...and she absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

you're designated for termination

Magdelyn is an infiltration unit. Part woman, part machine. Underneath she’s a hyper-alloy combat chassis. Microprocessor controlled. Fully armoured, very tough. She doesn’t feel pain. She can't be bargained with, she can't be reasoned with. She doesn't feel pity or remorse or fear and she absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.

As you can see, I'm not writing a lot lately...

...so, I let people who email me fill, up my blog space.  Like the blog post on September 12th (I think the guy took offense.)  I was totally into it.  I'd have taken his $300 if I wasn't so unattractive these days.  Maybe I worded it badly.  Below is another gentleman after my own heart  I had to reply and tell him that I'm really not cute anymore.  I'm getting too old to be cute.  : (

"I want to be deep, deep inside your princess pussy. you can be all glammed up and sweaty. tuck your legs back while I carefully insert my massive daddy cock into your perfect fat slut booty. I squirt some hot cum in you. I want to cover your body in baby oil and fuck you until you bleed in front of a room full of strangers.
Daddy's little Princess! All I seem to want to do now is hold your little body close to me and feel your warm mouth on mine. That bubblegum mouth looks tasty

I want you to suck off other men while my cock is pumping your cute fat tailpipe. Want you to be my bimbo slutwife, on the phone with me as your rectum is getting stretched by some stud, telling your Daddy every detail.

You could be my spoiled brat. I could take care of you and every evening you put on something hot and you ride me like Daddy's dark little angel should.

Billionaire business men would do lines of coke off your booty. thats how hot and sinful it is.
mm just came to the thought of you in heels and a tiny bikini top, no bottom, shaking your little clit around for me and my friends.   You and I should talk.  I wanna have a thing with you.  Could keep on searching for black cock if that's your thing.  I wouldn't mind.  We could have a beautiful friendship."

Ah, another admirer...

Even assuming that people believe that I am either, (1) a prostitute, or (2) profoundly promiscuous (which either or both may be true), it still amuses me that those things would allow someone to address me like this guy did:

"Bitch. I will pay you. I remember an ass pic of yours you used to have on here. I want it. Will pay you two hundred dollars to let me fuck yer ass. Who knows, You might enjoy it. Even with me being so young. Cunt."

Off to Burning Man...

...see ya in a week. :)

New project...

I decided to take on a new project (like I need any more?).  I am starting to organize the story of me!  I plan on titling it:

The Auto-Biology of

Ma99ie X

Joy Grrl Syn - Nymph of Darkness

This pic isn't of me.  But, I wish it was
It is Maryam Farnaz Rostami

The Auto-Biology of Heluva Goodtyme

A mini autobiography I wrote just got published with a compilation of personal transgender stories in Tranny Tales: Personal Stories of Gender Transition, also available at amazon.com.

Great work Marsea and Shannon!

FUCK!!! Well, it happened...

Porn Wiki Leaks got my real name and industry name.  They published it in a massive download of porn talent private information.  This is fucking outrageous.

Bottega Louie

The atmosphere is almost perfect. It feels like a European venue with the little round tables and the high ceilings, the white walls with echoes of conversation richochetting about. The atmosphere would be better if there were more beautiful people around - or at least somebody dressed to impress. Instead the place is populated with the bearded everyman urban youth types accompanied by plain Jane (or is it Jayne these days) in their sensible shoes and formless cloths. These people would serve as background noise to anybody resembling interesting, if there were anybody interesting around. The brunch food is edible. The menu unispired with egg dishes and lattes. The best part of my breakfast was the Bloody Mary, which also happened to be the most expensive thing on the table, coming in at $12.


Leaving the place, we bought a box of 11 little marange cookies for $22. The cookies were of various colors and flavors. They look like little hamburgers. All in all, the experience was pleasant, if unimpressive.

My friend Elfonce called me a...

"saucy tart."  He really does know the way to my heart.

Despair?

