As a transsexual, Jessica is lucky. She always had a loving and understanding family and friends. When I met her I was neither totally ignorant nor especially knowledgeable about transsexuals. I asked Jessica if she would mind me asking questions and telling me about herself. She understood that I was honestly curious, not voyeuristic, and she graciously agreed to educate me. Thank you, Jessica. I hope others learn as I did. Here are her words.
The first thing we notice when we meet someone is if they are male or female. If we meet a woman, she might have small beasts and a shaved head, but we still know she is a woman. A man might have a ponytail, be young and not have facial hair, but we still know he is a man.
When we are children we quickly know if a new playmate is a girl or a boy, and we don’t have to look in her diaper. And if we can’t tell from appearance we can tell as soon as we begin to play. Signals, conscious and subliminal, “tell” us.
We also know from a very young age if we are male or female—where we fit. We understand it implicitly, and it does not have to do with our genitals. Gender is our essence.
I am a woman and a transsexual. I was born with a penis but I had fem features and female behaviors, so my mom wisely decided to raise me as a girl. I take hormones off and on, and I started when I was young, once my mom decided I needed to start forming breast tissue. When I was fourteen I was a small B. At sixteen I had my first boob job, and then I was a C cup. I also got my lips enhanced.
I took hormones, for my boobs, to keep them natural looking, and also, since I was going through teen stages, to help keep my fem features. Thankfully, I was born mostly fem in the first place. The doc even said at birth that some of my chromosomes were mixed, and that’s why I was much more fem. It’s actually quite common. One estimate is one in every five hundred people.
Growing up at times wasn’t fun, but once things started to gel and I was accepted as a girl it turned out great. I was lucky to have such a supportive family.
I think of myself as interesting, and I’m fun to be around. I love being the center of attention and creating a stir. My mom, sis, and I love to go out and act flirtatious, showing off our bodies and being sexually outrageous, even being slutty.
It’s okay if you are ignorant about girls like me. If you’re honestly curious, I’d like to help you understand. It’s fine.
I have a penis, and it’s been amazing to be in the best of both worlds. Sometimes I think about getting a complete sex change. I’ve been think about it for the past five years, on and off, but I love being able to use my penis and have fun with it. It’s six inches when I’m really turned on, which is at the high end of average for a man.
I know that many people think that a woman like me is a man who is confused, but I assure you I am not confused. The only things that got confused were aspects of my physical development, early in gestation.
I hope I am helping you learn what you were looking for and helping you get a good understanding of my background and people like me.
I started school as a girl, teachers and some others knew, and I was accepted as a girl. As I got older some people knew and others didn’t. I didn’t want to freak anyone out, so I would get changed near my friends or in another part of the locker room.
To be specific, I do have a penis, it looks like a normal, and it is circumcised. I also have testicles, a scrotum, and a prostate gland, and they work normally. I ejaculate, and when I’m not on hormones I can shoot some nice loads.
At first, when I was on a hormone cycle, hormones did affect my ability to come. When I was off hormones I could come. But the hormones increased my puberty levels and helped transform me into more of a woman. I don’t have to be on hormones all the time, anymore.
As far as facial hair I was lucky, because I never developed much. I started taking hormone pills before I hit puberty, so maybe that helped, but, whatever the reason, I never got much body hair. What I do get I get waxed.
My family relations revolve mostly around my mom and sister. My father left us about a year or so after I was born. He came back a few years later, but he was too much into drugs and got into trouble, so my mom told him to leave us for good.
As long as I can remember I dressed as a girl. As I said, I was born more fem, and even the docs said I would turn out more fem. I understood from the beginning that I had a penis and other girls didn’t, and I accepted that I was different. My mom and family reassured me that even though I was different I was special. After awhile some friends found out, and others who knew me since we were very little knew and have stood by me ever since. I have had some bad times, but I grew up in a small and supportive community.
I have tons of close friends from back home, and they all treated me as a girl, and no one really looked down on me. There were five families who knew about my secret, and they were protective of me and my family. Others only knew me as 100% female. Now I have some close friends, where I live, and I meet most of my friends from growing up and other out at bars, clubs, and parties. They give me love and friendship.
No one looking at pictures of me would doubt that I’m a woman. I work out 5 days a week and run, and what they would see is a fantastic figure—narrow waist, wide hips, full buttocks, and outstanding breasts. Usually I have dark hair, but I have highlighted my hair and have gone blond a bunch of times.
Would I be willing to give up the sexual feelings that my penis gives me in exchange for looking like a traditional woman? Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve thought about it—I’ve thought about if a penis makes me less of a woman and about a surgical sex change operation. One downside would be that I might lose sexual feelings—the new organs would not have the same nerve connections that my penis does, and I love my penis, and, OMG, Yes, I love the feelings it gives me. It’s a big part, pun intended, of who I am.
When I was a kid I played with my friends, and it’s common for youngsters to play you show me yours and I’ll show you mine. My friends and I did that, and when I was older my friends and I experimented. When I was sixteen I went down on a girl, and she sucked my cock. We practiced on each other, and later a guy friend of ours joined us, and we all took turns on each other. So, I’m just an ordinary girl, a woman now, and I hope you can see me that way.
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, PETA, was founded in 1980 and became famous for its tactic of getting attention by using nude protest and advertising.
I noticed and wondered if the PETA tactic was effective or if the women showing themselves naked to get support for their cause was misguided. Perhaps it was the cause itself that gave me doubts. It isn’t that mistreatment of animals is trivial, but with all the abuse of people—rape, murder, torture, war, genocide—I tended to dismiss PETA as fighting for a cause that was down the list of important issues. Also, I wondered if the women showing themselves naked were not only sincere about their cause, something of which I had no doubt, but if part of their motivation was exhibitionism. I apologize for my doubts, which are offensive.
