Down to a T

I recently read a piece (I can’t remember where so can’t provide a reference) in which it was argued that the T in LGBT I was out of place since gender is a distinct phenomenon from sexual orientation. On one level this is true although we might point out that if a change of gender does not entail a change in sexual orientation this would mean that the act of transitioning the T actually entails the L or G since a straight man transitioning becomes a lesbian.

But there is a deeper problem with this way of thinking. It simply has an excessively narrow view  both of gender and sexuality and  ignores the ways in which they have been intertwined in gay and lesbian subcultures.

I began to think about this whilst at Tate Britain last week,  visiting the exhibition Queer British Art 1861 to 1967, held to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the partial decriminalisation of male homosexuality in England and Wales.

For, from the Victorian era, experiments with gender fluidity were part of the artistic expression of gay and lesbian identity. Everywhere where there is androgyny and this was something that was clear to contemporary observers.   Clothes, make up, hair,  the use of beautiful young men as models for female figures from  classical mythology, this even before we get onto pantomime dames and  drag queens. In short, those who identified with alternative and stigmatised sexualities, sought to perform their sexuality in ways that also challenged gender stereotypes. Look, for example, at the photograph of Quentin Crisp in the exhibition or the iconic portrait of Radclyffe Hall.

And maybe the words gay and lesbian are out of place here too. At the start of the period represented by the exhibition medical science had still to invent and define hetero- and homosexuality as concepts. As categories they can be restricting too. Science seeks to define and classify. Art doesn’t.  Art like this serves to undermine the neat order of science’s categories. It points the way to which allow us can live art through our sexuality and through our performance of gender. Queer art is saying that sexuality is elusive, a range of possibilities, a range of pleasures, and gender a stage for our self-representation. Seen through the prism of art, rigid definitions of gender are as constraining as heteronormative binary views of sexuality and, in a sense, underpin them.

There were parts of this exhibition I found deeply erotic. Some of the exhibition was wickedly funny. Take a look at the library book covers doctored by Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell, an act for which the state exacted vicious revenge with six month prison sentences.  All of it was empowering, much of it beautiful. I left, thinking that sexuality and gender form a space where can express ourselves, a space where we can be free.

O Tannenbaum

Over the years Birmingham’s German Christmas market has always seemed the ideal place to meet those old school friends, and old school acquaintances,  who have got in touch through social media  and whose curiosity, or sometimes mine, led to the suggestion that we should meet up for a drink. Usually we do only meet on the one occasion. It is nice to chat, nicer to be recognised after so many years, but clear as well that we have both moved on and that we have neither the time, nor enough in common, to sustain a friendship. I was hoping tonight might be different but not expecting too much. .

I was standing in the cold, in front of the bar above which an elk’s head repeated “O Tannenbaum O Tannenbaum” over and over again without ever getting to the verse. I stood looking around for my friend, sipping at my wheat beer when I noticed a woman looking at me, as if trying to place me.  We made eye contact and I walked over to where she stood at one of the tables in front of the Council House. I was glad to be able to put my drink down.

I looked at her closely. She was dressed in a waterproof jacket, denim skirt and boots. She was in full make up and her hair was a stylish asymmetrical bob with a big splash of red.

“I’m Karen” she said in a voice that was a little deeper than I had expected.  “I am sure we have met before somewhere.”

I wasn’t so sure, and really I have never known cross dressing men, or transsexuals or whatever you ae supposed to call them. Such people had always seemed rather weird to me. I realise that my schooling in the very masculine environment of the single sex King Edgar’s Grammar School and my lack of exposure to the opposite sex until I went to university, had coloured y attitudes. You can call me old-fashioned, a bigot, if you like,   but I am a straight guy who well……

Karen smiled again. I did find her attractive and this was a little disconcerting. At the same time her features were beginning to look familiar.

“I’m Paul” I said  and sipped again at my beer  as the moose sang again

“O Tannebaum”

“I know” said Karen with what seemed a conscious effort to take the bass tones out of her voice.