Despair is too strong a word for how I am feeling.  But I am upset.  I've just now discovered that a man with whom I had a brief S/M liason, passed away in 2009.  I was required to call him "Master Ian."  I had met him after his wife, "Mistress Helen" interviewed me over the telephone.  "Have you ever been buggered?" she stated.  She spoke with a kind of distainful authority.  I met the pair at a tea room in the Peninsula Hotel in New York.  I brought with me and off-white apron, as I'd been instructed.  I wore a charcoal grey suit.  Underneath I wore stockings, as Ian had required of me.  We sat down around a knee high coffee table surrounded by three plush seats.  Ian instructed me to raise my trouser cuff, allowing him to see my stocking'd leg.  Ian was a distinguished man in an elegant suit.  Helen was Asian.  She was attractive.  Ian spoke with a Scottish accent.  A server approached the table and took our order.  Ian spoke, ordering for both he and Helen.  "And for the gentleman?" the server asked.  Ian piped up, "He's having nothing."

The place was filled with people.  We spoke in hushed tones.  He asked me about my life and my intentions for the future.  He wanted a sissy girl slave who would live near him in my own apartment, but would be available to him upon request.  He stated that he was renaming me Kimberly, and that's how he and Helen addressed me from then on.  All of this excited me very much.  I had never seen a dominant couple who appeared to actually live the lifestyle.  Ian told me that he worked for the U.N. in some diplomatic capacity.  I told him I was from Los Angeles.  He asked me who I knew in Los Angeles.  When I told him that I did not socialize with the entertainment society, he stated that he only knew industry people in Los Angeles.

Ian stood up and commanded that I accompany him to the bathroom.  He had me enter a stall and place my hands against the back wall over the toilet.  He pulled down my trousers and started massaging my genitalia.  Then he grabbed me hard, making me recoil and twist from the pain.  As someone entered the bathroom, and we waited for them to leave.  He again was molesting me.  The door to the restroom opened again.  "God.  It's like Grand Central Station in here."  We returned to table.

"I will own you, if you're lucky," he stated to me plainly.  He was firm.  His demeanor seemed angry.  I would transform, completely.  My male self was to be crushed out of me until only a feminine shell remained.  It seemed a bit preposterous to me at the thime.  They finished their tea and we prepared to leave.  Ian handed me a sports bag for me to carry, out of which poked a heavy riding crop hidden within a plastic bag.  Ian ordered that I walk behind them at 10 paces. 

We travelled by subway to Queens, arriving at a quite empty apartment that had been cleaned in preparation for moving.  There was little furnature.  The place was to be sold by Helen.  I was informed that she was moving in with Ian and that she was selling her place.  Ian instructed me to strip naked, and put the apron on.  I was ordered to go clean the bathroom, and to pay particular attention to cleaning the toilet.  I worked hard cleaning the already spotless, empty bathroom.  I began to perspire from the futile task.  Ian came to inspect my work.  He held the riding crop, like some Nazi Gestopo Officer.  It seemed rather silly to me, the whole ritual of cleaning an already spotless bathroom.  He ran his fingers over the medicine cabinet, and inspected the toilet.  He ran his fingers over the top frame of the toilet paper dispenser that was built into the wall.  He inspected his finger, and apparently finding it unclean, ordered me to open my mouth, into which he inserted the finger.  He ordered me to suck the finger clean, which I did.  He ordered me into the empty living room, where I was told to kneel.  I got down on all fours.  "Put your cheek on the ground," he commanded.  I placed my face down on the dark hardwood floor.  My ass was in the air.  Helen stood near me.

Ian hit my ass profoundly hard with the riding crop.  He wasn't playing.  One.  Two.  Three, strikes he hit me.  I rose up in agony.  "Get down or double the punishment," he yelled.  I got down.  This was not what I had expected.  Another three hard thwats.  He was a grown man giving it to me with all his strength.  "When I tell you to do something, you damn well do it," he stated.  I looked up at him.  "Get your eyes off of me," he commanded, "Don't ever look me in the eye.  Cast your eyes down."  I did as I was instructed.  He put the end of the riding crop under my penis and lifted it, saying something at a "clitty."

Ian then ordered Helen to bend over.  She angled her bottom toward him.  He face had a expression of disregard.  He ceremoniously put the cane to her three times.  She straightened herself, unmoved.  She had been "punished" for my misdeed.  That was the chain of command.  Ian, Helen, and then me.