Of FEMEN, on the other hand, I never had doubts. It was founded in Ukraine in 2008 and fights against sex tourism, prostitution, abuse of women, and the status of women in general.
I must say that when I first noticed FEMEN it was because of photos of its naked protesters, but it soon became obvious that the causes for which FEMEN struggles are not trivial, and the women who expose themselves to get attention to fight for their beliefs are courageous and must not be denigrated. As such, I include only a single photo, that above, which is the official photo of the organization. If you wish to see bare-breasted photos of strong, angry, and gorgeous women who are willing to debase themselves, if that’s what it is, to fight for their cause, then google “femen protests.” But I hope that you, as I, will come to understand and support FEMEN and its members who courageously sacrifice their privacy for their beliefs.
With my greatest respect,
With digital cameras and willing models, who seem to be in plentiful supply, anyone can be an artist, and images of scenes that tickle our fancies, whatever forms those fancies take, are readily available. But oh how much more difficult it was in times past to create these image. One had to be really be an artist.
In the nineteenth century there was an art movement called Orientalism. It depicted life, real or imagined, in what looks to be Southern Europe, such as the slave markets of ancient Rome, or the Near East. There were several painters—Jean-Léon Gérôme, Giulio Rosati, et. al.—who specialized in this work. Following are examples for your pleasure and edification.
In the painting above, the desert tribesmen are enjoying a smoke when two slave girls are brought into camp and held by men sporting leering grins.
I love the little blush of hair, and I note the girl—well, okay, clearly a woman—is a natural redhead. She is displaying herself, but the men seem to be distracted. Is she displaying herself because she was ordered to? Trained to? Or is she willingly asking for attention? The man on the right seems as if he’s about to pat the young woman’s ass. He’ll be telling her: Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll won’t be ignoring you much longer.
Ahhh Yes, I remember well the days when I was a Pharaoh, and these three beauties were in my service. The one on the right is asking: do you need me Master?
This young woman is certain to bring a good price. Her clothes are discarded behind her, as she stands before the buyers. I see several hands raised. I wonder what roll is played by the young man in the lower left? Does he bring her and take her back to her cell? I wonder what perks he enjoys.
It’s not the snake she’s charming, its the snakes. I wonder what the young man is thinking i.e. the boy on the left.
I wish I could read the girl’s sign. For Sale, plus some other choice words I imagine. He has a sign as well, so I guess he’s a slave too. He doesn’t look happy, but she seems to have accepted her fate.
If I owned her I’d drive a hard bargain too, so to speak. The buyer is putting on a tough face, but the seller is clearly holding all the cards.
Nearly every hand is raised for this young woman. I love her figure. The scribe behind her, the one with his writing instrument in his mouth, is certainly checking her out.
I’ve looked at this painting many times, but it wasn’t until today that I realized its story. This is not just a woman being sold. It’s a family—mother, four children, and perhaps a nanny. The oldest child seems to be a developing girl, and I don’t mean woman. Child porn, something I find repulsive, just for the record, seems to be subtly expressed in Léone Gérôme’s fantasy.
Yes, a White slave indeed.
- I know a man who is especially attracted to girls with straight teeth. This is another.
Ahhh, once again it’s New York Fashion week, and designers are taking advantage of young women who get paid little and will do most anything to try to make it as a model. One agent advised a nineteen year old trying to get hired to parade on the runway to lie and say she was eighteen—nineteen is way too old.
Then the girls, at least some of them, have to parade with their breasts bared for the viewing pleasure of the audience, many, if not most, men, department store buyers who ogle with delight.
Yes, I too am guilty, and so are you, but who can resist the allure of the female form. Enjoy!
Sea Change is a story I wrote for a story website contest. It didn’t win, in part because it doesn’t have enough explicit sex, which the readers of the website require. It is not a sex story. It is a love story, and that’s the way I like it. If any of my readers have read my story A Girl Alone you may notice I borrowed, in Sea Change, from my own work and the life of a real woman.
He knew me well and that I was a good sailor, but he knew I was doing something dangerous. It wasn’t illegal, and there was nothing he could do to stop me. “You’re heading out alone?” he asked with a frown of disapproval.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
I backed the boat out of its slip, shifted the transmission to forward, and headed out on diesel power. I turned the boat at buoy G13 and piloted into the channel with the marina, the wind, and memories at my back. When I cleared the last channel buoy I set the autopilot to keep the boat pointed into the wind, while I raised the mainsail. Then I turned the boat south, let out the jib, and shut off the engine. My world became quiet, with only sounds of waves lapping the hull as I sailed south.
I was still a young man, barely eighteen, and my girlfriend had just finished her first year of nursing school and dumped me for a guy who was going to be a doctor. She was a year older than I, and girls mature faster than boys, so I could understand it on some level. But over a year and a half we had explored most of the things a guy and girl could do together, naked, and I was devastated. Mostly I was devastated, because we never got to having intercourse and were about to, and I was burning with jealousy. I couldn’t get the picture out of my head, the picture of her fucking a med student, for her first time, instead of me.
The clouds burned off, the day became hot, and I stripped of my shirt. I drank iced coffee, pissed off the side of the boat, and remembered that’s the way most men fell overboard and disappear forever. I thought of my father asking me, after I told him about my girlfriend, if I might hurt myself. He knew I had been hit hard, and he was being a responsible dad, checking on the off chance I was thinking of suicide. I told him, “I may be depressed, but I’m not crazy.” We laughed together, and it made me feel a little better.