I put my glass down and reached out to touch her face. I ran a finger down her cheek, feeling the smoothness of her skin underneath the expertly applied foundation. I ran it back up, against the grain, and felt the stubble, the sort that even two close shaves could not remove. I stroked her again and as I withdrew my hand she took out a packet of cigarettes, out one in her mouth. She handed me a lighter.

“A lady should never have to light her own cigarette” she said in a very matter of fact way.

“It’s Tim isn’t it?”  I said, feeling my heart race and my armpits start to sweat.

“Karen….these days.”

She took  a deep drag on her cigarette and leant her head back to expel the smoke upwards into the cold Birmingham night.

The smoke, the relentless singing of the elk, the snatches of other people’s conversations,  the clink of glasses, all seemed to freeze in the moment. I was 16 again, with Tim who was becoming Karen, and I realised we can never step into the same river twice.

Tim has smelt of sweat, polo mints and testosterone. Sometimes I could detect orange peel on his breath, Karen was Opium, mulled wine and Marlboro  Llghts.

“Did you want this meeting as much as I did?”

“I don’t know” she replied. “I just wasn’t sure how..”

“But you’re still you.”

I took a step forward, it my hand round the back of her head and drew her towards me. She did not resist and opened her mouth, just a little,   teasingly little, for me to push my tongue inside and feast on her new flavours. No more orange peel, no more mints, but this was a more enticing prospect, cigarettes and wines, a softer, more voluptuous body that pushed back, thrust a tongue deep into my mouth and then went limp in my arms as our tongues intertwined.  .

As we kissed I was aware of nothing but the song

“O Tannenbaum O Tannenbaum”  And then the next verse that I knew from school

“Wie treu sind deine Blatter”

How faithful……..and how we were rekindling an adolescent passion……. We had  kept the faith for 30 years, hadn’t we?

I felt precome damp on my boxers. Pushing my leg p against her thigh to shield my hand, I reached up inside the denim skirt and fumbled inside her panties to touch a cock, that was as stiff as mine, yet bigger. I pulled myself free of her and said, panting,

“Come on Karen, let’s go and find somewhere quieter.”

THE END

A Summer Outing

I didn’t really want to blog again this week but well……..

When I was younger, in more innocent times, I used to enjoy an outing. We used to get on a coach and go to the seaside, a theme park or something and have a great time. Then I became aware of a different kind of outing. This is exposing aspects of the lives of other people that they have chosen to keep private. Outing is a form of public humiliation, a cowardly act of bullying and one that social media have made very easy.

All of us have things that we keep to ourselves, or disclose only to a small number of trusted people. No one should be expected to be transparent. Having your own private space  to which you alone are the gate keeper, is essential to mental well being. It can be a practical necessity too. particularly in matters to do with sex and sexuality.

I first became aware of outing as a serious issue some years ago when Peter Tatchell took it upon himself to out prominent gay men who had not chosen, for whatever reason,to do it themselves. He considered it hypocrisy that undermined the struggle for gay rights. He did not, however, consider the feelings of those he outed, their right to privacy, the personal consequences for them. .

I suppose Tatchell might at least claim to have acted from higher motives. The motives of other people engaged in outing are less noble; greed for example. I was never a big fan of Max Mosley, the Head of the FIA. Nonetheless I had enormous sympathy for him when the News of the World outed him as a BDSM player. So fucking what? I shouted. If that’s an aspect of his sexuality, that is his business and his alone. That a professional dominatrix betrayed him for money and broke the bond of trust that  underlies all interactions between a dominatrix and her subs, indeed between any sex worker and their clients, I found appalling. The woman involved, I am informed, is still practising although why anyone would want to pay her money I cannot understand.

Some years ago I head the story of a highly successful escort in a large English city who was outed to her family by a jealous rival. Having promised her family she would do something else for a living she returned to the sex work she enjoyed so much under a new working name, one she uses to this day. Her family don’t know this and she still lives in fear of being outed again.

