Faux Whore

Demora Click, my new bodyguard

2012-01-21T20:47:00.000-08:00

Finding love at work.

2011-11-23T23:30:00.000-08:00

you're designated for termination

2011-10-28T01:41:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-10-27T23:55:00.000-07:00

...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 to 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...

2011-09-12T22:31:00.001-07:00

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...

2011-08-27T00:05:00.001-07:00

...see ya in a week. :)

New project...

2011-08-15T22:25:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-06T09:37:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-07-08T21:54:00.001-07:00

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

2011-06-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-06-10T23:05:00.000-07:00

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

Despair?

2011-06-08T23:42:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-21T19:47:00.001-07:00

Facebook

genderqueer

Economy of Sex -or- How Sex sucks.

2011-04-13T21:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-13T20:37:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-04-07T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-02T19:58:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

Pissed Off Tranny with Butterfly Knife

2011-03-10T19:53:00.000-08:00

Bimboslut Implants

2011-03-09T20:59:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-24T20:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-21T09:53:00.000-08:00

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."

Cinco De Mayo

2011-02-19T18:29:00.000-08:00

Here is a painting my friend recently finished, entitled "Cinco De Mayo."

May I help you with a trip to the psychiatrist?

2011-02-18T19:21:00.000-08:00

Why, thank you, my good doctor. I will indulge, thank you very much, in the simple pleasure of mental exploration. Does she do good brain massage? I would be ever so pleased to lay bare the intimate details of my pitiful existence to the analysis of a seemingly too young practitioner whose face shines with high-school after-glow.

Was it as good for you as it was for me, Dr. Mehta? Dr. Propti Mehta, MD - Medical Director Women's Health Services, you are a darling. I love what you've done with your office. Only two weeks in your office and you've all ready decorated it with white paint unobstructed by pictures, or degrees. Your desk has no flowers, nor piles of paper.

I shared too much, too readily with you, no? Yes. I spilled out like a glass of milk knocked over. But, count your blessings. When I first met with my former therapist, Patrick Califa, I cried a lot and the self-pity was obscene. And, by the way, thank you for the prescription, and for calling it in. I picked up some false eyelashes and baby aspirin while I was at the pharmacy.

We'll see each other again. Two weeks, you think? Very well. We'll meet over my broken life and laugh.

Ma99ie does the Sierras - in boy drag.

2011-02-13T12:20:00.000-08:00

2011-02-08T18:42:00.000-08:00

I go see my beloved doctor, Dr. Charles Moser M.D., Ph.D. Let me just say this about my visit: It's a bad day at the doctors office when he jams a swab down your throat, stuffs swab in you ass, and then suggests you see a psychiatrist.

So, I will call the psychiatrist tomorrow. I will keep you updated.

alcohol enema, anyone?

2011-02-06T21:31:00.000-08:00

"I'd love to piss in your mouth and then shove your entire face into the toilet to wash you off in the only water you deserve" [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:27 PM]

"You had me at 'piss in your mouth.'" [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:29 PM]

"and give you an alcohol enema." [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:30 PM]

"I've never heard of an alcohol enema. what does that do?" [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:31 PM]

"cleansing your asshole, your spleen, your system, and makes you feel like you're hammered at the same time so I can use you anyway I want." [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:32 PM]

"I love it. Too bad you don't live in the SF bay area." [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:40 PM]

"water is a privilege." [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:41 PM]

"I'm pretty damn close. Southwest is a breeze." [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:42 PM]

"So, what is your thing? What do you like?" [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:52 PM]

"I'm very sadistic - like lots of pain administering and degradation. Treating you like a little piece of shit, making you eat off the floor, wear butt plugs to dinner, gagging your mouth with my cock til you almost puke... and you?" [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:53 PM]

"humiliation, degredation." [magdelyn on 11/11/10 at 1:56 PM]

"yes. let me see some more of you." [flacket on 11/11/10 at 1:56 PM]

"I want my cock inside you." [flacket on 11/11/10 at 2:09 PM]

Eunuck.

2011-02-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

In the post today, I received a large, bubble-wrapped envelope from a friend. He'd send me a 1973 paperback print of Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuck. He spotted it in Vancouver, and picked it up with me in mind. I opened the cover and saw written in pencil on the first page, C $16.95, crossed out. Underneath was $6.95. I turned the page. On the title page he'd written in blue ink, "Girl, you'll be a woman soon." I can only assume that he suspects, correctly, that I'll never read the book. Though, I do have the unsettling urge to open the labial covers and fuck it.

So last night...

2011-02-01T21:32:00.001-08:00

I dreamed I was getting raped. My rapist was black. He inserted his c*ck into my ass. He slowly pushed in. In my dream, I thought to myself, "This is not as painful as I'd imagined."

Witness to life.

2011-01-21T17:16:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time in the dark. I see a lot of people who spend a lot of time in the dark. Here are a couple of encounters I've witnessed recently. The first is of a mentally disturbed passenger on BART. The second is of the scene surrounding woman who got hit by a car.

art, artist and still lifes.

2011-01-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I get annoyed by people whose pretense is to find profundity in the mundane. What a privilege it must be to sweat the stuff and all of its numbing routine, as if the ritual of daily survival is of some conversational value.

Ah, shit. Fuck it. That was a beautiful beginning above, no? I was going to write a post about the vapid urban youth bourgeois, but couldn't get myself to stike another blow at the much maligned hipsters. So, I shall abandon this post with all its potential, and work on my alcoholism. I have to say, I make a pretty lousy alcoholic. I just finished another glass of wine. It is work to drink the stuff. I am sipping my Cab and IMing a long time friend. He wants to send me a painting of a papaya that has been sliced down the middle. The painting has a vaginal effect. He tells me he started it for me five years ago, but has just finished it.

Blood Colored Glasses.

2011-01-19T21:26:00.000-08:00

I've just poured myself a glass of Cabernet. I like Cabs because of their dry taste. Yesterday, I had a glass of wine, and the day before that. I've decided that I should become an alcholic. If you've read some of my posts, you probably think I already am. Alcohol fuels my best stories. From hospital visits to rape, they all have one thing in common - profound intoxication. The truth is, though, I actually drink very seldomly, which explains why I am so easily incapacitated by a few drinks.

My life has come to a point where I need to dull the depression. I need to take the edge off. Nobody helps me. Not my doctor; not my relations; and certainly not myself. I have no more self discipline. I am alone in this world, and, unfortunately I make bad company. I am disappointed in myself. Not to say I was ever my own biggest fan. Self hatred is an addiction of mine. But, it is unbearable now. Let's have a toast, shall we?

Pissed off Trannies with Guns.

2011-01-16T17:51:00.001-08:00

Work

2011-01-14T22:31:00.001-08:00

I let it slip that I took ballet for a few years. Now my coworkers call me Black Swan. I haven't even seen the movie.

Tranquility

2011-01-01T22:03:00.000-08:00

Friday. I spend the day in the Napa Valley. A friend of mine owns a vineyard. These are pictures from her vineyard.

I like bikes.

2011-01-01T00:03:00.000-08:00

I customize a lot of bikes. I've given away many of them. Some of them I ride, until I want a new bike. Here are some of my creations:

The Whores, they are a cumming.

2010-12-31T16:51:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, December 29, I was at Divas for the Erotic Service Provider Legal Education and Research Project Fundraiser, in which I am involved. It was held on the fourth floor lounge area. I go use the restroom. I notice there is no lock on the door. This has not always been so. There used to be a lock. I am dressed up as a boy messenger. I meet Maxine, the president of ESPLERP. She asks me to set up the camera so that we can film Louis Sirkin, the attorney ESPLERP has hired to file suit against prostitution laws in California. The owner of Divas, who has had me escorted out of the place before (see "There used to be a lock" link above) is a weird man with bad hair, tight jeans with a white shirt tucked in and the personality of card board box. He helps Maxine get the area read for the presentation.

I order a Tom Collins from the Tranz bartender. She's young, Asian, and very pretty, wearing a skin tight little black dress with spagetti straps. I hate her. She tells me that she's worked in the place for about five months. She asks me for the recipe for the drink. I don't know. I spout something about sweet and sour and grenadine, which is wrong. The three whore plaintiffs...opps, I'm sorry, the three erotic service providers who will be Jane Does 1-3 in the lawsuit come in. One of the girlios tells me she has three kids, by three different fathers. She's dressed "sexy professional." She asks me if I could deliver her somewhere, being that I am wearing a bicycle messenger bag and jacket. "I'd love to deliver you anyplace, sweet cheeks," I say to her. Jane Does numbers 2 and 3 I've met before, but I can never remember their names. One is blond, low ride jeans and a submissive, air head presentation.

My job is to greet people and make them feel comfortable. It would be much easier if I was dressed as a girl. But, ever since I got drunk and sexually assaulted, my SO keeps me on a very short leash. A very heavy set man sits by himself. I go over to him and introduce myself. I engage with him. He is going to be the "John" plaintiff in the lawsuit, assuming he can work out his presently pending legal troubles.

Louis Sirkin has a partner with him, Scott Ryan Nazzarine. He is youngish, and attractive. Jane Doe 3 is obviously smitten with him, as they talk at the end of the bar. I order a Grand Mariner from the bartender. She gets the bottle and pours it out. There is only half a drink in it. She hands me the glass and charges me full price. Bitch.

Louis talks for more than an hour about the lawsuit and his history of arguing before the United States Supreme Court. He says he hopes to file the papers in Federal District Court within a few weeks. Diva's is not know as a sophisticated gathering place for the legal elite. After the presentation I turn to the bardender, "You didn't expect that, did you?"

Is there nothing this AWESOME tranny can't do?

2010-12-27T23:03:00.000-08:00

I Heart L.A.

2010-12-18T18:53:00.000-08:00

This is Los Angeles - the city into which I was born. I was driving the other day with my father in the very very working class, Latino neighborhood where I grew up. It's a place that most mildly upper-middle class white folk would be terrified to set foot. I came across these murals in a tiny, dead-end alley hidden away from civilization.

"Vietnam can kill me. But, it can't make me care."

2010-12-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

Stanley Kubrick's movie 'Full Metal Jacket," like 'Patton' before it, is an anti-war war film that glorifies war. When I entered the Marine Corps it seemed like every one of my fellow recruits had witnessed the flick.

Life imitated art as I went through basic training with recruits heavily influenced by the film. I never went to war, but I did witness violence. Every few nights, the still dark of the squad bay would light up with the brutality of another blanket party. Blanket parties were more psychologically violent than the other sanctioned rituals of fratricidal violence, like the circle jerk. What ever "fuck-up" was the guest of honor would be attacked in the middle of the night by fellow recruits wielding towels or socks weighted with down and used as flails, causing the heavy bed racks to jump across the floor with a horrifying death rattle sound.

I never participated. One night a recruit named Dunn was the guest of honor. Dunn was one of those "crazy brave" people. When you looked at him, you knew he had crazy man eyes. Dunn knew what was coming before he went to bed. When guests arrived, Dunn jumped out of his rack, in his skivies, wearing his combat boots, and swinging a piece of pipe at his attackers (I still wonder where he got the pipe). What balls. Dunn never was the guest of honor at another blanket party.

Going out with style...

2010-12-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

Winter is upon us again. I have run out of anti-depressants. I have spent all day exploding in irrational anger. I am tired. There is a metallic taste in my mouth, and subtle jolts of electricity that strike my mind at irregular intervals.

I used to keep a blog centered on my male life. But, I have hated myself all of my life. Literally, there is a deep seated self-hatred that is unrelenting. So, I stopped writing the blog.