I didn’t know exactly where I was headed, but there were many protected waters along the South Florida coast where one could pull in for the night, and I figured I’d head for one when I got tired of sailing. Being alone I started thinking of woman and decided I’d head for Ander’s Island Cove, an isolated spot with a sandy beach that attracted girls who liked to show themselves off topless. I thought of a friend who once chided me, “How far are you going to go to see a little tit?” But he was an ass man.
I anchored in the cove, changed into a bathing suit, and dove in. The water was salty, cool, and refreshing, and I swam to the beach and began walking the length of it, getting an eyeful to use later in fantasies. I got a couple of friendly nods, but no one invited me over, and I was too shy to make advances.
At the end of the beach I turned to head back, and a flash of color caught my eye. It was a woman, pushed back into dense undergrowth, sitting on the sand in the shade. Her head was in her hands, no one else was on this lonely section of beach, and it looked as if she was crying. I tentatively took a few steps toward her. I wanted her to notice me, but I didn’t want to scare her. I wanted to help her, if I could.
She wore a bathing suit, a two piece, not overly risqué, and she had a bag of stuff with her. She saw me and looked up. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears. Her body was ripe and luscious. Too good for me, I thought.
“I don’t want to intrude…” I said.
She stared and looked me up and down, perhaps measuring me for the potential to be dangerous.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. “Are you with someone?” No one comes here alone I thought and realized I had. Also, she looked young to be on her own in a place that you had to have a boat to get to, but so did I.
“My boyfriend, ex boyfriend, kicked me off his boat,” she said tearfully and waved toward the boats in the cove. I looked out. There were dozens of boats, all expensive. I wondered what kind of boyfriend she had had, and I was jealous that he had her even if not anymore.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, thinking of one answer I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into. “I could help you find a boat with some women on it to take you to back to the mainland,” I offered gallantly.
“Would you take me back?” she asked.
“I’m not going back, at least not for a few days and maybe longer.”
“You don’t have to?”
“Go back? No. I’m taking a break… from life. I’m having a hard time too.”
The girl looked up, questioningly, but I didn’t want to explain.
Timidly, she asked, “Can I go with you?”
I couldn’t help but look down at her body—I had been trying not to stare. Reflexively she moved her arm to cover her breasts. I looked back at her eyes and paused, unsure how to respond, though I already knew my answer.
“I’d like that,” I said with a grin, and then I thought I might have answered with too much enthusiasm, so I added, “But don’t worry, you won’t owe me anything.”
“I appreciate you saying that. You seem like a nice guy.”
“I’m pretty nice—modest too.”
“Is anyone going to miss you, on shore?” I asked. “You can use my cell phone on the boat and call them, if you want.”
“No,” she said. “No one will miss me.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what her story was.
I offered her a hand and helped her up. Touching her was a thrill. “Can I carry your bag?” I asked, and she handed it to me. I looked down the beach. I didn’t want to have to deal with an angry ex boyfriend, while I was helping his girlfriend, whom he might not consider to be his ex, get away. I wondered if he was still around. “Which boat did you come on?”
“I don’t know. They all look the same.”
I nodded. “We’ll have to walk the length of the beach. My sailboat is at the other end. I don’t want to get into a confrontation with anyone.”
“That could be a problem,” she said.
“Why don’t you wait here and hide in the bushes. I’ll get my boat and anchor out there,” I pointed in front of us. “I’ll swim in and get you. Can you swim out to a boat?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We came in, in a little boat.”
“I’ll bring a life vest.”
“Good idea,” she said, and then she begged, “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. I thought but didn’t say, “Trust me”—as useless a phrase as the paper it’s never written on.
She nodded her assent and started making her way deeper into the bushes as I jogged toward the other end of the beach.
It took me awhile, but I piloted my boat over, anchored, and swam in with a life vest and a waterproof cooler that would float and into which I could put her bag of possessions. I helped her put the vest on and buckled it around her.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. She caught my drift and looked downward. I had an erection, not a full one but definitely plump.
“From putting on a life vest?” she asked incredulously.
I shrugged, took her hand, and pulled her into the water. “I said you won’t owe me anything, and I meant it. But I do accept gifts.”
She laughed. “No promises on that. What’s your name?” she asked.
“Matt, what’s yours?”
“Chastity,” she giggled, gulped a mouth full of water, and began coughing.
“Really?” I asked, wondering if she was pulling my leg.
“Not really. It’s Eva,” she said between coughs.
“Ahhh, Eve, the temptress.”
“Eva,” she corrected me.
“Yeah, I know, but close enough.”
We stopped talking and slowly swam out to the boat.
I got on board first, carrying the cooler with Eva’s stuff in it. Then I helped Eva climb the swim ladder. I couldn’t help but look down into her top. I’m sure she noticed—women are good at detecting that—but she didn’t say anything.
“It’s cooling off,” I said. “We should get dried off and get dressed.
“Do you have a towel I can use?” she asked.
I went into the cabin, brought out a clean towel, and handed it to her. She dried her body. I longed to dry it for her.
“Do you have enough water for me to rinse the salt out of my hair?” she asked.
“I have plenty of water, hot water even. Would you like to take a shower?”
“This is a fancy boat.”
“A regular yacht,” I said. “My uncle lives up north, and I live on his boat and take care of it.”
“Lucky you. Is your uncle rich?”
“He’s pretty well off. He owns his own company. It’s some kind of software business… So, do you want to take a shower?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said looking down again.
“Especially if you invite me in with you,” I said hopefully.
“You can come in with me.”
“Just like that?”
“Sure, why not?” Eva said and started stripping off her bathing suit.
We went into the cabin and undressed. I guided Eva toward the shower, turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and we both got in. It was crowded, and we wound up hugging, my penis standing between us.
Eva poured shampoo in her hand and soaped me, cradling my scrotum and testicles and paying special attention to my erection that she slid in her soapy fist. “If you think you’re going to come, tell me, and I’ll stop. I’d rather have you come inside me.”