I have written before about a friend who works as a dominatrix. Few people in her family know what she does. Her mother does and is supportive and, on one occasion, sewed a prison uniform for one my friend’s clients who fantasises about being sent down. Her teenage daughter has no idea what she does having been told that her mother works as a debt collector. My friend intends to tell her, at some point, when she is old enough to understand. She has no reason to believe that anyone would out her but she does have a degree of anxiety about how outing would affect her daughter. 

Outing can hurt many people other than the victim. One of the most irresponsible acts of The Sun, top of a long and inglorious list, was the outing of Mary Bell who, at the age of 11, killed two small children. As she did this in 1968 before Rupert Murdoch acquired the Sun there was no witch hunt, no moral panic and Bell was eventually released from custody, given a new identity and resettled in the community. She married and had a daughter who knew nothing about her mother’s past. This was unacceptable to the self appointed arbiters of justice at The Sun and their reporters confronted a clearly distressed woman at her front door, wrecking several lives in the process. There was no public interest whatever in this, despite the self serving claims of the newspaper. It was an act of sensation seeking malice.

As I said at the beginning of this post, having secrets, having alternative names you adopt in certain circumstances, is not wrong. For some it may be a necessary evil, and a source of anxiety but for others it is life enhancing. I have discussed the use of names in a previous post. My passport is not in the name of Eve Ray. So what? When I blog about sex and write filthy stories I AM Eve. All I have done is given a part of me that has always been there a name. It is a means of keeping a very personal part of me private as I take it into the public domain. I do, after all, write to be read.

But outing is back in fashion, there have been recent cases of trans women, of , inevitably, sex workers being outed, losing their jobs or being exposed to the risk of violence. .

Actually I feel sorry for the outers. In their jealousy, their hatred, their small mindedness, they will probably never know the richness that parallel lives, parallel identities can bring to a human life.

One final thing: to whoever it was who did the despicable thing I heard about this week. The woman you ‘outed’ might just be a whore and a pervert to you. To others she is a wife and mother. To many more people she is a clever, funny and loving human being. Did you think about her family? Her children? Her friends? She is worth more than you will ever know but you probably don’t care about that do you?.

.

Daniel My Sister

LGBT

The story below is included as part of an LGBT blog hop organised by Scorching Book Reviews. Hope you enjoy it as well as the other posts. Click here to find them. There’s a prize draw as well – just click the link at the bottom of the page.

I have been dabbling in erotica for a while but only succeeded in getting something published last year, a story in the Xcite Books gay anthology Boys in Bed. I would describe myself as a bi-curious heterosexual  but write about all kinds of sex. In fact a significant proportion of the stories I am working on involve either lesbian or D/S relationships. I just find the idea of women making love to women incredibly beautiful. And the thought of a woman submitting to another woman I find unbelievably erotic. This is why I write about sex, it is a way of exploring things I might never get to do myself, a way too of understanding myself and my sexuality. If anything I write helps even one reader to have a better understanding of his or hers then it’s been worthwhile. Even better if it makes you reach for your clit or your cock……:-)

DANIEL MY SISTER

Agata gasped as Daniel took off his shirt and she was that he had proper breasts, female breasts, just like hers but bound with tape and flattened. Then he slid off his trousers and boxers and she saw a cunt, just like hers only shaven and with a stud in the clit. She struggled to get out her words,

‘But you’re not a man!’

‘I’m all man’ said Daniel ‘and all woman too, at least for the time being. Forget about what you were told in Poland and forget about all the nonsense your priests drummed into you. If you want to be a whore you’ve got a lot to learn and I’m going to teach you. I’m going to fuck you as a man and then I’m going to have you as a girl.

Agata froze, then, remembering that she was being paid for this, she removed her panties and lay on the bed, thinking that she had got rather more than she had bargained for.

Agata had been in England just two months after leaving her village in Poland to come to England in search of work. She had moved in with her best friend Justyna and found a job packing airline meals, nothing exciting and the money was never enough. It was Justyna who had suggested they sell sex and so they placed an advertisement in the local newspaper

‘Gorgeous Polish girls your dream come true.’

