’d chosen a white fake Chanel for the evening) on his lap with provided cover for me to do the same to him. He was already hard. This was too easy.

After about 10 or so minutes of this Lulu returned. She’d been cruising the club and not picked up, so back she came. On her arrival I suggested we go to the ladies, I suggested to Oscar that this would be a great time to buy Lulu and I another drink.

Which bought me to step 2, getting Lulu to buy into my evil scheme. It wasn’t hard. Brittany, Lulu and I are always playing games with people, so I know that Lulu is always a willing accomplice. And besides, Oscar was super cute.

It was also a chance to mess with the Five - we both know they would be continuing to observe us. Trannies are vigilant. We knew how much conversation it would kick off if they saw us both leaving with him together.

So, with a fresh Cosmopolitan in one hand and Oscars cock in the other I proceeded to step 3.

Ok, step 3.

Lulu started playing her part in the scheme, for her this was easy. While Oscar was caressing my thigh I started to caress Lulu’s. Lulu reciprocated and in a few minutes a game of bar stool twister was unfolding.

Lulu had her hand on my thigh; I had my hand on Oscars cock. Oscars hand was resting on my panties. Lulu’s other had was resting on Oscars thigh. Oscar was very hard and very hot.

I whispered into Oscar’s ear words to the effect of, “if you want me, you have to fuck Lulu too”. Every guy wants a threesome. For little Oscar, this was a dream come true.

Oscar whispered back “does she have a big cock?”

I am evil and I lie. “Oh, Oscar...  it’s huge”. Step 4 completed

Oscar was in, the hook was set. The poor thing. Now to bleed him dry.

I demanded champagne. Lulu voiced her enthusiasm and Oscar was dispatched for a bottle of Moet. For him, with the prospect of a threesome with two lovely well hung young ladies on the horizon, this was a trifling price to pay. I didn’t even want champagne. I am just evil and this was, after all, step 5.

Another bottle later we were all in a taxi heading for my house when I pretended to get a text from my ‘boyfriend’. A lie of course. I suggested that they drop me off, I deal with ‘him’, then meet them both at Lulu’s.

I arrived home and exited the cab. I never went to Lulu’s.

And my game? I guess you’ve figured that out – poor Oscar wanted a girl with a cock. Soon enough he’d discover that Lulu didn’t have one. Being drunk, and having invested so heavily in the game, he’d probably be inclined to make the most of the situation.

Don’t forget, Lulu knew the deal and went into it anyway, so the way I see it, though I’d messed with Oscar, I’d still performed a public service for them both.

Post script.

Lulu is useless, two days passed and she didn’t call me to tell me how it played out. So I called her. Seems like it played out ok for her. Clever me.  Though, something weird is up with Lulu; when she was speaking with me she had this ‘tone’. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something else going on with that girl at the moment.

June 30. Wednesday Evening

Lulu changes

I could be wrong about this.

Lulu always had this sadness in her. I can see it even if no one else can.

She’s also turned into coke whore, which I think is a sign of something. And she’s been increasingly sulky; nothing seems to really make her happy.

When I called Lulu on Monday night to see how she’d gone with Oscar, there was this ‘tone’ to her voice, something new, something on top of the sadness.

Something new is going on.  I’ve been thinking about this, I might be a little paranoid, but something is up, I’m wondering if it was me.

I’m confused by it. I’m not sure if I understand what I’ve done, or even if I’ve done anything.

Lulu’s sadness: I’ve got a theory about it.

First, don’t get me wrong this sadness, it’s always been there.  It’s just I think that Lulu thought the sex change would solve her problems. I don’t think it did.

I don’t think that the way things are now are the way she imagined things would be for her. Don’t ask me why, I really don’t know, I just have a sense of it.

And here’s where it get a little strange for me.

I’ve seen this sadness in Lulu for a while. I don’t know why, but I feel like I understand it. I feel like I know that sadness and what it’s about. For some reason I find it attractive. Weird huh?

There’s also a whole other thing going on with Lulu and me. Like Brittany, She really knows me. I never have to explain anything about anything to her, she just ‘gets’ me. So it’s really good when we are together because we never have to talk about rubbish just to fill up the space.

I think that I want to fuck her, though I’m not totally sure. Maybe I’m getting mixed up. Maybe I’m confusing empathy, or whatever I feel for her, with lust. I haven’t figured it out.