“You’re really something,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Don’t stop—I don’t come that easily.”
“That’s a good thing in a man,” Eva replied.
I filled my hands with shampoo and started on Eva’s back. Then I washed her backside, her legs, and up between her legs. She smiled, giggling and squirming the whole time. When I washed her breasts and pulled her nipples through my soapy fingers she squealed. My penis pulsed dangerously, and I removed Eva’s hands from me.
We rinsed off, got out, and dried each other. Then we went into the V-birth and curled up in each other’s arms. I figured it was time for a confession. “I had a girlfriend, for about a year, but she dumped me.”
“I’m sorry,” Eva said.
“Really?” I asked as my penis rubbed against her.
“Not really,” Eva said, and we laughed.
“We did lots of stuff together, but I’m still a virgin,” I admitted shyly.
“I don’t mind—I was a virgin once too,” Eva said, and we laughed again.
I put my hand between Eva’s legs, held her, and squeezed gently and repeatedly as a caress. She made the loveliest girl sound high in her throat, and then she sighed. I could feel her wetness leaking out, and I put my finger in and explored her, while she held my penis. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, and her fingers stopped moving over me.
We kissed and touched each other, and after an interlude it seemed the most natural thing in the word for me to come on top of her and guide my penis into her slippery wetness. I moved it in and out, experimentally—it was my first vagina—it held me tightly.
We enjoyed making love for a long time, sharing Eva’s orgasms, spaced by intermissions, until it was my turn to come. And I did come, with ferocious energy, and my young man’s lifetime of practice masturbating culminated in the most gratifying release of childhood and attainment of manliness.
I lay on Eva, exhausted and exultant. “Am I hurting you?” I whispered.
“No, you feel good,” she said and hugged me. “Stay as long as you like.”
I fell asleep on Eva, and when I woke I was next to her, touching side-to-side, her arm over my back. I turned and kissed her, and she woke and smiled. We dressed and cooked the fresh shrimp I had in the fridge, and we prepared slices of French bread and butter, and strawberries. We took the food outside and ate in the cockpit. “I haven’t eaten this well in ages,” Eva said.
“The first night out the food’s always the best.”
“Mm hmmm,” she replied, her mouth full of strawberry.
After dinner we lay together on deck, wrapped ourselves in a blanket, snuggled, and stared at the stars.
“I ran away from home when I was sixteen,” Eva said quietly.
I turned toward her, put my arm over Eva, and put my lips next to her cheek as I listened.
“I left with a small backpack full of stuff, mostly clothes. I was terrified—afraid during the day and afraid to go to sleep at night.”
“For five or six months I didn’t stay with anyone. I slept in old cars, under bushes, wherever I could find someplace that seemed safe.
“The first night I was picked up by a trucker. I lied and said I had an aunt in the direction he was heading, and he let me off when we got where I said I was going. He was understanding and nice and didn’t hit me up for sex. And I didn’t have experience with sex, just kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend.
“When he left me off the only things on my mind were staying away from home and what happened that made me leave. I didn’t know where I was going to go or how I was going to get there. I thought about a couple of friends, but it I knew their parents would just being me back to my mother. Whatever I saw was scary and bleak.
“I was hungry as hell, and the truck stop where I was let off had an all night diner. I went through their garbage and found something to eat and slept on the ground next to the building.
“The next morning was like a lot of mornings—I needed food. One of the gals that worked in the kitchen found me going through the garbage and brought me some cereal and toast. She didn’t offer anything else, but that was wonderful. I got to thinking about where I was going to stay, but I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t want to go to the police, because they’d just send me home, so I wandered around, looking, for what I didn’t know, just looking.
“I spent a week like that, maybe longer, always going back to the truck stop. Every morning the gal would bring me breakfast. One morning it was a different person, an older guy the woman had called. He was a counselor from Children’s Services. He was nice, and he told me he would help me, but he said I would have to go to the facility.
“I was afraid, and I told him No.”
“He said I could leave anytime I wanted. Then the gal came out and chatted with him, and she told me he was okay and helped a bunch of kids get things straight, so I went.
“I had my first shower in I don’t know how long, a real meal, and I sleep in a real bed. There were two other girls there, and we sort of bonded. I still see one of them, once in awhile. The other one died of an OD after she went back home.
“The system was fucked up—I was put in a foster home that was abusive. How those people got to be a foster family is beyond me. Mom, dad, daughter, and son treated me like shit, like I was there to be their slave. The son was eight or nine, but he acted like the others. His sister was my age but was a pig. I’ve thought about going back and seeing if they are still with the program. I sure hope not.
“I couldn’t register for school without a transcript, and I didn’t want my old school to know where I was, because I was afraid they would tell my mom. I probably would have needed her signature, too, but Children’s Services helped me with all that. I don’t know if my mom ever found out where I was, but if she did she didn’t give a damn. I never heard from her again.”
I lifted my head and tried to look into Eva’s eyes, but she wouldn’t look at me. She just looked at the star filled sky.
“I got friendly with a girl in school, and for awhile I moved in with her and her mom,” Eva continued. “They were great, but the girl and I were very different. We lived in the same room, and she was a slob. Not that I’m perfect, but when she took off her clothes she couldn’t be bothered putting them in the hamper and stuff like that. But the bigger problem was me. I was used to being by myself. Eventually I moved on.
“I lived wherever I could. I begged for money and slept on the ground in parks, in an abandoned car for a month, places like that. One day, while I was begging, I met a woman who took an interest in me. She took me home, fed me, cleaned me up, and had sex with me. I was totally willing—I enjoyed it. We had a great afternoon, and then her husband came home, and we had a threesome. I enjoyed that too. I might have stayed with them, but they weren’t interested in having that much of a daughter, so I left.”
