Marlene was sexy as hell and a real girl and dressed like a stripper, she said she was a ‘nurse’s aid’ but I thought that was bullshit. And I was right.

Anyway she got to talking and it was the usual stuff straight girls who are curious about trannies talk about. It was all ‘where did you get your shoes’ and ‘where do you shop’ and what lipstick is that. The usual banal small talk. Tranny’s are suckers for compliments. Remember that, it could be useful information.

Then she started buying the dinks and after a few cosmopolitans it was all ‘you have great legs’ and ‘I wish I had a figure like’ that and ‘I wish I was that tall’ and ‘you have a great ass’ and I could tell where this was going.

The question was did I want to go there?

After a few more drinks the conversation started to get interesting.

 I was figuring what the hell, I mean if I was a straight guy I’d want to do her and then there was the buzz of the co** and the drinks and the music and she made me feel gorgeous and she was warm and I was freezing and I’m a slut, so what the hell do you expect me to do?

I’m not gay, or whatever, I mean I’m not into girls but get me drunk and high enough and I’m like ‘whatever’ and I was and so I thought ‘why not?’

So we started making out. Which was probably not a good idea in the middle of the Taxi Club but if I worried about what people in the Taxi Club thought of me I’d be an idiot. Maybe it was good for my reputation to be seen making out with a stripper in the smoking room or maybe it just made me look like a cheap drunk tranny slut, but as I said I don’t care.

So an hour later we’re at my place and naked and fooling around and I’m enjoying it. Which really took me by surprise.

Is this what a $500 hooker does to a guy? Is this what it’s like to be a guy? So weird. So many questions. Its ahead fu**.

Rewind for a second... ok, I think I’m bi-sexual.

I‘ve fooled around with girls a bit and it’s been fun, usually some guy’s watching or paying to watch what’s going on so there’s an audience and it’s usually part of a game – you know, a tranny and a girl making out but it’s the guy we’re really both interested in doing and the faux lesbian thing is just a game to raise the temperature of the room. So I’ve gone there, a lot. But tonight I went there because of her.

It’s like a straight man’s fantasy, but there's no straight man in the room. Just me and this stripper chick and a bottle of wine and all the time in the world.

So we get to talking, serious talking, about who we are and the stuff you talk about after sex and I learned that she’s a hooker. Not a regular hooker, but an expensive one. Trust me, I can tell, I’ve seen a lot of hookers, and to look at Marlene you know she’s up the pay scale. I believed her.

Plus I know what things cost. I have a professional interest.

So there you go.

It was kind of a compliment if you know what I mean. There’s this expensive hooker and she’s doing me for free and telling me she wants to do it again and I know she will because we’re both sluts and this was fun.

I’m also terribly cripplingly insecure – so this wall all fabulous for my fragile tranny ego which need a painful amount of reassurance about how attractive I am. I hate that and confessed that to her as well. She gives me this big smile and says ‘I know honey’.

But that’s trannies for you. We have sex, not because we actually like the guy, but because we want to fee attractive. We need to know. We’ve got problems. Well, I do at least.

But Marlene. Was she playing me? Does she know this about me? And was knowing this and working my insecurity her game plan for getting me naked.

Do I even really care? I don’t know. Ask me when I’m not hung over.

So now its three days later and I’m still thinking about her and wanting to call her but won’t because that would be too easy.

She will call me.

Anyway, so I’m thinking about it and asking myself what the fu** is going on?

Why is everything so complicated.

Am I really bisexual or is this all part of my insecurity? Is it?  Let me know and I’ll owe you a drink.

X

Lavinia.

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Christie was so high that just being in possession of her blood sample would count as possession in 49 states. In Saudi Arabia you could be stoned to death.

She was naked on the bed when, let’s call him ‘Yuri’, pulled out his iPhone and started taking photographs of her. She went ballistic and started throwing anything she could get at him ‘put that f******thing away or I’ll f****** kill you she was screaming. He didn’t so she tried.

Christies has always had strong views about intellectual property law.

The bed side lamp hit the wall with this god-awful crash and then the book beside the bed – a crap book ’the Road Less Travelled’ by M Scott Peck (is that ironic, it has to be ironic right) the book connected with the IPhone and it went clattering to the floor. It skittered across the room and I grabbed it and threw it out the window, or at least tried, I missed and it hit the window which cracked and the phone dropped to the floor.

I love to see things get smashed up. Christies loves to smash thing s up, we have common interests, it makes for a good relationship.