I really hate this; I go to a lot of trouble not to have anything complicated or complex going on in my life. Who I am is complicated enough without other people factoring into it.

July 1. Thursday Evening

Amelie

I’ve been thinking about Lulu’s sadness.

This means I need a hobby, you know something to keep my brain busy during those week nights when the clubs are dead.

Anyway, I know Lulu is sad inside. You can tell these things. Brittany believes me when I tell her that I think Lulu is sad, but she can’t see it. It’s not that Brittany’s not sensitive, it’s just that she’s not built the way I am. If she was we’d probably hate each other. I tend to hate people who are like me.

The point is, I can see Lulu’s sadness. Even though I probably don’t understand it, I feel like I do – at least I can see that it’s there.

The beautiful thing about Lulu is that she knows I can see it. Don’t ask me how I know this, I just know that she does. She’s never come right out and said it, but sometimes she’ll let me know that we are on the same wavelength.

Besides, there’s a lot of stuff that you never should say, because saying it ruins it.

One night we were both watching this film called Amelie, Miranda recommended it to me, it’s a French film and it’s in both mine and Lulu’s top ten movie lists. The thing about the movie that makes it so wonderful is the sadness of the main character Amelie (played by Audrey Tatu). When Lulu and I were talking about the film, we both understood the same things about it and about why that sadness is beautiful.

If you haven’t seen the film, you have to check it out, trust me on this.

In my opinion, and hers, sadness can be beautiful and make things beautiful – if you know what I mean.

Understanding this thing about sadness is pretty cool – and having someone with a shared understanding is really sweet. It makes me feel close to her. And it think it’s why we are friends.

And maybe this is part of the deal, maybe I’ve never had this before. And maybe I’m confusing the intimacy of that shared understanding with something else.

It’s pretty fucked up if you think about it; to get to my age and have never had anyone else to have shared this with.

Thing is, that sadness thing, it’s useless. And if you let yourself go there, pretty soon you’ll take yourself there all the time. And frankly, I have better places to go.

July 2. Friday Night

I was out with Brittany and Lulu at the Taxi Club, a really tranny dive.

Brittany was cock teasing some poor dumb bastard from the suburbs; she had him convinced that if he brought all 3 of us drinks for long enough he stood a chance of a foursome.

This was nonsense of course, he was pure bogan and there’s no way any kind of sex was on the cards.

For a start he was dressed like he put his clothes on in the dark. Or maybe found them by the side of the road on the way here. No one item had any relationship to the other. The shirt, the shoes, the pants, nothing coordinated. The only thing they had in common was that none of them fit. I complain about this a lot, but the door policy here is very inconsistent, there’s no way this guy would have made it past a quality door bitch.

He also had this vacant bug-eyed look.

I didn’t feel too sorry for him though.  You could tell that just standing there with his hand on Brittany's knee listening to her make trashy small talk was giving him a massive hard on – this was probably the most fun the poor guy had ever had.

Even if it wasn’t, I think a few hours of smutty small talk and the opportunity to stroke Brittany’s particularly lovely legs was a good return on his investment in Bloody Marys.

His name was Richard or maybe John I don’t know, he had some generic white guy name, it didn’t matter because we were all calling him ‘darling’ anyway.

It was all going swimmingly until about the third round of drinks when I hatched some drunken hair brained scheme to fuck Lulu.

Before I continue, you need to know some back ground.

I may be a transsexual, but I’ve had sex with girls.

Way back, before I was clear about who I was and what I wanted, I had several relationships with women.

In fact, one of the great loves of my life was a girl.

Fucking them and loving them doesn’t mean I understand anything about them. Frankly girls remain puzzle to me. Lacking sufficient motivation, they are a puzzle that I have not made any attempt to solve. The point is I fuck girls, or at least have in the past, and have been happy to do so.

Now when you consider that I spend my time dressed as a girl, look like a girl and chase boys like a girl it may seem unusual that I also am happy to fuck girls. But it’s not, I know a few trannies that have done so and are willing, if circumstances are just so, to fuck a girl.

The second thing, which I’ve already discussed, is that I have weird feelings for Lulu. I haven’t figured them out yet.

The third thing you need to know is that I was really, seriously drunk.

Ok, so Richard is making his moves on us, Brittney’s leading him on and the general discussion is about group sex that will, in reality, never happen.