If you've ever thought about suicide as much as I do, you begin to fantasize about one's last curtain call. If I ever really though with it, I think I'd do it with a Craigslist ad.

(click on picture to enlarge)

Little Black Riding Hood.

2010-12-04T14:15:00.000-08:00

I am sitting in my VW, putting on fake eyelashes, when I see through the camouflage curtains a man approaching the vehicle. My VW porta-potty bus is parked on Hemlock Street, near Larkin. I call it a porta-potty bus because of the color scheme. Hemlock is a dark, dirty street even for this neighborhood. But, if you want to be a street walker, this is whore paradise. Hemlock is a lightly travelled, one-way alley butting up against Larkin, a heavily used one way street. At night, the darkness of the at the intersection provides the a perfect business environment.

The man stops by the side of my VW and sets down two bags he's carrying. Because of the light differential between the inside of my VW and the outside, I have a blurry view of the outside world, but people can't see me inside through the curtains. The man walks up within reaching distance of me, while I am sitting on the fold down bed. He has his back to me. I can see him warily look around, before pulling down his pants and squatting down. He defecates within a couple of feet from me. I pull out my cell phone to try and take a video, but the beep of the phone spooks him. He stands up quickly, without wiping himself, pulls up his pants and looks around.

He moves to the front of the car, and then looks through the windshield. He starts looking about, like he's about to break in. Luckily for me, I have a defensive steal pipe I keep around for close encounters. I reach down and pick it up, and pushed the handle of the sliding door forward, and jerked it back. But my adrenaline must have been pumping, because when I violently pull back on the handle to slide the door open, it doesn't open. As I go through the forward, back motion again, I see the guy pick up his bags and quickly walks away.

I eventually make my way toward Divas. At the corner of Post and Larkin, a woman in her late twenties says, "You're the prettiest guy on the street." She is wearing a dark red velvet skirt, and black top open almost down to her navel in the middle. She's plain and thick. I take her comment as an insult, but retort, "You are the prettiest girl on the street." There is an awkward pause before I ask, "What's your name." "Gigi," she says. She tells me, "You're the best hip-hop artist I've ever met." "What do you mean," I say. "You're hips hop, hip hop hippity hip hip hop." Thankfully, the light changes and I cross the street, putting an end to the surreal conversation.

As I walk into Divas, I am dressed with a black stretch dress that has a band of leopard skin printed down the front and back of the dress. A black shrug covers my arms. I wear retro-Mary-Janes, and a black scarf over my head. There are four people in the bar; the tranny bartender, some dude in the back (who never makes it into my consciousness), a short Latino man with a big mustache, and at the front corner a man I would learn is named Randy. I order a Margarita. This was all the invitation Randy needed to start a conversation with me. "Is your name Margarita?" he asks. He says its odd that I ordered a Margarita, which I find odd since he is drinking a Bloody Mary at night. I find out quickly, and with no inquiry by myself, that Randy was an Apache pilot and had been in the army for 18 years, until he was court-martialed for firing off two hellfire missiles without authorization. "I'm a pilot," he says, "But, I used to be a combat aviator. There is a difference." He's 58, and wears an ARMY zip up hooded sweatshirt, zipped about two thirds up. He has a pug nose that is a bit large for his unshaven face. He calls me little black riding hood, because of my black shrug and head-scarf. He admits to being an alcoholic. "My father married his sister. But I turned out all right," he says to me. He runs his hand up and down my upper thigh. He says that he likes "thick" girls like me, as he places his hand on my ass.  When he calls me thick, I feel like bopping him in the nose. "Are you a runner?" he says. "I cycle a lot," I reply. He said he could tell because of the musculature of my legs. Behind his overly friendly face and rehearsed phrases, his eyes communicate evil to me. I feel like there is something dark in him.

A Latina transgender lady comes into the place. She knows everybody. She acknowledges Randy and speaks Spanish with the bartender. Randy says some phrases in Spanish, much to my surprise. She makes her way to the man in the back. Moments later, a ruggedly good looking man enters the place. He sits way down at the other end of the bar, but soon comes and sits between me and the Latino gentleman a few moments later. He acknowledges me right away.

Julian wears a brown ball cab, with the words Tennis Warehouse written below a trademark I don't remember.  He has a 1970's style beard (think Marty Stouffer). He lives in Mendecino and did four years in the Marine Corps, "...in places like Bosnia and Herzegovina." He's wearing a dark blue Adidas tennis suit, with three white stripes down the sleeves and legs. He has a tennis bag and a racket. He's been on a long vacation to Mexico with his family, and has been driving up and down the coast of California playing on every tennis court between San Diego and Oregon. He has a kind of understated masculine agree-ability to him that puts me at ease, and at the same time reassures me that he could dominate anybody in the room.

Randy interjects himself between Julian and me and starts doing his shtick with him. I move to the dark end of the bar. I hear his life story all over again. As then two men start talking, I realize that I am not invited into the conversation. Randy does make reference to me by bouncing politely demeaning words off of me, meant as cheap flattery. Their conversation seems to make the assumption that I am actually a prostitute. Randy and Julian occasionally glance at me and I smile on que and laugh on command. I don't even like Randy, yet, I fall into the supporting role of airhead bimbo. Their conversation comes to an uncomfortable but diplomatic end when Randy and Julian have a disagreement about the number of continents on the planet. Randy insists that there are seven, and Julian, who graduate from Humbolt with a degree in geography or geology - I can't remember which - says that technically, there are only six. This disagreement of fact seems to bother Randy.

Randy buys me a drink. I order a very spicy Bloody Mary because I haven't eaten.  He says something about buying the girl working the bar. "You can't afford her," I say. He politely agrees. Moments later, he pulls out his wallet and starts flipping through a role of twenty-dollar bills. This annoying, dark clown of a man all of a sudden becomes more attractive to me. "I'm running low on my hooker fund," he says. He is obviously not serious about running low on money. But, he is serious about it being a hooker fund. He turns to Julian, and says, "Yeah, I admit it. I have a hooker fund. I'm retired. I have to budget." "No shame in that," Julian says.

Julian excuses himself, saying that he wants to go drop off his stuff at a hotel, but he'll be back. I don't believe him. After my first Bloody Mary, I have another, and then a glass of wine when Julian actually does return. He invites me to go watch him smoke pot in his hotel room. By the time he makes this absurd invitation, I am plastered - I mean stumblingly intoxicated. I follow him out, almost without a thought of doing anything otherwise.

"It's one block up, and one block down," he says, "Do you want a cab?" I thought it sweet that he asked. "No. Let's walk," I command. We walk up to Polk, and make a left. Thinking back, I realize I was so intoxicated that I don't even remember most of the walk. We turned right at Cedar. I can only assume, in retrospect, that he is taking the small, dingy streets to his hotel to keep from being seen with a hooker. At Van Ness we make a left. We come to Geary and cross. At the other end of the street is an old homeless women panhandling with a plastic cup. I look at her unsteadily and imagine she is the personification of the nightmare that many women dread - old, alone and destitute. I take $2 out of my purse and put it in her cup.

Julian has kept walking before he realizes I am still at the corner. He stops and waits. I walk over to him, and together we enter The Opal San Francisco. I follow him in up a short, carpeted flight of stairs into the lobby. He walks fast ahead of me through the lobby. I assume he's trying to keep from being associated with the whore unsteadily walking behind him. There are three groups of people in the lobby - I mean like families. I'm so drunk, I can't focus on them. I can see them all looking at me, but I can't see their reactions. I'm so wasted at this point, that when we get into the elevator I don't look to see what floor we go to. When we arrive at the door, I don't look at the room number. I don't remember actually walking into the room. I do remember taking off my shoes and collapsing on the bed. It felt good, as the world spun around me.

Julian offers me some gum, and tells me that he could be fined $200 for smoking in the room, but that he doesn't think marijuana will smell to bad. I tell him I don't smoke anyway. He starts fumbling in his bag, and realizes that he's left his stash in his car...

Fast forward, we are walking back to Divas. we don't take the back alley's back to the place. We walk down Geary, past Mel's dinner. Three guys in Mel's look and smile smile with the condescending smile that only men can deliver (because unlike women, men can back it up with violence). I knock on the window and wave as we pass. Julian says, without any context , "As strange as this sounds, I don't consider myself gay."

Ma99ie Spitz

2010-11-30T01:01:00.000-08:00

by Ma99ie

Corporate fucks
Raping the people - outta luck
Babes to the slaughter
They cut 'em up and
Cut 'em down

Here we come - corporate fucks
We're coming for you, to settle up
I take a stand. You won't fuck me.
No victim of your treachery

Politcal whores
Betraying the people - selling wars
Selling our kids, selling death
Buying silence with our last breath

Here we come - Political whore
We're coming for you, to even the score
I take a stand. You won't fuck me.
No victim of your treachery

The forth estate
Dead on arrival, is its fate
College of cowards, scribbling shit
No call to account - ducking it.
Shuck and jive, the truth they hide.

Here we come - faux estate
We're coming for you, to bend and break
I take a stand. You won't fuck me.
No victim of your treachery

I take a stand. I take a stand.
And where I stand is where I stand

Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?

2010-11-29T22:37:00.000-08:00

Now I know how women feel - and it seems to tickle them pink.

2010-11-23T23:08:00.000-08:00

Doctor's Appointment
I have an appointment to see my beloved doctor, Charles Moser. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. I can see it in his face, a subtle disgust. He's always polite, but stand-offishly firm with me. I think he thinks I'm a ditz. C'est la vie. When I arrive for the appointment the lady behind the desk greets me by saying, "You don't come dressed up anymore. You always looked so sexy. "Yes," I say, "I've stopped going out like that unless I have people around me. I've been sexually assaulted too many times." She looks horrified. "I'm so sorry to hear that," she says, "Now you know how women feel."

I've heard the "now you know how women feel," comment before.
(My Sister): Yeah. Did you take pictures of the sisters of perpetual indulgence

(Me): no.....i had we had our picture taken a lot by tourists. my job was to call out, "free condoms, free lubricant, free supplies, and free lessons on how to use them." We had to abandon the corner when this black guy invaded my space and said, "Can you take a walk with me? Come to my house. I want to fuck." and I had no idea what to do, cause I couldn't fight or run in high heels, so I felt trapped. and he wouldn't leave me alone. But, other than that, it was really. hilarious.

(My Sister): now you know how scary it can be to be a woman. oh my god I don't wish that feeling on anybody.

(Me): It was weird...crazy weird.

(My Sister): yeah. I get butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it.

The "now you know how women feel," comment can come up in different circumstances.
I was talking to my friend Fara and complaining that I'd become fat as a result of taking estrogen. She put a smirk on her face. "Now you know how hard it is for women to maintain their weight."

The comment "now you know how women feel" is usually delivered with a smugness that social injustice is being righted by my victimization. It's really kind of catty.