Yuri started screaming, like the coke in his brain had started to boil his blood, I have no idea what he  was saying, it was all in Russian , I  could make out every fifth word (which was ‘slut’), he was one angry cossack.

He lunged for his phone and Christie was throwing anything she could reach at him, pillow, the other lamp a glass of water, there was all this random bedside shit raining down on him.

A pillow split open and little bits of foam rubber rained down on the room, it was like being inside a cheap Chinese snow dome, Carla started laughing her little coked out head off, Yuri was screaming, it was fuc***** crazy.

Christie is so nuts, as soon as Carla started laughing she did to, there she was hurling random bedroom shit at Yuri and screaming and laughing her naked body being coated with little yellow crumbs of foam from the pillow. Yuri was totally freaked out.

He managed to grab his shattered iPhone and then started looking for his pants still screaming ‘помешаться’ fu***** Russian.

Pants on, he started his next mission.

Somewhere in the room was about a gram and a half in a plastic baggie that belonged to him and he was now looking for it. Carla, the enterprising opportunist, had taken advantage of the chaos slipping both the coke and $375 from his wallet into her handbag, we didn’t know it at the time, we only found out in the taxi – Yuri didn’t have a clue or a chance.

He was such a push over – you can imagine him being really scary, all those f*** off tattoos and shit but there were three of us and one of him, so all he could do was scream and try get his pants on before some neighbour called the police.

Russian coke freak caught without pants in sleazy motel with three transsexuals – try defend that in front of a judge when you have prison tattoos on your neck and Russian accent.

He scrambled around on the floor for maybe a couple of minutes to get to his shoes on while Christie kept hurling shit at him, it was hilarious the poor dumb bastard, you do not mess with Christie.

It was nuts, you have no idea how crazy it all felt, this mad rush of drugs and screaming and vodka and heat, it was like the whole place was melting like burning plastic and all you could hear was this crashing and smashing and cursing in Russian and Christies screaming and laughing like the devil.

In the Taxi Carla split the money three ways, you have to love her, she should have kept the cash, we didn’t; know she’d grabbed it. But she’s not like that, none of us are, she’s a nice girl, we all are really.

These photos are the last of us on the night before I got too drunk, they are out of focus, I was out of focus. I still have a hangover two days later.

I really need to clean up my act.

X

Lavinia

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*Or: the straight guy’s guide to dating a transsexual woman.

It’s like all the blood is being directed elsewhere. It’s understandable.

Even the smartest most charming of men can struggle to string a sentence together. And often when they do, they say all the wrong things. Awkward, embarrassing things – they can be deal breakers.

It can be hard.  But the talking part shouldn’t be the hard part.

It’s why I’m going to make this very, very simple.

This is a guide as to what not to say to a transsexual girl. Not only will I be helping you hook up, I’ll be helping every transsexual out there who is tired of hearing the same things over and over again.

So, here’s the first rule: take time and Think carefully before you say a thing, you can blow the whole deal with the opening line. But you know this already.

If needed, you can buy time by winking suggestively and smiling first, it will give you the few seconds needed to remember the short list of guidelines that follow. Besides, a sexy wink and a nice smile is always a good opening gambit, no matter who you’re hitting on.

If you get lucky with a tranny after reading this you owe me. Seriously, I’m improving your chances no end. You’re going to want to thank me for this. You can start by buying me a drink.

Love

X

Lavinia Sonderberg Beck

1. “Are they real?”

I figure that if I can answer this question for you now, you’ll never have to ask a tranny, it’s going to save you a lot of embarrassment and rejection, so here it is:

No.

Very little about us is real. Our names our hair colour, our tans our eyelashes, you name it.

What does it really matter? What is real anyway? This is also a philosophical question, but there’s no way I’m getting into to that.

A lot of things about us are not real – but real enough. That’s all you need to know, the rest you can find out for yourself.

2. “I’m straight you know...”

For the record:

Men who like trannies 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.

When you say things like, “I’m straight you know...”, or “I’m not gay...” it’s like a confession of insecurity. Don’t be insecure, it’s ok. Everything is fine.

You are straight. We know that or you wouldn’t be interested in us. We’re glad that you are straight; you don’t need us to validate anything. It’s not something we really want to do.

I hope I’ve cleared all this up.

3. “I’ve never been with a tranny before...”

We don’t want to know this. It’s like confessing that you have no idea what you are doing. It’s not particularity encouraging.

If it is your first time, relax; don’t make a big deal out of it. You’re a guy, you’ll figure out what to do.