Wait, a couple of other things. The fourth thing, some time back Brittany and Lulu got $1000 and coke to fuck each other while some guy watched and masturbated – have I mentioned this before? Coke has become very influential in Lulu’s decision making, but this is another story.

The fifth thing you need to know was that I have done something very similar myself, I’m not going into details, except to say that I’m interested in going there again.

So I was happy for the both Brittany and Lulu, I really was, but part of me harboured some lingering resentment – why wasn't I involved?

Sure, I wasn’t there at the time. But in my current state of irrational inebriation facts weren’t going to cloud the issue.

Anyway, I decided that this may be an opportunity to engineer a situation where, this time, I got to fuck Lulu while he masturbated benignly in a corner and then paid us $1000.

For this privilege I was prepared to let him snort coke off my tits. I think what I had in mind was a pretty fair deal all round and from my point of view not far removed from his group sex ambitions.

So I decided to whisper my suggestion into his ear. I waited for the right moment and started my whispering.

This is when it all got complicated.

The taxi club was noisy, so it took a lot of furtive whispering to finally get the message across.

His response, 'I don’t' have $1000'. It was noisy so I didn’t hear this, so he tried whispering it again. Again I didn’t hear it properly. Finally he yelled it out – which bought Lulu and Brittany out of their private little tete a tete.

Brittany gave me one of her 'what are you up to' looks – it‘s this thing she does with one of her eyebrows, I know that look well. “Excuse me Lavinia darling?” she said.

Richard, the poor dumb judgementally impaired bogan blurted out, “she said for $1000 I could watch her fuck her” – he was looking at Lulu as he answered Brittany’s question.

Not good. I had a vague idea that this may not turn out so well for me.

Brittany took a drag of her cigarette, Richard was smiling like an idiot, Lulu was looking at me. I was looking at Brittany.

Oh god I am lame. I don't really want to fuck Lulu, I had no idea what I was thinking, I am clearly some kind of idiot.

Richard was an even bigger idiot, I already knew this, I’d figured that in the first 3 minutes I met him, I should have known better than to float my plan with an idiot.

Ok, I do want to fuck Lulu, but I don’t know why, it just seems like a good idea.

That’s not true either. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted; I was just drunk, bored, horny and stupid.

There was a long moment of silence, knowing Brittany it was a calculated measure of time, I know her, she’d want to make me squirm. Then Brittany laughs, “you slut” she said and laughed again. Lulu also laughed, ‘slut’ she concurred.  It was a confusing response from them both – I had no idea what it meant.

Then, stupid Richard, started up again, “...serious, she wanted to...’ Oh, they heard you the first time  Richard, please just shut the fuck up.

Brittany mercifully cut him off with a ‘now now darling why don’t you get us some more to drink’, or something like that, Richard was muttering as Brittany shooed him toward the bar.

As she shooed him away, she gave me this big fat cheeky wink.

After he left there was another moment of silence. Then Brittany started laughing again ‘”you filthy tranny whore” she was loving this.

What just went down?  This whole scene was so weird. I really had no insight into what Lulu and Brittany were thinking and I don’t like that. I like resolution. There was no resolution here. I had no idea what either of them were thinking.

I was drunk, what he fuck did I care what Brittany or Lulu thought.

That’s a lie. I do.

Ok, so I was saved, at least I think I was, and we went on to bleed poor Richard dry. Thwarted; yes. Embarrassed; yes. Deterred; no.  

That night Brittany called me a ‘filthy whore’ a few more times, but neither her of Lulu said anything more about what went down. But I know this wasn’t the end of it.

Later that night, as Lulu was heading down the stairs to leave, she looked up at me from across the room and gave me this look, I usually can read her face, but this look, it was new.

I am such an idiot.

July 3. Saturday Afternoon

Jealousy

Brittany was laughing down the phone at me, “jealous?”. I hadn’t got away with anything last night, “maybe”. 

Brittany thought I was jealous of their $1000 dollars, line of coke and hotel room escapade.

God only knows what Lulu is thinking.

Now, Brittany and I are really close, but even close friends have secrets, I had a couple and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share them. For a start, I wasn’t really jealous of their escapade. As you know, I have this ‘thing’ for Lulu at the moment, and that probably explains things. But for now it was better to have her think it was jealousy.