They quickly had custom and the hostility of established girls in the area as they undercut the local rated, £50 for half an hour £80 for an hour although most punters wanted to be in  and out of the shabby flat quickly. Agata was a pretty girl, she had lovely breasts that just asked to be caressed and kissed and sucked and she, known as Jasmine, attracted most of the business.

And now, in her second week as a sex worker she was confronted with Dan. Dan was right, she was naive. In the village in Eastern Poland there were no gays, no cross dressers, no ambiguity and no-one enjoying sex, no-one who had thought about it the way Dan had. Her initial response was to feel repelled but now, she was fascinated. She remembered the priest at home warning her about the moral danger but now she didn’t care. There was a sexual world to explore and she wanted to explore it.

‘Half an hour that’s fifty pounds isn’t it?’ asked Dan.

Agata, thinking quickly said ‘more for special requests, it’s like doing it with a couple after all.’

‘Let’s say sixty then.’

Agata was feeling distinctly uneasy and conceded the point. He counted out the notes and handed them to her.

Dan lay on the bed beside her. He came over took her in his arms and began to rub his body against hers. If he looked and dressed as a man he had the smooth and lissom body of a woman and when he reached for her cunt with his fingers she resisted the temptation to shout out ‘No that’s not allowed.’ Because she wanted to know, she had to know what it was like to be touched by someone as intimate as she was herself with female genitalia. Dan placed his finger very gently on her clit and began to massage it with finesse and delicacy. Agata felt herself becoming hard and Dan began to rub more vigorously. As Agata grew wetter, Dan took the fingers of his left hand and pushed four of them into her rapidly dilating and, by now, very wet vagina. He began to move in and out, slowly at first then picking up speed, did it more and mote vigorously.

He took his finger off her clit and said,

‘Go on you do it yourself’ and Agata massaged her clit vigorously as Dan put a further finger inside and they both picked up the pace until he finished her off and she came with a scream.

‘See how nice it is?’

Dan smiled and kissed her gently on the top of the head.

‘And now I want you to fuck me but not with your fingers.’

He stood up and made his way across the room and took a dildo out of his bag.   Agata gasped.

‘Don’t worry’ said Dan, ‘This is my prick well one of several actually I keep in a draw. It won’t hurt believe me.’

He strapped it on, rolled a condom onto the end and applied a little lubricant. He dropped onto the mattress and began to finger Agata again. She found this very pleasant. No one had ever touched her like that before. It seemed instinctive on Dan’s part.

‘I fuck you as a man but I touch you as a woman.’

Dan continued to massage Agata’s clit with an expertise she was unused to and suddenly she felt her juices rising. Dan stuck a finger inside her, then another, then another,

‘Three fingers’ he said. ‘You’re soaking wet. And ripe for a good fucking.’

‘Bend over the chair.’

Agata did as she was told. She was a little disconcerted by this, it was different from anything she had experienced before. She sensed Dan coming up behind her, let out an involuntary gasp as the felt the cold dildo touch her. Dan felt for the pening and slid in.

‘I’m all in’ he announced. ‘Is it nice?’

‘Yes’ she said struggling for words.

Dan began to move in and out, slowly and deliberately at first then, gradually picking up the pace. Soon he was working away quickly and thighs were slapping against her bottom as he moved in. Agata shut her eyes. She thought of home, the time she lost her virginity, the ordeal in the confessional the following week. She thought about the men who came to her for a cheap fuck, a massage, covered oral that she was still learning to do, realising that she had never really experienced sex like this before. She used to joke about transsexuals but now she was giving herself to a beautiful man who was still a woman. Dan knew what he wanted, he was skilled and experienced, he was……..

He let the pace slacken.

‘Keep going’ she said and Dan grabbed her roughly and pushed in hard and deep. Soon he was thumping away harder than ever. Agata began to play with her clit.

‘Harder harder I want to come!’

He came in again two mote thumps and she came.

Dan withdrew. She turned round, looked at him, looked at the big strap-on, looked at the smile on his face.

‘I’ve never paid for it before’ he said. ‘I just had to try.’

He took a step towards her, pulled her head towards him to kiss her. She resisted.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t do kissing.’