4. “How big is your!@#* ?”

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 nice girl that question? Maybe not that particular question, but you know what I mean – such a direct personal, intimae and sexual question? No.

I’ve met so many men that will hit on me, tell me how ‘not gay’ they are, and then ask how big my !@#* is.

For my money, it counts as two strikes.

Besides being low rent, it’s like confessing that you are a selfish lover. It’s an admission that you’re fixated on your fantasy and not on the lovely transsexual girl sitting next to you.

5. “Can you still get it up?”

Strike three.

Refer to the answer for the previous question.

6. “I’m (insert number) inches”

Good for you.

While it’s nice to know, we’ll ask when we want to know. It’s also vulgar. Vulgar is a turn off.

Also, if you’re relying on the size of the thing to close the deal think again. Yes, it’s good that you’re a big boy, but frankly, it’s not a dealmaker.

And you know what they say ‘... it’s what you do with it’.

Playing the ‘big’ card early in the piece is like placing all your cards on the table.

It’s like saying ‘I can’t offer you much in the way of charm, company or conversations, but I do have this big thing down here...’

There’s a time and a place for this kind of information, if we want to know, we’ll find out.

7. “Did you really used to be a guy?”

It’s also a self evidently stupid question. And you don’t want to look stupid right?

This is also one of those metaphysical questions. You could say transsexuals are born transsexual; we’ve always been transsexual, that’s who and what we are. So the answer is ‘no’.

But the answer, by another definition is also yes. So unless you want to have a philosophical question and unless you’ve got a brain like John Raulston Saul or Alain de Botton, it’s a discussion I’m not interested in having.

8. “How long have you been a tranny?”

You can refer to the answer above for this. The answer is the same.

Also, what does it matter? It’s intrusive and unnecessary and you really want to avoid awkward moments with us.

9. “Have you had the operation?”

Asking this is not the ideal way to find out; this is like confessing that you are a selfish lover. It’s an admission that you’re fixated on your fantasy and not on the lovely transsexual girl sitting next to you.

If you want an answer to this, the best strategy is to be charming and buy the drinks, you’ll find out for yourself.

10. “Can we go to your place?”

This is like confessing you have a wife and three kid’s home waiting for you. Or a girlfriend who has no idea what you really fantasise about. Or that you live with your parents. It can mean many things.

None of these things are good things.

11. “Are you working?”

Asking this is like telling a girl that she looks like a prostitute. This is never considered a compliment. Even if it is true.

Most transsexuals are not, it’s a mistake to associate being a transsexual with being promiscuous or being a prostitute, we’re mostly just regular girls looking to have a nice time.

If there is price negotiation to be had, you’ll find out.

One simple rule

When it comes to hooking up with a transsexual girl I can make this really simple for you, I have one piece of advice that will help nearly every time, and it’s this:

Treat us the same way you’d treat any other girl.

It’s that simple, if you wouldn’t say it to a girl; don’t say it to a tranny.

Because that’s what we are, we’re just girls. And we are as easy to hurt and offend as any other girl. Be gentle, patient, kind and respectful and we will like you for that.

That’s it...

One day soon you’ll be at a bar or a  club and you’ll see the most amazing transsexual girl. She will be stunning. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

Before you race over there  and say anything stupid, you’ll take a nice deep breath, flash her winning smile, wink playfully, and remember everything I’ve told you.

And you will have a lovely time.

And if you’re really, really lucky, that girl will be me.

And if it is, remember, you owe me a drink.

Good luck.

Love

X

Lavinia

Thank you

If this was useful, you could do me a favour. Re-post it, forward the link, cut and paste it, re-publish it, anything is fine by me; you have my permission, just as long as you credit me and publish my e-mail address. It’s just that I’m trying to get a book deal and being just a little bit famous may help, or so I’m told.

You can also find me here:

E-mail: laviniadarling@gmail.com

Twitter: @darlinglavinia

YouTube: www.youtube.com/user/laviniadarling?feature=mhum

Thanks again

X

Lavinia Sonderberg Beck

Sydney, September 2010.

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Beside lipstick and a suntan I wasn’t wearing very much.

And what I did wear, you could see through.

I liked the idea that I was going out looking like I’d just jumped out of a cake at a buck’s party.

I look a lot at strippers, hookers and pornography and know what kind of girls men fantasize about. And that’s what I try to look like; I try to look like a man’s fantasy.

I want to look like the kind of girl men fantasize about. I really do like to dress like a guy’s wet dream.