A couple of reasons for this. First, as I’ve said, I’d had a very similar hotel experience, (not with Lulu, with another girl) but I didn’t really want to get into that with Brittany. I don't know why I didn’t want to get into what I did, who I did it with and the financial details of the thing, it was probably no big deal, probably.

So I really wasn’t jealous of the experience.

Second, I didn’t really know yet if I really wanted to fuck Lulu. I really wasn’t clear about what I was feeling right now.

Third, I had a hangover and really didn’t want to go into anything remotely serious with anyone.

Fourth, I like things to be simple. And this was getting into complicated territory and I’m not good with complexity. Though, part of me really wanted to confess everything to Brittany. I hate secrets.

Anyway, today’s call from Brittany was about more than just torturing me about my stupidity of last night. Brittany wanted to talk about Steve.

Brittany fucks with Steve’s head, and I thought I knew why. If we make it too easy for a guy he’ll walk all over us. When he knows what’s going on, he’s got the power. When he’s confused, we do. So Brittany keeps Steve off balance.

At least this is what I thought.

I was half right, but there was something else.

And it had Brittany in a predicament.

I don't want to talk about what any of us do in our daytime lives. It’s not important and not relevant, but I’m making an exception. Brittany is in transition, she’s not a full time girl yet, she still has to turn up to work looking like boy. Like a very pretty, very effeminate boy, who has to wear baggy clothing to hide his developing breasts and curves.

So at work Brittany is someone else. And the problem is she hasn’t told Steve.

Steve thinks she is full time. She likes him, and thinks that if he knew, it would be deal breaker.

So this thing she does, torturing Steve, it’s to also keep him at a distance until she completes her transitions.

She’s been playing this game with him for months and she’s worried that he’s going to bore with it soon – he’s been pressing for weeks to visit her at work and take her to lunch. He’s become insistent and there’s only so long she can drag this out.

Her problem: does she tell Steve the truth and risk the relationship or does she drag it out and risk the relationship.

I’m not good with advice, so I listened. I can’t do much for people, so I tend to listen.

Trannies lives can be complicated

July 9. Friday Night

Tonight’s new best girl friend

My new best friend is Tia. Tia has just got here from Perth and only in town for the weekend. She is my new best friend and we’ll stay best friend for at least the next 3 hours. Then I may never see her again.

I met her earlier tonight in the ladies bathroom at the club. I complimented her on her bust, she repaid the compliment and pretty soon we were talking. We spent a few minutes fixing our make up during which time I got her life story, her are the highlights.

She’s originally from Malaysia – part Chinese, part Malay and part Indian.

She is 27 (you never ask a tranny her age, it’s a sensitive subject, but she told me this).

She had her sex change in Thailand two years ago.

She met an Aussie guy in KL had an affair, kept up the correspondence after he left and then finally moved to Perth to be with him.

It lasted 6 months; he had issues with her chosen employment.

She is a prostitute.

She is also a qualified a primary school teacher.

Tonight she will pick up a guy and hopes her professional fees will cover the cost of the trip.

She is getting her breasts fixed in November, after the last operation, one ended up larger than the other. She showed me, but I couldn’t really tell the difference. Trannies will see flaws in their appearance that no one else in the world ever notices.

It’s not unusual to make a new best friend for a night.

The thing about trannies is that we all have a lot in common. Because of who we are and the fact that we are trannies means we have all shared similar experiences of life, relationships and men. We all face similar stuff every day. There’s also that whole emotional rollercoaster of being on hormones that we all share. It’s like being family. And that’s part of the fun.

When you meet another tranny you can be damn sure that she’s been through a lot of the same stuff you have.

All this common experience means, that even before you meet each other, you are halfway to being friends, so as Tia joined Brittany and I at our table in the smoking room, it felt like she was joining old friends.

July 9. Friday Night Part 2

The dirty, filth secret life

It turns out this guy is the Tiger Woods of professional football – and I’m not talking about being black and playing golf.

Anyway, I had no idea who he was; I only know he’s super famous and married because Brittany reads all those trashy magazines. She is well informed

He’s evidently got one of those generic football players’ wives. You know the type, a skinny white girl that’s just a little too tanned and a little too blonde and a little too botoxed.

Brittany says he comes here all the time; he’s what trannies call ‘Tranny Trade’, a guy who’s always on the prowl for some tranny action. I can’t remember seeing him, but then again, with all those muscles and stuff, he’s just not on my radar.