“Can you tell me what made you run away from your mother?” I asked.
“My mother was an addict. If she was at breakfast at all, she had a beer in her hand. She supported us by getting welfare and working a little. She mopped floors in a school, stocked shelves in a grocery, and was a maid in a motel until they found out she was fucking guests.
“Mom loved to fuck. I inherited that from her. She quit the little work she got, because it interfered with her night life. I don’t think she was a prostitute—she’d fuck anyone for free, but sometimes the men she brought home would leave something for her.
“At first it was beer, but later it turned into hard liquor and drugs. I saw what my mother’s addiction did to her. I remember it so well that there is no way I will ever be an addict to anything, with one exception. I’m an addict to sex, just like her. I was never a prostitute—I never explicitly offered sex for money—but like my mother I survived by trading what I had for what I needed.”
“Were you living with the guy who brought you on the boat?” I asked.
“Yeah, for a month, but he got tired of me. He wanted to trade me to his friend, for his friend’s girlfriend, but I wouldn’t do that, so he kicked me off his boat with all my stuff.”
“All your stuff is in one bag?”
“Yeah, and I always keep it with me in case I have to leave someplace fast.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a mother and father and aunts and uncles and grandparents, and a brother and sister, and they all love me.”
“You’re lucky,” Eva said.
“What about your father?” I asked.
“My birth certificate says Father Unknown.”
“That’s so sad.”
Eva shrugged. “I’m used being by myself.”
“I have plenty of love. I’d like to share it with you,” I said.
Eva smiled, turned, and hugged me. Under the blanket she slipped off her shorts and panties, and I got hard, anticipating making love again. She helped me undress, lay on her back, and moved me between her spread legs. She took my penis and guided it into her, and she sucked in her breath as I sank in deep.
Before we headed toward climax we lay in each other’s arms, not rushing, enjoying each other’s presence and listening to the sounds of the water lapping the sides of the boat and to night sounds from shore.
“The last night with my mom she was drunk on her ass, begging her drug dealer for drugs, but she had no money. So she offered me in payment, thinking so little of her daughter… I became just a token. He was too drunk or stoned to want to do anything, and I ran away before he could have me.”
I pulled my penis out and then came back into Eva, trying to express—with kisses on her lips, her face, in her ears, and up and down her neck; my hands caressing and cupping her breasts, my fingers gently holding her nipples; and my penis that had only just learned the exquisite feeling of being inside a woman—how much I cared for and wanted to give Eva love and perhaps be the first person she ever trusted enough to risk loving in return.
That Eva had trusted me enough to reveal her past, her secrets, her pain, transported each of us and us as one into worlds of feeling where thoughts slipped away, and we made love with moans and tears and flows of woman’s slipperiness that coated me and Eva’s thighs and dripped between her buttocks… And then we came as one with anguish on our faces and gasps for breath and life, to produce life, at least symbolically, and our cries in the night were heard by roosting birds and bats and other creatures on their own quests for food, mating, and the perpetuation of their species. We made love as neither of us had ever done, and after we climaxed and rested we went into the cabin and slept in each other’s arms. Nothing between us was ever the same again.
We traveled from Miami down to the Florida Keys, anchoring and making love whenever one of us felt the desire, which was often. Sometimes we headed out into the ocean where we could be away from other boats, and we would take off our clothes and cavort naked, touching and making love at will. Sometimes we didn’t make love; we just fucked in the cockpit with the boat was underway. At times we pulled into marinas to load up on water and supplies, but we never stayed overnight, for our need to make love was compelling, and we didn’t want to be inhibited by people being around us.
I taught Eva to sail, and she could spell me at the wheel as I napped, and in midsummer we crossed the rough waters of the Gulf Stream and went to Bimini and back.
It was getting toward the end of summer, and I was running out of the money I had saved working at the marina where my uncle kept his boat. “I’m going to have to go to work again,” I told Eva.
“Am I’m going to have to leave?” she asked.
“No, No, Not at all. I don’t want you to.”
“Really. Would you stay on the boat and live with me?”
“We do have a lot of fun together.”
“We do,” I said, putting my hand on her thigh between her legs.
Eva closed her legs on my hand. “I don’t know why you like me, except for sex,” she said. “I’m a bad girl—a slut, and a cum bucket, and a whore.”
“No you’re not. You just had a tough life.”
“One time I met this girl, and we got friendly, and she invited me to a party. There were three other girls at the party, but they all had boyfriends. The girl who invited me was in one of the couples, and I didn’t know anyone else. Before we went, she told me that it might turn into a sex party, and she asked if I was willing. ‘Sure,’ I said, thinking I would be with one guy or girl. I didn’t realize I would be the only unattached female with eight unattached guys.
“I realized I was going to be a gang-bangee, and I was reluctant, at first, to have to give attention to all the unattached guys. But I was only reluctant for about thirty seconds. Then I sucked every cock and was fucked by most of them. The guys liked that I wanted their cum in my mouth, not all over me. So you see what I’m like?”
“Do you have to be bad like that?” I asked.
“Yes, but not if you loved me. If you really loved me I would never be bad. I’d be only for you.”
“I do love you,” I said.
Eva stared at me, and then she started to cry. She whimpered, “I love you too,” and she hugged me and started crying harder. “I never said that to anyone before,” Eva said. “If you hurt me now I’ll die.”
“I won’t hurt you, Trust me.”
Eva nodded—she believed me, and with tears streaming down her face she said, “I do.”
I began working full time in the marina, and Eva enrolled in nursing school. She worked so hard that the hospital offered to pay her tuition if she agreed to work for the hospital for two years after she graduated. She accepted, and we lived together on the boat.