Shuck and Jive

2010-09-28T22:36:00.001-07:00

Folsom

2010-09-26T20:24:00.000-07:00

(Today, Sept. 26th) 11th Street and Howard - I am working one of the gates with Sister Barbara Ganesh. She get's a lot of attention. "Seven to ten dollar suggested donation," we say. Most people pay it. Some just blast past us. Others donate unwillingly.  That's when I try to charm them. I sport my new polka-dot dress (white dots on black) from Forever 21. On my head I wear a polka-scarf (black dots on white). The sun is beating down on us. I am in charge of giving out the stickers when a donation is made. The stickers are pink with a pig on them. "Where do you want it?" I ask everyone. For the ladies, I wait for the answer. Most of them want it on the upper breast. For the guys, I pretend to move my hand as if to place a sticker on the crotch as they reply. I feign disappointment when they answer. It consistently get's laughs. One young woman, with big beautiful breasts (I mean knockers) asks to have me put stickers on her nipples. Each of her nipples is pierced with surgical steal post. I gently place on one, and push it down with circular motions of my fingers, like one would do to get a girl excited. I do the other. She smiles. She compliments my dress, and asks to lift my sunglasses to see my eyes. "I didn't put on any make-up," I say. I lift my sunglass and she looks into them. "You make a beautiful woman," she says. I know it isn't true. But, isn't it pretty to think so? She walks away with her two male companions. "She makes a beautiful woman," she says to her companions, just within my earshot. Barbra Ganesh turns to me, "She said you make a beautiful woman." A cop car comes down 11th Street towards us, sirons ablaze. I rush out and pull the barriers out of the way, into the intersection. The intereseciton is bumper to bumper with cars being forced to turn right from Howard onto 11th street. I feel bad for them.

One of the highlights of the day was when group of black women from Kansas City, Missouri, happen by the fair. They are here with the Church of God. Ironically, they are all wearing lavendar shirts. Sister Ganesh starts talking with them. She easily interacts with the ladies.  She gently interrogates them about their feelings of homosexuality. "God loves everybody," one of the ladies says. Even if they are religious fundementalists, they are all so cute that one cannot help but like them. They make a donation. They pass the gate one by one. An older lady says to me, "You look great." "So do you," I say. And I mean it. "Not like you," she says, with a broad smile. We watch them stroll down the street, en masse, toward gay central - San Francisco.

By the end of my three hour shift, I am tired. At headquarters on Dore Street I am eating free food. I am sitting with Sister Vicious Power Hungry Bitch. "You're famous," I say. I tell her I saw her in the Frameline 34 presentation of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence documentary "The Sisters." "I've been in so many movies," she tells me. Later, after she's gone, two guys sit at the table. One tells me I look like Little Eddie. The other starts reciting lines from the movie, in Little Eddie's voice. After I eat, I go down Dore Street to see a fire truck that has pulled up, lights flashing. They are trying to get into a building. I want to go and wave at them.   They notice me and give me side glances. They make snide remarks to each other. I can't actually hear what they are saying, but I can imagine they are saying things like, "There's one for you," or "Your wife just arrived." I smile an awkward smile and walk back to headquarters, dejected. I run into a cluster of nuns, including Sister maeJoy B. withYou. "Howdy, ladies," I say. Sister maeJoy retorts, "Sisters." "Howdy, Sisters," I say.   I think they like being bitchy to me. I don't know why. It used to bother me. Now, I'm just numb.

Chuck MuthaChucka Gutro and me (looking my age). How did I get so hideous?

2010-09-23T22:12:00.000-07:00

Sept. 15, 2010 - Twin Peaks Bar

The Veiling of Novice Sister Cecilia Fate

2010-09-18T22:11:00.000-07:00

Shazaam!

2010-09-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I am at the Women's Building in San Francisco to hear a talk given by my primary care physician, Dr. Charles Moser, M.D., Ph.D., entitled, "Transgender Medicine." Low and behold, who do I see when I walk into Audre Lorde room for the lecture? Sister maeJoy. She looked a little annoyed when I greeted her. First of all, she wasn't in her habit. So, when I blurted out, "Hiyas Sister maeJoy," I didn't know whether I outed her. We gave each other perfunctory hugs. I decided that I wasn't her favorite person in the world, so I excused myself. I turned around and, Shazaam! I see Anton, an acquaintance of mine. We were never friends, mostly because we met through intermediaries who exercised control over the nature of our interaction - in other words, women.

I went up and spoke to Dr. Moser. He had a look of fear about him, like I would somehow embarass him by saying something stupid. I could see in his eyes that the smile he used to greet me was forced. I suppose that is what I get for coming in an inappropriately tight dress and blue hair. C'est la vie.

Frank and Me

2010-09-15T19:20:00.000-07:00

September 14, 2010 (Tuesday): I leave the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence general meeting and ride my fixie to the Powell Street Bart station. It’s 11 p.m. as I step down to the platform. I look at the people sitting quietly, waiting for the train. Subways at night are solemn places - the trains are too few in between to break the stagnant atmosphere.

My train squeals into the station. I enter and sit in the seat by the door. The doors are about to close when Frank Chu enters. “Yo, Frank!” I call out. He nods politely and looks around the train apprehensively before sitting next to me. He looks tired. He’s carrying his trademark sign with a laughing squid advertisement on the back. He rests the head of the sign on the ground as the handle leans against him.

He starts telling me about the billions and trillions of dollars owed him. He is a member of "The Richest Family." I know his shtick. I’ve talked to him before. I ask him when he gets to the city to start his routine. “Nine, nine-thirty,” he says. He tells me that he uses a different sign each day. We mostly sit in silence. When the train arrives at the 19th Street stop in Oakland, Frank gets up and nods to me politely, steps out the door, and then he’s gone.

promulagating universal joy, expiating stigmatic guilt - and so on.

2010-09-12T00:55:00.000-07:00

I get an email Friday on the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence initiates list from Sister maeJoy B. withU - “…Darshan tonight, & i encourage any of you interested to meet me & others at the pink holocaust triangle in the castro this evening @ 8:33pm, where we will be creating and putting together something fun & exciting & new.” I had no idea what Darshan was, but decided that it would be fun to get out. The weather was beautiful in San Francisco, particularly in light of the fact that there has been no summer in the city. We went from spring to fall, without the Indian summer.

I arrive at Pink Triangle Park painfully early. I wait around and watch the occasional pedestrian walk through the dirt path and over the pink quartz of the memorial. It is a strange little bit of real estate, solemn and quit - right in the middle of a busy neighborhood. I glance across the street to the large rainbow flag, and feel like a girl stood up for a date as 8:30 p.m. approaches slowly, and then races past with no sign of any sisters. I leave the monument and start walking down to Castro, when I see Sister maeJoy. I greet her as she walks towards me, then past me and continues up toward Pink Triangle. Once there, I ask her name, followed by a quick apology for not remembering. “I have a bad memory for names,” I say. “You’re going to have to start remembering names,” she replies curtly.

We wait for others to arrive. Sister maeJoy is expecting 20 or so Sisters to come. While we wait, she tells me about the history of Darshan, which means "sight" in Sanskrit. In 2006, she had led Sisters in a public ritual in response to a Christian sect that would come to the Castro and try to induce people into anti-gay therapy. She tells me a bit about her work doing harm reduction for sex workers. I tell her of some of my experiences on the streets. We wait for a bit before realizing that no one else is coming. We are going to go it alone tonight. She decides we need a safeword before we go anywhere. I’m incredulous. The Castro is about the safest place in the city. “Red?” I say. “No,” she responds, “You may say ‘There’s a red light.’ How about, magpie?”

We head down to 18th and Castro. I am in charge of handing out the “supplies.” Condoms, lubricant, alcohol wipes, candies, and other favors for the partying masses. She will give craps lessons. She has brought with her two huge, red, spongy dice. As we stand at the intersection, catty corner from Walgreens, she yells out, “Free craps lessons! Only one dollar!” Waves of people march past us. Sister maeJoy gets a lot of attention, and some customers for her free lessons – “Only one dollar.” It is hilarious to watch this clown nun, in white face and Sister habit throwing dice with tourists from Kentucky, Washington, Toronto and such places. As the people stream by, I intercept them with my basket, “Free condoms, free lube, free lessons on how to use them?” – “You’re going to get lucky tonight. You’ll regret not taking them.” Interestingly, the lube is much more popular than the condoms. An Asian couple stops and takes some supplies. “You’re going to need a Maxim,” I say to one of them, “I can tell you’re a big boy.” “That’s the nicest thing anybody has ever said to an Asian,” he says. To apprehensive gay couples, I say “Take some supplies. We don’t want any unintended pregnancies.” One girl/boy couple approaches, and I use the same line, “We don’t want any unintended pregnancies.” “I so,” the woman retorts gleefully as they cross the street hand in hand. Most women don’t take the supplies and look uncomfortable when I offered them. My favorites were the older tourists. I felt obligated to offer them condoms, though I suspected none would take them, and none did.

At one point, Sister maeJoy is entertaining a young man, Red, and his aunt form Kentucky. Red looks like he stepped right out of civil war era Kentucky, with his Scots-Irish hair, mustache, and sideburns. He is ruggedly good looking, but seems a bit intimidated by the crowd. I am approached by a black guy I vaguely recognize. He immediately invades my space and starts hitting on me. He puts his hands on my waist and asks me if I remember him. My memory snaps back. “Can you walk with me for a minute?” he asks. I tell him I’m working. “Hey listen, I really want to be with you tonight. I want to fuck you. Can you come over to my place?” he continues. I smile with an uncomfortable grin, “I don’t even know you.” “Oh, come on, baby. We don’t have to fuck. Just, you know, suck my cock. I’ll suck you.” He’s incredibly aggressive. How come I can’t just tell this guy to fuck off, I think to myself? Why do I feel so weak as Magdelyn? “What’s your name,” I ask, trying to diffuse the situation. He tells me his name is Pier. “Pier? That wasn’t your name the last time.” He quickly responds, “Pier Obey.” He wraps his arms around me and starts touching my ass. “Come on. Later, tonight? I can wait for you.” I give him some noncommittal replies. His face changes. It darkens. He looks angry – threatening. “Come on. Don’t play games.”

Sister maeJoy looks over to us. She wants to know what is going on. “Just like a magpie,” I say. She collects her dice, picks up her bag and says, “Okay, let’s go.” We walk down 18th Street for nearly a block and go into Eureka Restaurant. We are greeted with a bumping crowd, elegant decor and one of the owners of the place, Matthew. Sister maeJoy knows him. Actually, she seems to know just about everybody in the Castro. Matthew is a Saint with the Sisters. He is youngish, thin, and good looking with a broad, genuine smile. “Come here anytime you need a safe place,” he says to me. I smile. We head upstairs to the bar area and sit at the table. I look at all the elegant people. I am out of my league. “I love your hair,” someone says, “Lady Gaga.” He’s referring to my blue bob wig. A lot of people “love my hair.” My cheap wig is a good investment. I drink water and Sister maeJoy drinks iced tea. “We made thirteen dollars so far,” she says to me. It’s not much for the Sister’s charitable fund, but the real work we were doing was public outreach – promulgating universal joy and expiating stigmatic guilt.

Later on, we are at the plaza on Castro and 17th, pedaling our wares. “Free craps lessons. Only a dollar!” Sister maeJoy is playing craps with four kids from Los Angeles who are seeing the city on their fixed gear bikes. I am approached by a man with a “high and tight” hair cut. “You look like you’re in the service,” I say to him. “Marine Corps,” he says. He speaks with a southern drawl. He places his hand gently on the small of my back. “What’s your MOS?” I ask. He rattles off a number, followed by “Combat engineer.” He is a Gunnery Sergeant, which I found surprising because he looked young. “Where are you from, Gunny?” He’s from North Carolina. “I’m looking for a lady friend like you,” he croons. His presence is forceful, but he is diplomatic with his touch and gentle with his words. He even manages to convey that he has a big dick with a sort of southern charm. “Prove it,” I say. He reaches down as if to unbutton his pants, but I stop him. “I have a picture of it,” he says. I was scared he was going to pull a Polaroid of his c*ck out of his pocket. That would be weird. Instead, he pulls out his phone. Shows you want century I’m living in. He starts scrolling through the photos. They are all of a little girl. “I have a four year old daughter,” he says. He has a lot of pictures of her. He must love his kid. Finally, the picture of his penis jumps onto the screen. He wasn’t lying. He did have a big dick. Somehow, having a digital picture of your c*ck doesn’t seem weird, compared to having a Polaroid. I do find it a little unnerving – incestuous - that the picture of his c*ck was in such close proximity to his daughter. I’m being silly, I know.