But he was on Tia’s “Oh my god is that ______ ______?” she panted breathlessly.

Brittany gave her this knowing look, “Forget it honey, you’re not his type”. Tia was sceptical “Honey, after they’ve had a few drinks, I’m everybody’s type”.  Brittany’s rolled her eyes and announced, “What he’s after is some girl that looks like his wife, but has a big cock”. Her view was that he was only into skinny white trannies with deep tans and big breasts.

Those football player’s wives, with all that big hair, fake tan, bob jobs, nose jobs and miniskirts – they all end up looking like drag queens.

After about 20 minutes of cruising the club, checking out the available options, he was clearly making his way in our direction. It looked like Brittany was wrong

Trannies like us never just sit still. We pose. We pout, flutter or eyelashes and toss our air and constantly reconfigure the positions of our bodies to emphasis our best assets and look as provocative as possible.

His evident trajectory triggered an escalation of activity; I slid my dress further up my thigh to reveal the tiniest glimpse of my frilly pink knickers. Brittany reapplied another coat of lip gloss; Tia tugged at the left strap of her bra to reposition her breasts.

We looked fabulous.

He arrived and made an introduction, he then made to kiss each of us on the cheek, it’s not something that I let a strange guy do, but this was ____ _____ and he’s a celebrity, so I let that pass.

He made the move to kiss Brittany first. He placed his hand on her upper inner thigh, where it lingered for a moment, then planted a gentle kiss. Then it was Tia’s turn, the same action, the gentle placement of the hand on the upper thigh and an affectionate peck. Then it was mine.

This was the technique. He placed his hand very high on the thigh, just on the hem of my dress, his fingers curled around the inside of my thigh, he applied a gentle downward pressure and I could feel its weight. As he pressed down he curled his thumb upwards and pushed the tip of it gently into the pink lace of my panties, I could feel the gentle pressure of the very end of his thumb pressing on my cock.

He was drunk, but not drunk enough to just be messing around. This was reconnaissance. Very discreet. You would have no idea what he was doing until he did it to you.

Two of us had cocks. One of us did not.

We knew who had what, now he did too.

This information guided him in how he was going to divide his attention between the three of us. Within minutes Tia had figured out his priorities.

As he settled in, he placed his hand back on my thigh and was stroking me, through my panties, with the tip of his thumb, despite not being attracted to him, I was still getting hard. It’s not that he was into me, it’s just my dress was the shortest and my panties the most readily accessible. I could tell he wasn’t into me because as he was fooling around with my cock, he was talking to Brittany and scanning the room for his next destination. I didn’t really care, I knew having a ________ _____ winning football player playing with my cock was a story I could dine out on in the weeks to come.

He was actually ok and agreed to pose for a photo with Brittany, which I shot with my camera phone. I plan to keep this and may one day try to sell it to a tabloid.

Anyway, Tia was clearly not impressed, and using a trip to the ladies as an excuse, left the table.

Not long after _____ ______ politely moved on. About an hour or so later Brittany tells me she saw him leave with a skinny platinum blonde tranny with big tits called Eve. Neither of us really know her; we’ve seen her around a bit though.

That night Brittany ended up having a line of coke with a real estate agent from Double Bay in the toilets at Arq.

I was kind of hoping I’d run into Neto. But I ended up having sex in the back of a taxi on the way home with a guy called Simon; I have no idea what he did. Simon didn’t come in, but he did cum, and I made him pay for the Taxi.

July 14. Wed Evening

Brittany considers having sex in a taxi as a kind of public service.  

Think about it – how boring would that job be? A couple having sex in the back seat gives drivers a much needed break from the daily tedium of it all. It also gives them something to talk about.

You practically owe it to the taxi drivers of this city to have sex in their vehicles. If nothing else, do it for them.

Taxi drivers have seen it all before anyway and whatever you do is going to be nothing they haven’t seen before. So be inventive. However, if you’ve got any reservations about sex in taxis, I can offer some guidelines:

The time:

The best time is anytime after 3 in morning, but before dawn.

Do it on the road, not stuck in traffic. On the road the driver’s attention is on driving, not what you’re doing to each other in the back.

Position:

Sit behind the driver’s seat. There’s sort of a driver’s blind spot there.

The Driver:

The driver can be the deal breaker.