Eva spent a lot of time in the hospital, volunteering in the emergency room, and she was a fierce protector of every young woman who came in with a story of abuse. She fought Children’s Services, the hospital administration, and even the police. Once she almost got arrested for taking a young woman and hiding her so Children’s Services couldn’t take her back to the foster home from which she ran away. Eva fought so well, always on the side of righteousness, that instead of firing and arresting Eva the hospital, Children’s services, and a representative from the police force formed a group to develop new guidelines to protect young women. Eva, as young as she was, was a key member.
Every night Eva comes home exhausted, and I have dinner waiting for her. I give her a dose of love, we share sex, and we sleep touching.
If you want a cute little story about fucking and sucking go elsewhere—this ain’t it. This is a real story about a real woman, trading what she had for what she needed to survive.
A Girl Alone
By Matthew Dyne
Last night I read a story that got me thinking. It was about a girl like me who helped her neighbor fix his house. He was a nice guy, and even though he was older, in his mid-forties, she was attracted. It was obvious he was attracted, too. He tried not to show it, but he couldn’t keep from looking at her and especially down her shirt as she bent over, helping to put flashing around his foundation. He paid her well, but what the girl liked most was that the man recognized she was doing a good job, and he praised her for it. The girl never had a father.
In the evening the girl came back to the man’s house and told him she was a virgin and didn’t want to be, anymore. She wasn’t a virgin, though she’d only been with two other guys. She told the man she was a virgin, because she didn’t know if he would go to bed with her, because of their ages, unless she gave him an excuse to do something extra nice for her. That was the kind of guy he was.
The man gave the girl a bath, and then he made love to her. My first time wasn’t nearly that wonderful.
Now, I work as a nurse’s aide at a hospital, whenever I can get the hours. I’m in a prenursing course, at school, and yesterday I had four hours of classes, and at night I worked a twelve hour shift. I got home an hour ago and had a bite to eat and showered. I’ve got a two o’clock this afternoon. That’s what my days are like. I’ve got to get some sleep.
I ran away from home when I was fifteen. For a year I lived wherever I could. I begged for money and slept on the ground in parks, in an abandoned car for a month, places like that—nice accommodations. Then, while I was begging, I met a woman who took an interest in me. She took me home, fed me, cleaned me up, and had sex with me. When I was reading the story about the guy giving the girl a bath I remembered Carrie, because she started her love making while I was in the tub. We had a great afternoon, and then her husband came home, and we had a threesome.
I lived with them until I decided to go back to school. They weren’t interested in having a daughter, so I went to Child Services and was placed in a foster home. After I had been there a couple of months I started writing stories. I would write them and throw them away, but then I discovered Nifty. Nifty will publish anything. It was exciting to see something I wrote, actually in print. I put my first story in the Lesbian-Incest section. It was about having sex with my younger sister. I don’t have a younger sister or any sister or brother.
I got a lot of feedback on my stories, some from good people some from assholes. I also wrote a couple of stories as Carrie, same idea only from an older point of view—an older woman with a young woman.
I ran away two months before my sixteenth birthday. I left home with a small backpack full of stuff, mainly clothes. I was terrified—afraid during the day and afraid to go to sleep at night. For five or six months, I don’t know exactly how long, I didn’t stay with anyone. I slept in old cars, under bushes, wherever.
The night I left home I was picked up by a trucker. I lied and said I had an aunt in the direction he was heading. He let me off when we got where I said I was going. He was understanding and nice and didn’t hit me up for sex. And I didn’t have experience with sex, just kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend.
My mother was an addict. If she was at the breakfast table, at all, she had a beer in her hand. She used whatever drugs she could get.
My mother supported us by getting some welfare and working a little. She mopped floors in a school, stocked shelves in a grocery, and was a maid in a motel until they found out she was fucking guests for money. But what qualifications does a woman with no education, little experience, and on booze and drugs have to offer?
Mom loved to fuck. I inherited that from her. She quit the little work she got, because it interfered with her night life, but I doubt that any amount of money was ever agreed to before the act. She got whatever the fucker wanted to give her, if anything.
I saw what my mother’s addiction did to her. I remember it well, so there is no way I will ever be an addict to anything. There is one exception. I’m an addict to sex, just like her. I was a prostitute, and to some degree still am, but I always made sure how much my partner was going to pay for the blow job or fuck or cunt lick. Now I’m more of a kept woman, so to speak. I use kept woman as a way to distinguish from a prostitute. What I mean is, I have a few friends that I enjoy sex with who help me when money is short, but I don’t ask for money every time. As a result of friendship and sex I occasionally ask them for help.
I also share an apartment with another girl, but her schedule is almost the opposite of mine, so we only see each other a couple times a week. She loves me to bury my face in her pussy. I help her, with my tongue, but she doesn’t help me out financially. We just share sex and expenses.
When the trucker left me off the only things on my mind were staying away from home and what happened that made me leave. I didn’t know where I was going or how I was going to get there. I thought about a couple of friends, but it was late, and I knew their parents would just being me back to my mother. Whatever I saw was scary and bleak.
I was hungry as hell, and the truck stop, where I was let off, had an all night diner. I went through their garbage and found something to eat and slept on the ground next to the building.
The next morning was like the beginning of a lot of mornings. My first urgency was food. One of the gals that worked in the kitchen found me going through the cans and brought me some cereal and toast. She didn’t offer anything else, but that was wonderful. I got to thinking about where I was going to stay, but I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t want to go to the police for fear they would send me home, so I wandered around, looking, for what I didn’t know, just looking.
I spent several days like that, maybe a week, maybe longer, always going back to the truck stop. Every morning the gal would bring me breakfast. One morning it was a different person, an older guy the woman had called. He was a counselor from Children’s Services. He was nice, and he told me he would help me, but he said I would have to go to the facility.