My plan for sleaze was, as usual, to figure out how little I could wear without getting arrested – then accessorize – I chose a whip and a pair of handcuffs. Which came in pretty useful later that night when ‘Peter’ insisted that he’d been ‘very naughty’ and deserved to be punished. I obliged. I like to help.

Not that Peter’s line was particularly original; I’ve heard the exact same line used on me maybe 20 times. But Peter offered me a pill for my trouble, and as I said, I do genuinely like to help if I can.

It’s really interesting to be me sometimes.

I’m always amazed by what people will give me in exchange for a little attention; drugs, money, drinks, transport… as I’ve said many times, god only knows how much I could make if I was a real prostitute.

Actually, I know the answer to this. But I don’t want to get into details.

The more over the top I go with my ‘look’, the more this happens. It’s much more interesting for me to go out looking like a transsexual prostitute than it is going out looking like a real girl.

I think going out dressed like a showgirl send s a message, one that encourages men to be ‘up front’, if you know what I mean. And I like that.

It’s just that I get lied to a lot. Guys will tell you anything; promise you anything to get into your pants. Lots of sweet talk and empty promises and I know it’s all lies. When you look like a hooker they cut to the chase.

And if I can’t find a real relationship with a nice guy, which is what I really want, at least this way I know where I stand and get to have uncomplicated fun. So in a way, looking like a tramp is more honest. No one has to pretend that this is going to go anywhere.

It used to be difficult sometimes, some guy would come up to me and be all sweet and charming and then figure out that I really used to be a guy and freak out and it was all weird and awkward. This doesn’t happen when I look like a transsexual prostitute.

I’m not trying to justify being promiscuous or anything. I’m not even really trying to justify looking like a call girl. It’s fun. I enjoy it and I think that’s justification enough. I mean, does it really matter?

There’s another thing about dressing up like a prostitute that I like.

I like looking like someone else – I like dressing up as a man’s fantasy. I like being a man’s fantasy.

When I dress up as hooker I usually put on a wig, if you’ve seen me you know that my hair is dark brown and shoulder length and slightly wavy, I have normal ‘girl’ hair, boring. But my wigs, they’re a different thing all together. I’ve got dead straight jet black wigs with hair down to my waist. I’ve got big messy ‘bed hair’ wigs, platinum blonde curly wigs; I love them because when I wear them I don’t look like me.

Combine this with a tonne of makeup, fake eyelashes and everything else I do and there’s no way you’d recognize me.

I look in the mirror and I look like some exotic stranger – a fantasy. Some guy’s wet dream.

It’s like wearing a disguise. So when people see this hooker standing by the side of the road in a pink g-string, they don’t know it’s me, if you know what I mean. I’m not me, I’m some hooker standing by the side of a road waiting for a cab. I’m not Lavinia. I’m someone else.

So really, it’s easy to get out of the house looking like this. It’s easy because it’s not me people are seeing, it’s just some fantasy I’ve put together. It really doesn’t mean anything.

There’s another thing about looking this way that I really like.

I like the power of it. This might sound weird. But there really is power in it.

It’s not ‘big’ power, but sexual power is real power. Men will do pretty much whatever I want if they think it will get them what they want. Drinks, drugs, money; anything. Not for long, but for a few hours at least they are mine. I fucking love it. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t abuse it, I don’t just take and take. If I accept anything from a guy I make sure he knows the deal. I don’t promise anything. I don’t lead people on. I lay out the deal and if they take it, they take it, if not, I’m cool with it. Whatever I take is only what they are happy to give. No one gets hurt. Men want me to be their fantasy. And sometimes I’m happy to be that fantasy.

I’ve thought about this a lot. I don't think it makes me a bad person. Am I?

I really don’t want men to like me. I just want them to want me.

Even when I did go out looking like a real girl I’d go out looking for trouble.

Nowadays I go out looking like trouble. It’s all part of the plan.

Actually, it is the plan. It’s the only plan I have.

It’s so much more fun looking like trouble. It’s also less work – people find you.

My Sleaze Ball fun started before I even arrived at the party.

There I was, wearing a see through lace corset, a black g-string with a pink lace bow at the front, 8 inch heels and clutching a whip standing on the side of the busy main road in front of my apartment waiting for a taxi.

Within 2 minutes a car had pulled over and some nice young man was offering a ride ‘anywhere I wanted to go’, not being crazy I declined. Two minutes later it happened again. Two minutes later some guy was asking e ‘how much’. Cars were slowing down to look. Men driving their girlfriends home were pretending not to look – I can tell.