Look for younger Chinese or Indian taxi drivers- these guys are usually young post-graduate students with economics, taxation, computer science or economics degrees. They are doing this job to support their study and have way more important things on their minds than whatever you’re doing back there. They don’t care and they really don’t want to know. As long as you pay the bill and don’t stain the seat you can do what you want.

Old, grumpy looking western men with beards are worst – never even get into a taxi driven by a man with a beard. You are just asking for trouble.

The beard:

Beards are nature’s way of warning you to keep away.

Make small talk:

While having sex, try and make unrelated small talk with whomever you are having sex with. If the driver thinks you’re having a conversation about dog ownership of something, he’s going to pay less attention to what you are doing.

I know it’s hard to talk about schnauzers or spaniels and stuff when you have your cock in some young Italian’s mouth, but make an effort if you can.

If you really want to distract the driver, talk to him instead. He may be a dog owner. Try finding some common ground.

Tip

For non sex taxi rides I’d tip 10%, for sex I’d tip 15%. If you stain anything, tip 20%.

July 14. Wednesday Night

So I just get this call from Brittany. Brittany had been on the phone to Lulu, Lulu knows Eve’s friend Bel (as in Belinda), any way the story is about _____ ______ and what happened with Eve later that night.

Here’s the gossip:

It turns out that _____ ______  is a bottom. He likes to be fucked up the ass by trannies. Can you believe that? Not only is the big macho hunk of meat into trannies, he likes to play the submissive.

Brittany found this hilarious and the way she told the story had me in stiches. That whole macho act, and what he really wants it to be the ‘girl’. Men are so fucked up.

FOOTNOTE:

Three weeks after this happened, Brittany turned up with this rumpled folded up page torn from a Who Magazine, she’d stumbled on it in the waiting room of a doctor’s surgery, it was _____ ______ at a _______ Medals ceremony, it was a photograph of him and his wife on the red carpet going into the event.

His wife _____ a former ‘swimsuit model’ according to Who, looked a whole lot like Eve. As she was showing me this Brittany was crackling with laughter. Seems she was right, he really was looking for some girl that looks like his wife, but has a big cock.

Men are so weird.

July 16. Friday Night

Are they your real tits?

Oh for chrissakes. What a stupid question.

I’m transsexual, nothing about me is real.

My tits are fake. My hair is fake, my eyelashes are fake, my tan is fake, my fingernails are fake. Fuck, even my name is fake.

Nothing about me is real.

I don’t have a real name, a real job or even a real life.

Are my tits real?

How stupid is that. The only reason men want me is because I’m not real. I’m their little fantasy. I am an idea that they masturbate themselves to sleep with on a boring Wednesday night.

I can't believe some men. If you want to fuck me, make small talk and buy me drinks.

Tonight this guy, sleazy drunk, horny, he went straight to the ‘tits’ questions – this was his opening line.

Fuck him. I so fucking sick of this shit.

I hate men.

And where the fuck was Lulu? She was meant to meet me there. She never came, didn’t return my texts and when I called it went straight to voice email. Fuck her too.

July 17. Saturday Night

In fact I am not interested in anything that could make me like you or care about you.

Nothing good will ever come of liking or caring about you. Liking or caring about you will not take me any place I ever want to go.

I also do not want you to like me. I want you to want me. Nothing more.

His name was Terrance. He was a 42 your old architect with nice straight white teeth, a thick head of wavy hair, with just a touch of grey at the temples. About 6’2 he had the kind of long lean body that I love.

There was something else about him too.

That something else, I just can’t put my finger on it. I guess the best word for it was ‘chemistry’. The touch of him, the feel of him, the smell of him, it made me so horny.

He’d also been a gentleman, made charming vapid small talk for three hours. He flattered me relentlessly, indulged all my vanities, told jokes. He was even stylish from what I could tell it looked like he was wearing an Armani Exchange suit, vintage Costume Nationale crêpe soled shoes, a Dries Van Noten shirt; I planned to check the labels after I’d gotten his clothes off. He was quite a catch. Lucky girl.

I’d made him work hard for this. I really tortured the poor guy. The place was expensive and he’d probably spent the best part of $150 getting me drunk before I demanded a bottle of Crystal – I didn’t even want champagne, I just wanted to be expensive.

About 40 minutes ago we were in his silver 2009 BBMW 7 series and he was driving me home. My hand was in his lap, gently wrapped around his hardening cock.

I was looking forward to spending the rest of the night having my brains fucked out.