‘You’ll kiss me though, feel me, feel my soft skin, I will kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.’

He grabbed her head pulled her towards him. Agata closed her eyes and opened her mouth. His tongue slid into her mouth just as smoothly as the dildo had entered her cunt. She let herself go limp. He put a finger inside her, wet it with her juices, and put it in her mouth.

‘That’s the taste of you.’

There was a knock on the door. Justyna called

‘Time’s up.’

‘Still busy’ called Agata. She did not want this to end.

Dan pulled away, took off the strap-on and said to Agata

‘Kneel before me and lick my cunt. I want to feel your tongue on my clit.’

She knelt before him, felt the hard cold floor digging into her knees. She looked at Dan’s shaven pussy. She had never been this close to someone else’s cunt before. Dan held the labia apart with his fingers and she began to lick at the opening, felt the sour juices……..she was confused, giving cunnilingus to the man who had just given her the best fucking of her life.

She took hold of Dan’s buttocks, pulled him a little closer towards her and worked his cunt with her tongue, worked her way to his clit, worked it until she heard him come.

‘Thank you’ he said almost matter of factly.

He pulled his trousers back on, took a twenty pound note out of the pocket and handed it to Agata..

‘It’s not so much.’ she protested.

‘But I’ve gone over time and you have been so good.’ He smiled and put on his shirt and jacket. After he had put his shoes on he gave her a peck on the cheek and made for the door.

‘I’ll show you out,’ said Agata almost as an afterthought.

When she returned to the room thoughts were racing through her head. Nothing seemed real any more, she was almost floating in an alternative reality where nothing was quite what it seemed. Then she noticed that Dan had left his strap-on.

Justyna came in.

‘That was a long time nearly an hour I hope you took extra money from him.’

‘I did’ replied Agata ‘but I didn’t want to,’

She smiled.

‘I’ve learned so much. Let me tell you what I have learned.’

She walked across to Justyna and gently pulled down her skirt. Her friend was ready for work, had no underwear and she knelt before her and began to worship her friend’s cunt. She would be good at this she knew. She enjoyed the stubble rubbing against her face, she loved the smell, She could feel Justyna becoming aroused. She stood up, with Justyna’s juices on her tongue and slid it into her friend’s mouth.

‘I’ve learned that nothing is as beautiful as a woman’s body, that nothing is as lovely as a cunt.  I’ll sleep with men for money, but for me I have to sleep with girls.’

‘Lean over the chair and I’ll take you.’

Justyna made as if to protest.

‘He left this. I don’t think it was an accident. We have to try this.’

Agata had little idea of how to use the strap-on but she was determined to try. She put it on, walked up to Justyna, slapped her bottom before feeling for her rapidly dampening cunt.

‘I’ve never fucked a girl before.’

And they both laughed.

THE END

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A Tale of John and Linda

A lot has been written about transsexuals and whether they are welcome in feminist circles, whether they are ‘proper’ women and so on. I don’t know any stats but have a probably superficial impression that  that most transgender people are biological males wanting to live as women. We seem to hear little about biological women who identify as male.

I met Linda some years ago through a shared interest in poetry and we became friends. We lost touch for a few years before re-establishing contact via social media. Linda is no longer Linda. Linda is now John. John is a stylish man in his early thirties, still at the start of the long and difficult process  that will end in gender reassignment surgery. He jokes that he already has a prick, several in fact and keeps them in a draw.  He is now, just as he was years ago, sensitive and intelligent with a love for poetry. We have the same things in common as we did when we first became friends. That a girl friend has become a platonic male friend has really changed nothing in our friendship. And I will support John in his journey. The essential worth of a human being is surely something that transcends gender

A Chick With a Dick

It was nearly dawn and I had completed my task, which was to write out one thousand times

‘I must have the utmost respect for Mistress Dagmar. I am sorry for calling her a chick with a dick.’

My arm was aching, my buttocks still sore from the lashes I received in punishment the previous week. I was going back as I must in the earnest hope that I had earned the privilege of being removed from the chastity in which I had spent the last week.  I had been taught a harsh lesson.