I was creating a traffic jam.

I know, this was probably dangerous, but I figured it was in front of my building and there were plenty of people around. I just wanted to see what kind of a scene I could create. You know how much I love attention.

No wonder I have so much trouble in relationships.

Maybe it’s where I’m looking.

Maybe it’s how I’m looking.

Maybe it’s just me.

X

Lavinia

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‘Busty babes in tiny bikinis’, lesbians exchanging sensual kisses,
women with 44DD busts in skin tight dresses touching each others lycra
clad breasts: you have to love YouTube, you can find nearly everything
there.

Except for some photographs of me – YouTube have just disabled three
of the videos that I put together as a self promotion because they
breached the ‘community guidelines’.

As an aspiring writer and author trying to get a book deal in a
competitive market I’ll use whatever I can to get attention. In my
case it’s my ass and YouTube.

My breach of the ‘community guidelines’- I can’t tell you what it is,
they haven’t told me. And under the ‘terms of use’ they don’t have to.

I have my suspicions as to why. In the videos were a few provocative
images of me, a couple with my panties around my legs and ankles –
I’ve attached a couple of the ‘offending’ images to this post. In them
I was wearing a second g-string, but the angle of the shot means you
can’t see them, so I wasn’t nude, it was just ‘suggested’ by the
image, see for yourself, the links are below.

I was telling another tranny friend about this, and she had another
theory; here it is: she thinks it’s because I’m a transsexual.

I kind of dismissed this at first, but when I thought a little more it
seemed to make some sense.

Women seem to be able to kiss and show their g-string clad arses and
scantily clad breasts and it seems to be fine with YouTube. But a
transsexual being just as provocative as a ‘real’ woman? Maybe they
don’t like that. Maybe they don’t know how to deal with that – and my
images are mild in comparison to what’s out there.

I hate to sound like a cranky, whining, trannny, complaining about
‘homophobia’ or whatever , I’m really not that kind of girl – but her
theory really makes sense, a lot of heterosexual men and women are
‘confronted’ , ‘uneasy’ or ‘intimidated’ by transexualism (if you know
what I mean). There’s a lot of discrimination out there. Maybe this is
the case here.

So perhaps they didn’t know how to deal with my images, so they
decided to disable them on the basis of some poorly defined ‘community
guidelines’. Have a look at the images and make up your own mind. Is
she right? Could it be homophobia (or whatever the transexual
equivalent is called) Maybe they do breach the ‘standards’ or maybe
she’s just a little ‘over sensitive’ about being a tranny, I really
don’t know – as I said, look at the images and judge for yourself.

You can bet that I wasn’t happy about being ‘disabled’ by YouTube, so
I didn’t leave it there. I’m such a trouble maker.

I’ve upped the stakes a little and posted a couple more videos that
really push the boundaries – just to see what happens.

One has me smearing whipped cream all over myself. The other has me in
the shower wearing nothing more than a red string bikini.

If you told me a week ago that I’d be making a video of me rubbing
whipped cream onto my belly to get my revenge upon YouTube I’d
politely ask if I could share what you had been taking… it’s
interesting really, can you actually make a point by rubbing whipped
cream onto your belly and wiggling provocatively? A nice warm shower
in a red bikini as revenge?

Take that YouTube.

God only knows how they’ll deal with those videos. You can check them
out by following these links if you like:

Watch them, better yet forward them. Make them a YouTube sensation –
success is always the best revenge, let’s see what they do when they
make the ‘most viewed today’ page. My bet is that they suddenly decide
that these videos also breach ‘community standards’.

Let’s just see what they do.

It drives me crazy. On-line ‘mainstream’ ‘communities’ and media can
be so conservative. This has happened to me before – Slide Share
deleted my account. Authonomy rejected my profile and my profile
image… the list goes on. It’s tedious. This is 2010 right?

I’d be interested to hear your stories on homophobia in digital
communities. Maybe it is real. Let me know if you have one, email me:
laviniadarling@gmail.com

Anyway, being even more provocative is my way of protesting. I’m not
sure what else to do. If you have any ideas let me know, I could do
with some advice as I’m not sure covering myself in whipped cream will
really prove anything to YouTube, (so I’m open to ideas) - I’m sure
the entire transsexual community would be grateful.

Any marketers, PR people, gay activists or digital people out there?

Hope to hear from you, let me know what you think.