All was going well until we were about 5 minutes from my place. When ‘the story’ began.

He started telling me that next June he’d be quitting his job and moving to Cambodia to work for Medicine Sans Frontier – they were building a medical clinic in some nowhere village and he’d volunteered to supervise the project.

He then went on to tell me how much he needed a break – he’d been caring for his grandmother and she’d only just gone into residential care. There was other stuff too, sweet stuff.

He loved his grandmother. You get the idea. He was a lovely man. I could like him.

Fuck this. I know how this works. No matter how the next few hours played out it would ultimately end badly.

Sometimes I only just keep myself together, you know what I mean. And it’s difficult, because my heart wants to go there, even though I know it always ends up in tears, I still want to go there.

Fuck him and fuck this.

When we got to my place I gave him the news. There was some conversation; I don’t want to go into the specifics of it. I didn’t tell him why, that’s my business. He was disappointed and let me know, but was really sweet about it.

As I reached the door I looked over my shoulder – he was just sitting there. When he saw me looking back he gave me a look and a gesture that meant ‘I’m just waiting until you’re safely in the door’. Maybe he’s still down there waiting and hoping I’ll change my mind. He’s that type.

I am not interested in your life story. I do not want to get to know you. For chrissakes just buy me the fucking drink and shut the fuck up.

July 18. Sunday Afternoon

I can’t believe the crap that I write when I’m drunk. I’ve just reread last night’s diary entry. God, I don’t want to become an angry bitter drunk and that’s how I come off sounding.

I reject a guy because he’s broken one of my stupid rules. I reject another because he doesn’t treat me as a gentleman should treat a woman. I finally find some nice sweet man and I reject him because he’s a nice sweet man.

What’s wrong with me?

Today I asked Brittany the same question, she paused thoughtfully, as if really seriously considering the question, then she said, ”what’s wrong with you...., well... you could just be an idiot” before laughing her little head off.

“And besides” she continued, “if he is St fucking Peter, why is he hanging out in tranny bars and picking up girls who look like hookers?” She had a point.

Brittany is so fucking funny.

July 18. Sunday Night

Who the fuck is St Peter? What did he do? Why is Brittany comparing Terrance to him? I have to Google this.

She’s so fucking literary. I wish I had a better memory for conversation because I’d love to quote Brittany better.

She uses words like:

-Skulduggery

-Dogmatic

-Shemozzle

-Tawdry

-Placid

-Polemic

-Magnanimous

-Machiavellian

You get the idea. I guess that’s what a good education will get you, I’d love to read her diary, I bet she writes amazingly, but if I did I’d probably feel too stupid to try myself. Instead of writing I’d probably be doing my toenails. Actually, I’ll probably do my toenails later tonight anyway, I’ve got this new red Revlon colour that I’ve been waiting to experiment with.

It’s not like Brittany is pompous or contrived with the way she speaks. She’ll say things like cunt and fuck and suck and cock and asshole and cum and ball sack and then she’ll throw in the occasional word like behemoth or transience or something for effect. It gives the way she talks with this sort of unpredictable electricity. It makes her conversations fun. I fucking love the way she talks.

July 23. Friday Night

Home

My head hurts. I have a cold. I meant out be out, but I’m too sick.

I have to be in critical condition before I stay at home. I’d go out to a club connected to an oxygen machine if I had too - what do you wear that compliments a grey cylinder of gas?

Besides, cocaine really clears up the sinuses.

I hate being sick. I sulk. I mope and I feel sorry for myself. Keep away from me when I am such because I’m a bitch.

I’m lucky I’m not dead - when you consider my diet consists mostly of cigarettes and toast and alcohol.

I wish I could cook. I even watch Iron Chef – can you believe what Iron chef Chen Kenichi can do with fungus? But not me, I can toast things; if it’s not toast-able I have no idea what to do with it. It’s a function of being lazy.

This is what I’ve had to eat in the last 48 hours:

6 Pieces of toast with peanut butter

4 Glasses of Crème du Menthe and soda (it’s the only alcohol I could find in my cupboard, at the time, besides; it’s not so bad when you’re already drunk).

6 Martinis

A quarter bottle of gin and a litre and a half of tonic water.