We travelled back to Manhattan.  We went to a restaurant, that I barely recollect.  I was allowed to speak with a bit more freedom.  When the server approached, Ian ordered for both me and Helen.  He assigned me homework at dinner.  I was to prepare some large number of cards...maybe a hundred.  I don't recall.  I was to apply lipstick, kis the card, and write a mantra.  I don't recall the words, except that it was to end with the word "sissykins." 

I had not expected to be spending so much time in this adventure.  I was getting a bit nervous.  Was I going into slavery now?  This was the first time I met them.  What I thought was to be an interview had turned into an already long day.  It was getting late, and I didn't know when/if I would be excused.

We left the restraunt and Ian chastened me for not helping Helen on with her green overcoat.  He came at me like he was about to him me.  I cringed.  When I understood my transgression, I immediately took possession of her overcoat off the hook and helped her on with it.  It felt kind of good to be so out of control, and always on edge.  I knew by now that any little trangressions could be handled quite brutally.

We started off, to what I came to realize was Ian's apartment building.  It was in an elegant location, that in my years in New York, did not know.  I don't know if I could find it today.  I was instructed to enter the building after them, and make it appear that we were not together.  He appeared a tad concerned that his personally life could bleed into his professional world.  Into the elevator and up and up and up, until we reached a point with a very nice view.  I cannot recall what happened there, except that I was now his property and that I was about to be excused (for which I was profoundly grateful).  Before I left though, I was gain ordered to strip down.  He put me on my knees in the kitchen area, where there was no carpet.  He informed me that, although there would be occassions that I would be sharing their bed, I would never be allowed to penetrate Helen.  It hadn't crossed my mind really.  I, on the otherhand, would be penetrated.  He ordered Helen into her room to put on high heels.  "You won't be allowed to have any other relationships, either.  If you want children, maybe I can find a dominant woman for you to marry."  Helen returned, wearing blue pumps.  She positioned herself in front of me, and stuck a feminine pose with her shoes, one foot catty corner from the other.  Ian ordered me to masturbate and ejaculate onto the kitchen floor.  I knew where this was going.  I suspected that he would have me lick the cum off the floor.

I was physically unable to reach climax, mostly because I was profoundly nervous.  After an uncomfortable effort on my part to inseminate the lenolium, Ian asked me what was going on.  I told him that I couldn't.  He seemed resigned, and allowed me to get dressed.  I don't recall his parting words that evening, but I left that building dazed.  It had been a profoundly long day.

Ma99ie on Genderfork.com

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Economy of Sex -or- How Sex sucks.

I think sex is way over priced these days.  To demonstrate my opinion, let me spin you a yarn.  On April 3rd, I put my beloved track frame up for sale on craigslist. Here is the ad:

I'm selling Ma99ie.  Fuji Track Frameset ($220)- 56cm Black track frameset, with seat tube, seat clamp, and headset.  Seat tube (center crank to top 56 cm, center crank to center top tube 53 cm)  Top Tube (56 cm)
See Photos

I got not one reply for the beautiful frameset. Needless to say, I was disheartened. On April 6th I got a proposition to sell Maggie, of a different kind:

"Bitch. I will pay you. I remember an ass pic of yours you used to have on here. I want it. Will pay you two hundred dollars to let me fuck yer ass. Who knows, You might enjoy it. Even with me being so young. Cunt."

Think about that for a minute. Noone was interested in a piece of velo-engineering that will last years to the lucky owner. But, for almost the same price, I could sell my ass for a few moments of ejaculatory pleasure. That just seems insane. Sex is just too easy to get, and so fleeting, that it really seems like a waste.

All Lawyerd Up.

Update:  On April 14th, this post was published on Mike South's blog, mikesouth.com.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011 (11:46 a.m.):  I finally speak on the telephone with Jeffrey Douglas, the attorney who represents A.I.M.  I'd sent him an email on April 6th, reading:

Howdy,

I read on the Los Angeles Times webpage that you represent AIM. Unfortunately for me, I tested with AIM on three occassions, in preparation for adult shoots. I tested twice in (censored), and then again in (censored). My name has not appeared on Porn Wiki Leaks (thank God). But, I am worried that the entire data base got compromised, and that my name may appear in the future on PWL. Do you happen to know what the scope of the breach was? Do you know how long AIM keeps these records?