A while later, we are standing on Castro, in front of the windows of Twin Peaks. After playing craps, the fixie kids (kids – ha – they were in their twenties.) follow us down, and we spend 30 minutes laughing. One of the girl fixie kids goes into Hot Cookie, and comes out with a cookie on a stick that looks like a large black penis, with coconut hair on the balls and a stream of white frosting running down the shaft. Needless to say, this provides several minutes of c*ck jokes to keep us occupied.

Later we are presented with a trio of young partiers. Two girls, one blond the other Asian, and a cute guy who looks a little intoxicated. “Can you help,” the Asian girl says, “We need to get this guy laid.” I pull out two three-packs of condoms. “Let’s see, two girls, three times each, that’s six.” They laugh, and tell us that the boy has just moved to San Francisco from Missouri. He is young, with cropped blond hair and a ball cap. He wears those earrings that gay guys wear (they look like a surgical steal “C” with little balls at the end). On top of his ear he has a half smoked cigarette. He pulls it off his ear. The Asian girl lights it for him. “This is how we met,” says the girl. He asked us for a light. He’s been here three weeks and can’t find anybody. We need to get him railed. I actually didn’t realize he was gay until she said that. He looked straight. They seemed to be good friends. Once I realized he was gay, I could see that he was burdened with that “wounded look” Allen Ginsberg described. “Look how adorable he is,” she says. He was adorable. He was one of those people you want to save from the horrors of life. Turns out the girls are lesbians, and they had just met him at Toad Hall. “He grew up in Missouri and had a black boyfriend. They treated him really bad back home,” she says. All I can think to myself was, wow, that must have been some conversation these guys had, since they just met this night.

Sister maeJoy and I go back to Eureka. She orders a watermelon salad, with red and yellow watermelon, topped with shredded mint, some sort of grated cheese, and pink Mediterranean salt. She insists that I taste it, despite my protestations. I take a small peace. “Divine,” I say. And meant it. It was delicious. I have a glass of Cabernet. “I’m gettin’ drunk. I’m feelin’ mellow. You know when your mouth is getting’ dry, you’re plenty high.” The glass of wine is $12. Funny, cause I only have $10. Wow! That’s embarrassing.

Sister maeJoy and me make our way to Edge. We get a table by the opened window, which is injecting frigid air into the place. There is a black woman looking through the open window, just staring into the space. I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back. I watch a fat guy dancing like a maniac, without his shirt on. Sister maeJoy talks to the bartender. A big black guy comes over and sits on a ledge near the table. He is looking at me, and rubbing obviously erect penis through his sweat pants. “You’re a bad boy,” I tease pleasantly, trying not to inject a tone of judgment. That’s the point, isn’t it? Expiate stigmatic guilt. I look at him rubbing his penis, and I can say in all honesty, I didn’t think anything of it except I hoped he was enjoying himself.

What's your name?

2010-09-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

My birthday – I drowning in alcohol at Divas. Kipper is bartending. She’s a curvy Asian with a baby face and sweet disposition. Sitting close to me, catty-corner around the bar is Kayla, a light skinned Filipina. She occasionally gets up and goes behind the bar to help Kipper wash the glasses. Tattooed on her neck is her grandparents last name; “Rosendo.” On her earlobes she wears earrings that obscure the Playboy Bunny symbols tattooed on both lobes. On her right is a black girl, loudly celebrating the story of a local tranz girl she knows who was caught sleeping – unauthorized - in a hotel room when Matt Meagher of Inside Edition checked into the room, cameras running, during a report on America’s Dirtiest Hotels. Next to her and closer to me is a Filipina with a big beautiful ass, much of which is exposed above her tight, low rise jeans. At the corner of the bar is a guy with a pock marked face with whom she is vaguely flirting. He’s quiet, but has a subtly wicked sense of humor. The big assed Filipina is standing on the foot rest of the bar stool, towering over the bar. She’s talking about big, beautiful black men. When she says “beautiful men,” I say, “You mean like him,” gesturing to the pock marked guy. “He’s alright,” she says dismissively. A few moments pass before she wraps herself around him and starts kissing him. Later, he confides in me, “She’s crazy.” I could see that she was crazy, but in a cute way.

The black girl is now talking about a fellow tranz girl, named Piper. I recognize the name having met her, but I can’t picture her face in my mind. She describes Piper as a dirty girl who never washes her ass. Piper has slept with her now ex-boyfriend. She says that she has to find a real man who will treat her right and not sleep around. I interject, “All men are like that.” Kayla holds up her hand and we high five. “All men are like that,” she repeats. The black girl restates that she has to find a good man. Kayla says she needs to find a big black dick. We high five again.

I put my folding fan on top of my Bloody Mary, and walk out the door to feed the meter. I am dropping coins in when a homeless lady approaches. I grab a handful of change from my parking meter fund and let it ching-a-ling into her hand. As the money rains, I see a black man waiving at me through the sunroof of his late model Mercedes Benz. I go back to feeding the meter. I throw the plastic bag of change back into my car and start walking back to my Bloody Mary. He vigorously waives at me again. I approach the car and lean into the window. “Hi,” I say, cautiously. “Hey. You came to one of my sex parties,” he says. Then it clicks in my mind. The Mercedes and the black man. He throws erotic gang bang parties at his house. He had emailed me out of the blue and invited me to go – so I did. The last and only time I’ve ever seen this man was in March, 2009 – a year and a half ago. How the heck did he remember me? I would never have recognized him.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, “You’re the lawyer guy in Hercules.” I open the door of his car and sit in the passenger seat. I realize at that moment that it is the first time in my life I’ve been in a Mercedes. He wants my number. He leans over and kisses me. I take his number instead. “What’s your name again?” I state. “Erikk. With two ‘Ks’.” “What are you doing?” I ask as he begins giving me his number. He mutters something about meeting somebody at 6 o’clock. “Are you going to be around later?” he asks. “What’s your name again?” I ask, after typing his number into my cell phone. “Yes. I’m going to be around,” I say. He wants to get together with me. He kisses me again and I step out of the car. “I’m so sorry,” I say, “What is your name again?” I’m really not at my best when I’m drunk.

You heard it here first, people - ESPLERP.

2010-08-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

Yes , ESPLERP - the ugly acronym of the Erotic Sex Providers Legal Educational Research Project. ESPLERP will be making news sooner than not. They've got some major league funding and they've already hired a law firm to file a suit in an attempt to challenge the constitutionality of the prostitution laws in California in Federal Court. I guess Lawrence v. Texas will be slung around. If the damn gays can go at it, why can't people fuck for money? If you don't think they're up for the challege, just know that many of the people that brought you Proposition K are gearing up to rumble. The legal gun slingers have already been retained, and it looks like it will be a down and dirty cat fight.

I wonder what SAGE and Kamala Harris will think about this.

Fleeting glimpes of a life well led.

2010-08-21T00:45:00.000-07:00

(photo by maggie - August, 2010)

I live in a suburb, separated from San Francisco by the San Francisco Bay, Oakland, and the Oakland hills. The kids that live here are tall, blonde, and beautiful. Yet, they seem isolated by their suburban cage. The street on which I live is being torn up. Several of the oak trees lining the street will be cut down. The sidewalks will be replaced, and the street repaved. Before it all goes I pay tribute to the kid, who some decades ago, before the oaktree buckled the sidewalk, left his mark in wet cement. Some decades ago this was a much smaller town - more isolated. It must have been a good place to grow up.

(Picture by Maggie, Sept. 22, 2010)

Aspirant

2010-08-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to write this post, but my life has conspired against me. I've been surviving through a chaotic period in my otherwise unstable life - and not in a good way.

August 10, 2010 (7:30 p.m.) at the Quaker Meeting House on 9th Street:

I present myself at the monthly Sister's of Perpetual Indulgence general meeting in anticipation of Sister Flora Goodthyme (Mistress of Novices) and Sister Barbi Mitzvah (Aide de Camp)announcing my aspirancy to become a Sister.

I attend in my trademark streetwalker ensemble, wrapped in black. Before the meeting, I go to the ladies room, and look in the mirror. I realize that I am beginning to look my age. I've put on weight, and the form fitting dress is not flattering. In essence, I am hideous.

Fat and ugly, I slink out of the restroom. I find a folding chair, and hide myself in the shadows of the room, behind others who are sitting in a large circle. Several people invite me to join the circle, but I decline. "We don't bite," someone says. I don't want to admit to him that I'm going through a personal crisis at the moment.

The meeting starts and I spectate from my dark perch. A sister gets up from the other side of the room, walks around the circle towards me. He wears a black ball cap, a black jacket with black trousers. His face is graced with a unique nose. Around his neck is a necklace punctuated with a large medallion in the form of a pentagram. He mumbles something to me as he approaches that ends in "...Mama." As he passes he says to me, "Aren't you a cold glass of water." He makes his way to the restroom. I try to interpret his comment, hoping it is a compliment, and not an indication that I am a bitch or something.

Sister Barbi Mitzvah calls us Aspirants into the middle of the circle, surrounded by the 40 plus sisters that are there. He introduces us. I stand there awkwardly, smiling, and hiding behind the Japanese fan I brought to cool myself. I feel vulnerable - like I'm naked. I'm so tied up in my own personal drama that I can't even remember the other aspirants that were up there with me. Needless to say, I wish all the best to this class - my class - of initiates.

The highlight of the evening occures when T'aint a Virgin gets the nod from the fully professed members to elevate from postulant to Novice Sister. I congradulate her after the meeting, and she graciously accepts - though I get the feeling that she finds me annoying. C'est la vie.

I mingle with the sisters after the meeting, trying to introduce myself and put names to faces. My memory is famously bad, and I have to keep trying to remember people over and over before I make the connection.

As I make my way home, I am happy to be an aspirant, but disappointed in myself and my performance. I can tell that I gave a weak performance. I wish I had higher self-esteem. I wish I liked my self more. Mostly, I hope they all don't see me as I see myself.

Sister Sistah

2010-08-07T23:56:00.000-07:00

Thursday, August 6th, 2010 (3:20 p.m.): I arrive at Café Flore where I am to meet Sister Barbi Mitzvah and Sister Flora Goodthyme (Mistress of Novices) “about joining the Order.” I rode my urban assault fixed gear bicycle through the city and am slick with perspiration. I look around and don’t see them. I go inside and order a bud light. After a sip I step out to the patio, where I see them talking on the sidewalk outside of the café with another guy. I abandon my beer and after some quick and very intimate hugs I receive from both Flora and then Mitzvah, they introduce me to the other sister, whose name I have now forgotten.

Flora and Mitzvah walk me to the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence home office, which I didn’t even know existed. Flora is holding a roll of toilet paper. I ask her what it is for. She tells me she had over indulged in some party substances and was leaking. We arrived and walked up a flight of steps, past the large white gate that guards the stairs, and enter a door to the left, and up another flight of stairs, and arrive in the Sister’s official space.