Half a lemon (I didn’t eat it, it was in the gin and tonic)

4 Vitamin B

4 Vitamin C

16 Fish oil tablets

8 Echinacea

A cream bun

A packet of Ferrero Rocher

1 Packet of cigarettes.

2 Slices of processed cheese.

8 Aspirin

3 Cold tablets

Just an average 48 hours worth of consumption for me. No wonder I am sick. I’m going to have to do something about my diet. I’ll make it a new year’s resolution or something.

Forget that. I’m lazy. An hour after I wake up on Jan 1st I’d be back to my normal diet anyway.

I know what’s happening out there. Mimi is sucking someone’s cock in the toilets of Arq. Brittany is fucking with someone’s head (at least until 5 when Steve will pick her up).

I wonder what Terrance is doing. I know he’s not going to call. I hate men. I wish I didn’t want men. It’s not like you have a choice with these things.

I wish I could sleep.

July 24. Saturday Night

Tonight I look like a prostitute

The only difference between me and a prostitute is the fact that I am not a prostitute.

I was drinking gin and tonic (I’ve bought another bottle of gin and three litres of tonic, to kill the pain, I’ve still got a cold) and trying on different outfits deciding which I was to wear tonight – I’m meeting up with the girls in few hours.

Anyway, I’d settled on a red string bikini. Over the top I had on a sheer red negligee, when the light shone directly on me you could see the red bikini underneath.

It was so short that when I sat down you could see a red flash of bikini bottom between my legs. I’ll often make the most of my legs, I’ll seductively cross and uncross them to draw attention to them, a little flash of red adds some drama to the moment.

I’d chosen a pair of very high pointy toed red stilettos with a sweet little ribbon around the ankle. Over the top I’d thrown a long cotton cardigan thing made of quite sheer cotton.

I’d also applied a very dark fake tan – it looks like I’d just spent the day at Bondi. After the fake tan I covered myself in baby oil and rubbed it in gently. It gives me this nice shiny look and feels really nice when men touch me. I do try to make myself touchable.

All that remains is to do my toenails; I have this new bottle of scarlet Revlon polish.

Of course the whole get up was seriously over the top. It really was a ridiculous outfit; the only way to get away with this kind of look is to believe you can get away with it.

A real girl would never leave the house like this – unless they were a tranny hooker or stripper on their way to work. Which is precisely the kind of look I was going for.

So, again, I look like a transsexual prostitute. It’s the look I want.

I’ve gone out a lot dressed like a girl. And I can look very much like a girl. Dressed in a nice evening dress, with some subtle make up and my hair tied up, when you look at me across the darkness of a bar I look like any other girl.

In fact, it’s not until you get right up to me that you begin to suspect that I many not actually be a real girl.  Sometimes the really dumb ones don't actually figure out I’m a transsexual, even after they’ve started talking to me.

Even when I’m dressed like this.

Ok, so maybe I’m flattering myself, but if I wanted to, I can pass as a girl. With a little more work I could probably pass for a girl in bright daylight, the only thing that would ever give me away is my hands, like a lot of transsexuals I have quite masculine hands and unfortunately it’s the only telling sign that cosmetic surgery can’t yet hide. But even then, unless you draw attention to them, people don’t really notice that kind of thing until they are really close.

The thing about looking like a girl is that I end up competing for attention with a lot of other girls who look like girls and a lot of other trannies that look like girls.

And I want attention, a lot of it. So I dress like a transsexual prostitute. It works, everyone notices me. Honestly, it makes the night so much more fun.

Brittany is the same. She’s very pretty and can pull the whole ‘girl thing’ off too. But she knows we have more fun this way.

A lot of the full time trannies though think differently. For them, it’s about looking as much like a genetic girl as possible. I understand what it’s like to want that – I do too sometimes. But as far as having fun in a night club goes, looking like I do now guarantees you an adventure.

It’s only 10.30 and I’m on my fourth gin and tonic. I fully anticipate it will take at least another 2 drinks before my toenails are dry.  I know that Brittany will be there, I just hope that Lulu makes it.

I love this red, it’s a colour that says “fuck me” I just love it.

Tonight is going to be fabulous.

DON'T STOP HERE, THERE'S MORE, BUT YOU HAVE TO CLICK THE LINK BELOW FOR THE NEXT SET OF PAGES! SEE THAT LITTLE YELLOW BOX WITH A ONE IN IT, NEXT TO THAT IS A NEARLY INVISIBLE BOX WITH THE LETTER TWO IN IT, CLICK ON THAT!