Thanks

X

Lavinia Sonderberg-Beck
Sydney Australia

www.filthytrannywhore.com
laviniadarling@gmail.com
Twitter: @darlinglavinia

P.S. You’ll find YouTube’s e-mail to me below:

“Regarding your account: laviniadarling
The following video(s) from your account have been disabled for
violation of the YouTube Community Guidelines:

Intimate with me.wmv - (laviniadarling)

Your account has received one Community Guidelines warning strike,
which will expire in six months. Additional violations may result in
the temporary disabling of your ability to post content to YouTube
and/or the termination of your account.
Sincerely,

The YouTube Team”

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As for the ballerina, the nurse and the airline stewardess - my
ambitions had a lot to do with the look; I wanted to dress like a
ballerina, a nurse or an airline stewardess – who dosnlt?

Mostly I really, really wanted to be a nurse. You got to be pretty and
do something important. If I couldn’t make the grade as a nurse, I
would have settled for being a receptionist in a medical centre. You
still got to wear the nice white uniform, but you got to wear high
heels too if you want. And you can do the job sitting down.

I couldn’t be a nurse, but at least I got halfway there – I got to be
a girl. But my ‘nurse’ dream never really left me.

Anyway, I’ve just got one unexpected step closer to my dream. Last
Tuesday, when I was rummaging at St Vinnie’s, I found this nurses
uniform, and bought it.

This week I took up the hem and took it in at the waist. It’s nice and
tight. Really tight. Probably too tight. And most definitely too
short. In fact I now look more like a nurse-o-gram than a medical
receptionist.

I quite like that.

I wear it with these white high heels and underneath I wear a white
corset, bra and suspenders. I like the contrast of the starched white
‘prim and proper’ exterior with the ‘Victoria’s Secret thing’
underneath. I’m not sure if that’s what real nurses and medical
receptionists have under their uniforms, but if I was a nurse or
medical receptionist you can bet that’s what I’d be wearing under my
uniform.

If you discount the fact that I’ve taken it in and up, the uniform
itself is very ‘sensible’. It makes me feel very ‘professional’, if
you know what I mean.

I’m really not sure where to wear the thing. I can’t exactly go out
during the day looking like a nurse-o-gram and it’s kind of hard to
wear it clubbing – I attract the wrong kinds of men as it is. Wearing
my nurse’s outfit, I can guess at the kind of attention I’d get - you
can imagine it, people with uniform fetishes and nurse fantasies. Or
medical conditions.

I like the idea of being in the medical profession. I have a good
bedside manner and accept all major credit cards.

Maybe being a mock nurse is my calling. I’m sure I’d be good at it. If
you need a mock nurse let me know.

My last childhood ambition was to be a weather girl. The idea dawned
upon me when I was about 15. You got to be pretty, stand around in
high heels and a short skirt; people listened to you and got to be on
TV. My ambition hasn’t changed much since then.

I’d love to be a weather girl. I’d be great at it. And unlike the
weather girls on TV I could promise you a lovely day, every day.

X

Lavinia

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I was rolling around in bed pouting and wiggling during one of those
‘adult’ web-cam things and decided to snap a few photographs of myself
at the same time.

So, this is what I look like when I’m on-line. Grainy, blurry, fuzzy
and under-dressed. I have to learn to keep my clothes on – or at
least dress warm.

I also realised that I don’t take photographs of myself – this is it,
this is all there is. I’ll have to do better than this.

I need a theme for them, you know, where I get to dress up as a bunny
or in a uniform or costume or something – any ideas?

Let me know and I’ll make a self portrait my next rainy day activity.

X

Lavinia.

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Ok, two days ago I tweeted this:

“Latest: Have dinner with me! to finance my career as a writer I'm selling 3 dinner dates with
me! Hungry? Let me know: www.filthytrannywhore.com ”

I’ve sold one – yippee.

However that still leaves Friday and Sunday nights – so you want to go to dinner?

Seriously, I need to quit my job. I’ll never become Australia’s most
famous living transsexual author if I’m stuck in an office three days
a week doing research for some corporation that thinks I’m a
‘novelty’. You should meet these people, they are tedious. My job is
seriously boring. Only a series of dinner dates can save me – so how
about it?

On another note one kind gentleman (thank you ‘pantsman54’) has
offered me money in exchange for smutty photographs and dirty e-mail
correspondence.

I’ve thought seriously about this and decided it’s a good idea. What
do you think? Are you interested too?

I know this must make me sound like a trashy whore, maybe I am, but I
promise to be tasteful. Unless you want me to be a trashy whore, I
don’t really mind. As long as it keeps me out of the stupid office.