I am invited to sit down on a sofa, under the window with the stencil of a laughing nun overlooking the street. Sister Mitzvah sits on the other side of the sofa and Sister Flora sits in a tall chair, looking down at me from a little distance away. She crops her hair close on the sides, and long on the top and back. She looks to be in her twenties, wears a rolled up pair of jeans which expose the tattoos on the back of her calves. Sister Mitzvah has a distinctive face, simpatico, with a Semitic nose and dark hair (If you wanna see Sister Barbi Mitzvah, watch the video below. She is the one administering the oath). She is very friendly. Flora on the other hand conducts the interview with a pure business presentation.

I won’t bore you (too late?) with the substance of the interview, but found a couple of aspects noteworthy. For instance, they asked straight out about my sexual preferences. Actually, the question was more along the lines of, “How do you identify?” They asked me if I was transgendered and was I transitioning. They asked me if I used drugs. I told them that I don’t. They pressed me on the subject, and had to admit that I smoked marijuana twice in my life. Then Flora asked me if I minded being around people that indulged in substances. After a very pleasant exchange of information, Flora got into a monologue. “You are not required to sleep with any of the Sisters. This is not part of the process. If one of the sisters pressures you to have sex, please report it to me, Sister Mitzvah or any of the black veiled sisters. If it is one of the black veiled sisters, we need to know.”

They’ll announce my aspirancy at the next meeting.

Of Black Veils and Bleeding Nuns - Maggie Hangs with The Sisters

2010-07-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

Cake

2010-06-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

June 27, 2010, Sunday: Pride. I was scheduled to volunteer at the SFSI margarita booth from 2:30-4:30. I arrived in the City early. I went to my beloved VW Bus on Tenth – half a block south from Market. I raised the pop-top and unzipped the vents in the faux canvas. I had parked my VW the day before, knowing that parking would be a disaster on Sunday.

I left the sliding side door open, and watched the people go by. A group approached me as I sat there – two girls and a gay guy. The girl with beautiful gray eyes says to me, “You have beautiful eyes.” I knew it was untrue. They looked at the space within my VW. The other girl in the group states, “Do you fuck in here?”

I make my way down Market Street - choked full of gay people and their admirers coming from the Pride parade - to a Wells Fargo ATM. There is a tortuously long line in at the ATM. As I wait, a woman behind me in line leaves her spot and approaches me. "Little Edie?" she asks. "Oh my God! I love her," I retort.

I go to my friends Maxine’s 50th birthday celebration. It was held at Pride’s Leather Alley. There was a long line to get into Leather Alley. Already late, I shamelessly cut in front of the entire line. When confronted by a guy to make a $5 donation, I blurted out, “I’ve already donated,” which was true (I guess you have to make a separate donation to get into Leather Alley), “I’m not making a donation. I’m late for a party.” “No shame, no guilt,” he says. I slithered by him.

I made it to Maxine. She was lying naked on a table. A cake that looked like a corset was placed on her. She instructed me to put on gloves and start serving cake. One of her lesbian friends asks if I want to cut the cake as she serves. The lesbo is young, barely dressed, and attractive. “I’m not good at cutting,” I say. “Me either,"she says. We are both afraid to cut the cake.

I take the cake cutter and timidly start cutting the cake that was dressing Maxine as the lesbian girl starts handing out the slices. I asked the young lesbian her name. I don’t remember her answer. As I cut away at the cake, Maxine is slowly getting undressed. My lavender gloves became slick with frosting. I almost lick the frosting off my gloved fingers, before realizing that some might consider that unsanitary. Maxine chastens me to stop cutting the cake on her legs, and to do cut in the middle. “But I want to see your vagina,” I tease. After several minutes of my delicate cake-man-ship, the frosted confection was cut away to the point that I had to start cutting from the other side. A very masculine person, either a trans-man or a craggily bull-dyke – I can’t tell the difference anymore – took the cake knife from me and started aggressively slicing away and Maxine’s clothing. I guess my delicate cake fillet style was too timid for her.

Maxine's ex-girlfriend is there. I've met her before. Her name is Tommy. She tells me she's had a double mastectomy. I tell her I know, because Maxine already told me. I say, "We're both flat chested now." She puts her hand on my breast, and says, "You pass really well as a girl." I have to leave nearly naked Maxine for the SFSI booth.

I had volunteered to serve margaritas. It took a lot for the privilege. I had to attend a two hour ABC training, learning not to sell drinks to minors or drunks. I show up to the booth with the card demonstrating my newly acquired alcohol slinging skills. Pride is packed; wall to wall people. Finding the booth is a nightmare. I end up asking random people if they know where the SFSI booth is. No one does. I walked the circumference of the civil center park – and back again – in the unusually toasty San Francisco sun. I perspire. When I find the booth, I find the volunteer coordinator. He’s a chunky nerd type, adorned with a big head with long hair streaming down from his receding hairline. He checks my bona fides and has me sign some forms. He is supposed to give me a lecture about how to serve, and who not to serve. He excuses himself and tells me he will get back to me – and leaves me standing there…for a long time. I leave.

I make my way back to my VW sanctuary and watch the people. They stream by. The sun is bright. They are happy.

Maggie Hangs with The Sisters

2010-06-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

Jive Talkin'

2010-06-12T22:15:00.001-07:00

June 12, 2010. I meet up with the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence at 16th and Dolores where the start of the Castro Procession is to begin. I arrive wearing a black dress with black Victorian-esque heals, and a white scarf with black polka-dots – looking very retro-elegant. To bad I missed the part about “Don[ning] your ceremonial whites…” As soon as I get there, Sister Sara Femme pulls me into a group of sisters and compliments my outfit. I sheepishly admit that I didn't know I was supposed to wear white. I do some double cheek kissing with people I don’t know, and whose names I won’t remember. Just as I’m getting my social grove on a black gentleman approaches me right in the middle of the group. I thought he was there for the procession. He comes right into the group. He starts with some social pleasantries, before he admits, “You know why I came over here. I wanted to talk to you.” He is clean-cut, with a kind of gay polo vibe with clothes that fit, but in that gay way – that is, they are a bit too tight for my taste. “What’s your name?” I ask. He tells me his name is “Obey.” “You mean like ‘O’ ‘b’ ‘e’ ‘y’?” He tells me, “Yes.” He says he is from Beverly Hills, and is in town for a couple of weeks. He wants me to follow him out of the group. Moments after he says he’s from Beverly Hills, he says he lives right around the corner and he wants me to follow him around the corner to show me his place. Needless to say, these two statements are contradictory. I follow him anyways. We wander around the corner, out of eyesight of all the sisters. He keeps prodding me to walk along, and I begin to feel like his going to kill me or something. Then he stops in front of the house at 3336-3338 16th Street, with four apartments listed on the gate - each with a code listed for the buzzer. He puts the bags he is holding in front of the gate. He studies the addresses for a moment then tells me that one of them is his place. He wants to spend some time with me. I ask him if he has phone. He says, yes. But, instead of just giving me the number, he wants me to meet him at the end of the procession. “Where are we gonna meet?” I ask. I have no intention of meeting him. I just want to placate him with social niceties so I can go back to the sisters. A woman comes down the stairs of the building he claims to live in. The gate is blocked by his bags, and he rushes to move them, apologizing. There are only four apartments in the building, and there is no air of familiarity between this woman, who obviously lives in the building, and this guy, who claims to live in the building. When he turns back to face me, I can tell in his face that he knows the gig is up. “Can I get a hug?” he says. I smile awkwardly. He leans into me. I give him a half hug. “I have to get back,” I say. He follows me back, and blurts out, “Can we have sex?” I laugh at him. I don’t tell him that if I would ever consider having sex with a man, it would be a black guy. But, it’s not going to be this black guy. I get back I realize that I had just gotten conned into giving some guy a hug.

As I evolve from wicked to evil...

2010-05-29T23:53:00.001-07:00

I find thinspiration in these ladies, for whom I now pay tribute. Let me bask in your beautiful wickedness - Ohhhhh, what a world, what a world. Who would have thought that some little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness.

Sista Sista

2010-05-17T17:46:00.000-07:00

I've been partying with the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence lately. I went to their fundraiser called "Slick," on Wendnesday, and to "Otter Pops" on Saturday. Both of these events would make good stories unto themselves, if I had the creative energy to write about them.

The fundraiser Otter Pops was held at the gay bar Lonestar Saloon on Harrison between 9th and 10th. While I was there a guy came up to me and started asking me if I patterned my attire after Drew Barrymoore's character in the movie Grey Gardens. I told him I had never heard of the movie. It turns out that Barrymoore's character is a portrayal of Edith Bouvier Beale, who was a first cousin of Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis. She is a tragic figure, which I will let you research yourself.

Edith Bouvier Beale now joins Elizabeth Short as another of my present obsessions with tragic women. Elizabeth Short is otherwise famous as The Black Dahlia. She was murdered in 1947, and her body cut in half and left in a Los Angeles neighborhood. I spend a lot of time researching these two women. It is a compulsion, the source of which I don't know.

Lady Jammin T. Crumpets

2010-05-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of changing my name to Lady Jammin Crumpets. What do ya think?

Life At The World's Cross-Roads, Post and Polk

2010-04-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

Back on April 19, 2009, I wrote about a rather strange (but not unprecedented) encounter I had; "...a rugged looking, sandy haired, tattooed dude started walking AT me on Post Street. At first, I thought we were just going to pass each other. As we got closer together his eyes were fixed on me. At a few paces from each other, he raised his open hand. My eyes fixated on the threatening motion. As he strode past me, his arm swung down fast, and he slapped my ass something fierce..."

Well, ladies and gentleman, I bring you a photograph I snapped of said gentleman. Here he is getting arrested today for drug dealing on the southwest corner of Post and Polk.

It is strange that after a year since the incident, I can still see his face clear in my mind. Funny, actually. Not that I am happy to see the guy get arrested or anything.

After I snapped the picture of his arrest, I was walking back towards my car. I was approached by a black woman - a lady of the streets - not a hooker or a homeless person, just a person whose survival includes street relationships. She got really close to me and started complimenting me. She started sweet talking me, telling me that I looked delicious. Her broad smile exposes a missing front tooth. She scolded me to suck in my tummy - which I already had been feel self conscious about. It's hard to hide flaws in a skin tight dress. I was feeling old, fat and ugly just as she came on to me. She wrapped her arms around me and let her hands caress my behind. She was incredibly aggressive. I tried to laugh it off and keep walking, but she didn't stop at a socially acceptable time. She moved with me. She could tell that I wouldn't stop her. I don't know how to set limits with women. It's just a flaw I have. I became more submissive as she became more aggressive. Eventually, she let me go.

This is not the first time that I've been touched by a woman in such a way. Strange as it might sound, I've had an eerily similar experience two years ago.

It's my own fault, for looking like a hooker. In some respect, hookers are like public property. People think they can do stuff to them that they wouldn't do with other people. They are the repositories of our sins. I often think that hookers are all that is between us and the apocolpyse from the Book of Revelations. Forgive them father, for they know not what they do.

transitioning to death

2010-04-09T21:32:00.001-07:00

April 4, 2010 – Divas.

At around 4:30 pm I approach the front door, only to be unenthusiastically greeted by a blonde tranz gurl smoking in front of the building. Inside, I order a cabernet from Shelly, the middle aged transsexual bartender with the caked on makeup and chipper Texas drawl. A bit later, another girl comes in. “How’s tricks?” Shelly calls out. She quickly chastens herself for alluding to prostitution. With the history of Divas and its clientele Shelly is afraid of insinuating anything that could bring trouble to the establishment.

At the corner of the bar sit a trio of dive bar characters; a short man with 1970’s villain hair and Fu Manchu mustache. Catty-corner from him is a big man, with a baby face and innocent smile. He’s half Indian and half Arab. Between him and me is a black tranz gurl, with a girlish face that often breaks into a masculine smile.