I have been submissive for years and visited a number of excellent Mistresses who taught me the joys of discipline and obedience, the superiority of the female sex. I blogged about my experiences and then had the idea. I would try a TS Mistress and so I came to knock on the door of TS Mistress Dagmar.

She was over six feet tall in her heeled boots, and the PVC dress wrapped tightly around a body that only hours in the gym could have produced. She ordered me to strip. I stood before her, head bowed and she grabbed my limp penis.

‘This is pathetic. Look at mine.’

She lifted her dress and I saw her own prick, erect and magnificent.

‘I’m the gorgeous woman you’ll never be. I am more of a man than you can ever dream of being. You are nothing’

She dressed me in a frilly pink frock and ordered me to kneel and worship her boots as she sat on her throne. I began with the soles, sucking lovingly on the four inch heels as ordered before progressing up the boots leaving each one wet and shiny. I was dry and very thirsty but Mistress commanded me to continue up her thighs and to the crotch.

‘You’re not a man. You’re a dirty little slut. And sluts love to suck cock.’

She raised the dress and held her penis, which was stiffening visibly as she anticipated the treat that was coming. I was nervous, I had sucked many strap-ons in my time but this was a real cock. There was no escape. Moving in close as Dagmar clamped her booted thighs around me I took the prick in my mouth and worked the tip with my tongue before moving quickly backwards and forwards along the shaft. I had been to enough massage parlours to know what a good blow job was like. And Dagmar’s cock grew big in my mouth and she came, squirting huge amounts of creamy fluid um into my mouth. I fought off an initial instinct to gag and swallowed greedily.

‘Taste the sweetest nectar. Then take my cock in your mouth again.’

I pulled and sucked again and felt Dagmar harden again. She withdrew and ordered me onto the whipping bench. As I heard her put on latex gloves, felt the cold lubricant around my anus, I knew what was coming next. But I was strapped down and helpless.

‘Fucked by a lady, what a treat for you’

She lay on me. I felt her breasts against my back, felt her soft skin. She was really a woman and yet the huge prick she was going to push up me was all too real. She moved round in front of me, to show it to me, so that I could see the condom being rolled on.

Then it happened. I tightened my muscles as I felt her entering me, trying to retain some control. Dagmar was suddenly soft and soothing as she said,

‘Relax, my little slut, relax. This is the first fucking of many. I’m going to earn good money with you. I’m going to make you a whore’

She laughed at my discomfort. Then she entered me a second time and I felt the whole of her penis going in. She began to move backward and forward and the discomfort soon became unbearable as she quickened the tempo.

‘Stop, please!’ I shouted but she replied briskly

‘You’re just a sissy slut and I’m fulfilling your destiny. This is the only thing that gives your life meaning. Besides it’s good for the prostate. Relax, relax and enjoy.’

I relaxed and thought about the humiliation, strapped down, buggered by a she-male. But Dagmar was right. There were depths of submission I had to explore, a self I had to discover. I became hard even as I relaxed and began to enjoy her slow deliberate movements in and out.

She pushed again and I gasped as I felt her penis go fully in.

‘In kink is self-knowledge. In kink is the only truth.’ said Dagmar.

She withdrew and, leaving me strapped down went to the side where I had left my notebook. She opened it and turned to the page where I had begun my first jottings of my research notes. She turned to me and read aloud.

‘Mistress Dagmar – a Chick with a Dick.’

She came across to me, seized my chin with powerful masculine hands and lifted my head so that I looked her full in her red and angry face.

‘How dare you. How dare you, a slut, write about your Mistress like that? You will suffer.’

She passed behind me and I heard her looking for a flogger. I heard the swish through the air and then the first harsh painful blow. Dagmar was a woman with the physical strength of a man and she flogged harder and more relentlessly than any Mistress. I began to cry. She released me and I knelt on the floor in my frilly pink dress. She held up a mirror and I could see the big tears of shame rolling down my cheeks.

I was attached to the cross and she came over, rubbing herself against me, teasing me as I became hard and dribble began to escape from my penis.