I was still afraid. I told him, “No.”
He said I could leave anytime I wanted. Then the gal came out and chatted with him, and she told me he was okay and helped a bunch of kids get things straight, so I went.
I had my first shower in I don’t know how long, a real meal, and I sleep in a real bed. There were two other girls there, and we sort of bonded. I still see one of them, once in awhile. The other one died of an OD after she went back home.
The system was and probably still is fucked up. I was put in a foster home that was abusive. How they got to be a foster family is beyond me. Mom, dad, daughter, and son treated me like shit, like I was there to be their slave. The son was eight or nine, but he had been trained to be like the others. His sister was my age but a pig. I’ve thought about going back and seeing if they are still with the program. I sure hope not.
I’m comfortable with myself. I’m proud of things, such as I’m not addicted to booze or drugs, I’m working hard to make a place for myself, I haven’t caused anyone any problems, and I don’t take shit, though I try to do that in a good way.
When I first went to work at the hospital the head nurse was a bitch. She gave everyone a hard time, and all the girls said to watch out for her. I was only there a couple of days when she got on my case, because I hadn’t done something right, some little thing, like maybe I didn’t get a bed pan dry after I washed it.
I asked her if I could chat with her for a minute, and she said okay, and we went into her office. I told her that I appreciated her concern, but that I didn’t like working in an environment that was like a bed of nails, that I was there to learn and was eager to do so, and that I’d had enough shit in my life and didn’t need any more. “So, please,” I said, “if I’ve done something wrong correct me, but make it a learning experience, not discipline.”
She looked at me for a minute or two with no expression on her face. I figured I was out of there. Then she smiled and said, “I think we are going to get along just fine.” And we have. She’s getting along better with everyone.
When I wrote that I had no experience with sex other than kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend, I wasn’t completely honest. I don’t want to talk about that, yet, but sometimes I wonder how much of my sex addiction is my nature and how much comes from experiences? Everyone is into sex, more or less, but experiences confirm and magnify nature.
The woman who took me home when I was begging, I’m sure she intended to have sex with me, and I’m sure sharing me with her husband was part of her plan, too. She told me about other girls and boys, even younger than I, that she and her husband had shared. Why they didn’t get caught I have no idea, but remembering being with boys and girls and playing around, I’m sure it was only a matter of time before I had willing sex, anyway.
In my book, anything I do that doesn’t hurt me or someone else is okay. If a girl having sex with a dog bothers you, don’t read this next part. I have a close relationship with my dog Dude.
Imagine, you’re a single girl. You come home form school or work, and it’s been a really shitty day, real bad. You’re tired, pissed off, and horny, and this big black buffun greets you and wants to be petted and wants to cheer you up.
You head for a shower, but while undressing you feel this cold nose on your butt, and you turn around, and you feel this cold nose near your pussy.
The nose is insistent and pushes, so you back up until you flop backward onto the bed. Then the nose pushes its way between your thighs, and a rough tongue comes out and starts licking.
At first it feels uncomfortable, because it is like sandpaper, but pretty soon the sandpaper feels soooo goooood you spread wider.
The tongue keeps lapping. Then you notice an angry red cock hanging from the underside of said buffun, and soon his front legs are up beside you, and his drooling mouth and rough tongue are only inches away from your face. His angry red cock is stabbing, trying to find your love nest. And when he does, in about three humps the whole thing is ramming in and out of your cunt, today doing the missionary.
Your friend is a great, if brief, lover and pounds your pussy for only a few minutes before you feel a big baseball being stuffed into your cunt, and then you feel hot, hot juice filling your channel.
You stay tied together for about ten minutes, and what started out feeling uncomfortable begins to feel pretty damn good before it starts loosing size. Then he pulls out, and his cum oozes out of you.
The one thing I have taught him, yet, I’m working on it, is to clean me up before he cleans himself.
I’ve had Dude since he was a puppy. He was about a year and a half before he gave any indication he was interested. If I call him puppy he knows I’m interested. If I call him Dude he knows I’m not. He only expresses interest if I initiate it.
I was on a Yahoo chat site talking with other girls about dogs, and several said they can’t get their dogs interested, at all, even if they play with their dogs’ cocks first, or anything.
My thought is that dogs are a lot like men—some like doing it and some don’t.
I’m glad that Adam and Eve got it on. I don’t think they got thrown out over a fucking apple. Sex is entertaining, but I’ve discovered not all men are as horny as they’re made out to be. It’s difficult to gauge that, in most men. That’s the main reason I’ll probably never marry. Some men would be willing to have all kinds of sex before they’re committed but not afterward.
There are two kinds of sex—recreational and business. I can’t pinpoint when I realized that sex had monetary value. I don’t think I ever thought: tonight I’m going out to make some money fucking guys in the ally behind the bar. I never looked at sex as income, just a way to survive, trading what I had for what I needed.
I couldn’t register for school without a transcript from my old school, and I didn’t want my old school to know where I was, because I was afraid they would tell my mom. I probably would have needed her signature, too, but Children’s Services helped me with all that. I don’t know if my mom ever found out where I was, but if she did she didn’t give a damn. I never heard from her.
I got friendly with a girl in school, and for awhile I stayed with her and her mom. They were great, but the girl and I were very different. We lived in the same room, and she was a slob. Not that I’m perfect, but when she took off her clothes she couldn’t be bothered putting them in the hamper and stuff like that. But the biggest problem was me. I was used to being by myself, so, eventually, I moved on.
If I was going to get through school I had no choice other than to go back to Children’s Services. No landlord would even talk to someone my age about renting a room. How would I pay for it, anyway?
I got a new counselor, and she agreed, after reading my history, that I could visit a home, for a few days, before I was assigned to it. That worked.