Cordially,
Magz
 
He wrote me back on April 7th, stating: "Please call me at (censored). If I am not in, leave voicemail w phone and best time to reach you."  So, between April 7th and April 12th I've been play telephone tag with him.  He finally reached me yesterday.
 
He basically told me that if I haven't been outted already, I couldn't be outted in the future because A.I.M. updated their computer security with 24 hour surveillance.  He said that they are not sure that it was A.I.M. information that was the basis for the porn wikileak outtings.  The information could have come from improper use of 2257 information by producers.  He also stated that a new testing service, Talent Testing Services was active when A.I.M. was not operating for a period of about 30 days, so they could have been the source of the leaked information.
 
"There is law enforcement involvment," he said.  He's not even sure if A.I.M. got hacked, so they are doing a forensic analysis of their computer system, including access to the information for the last 18 months.
 
The end.

Is there anything I can do?

Well people, I am in kind of a tizzy because there is a website called pornwikileaks.com that has published the porn industry names, and the real names of people who appeared in adult movies.  The leak seems to have come from the Adult Industry Medical Care (A.I.M.) data base.  Unfortunately, for me, in the past I tested with A.I.M. three times in preparation for adult video shoots.  Now I am worried that my name is going to be made public and the adult videos I was in will be traced to my real name.

Midori Sour Indiscretions

I am sitting in my psychiatrists waiting room today, when I get a text message, "Cum to the city I want that pussy mama".  It serves to remind me of my indescretions the day before. 

Thursday, March 31, 2011 (Cesar Chavez day).  I find myself at Divas, indulging in a Midori Sour.  I sit on the plush bench that lines the wall.  My drink is reclining on a little shelf-table petruding from a pillar, behind which I hide.  A light shines down, lighting up my drink, making it look radioactive.  A man wearing a cowboy hat, shouts to the bartender, Alexis, "What the hell is that day glow drink?  I've gotta have me one of those."  A crazy tranz girl, of whom I've written about before, with a big ass showing from beneath her very low-rise jeans, is at the bar.  She sports a tramp stamp, with the name "*Cesar*" showing.  She goes behind the bar and washes some glasses.  I get up to go to the bathroom.  I go to the far stall, against the wall and away from the door, which is always open.  There are no doors on the stall.  I pee standing up, and when I'm done, I put the seat down as if I sat on it.  I turn around and face way from the toilet, and begin the delicate process of arranging myself and my underwear.  It is quite the project, hiding one's body in a skin tight dress.  I finish and pull down my dress as the crazy girl walks into the stall.  "Oh, excuse me," she says.  "No problem," I reply.  She goes to the next stall, closest to the door, and unashamedly pees standing up just like a man, with her fat ass and big boobs.  I was stunned at the brashness of the move.  If there is somebody else in the bathroom, I always sit down.

I return to my nuclear drink.  In my absence, a couple makes themselves confortable on the bench, close to my seat.  She is a heavyset white girl with hipster glasses and dark hair.  He is a muscular black guy, bald, wearing an oversized shirt.  One of his front teeth is framed in gold.  Before I sit down, I make sure that I face my drink, giving him a view of my ass and my new stocking seem tattoos.  A minute passes before he leans over and introduces himself and his companion as Master See and Dominatrix Raven.  He tells me that they are starting a new club, and are scoping out tranz girls who might want to participate.  He tells me that D. Raven is experienced in the lifestyle, but that he is new and still learning.  He is from San Leandro, and she from Millbrae.  Once they get a venue, they will charge guys for the services.  He tells me that no pain would be involved.

I excuse myself to go bask outside in the fading sunlight.  He comes out a short time later.  "Is it true that trannies don't like to have sex with trannies," he asks me.  I tell him it's true, that most of the girls at Divas like guys.  He says he knows that tranz girls get angry if you call them one thing, when the identify as another.  Like calling a transexual a cross-dresser.  He asks me how the girls identify at Divas.  I say most are transexuals on hormones and with breast implants, but without the genital surgery.  Because some of the girls are hookers, they keep their equipment because the Johns like it.  He asks me if I've ever put up any craigslist ads.  I lie, and tell him I haven't.  I tell him I have to leave.  He asks for my number, and I give him my card with my email address - magdelynswallows@gmail.com.  "Do you believe mean girls suck.  Good girls swallows?"