The tranz gurl who greeted me at the front door comes in and sits to my right, two bar stools down from me. She starts playing a video card game on one of those swiveling boxes that all dive bars seem to have. She turns to me and asks me my name. Her name is Darlene. She turns her attention back to the box and starts talking to me without facing me. “Have you been here before?” she says, matter-of-factly. There’s no grace in her inquisition. “What do you come here for?” she asks. With that question, she betrays herself as being a member of a subset of the transgender community that many may not be familiar with; the transgender tranny-chaser.

I tell Darlene that I come to Divas to drink. She is clearly unsatisfied with the answer. She decides to take the direct approach. “You you like transsexuals or men?” I have no intention of sleeping with this person. She has none of the masculine charm that could make me feel anything toward her. She has none of the feminine wiles to peak my interest.

A large black, effeminate man enters carrying a bag that he hands to the black tranz girl sitting next to me. Inside the bag she pulls out an elegant evening gown with a greet pattern on it. The gurl asks where he got it. He tells her it had belonged to some tranz gurl named Wanda Fox. “What happened to her?” I ask. “She died years ago,” the gurl tells me, dismissively. “I’ll wear it to the memorial,” she says to the big guy, “I can’t believe you still have some of her things.” She rushes off to the bathroom to try it on. The dress fits her perfectly.

We all start to talk about the gurls that have died. The black tranz gurl mentions some girl named Kayla, who she says went on a self destructive binge after being diagnosed with HIV. Shelly pulls a Divas picture book off the shelf and hands it to the gurl. She starts flipping through it looking to see if Kayla is in it. She tells me that Kayla threw herself out a window, only to survive the fall. She eventually overdosed on the medications prescribed to ease the pain from her injuries. That made me sad.

I'll have a Cab.

2010-03-31T21:08:00.001-07:00

Sunday, March 28th, 2010 - Divas. I had just about finished with my third class of cabernet when Steve pulled up a stool next to me. Victoria, the bartender at Divas puts another glass in front of me and tells me the short Latino guy at the end of the bar wants to buy my next round. Steve orders a Margarita, with the rim salted. He wants it served in a regular drinking glass instead of a Margarita coupette glass so it won’t spill. He pays with a one-hundred dollar bill. “Business must be good,” I quip.

Steve introduces himself as I begin my fourth glass of cabernet. I’d been drinking on an empty stomach. The wine is beginning to taste sour. Each sip suggests nausea. Steve is short, middle aged, with a receding hairline and bad combover. I excuse myself to the restroom. I stop by the Latino gentleman and thank him for the drink. “You have a beautiful body,” he says with an awkward smile. I go to the restroom and pee. When I return, the Latino guy is gone. I sit back down next to Steve. I felt warm – loose. “What do you do?” I asked him. “I do trannies,” he says. He is pleased with his own wit. I can tell it’s a line he’s used a hundred times before. “Automatic transmissions,” he says. “I thought you were a drug dealer,” I say. He takes a twenty dollar bill and places it in my dress, where my tits would be, if I had any.

He let’s his fingers brush delicately against my thigh, back and forth. I pretend not to notice. He reaches around and gently pats my ass. “Do you top or bottom?” he asks. “Why do you want to know?” I ask. “I like to cum inside of girls.” I smile an awkward smile. I lean toward him. “Oh, yeah? Do tell.” “Do you like getting fucked in the ass?” he asks with a leer. I smile and take another sip of wine.

Victoria comes over and warns us to cool it. I smile. She tells us that she has a drag show at a venue up the street and that I should come. She hands me a flyer. I look at her. A man in a wig. I ask her if her boobs are real. No, she tells me. I look at her cleavage and see a vertical scar. It’s from heart surgery. She wears a Star of David. Her mother was Catholic, her father a Jew. She tells me she’s a retired attorney. She pulls out her bar car, and hands it to me. Her real name is on it. Steve starts talking to her. I input her real name into my phone, to Google later.

I take another sip of wine. I’m feel sick. I excuse myself, and step out. I walk to my VW bus and lie down in the bed inside. The world starts to spinning. I sit up quickly and vomit into a shoe box. Pure wine fills the corner of the box. I vomit again and again. Wine drips from the corner, staining the a little rug I have inside. I pour the vomit into the gutter. I lie down, with an acidy taste in my mouth and a dry throat. The world spins.

Later I hear a knocking on he window. It's Steve calling out for me. It's like a dream. My mind is so fogged with alcohol I can't respond. If I open the sliding door, he'll try to come in. He'll try to fuck me in the ass. I've already seen this play. The last time I was this intoxicated, I got sexually assaulted and beat up pretty bad. I stay quiet. He stops knocking. I get onto my side and fall asleep, right in the middle of the city.

Pazuzu

2010-02-27T08:44:00.000-08:00

There are two souls vying to live within me, each trying to kill the other. My life has been bifurcated between the male me, and Magdelyn. Each has wrecked the other’s life. There is something sinister within me. I've been possessed. My "toxic predatory girl persona" is a dark force trying to overcome the better angel of myself.

I wrote a still unpublished novel. It is a simple love story - Greg and Clara fall in love, and the fall kills them. It has taken me many years to write. Some time ago, I came to realize that as I wrote the work, I had subconsciously created the male and female characters as two sides to myself.

The scary thing about the work is that while it has evolved, I have evolved in a parallel fashion with the character of Clara. In the work, I described her as thus:

"...Her hair was short, bobbed so that it was longer in front, angling up toward the back of her neck, framing her face. She was wearing a black dress with an oval opening, showing off much of her olive skinned back. She wore elbow length gloves and on her face was delicately applied make-up, her lips washed with a mild white lipstick. Her face was graced with a tiny stud pierced into her nose. The whole effect was that of a Gothic, jazz age flapper, something F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mary Shelley would have conjured up had they collaborated."

If you take a look at my profile picture, and realize that the above description was written years before I found my style, you realize that Magdelyn has influenced me before Magdelyn ever existed. In other words, I created Clara in my own idealized image, and then in a "life imitating art" evolution I set out to become her.

In the work, Clara disitergrates, and seemly goes insane. Like Clara disintergrates, I am self-destructive. I continuously place myself in dangerous situations. This got me thinking about the duality of man. I've come to realize that Magdelyn is the repository for all my sins. She pulls at me, trying to get me to come over and live in the shadow of her dark side.

In Rob Ager's analysis of Stanley Kubric's "Full Metal Jacket" he explores Kubrics use of Jungian psychology of the duality of man, suggesting that characters in the recruit training portion of the movie may serve as mirrors for characters that appear in the Vietnam phase of the movie, as they descend into their own personal hell.

A similar theme is stated in the movie Apocolypse Now:

"...Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature. Every man has got a breaking point. You and I have..." (Apocolypse Now, General Corman to Capt. Willard.)

Neither of these concepts is a perfect analogy for me. If I had to analogize, I would use the conceptual framework of the movie The Exorcist. In essence, I am possessed.

Of Pink Ribbons and Peach Curtains

2010-02-21T01:42:00.000-08:00

Many of you may, or may not, know that I don't confine myself to one gender. While it is true that I've been diagnosed with gender identity disorder and take a cocktail of hormones and other medications to ease my life, I don't feel I have any reason to present myself in a way that makes other people feel comfortable about who I am. I figure, since I've had to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, having been born and brought up male, I don't feel the need to totally abandon the person society had forced me to be. On the other hand, when I present female, I've had to suffer various forms of sexual assaults and other indignities, I assume because I present female and gender non-conforming. I have given up on conforming. Take your gender binary and shove it.

Why is any of that relevant? This last Friday I went to the Breast Health Center at the California Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco. I had been referred there by my beloved primary care physician, Dr. Charles Moser because I found a painful 15mm cyst near my left nipple. So, I went to the BHC to get my first ever mammogram, and ultrasound of the cyst.

I bicycled to the facility from SoMa, near the Embarcadero. I'd given myself an hour and fifteen minutes for the trip, and arrived in little over half an hour. So I sat outside the facility, looking at the people walk by as the overcast sky threatened to piss on me. I walked over to Starbucks, and bought a coffee and read the New York Times, waiting to begin this new adventure in breast cancer detection.

At the socially acceptable time, I entered the facility. Having gotten no sleep the night before, and with the perspiration of the bicycle ride having just barely evaporated from my body, I looked and felt my best when I went to the check in desk. I looked around the room as I handed my paperwork to an Asian lady who looked genuinely confused as to why I was there, probably because of my bicycle messenger presentation. There were little partitioned registration desks in the room. When it came my turn to register, I was not registered at the little desks, but was whisked away to a station in dimly lit area out of the reception area - out of view of all the delicate little ladies.

I was told to go to the second floor. I looked for the stairs, and having found none, took the elevator. When the doors opened, I felt as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz must have felt when she opened the door to her home and entered the Land of Oz. The walls of the Breast Health Center are painted in a delicate peach hue. I was greeted by two awkwardly smiling ladies at the reception desk, who took my paperwork, and asked me if I would like any "coffee, tea or water." I realized at that moment how much better women are treated by the medical profession. On the walls were elegant prints of wheat and lavender. In the seating area, there were little end tables with shaded lamps, illuminating a copy of a New York Magazine.

As a man, you are always expected to prove yourself. Your worth is constantly in a state of flux - maintained in a "what have you done for me lately" vacuum, which threatens to eviscerate your raison d'etre, should you fail to live up to expectations. There is no plateau, you are either climbing, or you stumble. This is the reason I've struggled all of my life, trying to fulfill the expectations of that vacuum. How satisfying it must feel to be accepted as a human being for just being who you are. With the lavender, and the peach, the coffee and tea, the elegant receptionists - two of them - and the atmosphere of calm and peace, I entered a place men usually do not enter. Its like accidentally going into a women's restroom in a club, and seeing the lounging area with the sofa and mirrors. The people who enter this little world don't need an excuse for their existence.

Prior to my appointment, I'd been mailed a form to fill out. It contained multiple choice questions about the consistency of my period, whether my period had stopped, if I'd ever been pregnant, whether there was a history of breast cancer in my family. I only mention the form because it was actually mailed to me three times. And in two telephone conversations with the BHC, I was informed that I was required to fill out and bring in the form. When the receptionist asked me for it, I handed it to her and stated, "Why was I required to fill this out?" She looked surprised, and apologetic. "I mean, how was I supposed to answer question seven?" I could legitimately answer the question about pregnancy by stating I'd never been pregnant. Question seven was about having a period. The way the question was formulated, I felt it was like having to answer "When did you stop beating your wife?" If I answered it by stating my period had not ended, that would be weird. But, if I answered it by stating that my period had ended, that would imply I had a period, at one time.

I was eventually brought back to the exam room that contained the mammogram machine. The walls of the exam room were painted in a light blue, the color you expect to see in traditional Catholic households. One corner of the room was wallpapered with a scene from a tropical island, as if you were on the island, looking out over the tropical ocean. There were palm trees and a sandy beach, over which a tropical ocean invited you in for a dip. The technician pulled out a peach curtain, giving me privacy to take off my shirt and put on a gown. The technician taped my nipples with a little BB on each nipple, and one over the cyst. I was then led to the mammogram machine, which looked like a drill press, except, instead of a drill there was a retractable clear tray that was used to squish my breast down onto a carbon fiber base, with the words "Hologic" and "Selenia" on it. Getting into the right position to have one's boobies squashed is not easy, and the little Asian technician, with the large sun spot on her cheek, delicately manhandled me this way and that. She then retreated to her monitoring station, behind which stood a pine, Victorian-esque wardrobe. "Okay, breath," she said, "I'll tell you when to stop breathing. Don't move. Stop breathing. Don't breath. Don't move." Beep. This was done four times, twice on each breast, with two different shots, one from above, and one from the side. After the forth time, she left the room to consult with the radiologist. Then, back for two more shots, this time my breasts were squeezed more tightly.