The new home was special. The husband was an electrician, and the wife worked part time selling advertising. They had no kids, so all their attention was focused on me, and there were never any sexual under or overtones. I was never touched, by either of them, except for a hug or a kiss.
I went to a fun party, last night. I was a naughty girl.
There were three other girls, at the party, but they all had boyfriends. I knew one of the couples, from school, but I didn’t know anyone else. Before we went, my friends told me that it might turn into a sex party, and they asked if I was willing. “Sure,” I said, thinking I would be with one guy or girl. I didn’t realize I would be the only unattached girl with eight or ten unattached guys.
When we got there I realized I was going to be a gang-bangee. I was reluctant to have to give attention to all the unattached guys, but I was only reluctant for about thirty seconds. Then I sucked every cock and was fucked by most of them. The guys liked that I wanted their cum in my mouth, not all over me. The party happened in the apartment of one of the guys. He said he should have sold tickets.
Would I do it again? Duh! As I said, I’m a sex addict. I need my fill of protein. Here’s how I look at it.
Some people are Steeler or Duke or NASCAR fans. I’m a sex fan. I love the feel of a cock in my mouth or hand or pussy. I love the feeling of giving pleasure to my partner and the excitement of pushing the limits, like by giving my date a hand job under the table in a restaurant.
Sometimes I do naughty things. Sometimes I’m more normal, like going out with an old friend or a new meet. But I don’t give a damn about being conventional. Life sure hasn’t been conventional with me. If I do something naughty, like getting gangbanged, I don’t care what guys think of me. I gave up worrying about that a long time ago, but that’s only part of who I am. There are other parts, like I work harder then anyone to get what I want.
Everyone has to do what they’re comfortable with. I’m a slut and a cum bucket and a whore. I like fucking, sucking, jerking, licking, swallowing… Why? I just I like it. I like the taste of hard sweaty cock. I like getting nutrients when a man fills my mouth with cum. I like being loved as a sex object, and I like being loved as a friend. Can’t a person like being loved both ways? Does it have to be one or the other?
When I fucked those guys at the gangbang it was recreational. I was there of my own free will, and I enjoyed all those cocks, just for me. I wasn’t competing with other women. They compete with me. But I do it better.
When I give pleasure to a friend, that’s different. I enjoy giving my partner, man or woman, great sex. Sometimes, it’s the only way I have of thanking people.
My first time wasn’t like the girl getting the bath. It wasn’t wonderful like that. I was raped by my Mom’s drug dealer, because she didn’t have money to pay for her fix. It wouldn’t have done any good to report the rape—the dealer’s brother was a cop.
I was fifteen when the dealer did it. He wasn’t after anything. He knew we didn’t have anything, and if he hadn’t been drunk I’m not sure he would have done anything except wait for his money, like he had before. I don’t know, I just don’t know.
After he left my room, I had to shower to try to get his stink, or whatever, off me and, of course, out of me. While I was standing in the shower I decided I had to go. In half an hour I was out the door. That’s when I left home, but as far what caused me to leave, it wasn’t the rape. That was only the last straw.
That night, my Mom, drunk on her ass, begging for her drugs, offering her daughter in payment, thinking so little of me that I became a mere trading token—that’s why I left.
My mother didn’t care about me. I never knew my father, either. On my birth certificate, under Father, it says ‘Unknown.’ If my Mom knows who he is, and I don’t think she does, she hasn’t given me a clue. I talked with a couple of people who knew her back then, but all I find out is that she was much like she is today, except booze only—she hadn’t gotten into drugs yet. I don’t blame myself for not having a family, but I’m a bottle baby, for sure.
I have, really, I think, gotten over not having a father. Don’t get me wrong, my heart still twinges when I see a Dad being so obviously proud and happy with his kids. But, I guess, I’ve gotten over it, like getting over not being in a family with lots of money. Life goes on. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished and determined to live out my dreams.
I do admit that I am where I am because of sex. I’ve done whatever anyone wanted me to do, to get money for food or a place to stay or a grade, for that matter. A girl who goes out on her own as early as I did doesn’t have many employable skills, but she does have hands, lips, mouth, pussy, and ass, and if she learns how to use them well she can do okay.
I was thinking about times when I had sex with a guy, and he was kind of rough, and I kind of liked it that way. The night I was raped by my Mom’s dealer, he wasn’t mean, but I was scared and was fighting him, and he was rough. Now, I wonder, did I enjoy it? Is it possible that my mind won’t admit I liked it? The person being raped isn’t supposed to like it. I don’t know.
I wrote that not having a father is no big deal, but I just saw an AT&T ad for the first time, the one where Daddy goes on a business trip and finds his daughter’s teddy bear in his brief case. He sends his daughter pictures, via his cell phone to Mom’s computer, of the places he’s been. The last picture is from in front of their house when he gets home. I cried.
Yeah, it gets to me once in awhile. I don’t know anything about my father: who he is, what he did, nothing. I don’t think Mom does either. If I ever need to know, like for a medical reason, then I’ll be bothered, but I’ve got a lot of other things to worry about. He doesn’t know I exist.
When I was first taken in by Children’s Services a social worker told me that throughout life I would seek ways and people to replace what I thought a father and mother should have been. I haven’t spoken to my mother in four years, maybe more. I wonder if she loved me, even a little, back then. It’s a big question. Now, I don’t know if she’s even alive and if she is what her feelings are about me. If she continued doing meth, and stuff, like she was when I left, I’m sure she’s gone.
Last time I was in Singapore, New Years Day 2003, I had me a delicious Slut. Rather inexpensive she was, too–cheaper than a plate of Nachos or a peanut butter sandwich and much tastier, but not as tasty as her garlic twin covered with lime juice.