More Paintings From My Friend

Pissed Off Tranny with Butterfly Knife

Bimboslut Implants

Apparently, from the statistics of my blog, these are the most common internet browser searches that result in traffic to my blog.  How did, "bimboslut implants" and "bettie page" get on there?

Pinstriping

Ma99ie -Now with even more whore tattooing.  I got another tattoo today.  If anybody reads this blog, you may remember that I got a tramp stamp a while back.  Today, I got a Stocking Seam Tattoo.

But for the Grace of God.

Last night (11:45 pm), I am on the northeast corner of Post and Polk.  I watch the cars drive by.  The sky is clear and the weather cold.  A police cruiser slows down and the officer in the passenger seat peers at me through the open window.  I pretend to be waiting for the light.  When it changes, I walk across Polk Street.  I am not a prostitute, but I look the part and I don't want to be mistakenly arrested.  I walk around the block and down Larkin.  I approach a man who presents as a Muslim walking the opposite direction.  He wears a white taqiyah, a beard, a large white shirt, baggie pants and sandals.  With my arms crossed in the cold, I look away from him and down at the ground, feeling ashamed as if confronted by a moral superior.  I have no idea whether he despised me or not.  I make my way to the southeast corner of Post and Larkin, and lean against a lamp post. 

I'd been drinking.  I am waiting for the poison to filter through my body so that I can safely drive home.  I pass the time by watching the world go by in the middle of the night.  I notice that there are three distinct spectators that stick in my mind this night.  There are the Johns who slow down their cars inappropriately and give lecherous stares, or holler something at me as they drive by.  Some pull over up the road.  They want me to walk over and negotiate.  But, I don't move from my lamp post.  One Latino gentleman hovers around me at the corner, and then states in a low voice, "Hablo Espanol?"  I reply gently, "Lo siento, Senor.  No hablo."  Another man - black gentleman - turns the corner with his passenger window half way down.  He's driving a non-descript silver Nissan.  "How much to suck you?" he asks.

I cross the street and walk down the block back to Post and Polk.  I look up into the night and see a few, weak stars in the clear sky.  For no reason at all, I reflect back to my childhood.  There was an older boy named Bobby who would take me into his back yard, where there was a little Gazebo, and molest me.  I was four or five years old.  He lived across the street with his fat sister Betty and their mother who was dying of cancer.  I remember being inside his house only one time.  The place was filthy with crayon graffiti on the walls and clutter all around.  He would take the toys my parents bought me during out weekly trips to Gemco, and smash them with rocks.  For some reason, I didn't mind.  I think back and realize what a nightmare he and his sister must have been going through as their lives fell apart. 

As I walked back to Larkin and Post, I thought about my trip to the psychiatrist.  I had told her about the sexual assault that I experienced almost two years ago.  I told her that I was not so much traumatized by the experience as I was in shock that it actually happened.  I don't know why my mind went to these irrelevant places.  Maybe the alcohol cleaned off these memories.

During this evening - and I know this sounds strange - but, there were a lot of jitney-buses and limousine-vans driven by Asian men who would slow down and stare at me as if they are about to pull over and proposition me.  This happened to me a number of times during a short period.  I thought it odd.  I have to say, that the one thing about my presentation that is different than the other girls is my milky white skin.  The other girls are usually Latina, Asian or black.  Ethnic guys (I know this sounds racist) love fucking white trannies.  I have no idea why.

The last group of spectators I noticed during the evening were a particular group of women.  They were always accompanied by a man, and they were seated in the passenger seat.  As the guys would turn right from Larkin onto Post, the girls would stare at me.  As the car moved, they'd turn their heads like The Exorcist and continue staring.  Their eyes convey condemnation mixed with fascination.  But, most of all, their eyes communicate horror - whispering, "But for the grace of God go I."