I was taken to an adjoining room and had to lie down on an examining table. I was placed on my side, and a wedge pillow placed behind my back. I had to lift my left arm, over my head. I imagined myself looking like those people who die a violent death and lay ungracefully on the ground in an awkward position, silently whispering to the living of their sorrow for their lost lives. The technician placed a lubricant on a sonogram wand, and began massaging my area around the cyst. I could see it it on the screen, mesmerized by the pictures of my tissue, muscle and lung wall. After several minutes, the technician stated, "I need to have the radiologist look at this." Then she back tracked quickly, "This is standard protocol." A squat Asian women came in and took control of the sonogram wand. The radiologist spoke with an accented speech, telling me about men and breast cancer and how rare it is, but it does happen, and this and that, before delivering the punchline; we don't think its cancer. "I can't tell you why you are having pain," she said. I realized I was still in my tortured death pose as she streamed words passed me. I tuned her out. I thought about dying of cancer. I thought about how it would be okay. I could die right now, and it would be alright. I would not whisper to the living that I missed them. I would let my life slip away, and I would whisper, "Goodbye."

(. Y .) = (. Y x)

2010-02-09T21:40:00.000-08:00

I've had this sore bump near my left nipple. It's painful. I go to the doctor today. Says it is a cyst. Gotta go get it checked out to make sure I don't have breast cancer. Sux to be me.

My First Foray into Couture - Designer Dress

2010-01-16T00:05:00.000-08:00

And now, back to our regular internet stalker report...take it away zack x

2010-01-13T10:33:00.000-08:00

"lol ur just a masculine man gay hooker, u don't look anything like a woman... u need 2 stop prostituting. in LA where im from pple like u always end up abducted and beat up or killed in ghettos, by a gang of pple in van, etc, it's really a matter of time 4 anyone who's doing that."

September 29, 2009
July 3, 2009
July 29, 2009
June 25, 2009
May 7, 2009

prossy presentation

2009-12-31T18:13:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, December 30, 2009. Winters are VERY hard for me. I get depressed, lethargic, and feel ill all the time. So it was some effort to get out yesterday evening. Since I am not really feeling up to the task of making this piece interesting, I will just narrate without putting in effort into the presentation.

I start the night at Divas, because it was simple. I go there very infrequently. But, every time I go, the same exact girls show up. Which means that they are there every night. I assumed because they were all prostitutes. Some of them are, of course.

One girl who was there - who is always there - apparently is not a prossy. I heard her whole life story. She's divorced, doesn't have a penis, but a vagina, is a lesbian. Her ex-wife was very supportive during transition. She works for a major movie production company. I know all this because she tells everyone she meets.

I leave Divas, wearing shoes that I would later come to regret. They killed my feet. I guess it is just assumed that your are a prostitute if you walk around the area. The first proposition came from a Latino man. "How much?" he says. "How much for what, sweetheart?" I reply. "Do you a speak a Spanish?" he askes. "No." He walks away. I turn the corner and meat a black guy. A man of the streets you might say. He introduces himself as Roy (or maybe Ron), and asks me straight up, "Are you a hooker?" It's then I realize that I really should tone down my presentation. As he is asking me that, some black guy in a hoodie behind me starts literally yelling at me. I can't understand a word he says.

My shoes start to bother me. The heals are too high, and they are unsteady. The shoes are not made correctly. The left one is hobbling me. I wear heals with the best of 'em, but this shoe is actually hurting my ankle, because the toe platform is rocking, and I have to compensate. I learned something interesting about high heels. It is a commonly held myth that women's shoes are two sizes smaller than men's shoes. So if you wear a 9.5 (usa) in men's shoes, you should buy 11.5 in women's. Bullshit. I wear a size 9, and have only recently discovered that a women's 10 is perfect for me.

Moving right along. I stop in a bar with a rainbow flag on it, down the hill from Post on Larkin. Many people don't realize that the Tenderloin area around Post was at one point the gay area of San Francisco. Everybody just assumes it has always been the Castro area. How the Castro became the gay area is an interesting topic unto itself. But I digress from my digression. So I enter this bar, and it is chaulk full of 50 something gay men, sitting at the bar. The lighting is too bright. Not one person even looks at me. This is very unusual. People have literally stopped in the street to stare at me. So I was a bit surprised that everyone in the place seemed to be specifically trying to ignore me. Maybe they thought I was a stain on the gay community or something. It wasn't exactly hostility, but I was uncomfortable.

I make my way back to Divas, where more regular girls have arrived. There is one girl there that I am practically in love with. Her ass is so BIG that you have to take notice. She will often lean her but against the edge of something, demonstrating how LARGE and bouncy it is. I go pee. I come out, and the girl who tells everybody her story is talking to two Slovenes. They came to visit a friend of their's in Phoenix, and have wound their way through Vegas and now Frisco. They plan on going out to NYC. Anyway, they tell me that there is no nightlife in Europe anymore. Except Berlin. I should mention that they are not tranz people, but GG's. Apparently they have been coming to Divas since their stay in SF. So they are like mini regulars. I ask them why they come, and they say they love it. Sometimes they are lovers, and sometimes not. They drink coffee.

After another drink, I go outside to get some air. I stand on the street corner and watch the cars go by. I am approached by an older tranny, Betty, who sports two enormous breasts. She invades my space and we start talking. She invites me to follow her to her favorite place to "work" which is up Larkin, passed an alley, in the shadows right in front of a gated driveway. I never really thought about it before, but her spot is brilliant. There are parking spaces both above and below the the driveway. There are trees, that darken the area. A John can come right up, park in front of the driveway in line with the other cars, and talk to a "date" without blocking traffic or otherwise standing out.

Betty, is 62 (maybe 63, I can't remember what she told me) years old. She tells me that she still regularly works the streets. She is missing one of her front teeth. "You are getting cruised tonight," she says to me. She is overly gregarious, waiving at passing cars, and yelling funny things into cars with open windows. At one point, an old man in a 1970's vintage car that is falling apart cruises by. I tell her that he has circled a couple of times already. "He has no money," she says dimissively. The guy goes around the block and calls out to me, "You have lovely legs." Betty yells at him, "She has a great ass, to. You have no money, we're working here. Go on now." He replies, "If I did have money, I'd like to spend some time with you," he says to me. Surreal. Betty tells me that she wants to get even bigger boobs, and get some face work done. She doesn't consider herself a woman. "I'm just me," she tells me. I ask her about how she stays so thin. I tell her, "I need meth or something. I need to lose weight." She asks me if I have any money. I lie and tell her, "no." "When you get some money," she tells me, "Call me. I'll give you my number. I can sell you meth."

I walk back to Divas. I am approached by a man with a mustache, who offers me $40 to go down on him. He wants to know if I have a place to do it. In my book, if I were a whore, I might go down on you in your car for $40, but I am certainly not bringing you into my home. I tell him I have to pee, and go into Divas. I know he won't follow me, because they have put up the cover charge table, and it now costs $10 for guys to get in. If there were any enterprising guys out there, they could simply walk up, ask to be let in free, and when they get rejected, file suit under California's Unrue Act. California has a strict interpretation of discrimination laws. Places like Power Exchange and Divas risk losing $4,000 each time they charge a guy to go in, but let in girls free. "Ladies nights" are illegal in California. But, the discrimination pays off for me on this night, because I know I won't be harassed.

I feel weak and lonely. I feel numb. I am beginning to think about whether it is time to kill Maggie off. Maybe literally. Life get's so hard, doesn't it? If I do decide to let go, I will write a post before I go, letting anybody who reads not to expect any more posts. Happy New Year.

Cheers Bitch

2009-12-15T22:02:00.000-08:00

My sister posted this picture, to represent my inner spirit, on my myspace page in April of this year. I wish I was that pretty. Love the attitude.

On a different note, ever since PlasticDoll wrote to me, stating "So beautiful I am a fan of bob wigs :) WOW I would love to robotize you," through hypnosis, I have been practicing my robot expressions and moves. Mastering a consistent, wide eyed blank expression is hard. The movement, is actually easier than the expression.

Toe Cleavage

2009-11-14T23:04:00.000-08:00

These are my new shoes. Jealous?

I come to you with a heavy heart.

2009-11-06T23:25:00.000-08:00

So my Turkish friend "Tutku" (Passion in Turkish) is being shipped off to Iraq. He is in the Army. I first talked to him in October, 2007. At that time, he was an engineering student, but had to drop out because of the economy. I told him I would be his long distance lover, and would pine for him and be true, thinking about him while he is away in Iraq. He was happy, and made me cry. Here is a funny exerpt from our first conversation on October, 18, 2007.

Tutku: hi maggie my love

me: We've moved to love already? you work fast.

Tutku: i am pretty drunk...i love everybody. it might be really interesting if would wake up in your bed

me: ha ha. my bed is a bore.

Tutku: are you in girl mode or boy mode now?

me: I am in naked mode.

Tutku: are you going to write more street whore stories?

me: soon. I have to get out and go do it. It is fun. You wanna dress up like a girl and street walk with me?

Tutku: no thank you. can i be your pimp?

me: yes. you can.

Tutku: i need to go refill my alcohol. getting sober

me: well, sugar...must sleep.

Tutku: dont go. how about our love? Passion? i was going to make you my lady. head of my harem

me: Now that I am one of your harem, I can die happy.

Tutku: dont die. live thrive. anyways if you need to go? arent you going to leave something for me masturbate?

me: (. Y .)

Disco Pepsi

2009-10-30T22:20:00.000-07:00

Weird stuff amazes me, no matter how insignificant the event. The day before yesterday I was walking to the gym. I was walking north on Howard Street, and had just crossed Steuart Street. I turned up Steuart toward the YMCA. I passed a dumpster in the street. At the bottom of the dumpster was an old Pepsi can - the kind with a pull tab.

My internet research indicates that the can was made after 1973. In 1973, Pepsi adopted the logo that is on this can. Yet, the same year, the can had a 75th anniversary logo as well. In 1976, the can had the same “Pepsi” logo, with the phrase, “200 years of feelin’ free” and an eagle logo. From my limited research, I know that the stay on pop top was invented in 1974, but wasn’t adopted by Pepsi right away. By the end of the 1970’s or beginning of the 1980’s (and by at least 1984), Pepsi adopted the modern pop-top opener. In 1991, Pepsi introduced a new logo, different from the can I found.

I estimate this can to be from the mid-1970’s. What is so amazing about that, you may ask? The answer is in the details. You can see from the pictures that the splatter than happened when the drinker opened the can is still there, dried on. On the top of the can, along the rim is dried Pepsi. And in front of the opening is a lip mark, from where the drinker placed his/her lower lip.

Next to the Dead Sea Scrolls, this may well be the biggest find of the last 100 years.

hipster chic

2009-10-28T13:15:00.001-07:00

So I am on BART yesterday with my bicycle when two hipsters board the train, a boy hipster and a girl hipster. The girl also has a bicycle. I am in boy form. I glace at the girl and she glances at me. The boy hipster, who apparently just met this girl and is trying to make time, turns his back to me and places himself between me and the girl. He then kind of passive aggressive like starts moving back, and stands so close to me that I can almost smell the Pabst Blue Ribbon on his breath.