For chrissakes, my job is so dull. Really, Roy Morgan Values Segment
data and media typology – pleeeeease, spare me. I really don’t care
what women 45 to 55 are reading (NW and Women’s Weekly still score
over Index, can you believe that?). Yet this is what I have to find
out. Think about it, is this what Australia’s first transsexual
superstar author should be doing to make money? I think not.

What I should be doing is e-mailing you semi pornographic photographs
of myself wearing Hello Kitty underwear and talking about how I can
relive your ‘stress’, or sitting down in a nice restaurant over a
bottle of Chablis giving you a hard on as I talk about my Hello Kitty
underwear.

Where the hell would I be without Hello Kitty?

Ok, help!

For a dinner date or a pornographic e-mail relationship you know where
to find me!

Love and kisses and Hello Kitty.

X

Lavinia.

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Ok, so I’m wrote about Carla’s new ass and the her plastic surgery and
all of that maybe 6 months ago and Brittany is still talking about it
– as far as I’m concerned Carla’s new ass is old news.

But Brittany is still fixated on the subject, god knows why, anyway
last Saturday she comes up with this quote “your destiny is your
ass...”

I have no idea what this means, but we were so drunk at the time it
seems like the funniest quote in the world.

Anyway when we went to the ladies to do our make up Brittany hoists up
her skirt to reveal her ass and begins to ‘pole’ dance with the mirror
for every girl or tranny that walks in.

Thank god for the iPhone because I managed to grab a few shots of her
in action, this is one of them.

Maybe she’s right; maybe your ass is your destiny.

In which case you can now look at the picture and make your own
conclusions about Brittany's.

X

Lavinia.

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You really ought to try going to a tranny bar with a whip. You meet
the nicest people.

'Karl’ for example. He had a Kieth Richards quality mound of coke and a
willingness to share. I didn’t fuck him and was never going to, but he
didnt know. He maybe didnt even care, I think just the possibility
that I would beat him into a bloody pulp at some point in the evening
was enough.

It was certainly enough to keep him cutting lines and buying drinks.

When you’re a tranny you get a lot of ‘tire kickers’ and time wasters,
the simplest way to establish whether they will deliver anything of
value is to start making demands for drinks.

Karl looked quite pathetic, but in a nice way, you know what I mean.
You could tell he was needy, but he kept it buried beneath this
confident suave act. He came on all 'confident man of the world',
polite, well dressed, full of witticism and innuendo, but underneath
you could tell he was just a mummy’s boy craving approval, or in his
case a flogging.

My kind of guy.

Anyway, so I demanded drinks, and to be sure he was not some useless
time waster, you know, full of talk but no action, I demanded
something ridiculous and expensive. I started by demanding a banana
daiquiri with a Jaeger chaser. I didn’t even want one, I only asked
because it sounded ridiculous. A banana fucking daiquiri, for
chrissakes, what a joke. I only demanded the chaser because it made
the drinks even more expensive. And he delivered.

Karl was no amateur, he wanted a tranny and he’d prepared. That’s why
he had the coke. Men who routinely trawl the tranny bars with coke
know that what their looks and charm won’t get them, the coke will.

And it did, or at least for a while.

By the time I’d hit Karel up for my 4th drink, a Manhattan, which I
only ordered because Bart Simpson made them for Fat Tony in an episode
of the Simpsons, and it seemed like a funny thing to order, Danni had
arrived.

Danni and I share many mutual interests, hormones, lingerie, casual
sex, coke, that kind of thing. Danni had news ‘my tits have grown’ and
was eager to share their progress with me.

Within in minutes we in the ladies and she was showing me her tits.

If you’ve read any of my blog ‘Filthy Tranny Whore’ you’ll know it
that I’ve spent a lot of time feeling the growing breasts of other
transsexuals. It’s an area of interest and I like to think I have
some expertise in these things. So it was only a matter of time before
my hands were all over Danni’s tits.

I thought this would be a great photo opportunity so I handed Crystal
my iPhone and she snapped the photos you see here.

You really ought to try going to a tranny bar with a whip. You meet
the nicest people.

‘Karl’ for example. He had coke and a
willingness to serve. I didn’t fuck him and was never going to, but he
didn’t know. He maybe didn’t even care, I think just the possibility
that he would end up on his knees with welts on his back and a cock in his mouth was enough.