‘Chastity’ she said. ‘You will come back next week for release having written one thousand lines in your best handwriting. And if I am satisfied I may release you.’

I was sent on my way with the device locked on. No football as I couldn’t use the communal showers, no meeting with my girlfriend, no………….just evenings at home writing lines and regretting my impertinence. I was hers, Mistress Dagmar filled my every thought.

I put the lines into an envelope and set off. I was nervous. If she wasn’t satisfied the punishment would be doubled and I would remain in chastity.

I was shown into an upstairs bedroom where another TS waited, in a leather mini, gold lame top and boots. She had a blonde wig and garish make-up. I looked with distaste at her obviously masculine legs, her knobbly knees.

‘Meet Slut Lorraine’ said Mistress. ‘She’s been dying to meet you for some girl on girl action.’

Mistress dressed me in the same pink dress I had worn the week before and said,

‘Both of you, on the bed and kiss.’

Before I could think Lorraine had grabbed me and pulled me onto the bed, thrusting her tongue deep into my mouth. I embraced my destiny and responded, pulling her close, feeling the chill of the falsies against me, her booted legs wrap round me and the heels dig hard into my buttocks. Mistress sat on her throne, smoking a cigarette with obvious disdain. She laughed at our clumsy efforts as we rolled round and grappled with each other.

Mistress then ordered us to stand.

‘You have earned relief’ she said and removed the chastity device. She handed me a pair of latex gloves, a condom and a tube of lubricant. Slut Lorraine was fastened to the whipping bench, her skirt lifted to expose her pale buttocks.

‘Finger her to loosen her up though a slut like that won’t need much fingering. Then fuck her. Fuck her hard and enjoy. Because you are going away in chastity. You will return again and again to be made the perfect slut. A chick with a dick.’

Of Julie Burchill and Bitter

It was in November that, channel hopping after watching Chelsea lose in the Champions’ League, I switched to BBC3 and, by chance, watched the documentary about Jackie Green, the transgender beauty queen. I am still not sure why she wants to be a beauty queen but I was very impressed by her courage and strength of character. The following day I sent her a message of support on Facebook. I got a reply. Jackie had hundreds of messages and tried to reply personally to all of them. This says a lot about her.

There were, inevitably, offensive messages, some from the usual suspects and, sadly, a few from older transgender women who seemed bitter that she had, in their view, had it easier than they did.   I don’t think she did. She was suicidal before her parents paid for her to undergo gender reassignment surgery on her sixteenth birthday.  The thing that Jackie, apparently, gets most upset by is that is the suggestion that she used to be male. She maintains that she has always been female but trapped in the wrong body. All of which raises the question of what actually makes a woman a woman.

Julie Burchill, in her rant in yesterday’s Observer, is clear. You need to have been born female and had the experience of feeling shit for a few days every month. Transgender women beware. You are fakes and Julie is going to get very angry with you.

The essence of woman is, then, the period and the menopause; to menstruate or to have menstruated, so that older women are not excluded. But isn’t this a narrow, impoverished view of what it is to be female? If you didn’t get the right chromosomes forty weeks before you breathed your first, tough.  Apart from the obvious fact that Jackie, and others, live fulfilling lives as women and are accepted as women by those Burchill would class as “real women”, it is a sad and dismal definition of the feminine. No joy, no celebration. She probably prefers vinegar to champagne.

Enough of Burchill. I am sure that those reading this are as appalled as I am at her ravings. But I do wonder why so many transgender women so keenly embrace the stereotypically feminine, frocks and heels and so on. It strikes me as betraying a lack of confidence in their femininity. I once chatted to some members of a TV/TS Group in Birmingham on their weekly social night in a gay pub in Birmingham. To a woman they were drinking girly drinks, like Babycham with a cherry on a stick. I bet most of them didn’t even like Babycham. I say to them: welcome to the sisterhood but some girls drink real ale. Next time I dare you to come in jeans and I’ll buy you a pint of bitter.

Oh and forget about Julie Burchill. It was probably the wrong time of the month.