There are rules to this game. Coke is exchanged for company, or at
least my company. Play by the rules and maybe, if you’re a very lucky
boy, I’ll whip you till you bleed.

There are other rules, this whole pretending to be a dominatrix thing
is new to me, so I’m figuring them out.

Here’s what I’ve learnt so far, ‘no’ means ‘more’, ‘I’ve been so bad’
means ‘more’, when I think about it, most of what they say means
‘more’.

I’d like to think I was a helpful girl.

It's funny, I've realised that I can photograph nearly anything if I
ask. Can I take photographs of me playing with your new breasts? Sure.
Why not. Go figure.

I also reckon I should be photographng more, it’s the only way people
are going to belive I actually do all this stuff I say I do.

Seriously, you’d be surprised by the number of people who don’t belive
it when I say things like ‘oh that guy, I chained him to the toilet
last weekend and pissed in his mouth’. Why would I lie about a thing
like that?

My plan is to photograph my next 3 or 4 way. Stay tuned.

X

Lavinia

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‘I’ve been a very naughty boy’. I could tell by looking at him that
this was true.

I knew that he wanted punishing and he knew I was the woman (or
transsexual) for the job. I was at the Taxi Club, wearing lingerie
and carrying a riding crop. It doesn’t take a genius to join the dots.

It was fun. He was naughty. I did punish him and it was everything I’d
hoped for.

I could be good at this. I could probably charge for this.

There’s a back story to this.

The last few weekends have been tragic. I’ve not had much in the way
of action and the action I’ve had has been pathetic.

I was beginning to doubt my allure. There was a high point about 6
weeks ago when Brittany and I had this 4-way in that Hotel on Flinders
Street, and it’s all been down hill from there.

After that there was one tryst with a Turkish insurance agent in the
back seat of a Fiat Punto.

The Fiat Punto was designed by Italians. By good Catholic car
designers. These people know about sin. They know about trannies like
me and there was no way they were going to design a car that let
people like me do the devil’s work in the back seat.

It was a debacle.

The week before that, some random guy offered me coke in exchange for
‘touching’ me ‘down there’ in the toilets at Arq. After the coke he
chickened out and said he was ‘not ready’. Not ready for me? Not ready
for a tranny? Not ready for sex in a nightclub toilet? It struck me as
strange to score coke, then proposition a tranny, then get in to a
cubicle with a tranny only to freak out at the last minute? Go figure.

There’s more. Or less actually. It’s not that I didn’t get attention;
it’s just that I’ve been attracting the wrong kind of men. With the
wrong kind of cars. It’s was three weeks of fumbling, muttering,
groping and apologies. Three weeks of crap sex and disappointment.

So on Saturday night I decided to accessorise with a riding crop. Just
for the hell of it.

If I’d known how effective it was going to be I would have joined the
‘horsey set’ a long time ago.

I’m not a dominant person, nor am I submissive. I’m the kind of girl
that goes with the flow. Sure I’ve whipped people before, beaten
people, ground my stilettos into peoples backs, made them lick my
shoes, made them wear nappies and all the usual stuff, but I’ve also
been bound and gagged and humiliated and other things myself, you know
what I mean... anyway, the point is I’m not really into domination.

I figured the whip would just be fun, a conversation piece, you know,
like a gaudy bracelet or something. If I’d only known.

Information like this could change a girl’s life.

I was propositioned four times before 2 am. Four.

It seems that people who like to have the crap whipped out of them by
transsexuals wearing lingerie and carrying a riding crop are quite
forward – they’re happy to be very up-front about their interests.
They will seek you out and make their introductions – ‘I’ve been a
very naughty boy’.

I’m going to do this more often. Maybe once every few weeks. I’d do it
even more often, but it’s not as much fun as you think – I mean
there’s not much in it for me. It just doesn’t do it for me to see
people in pain cowering at my feet telling me how bad they are.

Having said that I’m up for anything, if the mood takes me. I also
love an excuse to dress up. So this is ok every now and again, but I’d
much prefer to be taken to a dinner at a nice restaurant, have a nice
meal, some champagne, maybe a dessert wine, a few lines, maybe a pill
and then have my brains fucked out in a hotel room. Call me old
fashioned, but it’s just the kind of girl I am.

I told Brittany all of this and she laughed her little head off, the
plan is for the both of us to go out next weekend looking like
dominatrixes (is that a word?).

We’ll be at the Taxi Club after about 11.30 then probably hit Arq
after 3am. You’ll recognise us; I’ll be the girl with the copy of
Horse and Hound.

X

Lavinia

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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