He is about 5'7" tall, and moves his arms a lot as he talks. His left leg is bouncing back and forth at the knee for some reason. He is constantly shaking his head in agreement with the girl (who wasn't even attractive). They speak with the "white bread cool" accent of - which is a mixture of New York JAP, infused with the hippy chick use of a sigh, followed by the breathing out of their words in a slow cadence.

Anyway, he was wearing skinny jeans, a puke green shirt, the collar of which stuck out over his sweater. The jeans had crease marks at the thigh and behind the knee, like girls who wear their pants really tight. I will never understand this fashion statement. At least in the sixties, when skinny jeans first came out, they would wear bright colors, vests and coolio large brimmed hats to show they were nonconformists.

By and large, these skinny jean wearing dudes look like they are the ultimate conformists, with their twenty something hair starting to recede, and the invariable bad do's they wear trying to conceal the obvious.

I demand the velvet mafia start a new fashion trend that these guys can follow.

inky

2009-10-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

My new tramp stamp. Jealous?

So anyway, being the tranny tramp that I am, I decide to get a tramp stamp (i.e. lower back tattoo). But, I want to make it ironic as possible, so I design a Marine Corps eagle globe and anchor, with a skull in the in the globe, and some winglets coming off the side to simulate the shape of a thong. I figure, what better way to synthesize the feminine (tramp stamp) with my personal motto: "If I decide to meet you, it's probably because you've been designated for termination."

I do a cursory Yelp search for tattoo parlors near the Castro, because, since I am leaving from work to get the ink, I don't want to have to explain why a guy is getting a tramp stamp. I don't find anything that tickled my "Oh, yeah, baby. Hurt me. Hurt me. Jab me with that needle," bone in the Castro area. But, one of the related parlors that pops up does catch my eye. You guessed, The Painted Lady Tattoo parlor at the above listed address has great photos of their work included in their profile.

Yesterday, I go over there with my best rendition of the tattoo I want. I meet the proprietor, Kelley. She was so nice that I almost asked for her hand in marriage. I make an appointment for today at noon.

At the appointed time, I again see Kelley, my new love interest, and she shows me her new and improved rendition of my concept. Less than two hours - of mostly non-agonizing pain - later, I have my ironic iconic tramp stamp tattoo.

I know I've already convinced you that you need to get inked by Kelley.

BUT, WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

Actually, the next few sentences have nothing to do with The Painted Lady Tattoo parlor, but I didn't want to break the narrative of my experience.

So, I pay my 3 large to Kelley, at about 1:15-1:30ish, and ride my bike back to work. On Valencia and 14th I see a crushed bicycle and an ambulance in the intersection. I take some video of the bicycle, get the scuttle-butt from a girlio witness, and move on. On 9th and Market, I come across a crowd surrounding some dude on the sidewalk. His Santa Claus pants are down, and he is semi-conscious, and he is bleeding from the head. No one has called 911, though some Latina girl was trying to save his modesty by pulling up his Santa pants. I call 911. The dispatcher instructs me to stop the bleeding from his head. So there I am, kneeling on the ground, holding tissue paper under some dude's head whose bleeding on my hands. It's really hard to stop someone from bleeding from the head, talk to the 911 operator, AND video the whole episode. But, that's what i did.

Moving right along, after that bit of heroism and once the ambulance came, I make it to about 5th and Market, and come across another dude, lying in the street and attended by cops, waiting for the ambulance. "Jesus," I think to myself, "I'd better get inside before the swarms of locusts arrive and the pestilence spreads. I hope that God didn't go all Book of Revelations on me for getting a tattoo.

In the end, I survived, and have a beautiful tattoo by a true ink artist. Kelley's got it going on. If you go to any other tattoo artist, don't say I didn't warn you. Because, I bet that is what happened to those three other dudes. They all probably got their ink somewhere else and now the good Lord has struck them down.

walk of shame

2009-10-07T21:07:00.000-07:00

Divas, Oct 3, 2009.

"What are you drinking?" asks the black gentleman who is leaning into me. He is solid looking, with the the beginning of a stubbly beard.

"It's only a cranberry and soda," I reply.

"Non-alcoholic?" he says.

"Yes."

"A virgin, huh?"

I smile. "No, I'm not."

"I was talking about the drink," he says facetiously, "What are you into?"

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Leon. Do you ever get spanked?"

Leon is in his thirties or forties, and speaks with an air of self-assuredness that compels me.

"I'll try anything once."

"Spanking?"

"You want to spank me?" I say. I give my best innocent, flirtatious look.

"Yeah. Come into the bathroom with me."

"Oh, my God," I think to myself. This is going too fast. But, Leon's presence dominates me. I am self-conscious, but unable to dismiss him. I get up, but feel unsteady. I cross my arms as a sub-conscious self-defense measure. Leon guides me to the bathroom.

Robin and her platonic date watch me as I am followed into the bathroom. Once in, Leon locks the door, pulls up my dress and pushes my panties down. He pushes me against the wall, and proceeds to give me a whack. He hits me so hard on the ass that I cringe. This wasn't playful spanking, but punishment spanking. He hits me seven or eight more times. I am barely able to keep from crying out, before their is a voice at the door.

"Hello," says the faux girls voice, "Can, you open the door."

Leon replies, "I'm a little sick. Hold on." I pull my clothes on. I hide behind the door as he opens it.

"Is someone else in there?" she asks.

He walks out and I am left in the bathroom by myself. I stall for a few moments, trying to figure out how I am going to get out of the bathroom without anybody noticing. I step out of the bathroom into the little nook that shields it from the empty dance floor and the bar. As I build up my courage to walk out, Leon intercepts me. He turns me around, and marches me back into the bathroom.

Again with the spanking. As my ass is getting thrashed, all I can think about between the whacks of humiliating pain, is the noise each slap is making and the anxiety of getting caught again.

Knock Knock Knock

"Open the door please," says a man's voice.

"Can you hold on a second," says Leon, "I'm a little sick."

"Open the door."

Leon adjusts himself. I slide down my black dress and hide behind the door. Leon opens the door and the man asks, "Is there somebody in there with you?" Leon leaves and starts talking with the guy. Moments pass, and the door opens. A bouncer enters and looks genuinely surprised that I'm in the bathroom. "You have to leave," says he says. I walk out of the bathroom and muster up all the dignity I can find. I mentally prepare myself for the walk of shame I am about to take. I walk across the empty dance floor, arms crossed, and every eyeball in the place on me as I am escorted out of the room. For some reason, I am being escorted out, and my bathroom date is sitting at the bar watching me leave. "How is this fair?" I think to myself.

I pass Robin and waive a goodbye. "Great," I think to myself, "My reputation in the trans community has taken another hit." Robin knows a lot of people. She gives me a tsk tsk look, and says something I can't make out as I am escorted past her. The last time I was the focus of any attention, people were literally accusing me of being a prostitute and thereby helping to sabotage the reopening of the Power Exchange when community activism torpedoed a potential venue on Gough Street. Needless to say, I was just a convenient vehicle on which the group of frustrated public sex-tarians could vent their anger.

Stay Away from the Whores

2009-10-02T07:42:00.001-07:00

"Are you a hooker?" says the scraggly white street woman hovering around a semi-conscious black man. "I'll knock your teeth out," she tells me. "Fucking whores." Up until the threat, I hadn't even known the pair existed. She gets close to her man. They part company. He ambles in one direction, and she in another. As they walk, she yells out, "Stay away from the whores. Okay, babe?" She continues on down Larkin, before yelling out again, "Stay away from the ho's." I feel sorry for her. It makes me want to cry.

It's all so surreal. I am tight. I had three drinks and I am sloppy. Before the unearned threat, I had been leaning against a telephone relay box, trying to recover from the fall I had just taken crossing the street. When I stumbled, I fell forward until my hands touched the street. "Are you alright?" stated a concerned, deeply masculine voice. I get to my feet, without ever acknowledging the speaker. As I write this, I don't even know what he looked like. His voice still echoes in my head.

"Stay away from the whores," she had said. With that she had plainly stated what more sophisticated women refuse to admit. All their "saving the whore," trafficking panick, sex slavery bullshit comes down to keeping their men away from whores. Nothing more. They are just too polite to knock anybody's teeth out.

And now the latest from out stalker report.

2009-09-29T19:52:00.000-07:00

Now, turning to our regular contributor (via yelp message), zack x, stalker extraordinaire:

20 minutes ago:

Learn your place, tranny sub--
your $5 blowjobs suck

Hubby said you're a waste of 5 bucks-
cause everything u do sucks

And yes my hubby has AIDS for a while-
you should have thought of it in advance

He said you're no passable at all--
u need more estrogen if u want to look like a girl

2 hours ago:

From cockquean to tranny freak:
Reply

tranny whore freak, u walk dark filthy streets
that stink of human urine,
thinking you are the queen
but you just look like a cheap imitation mannequin

imitation is never the real thing..
and my husband abuses tranny sluts
--while i look at it and laugh--
they get thrown away like yesterday's trash

while the two of us celebrate--
all the fun that we had and will have
no future for you, adulterer tranny
all these wrinkles now make you so ugly

yes, toilet paper is cleaner than you..
and we all go to the restroom sometimes
but we're always back to our crispy, bright home
to forever forget distusting, scary whores

so, swallow your pride tranny hooker
compared to you I'm always quite a looker
u'd kill for a soft and round body like mine
natural curves you can only desire...

my husband'll always be back to my tiny feet
and your rugged man's hands can never keep a hold on him
you're dying from envy cause I have a real p*ssy
what you'll never have, the cock owner wussy

i use condoms at least.. and you probably none
so you're the one who gets aids, not me, loose tranny whore

my supple breasts and round, fat ass
are like full moons that shine onto men's eyes
and you have the frame of a lumberjack
really how do u expect someone to want to fuck that?

my empire is your fondest dream..
that you'll never be able to come close
as your destiny had been forever set by testosterone

whatever you try, evil tranny hooker
will still not replace having a natural p*ssy
so crawl back to that garbage you came from
and jack off your wang, you'll die alone

2 days ago:

wow you really went downhill :((
trying to make money on sucking off married men? eww. you should put in that poem how proud you are of giving stds to their wifies..
and man, you're publicly confessing that you're fat and "not cute"? don't u realize how badly it's going to hurt your donations?
u should just find a pic of a pretty ladyboy online, post it, and keep collecting money

No sex in the bathroom

2009-09-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

I keep this blog going, but I really haven't been living the Maggie life lately. I think I got depressed about getting sexually assaulted. I've tried on a couple of occassions to go out. I went to Charlie Anders' "Writer's with Drinks," once. I saw my therapist, once. I get invitations to go do things, but I can't bring myself to go.

Anyway, I was reading an old article in the SF Weekly about how yelpers, the users of yelp, suck. So I typed "yelpsucks.com" in my address bar, to see what would pop up, and lo and behold, it goes to the yelp.com homepage. This is only relevant because I subsquently got an email to my Yelp account, which started a whole chain of events. The email came from James h.

(9-11-09) James h.: "Saw your photo and had to contact you. Can we talk? Can I meet you? james"

Me: "what did you want to talk about?"

James h. "I want to talk about my love and lust for the sexy lady boy. Mybe we can hook up in person for this conversation. Any chance? Just returned from a trip to Thailand...I have been reading your blog. Great writing. Now I get the picture. I would be in over my head and heals if we were ever to meet. ( of course I don't own any heals) Little doubt knowing you would bring out my dauntless reckless side. What price would I have to pay to have share time with you? You are intriguing."

Magdelyn "You are sweet. I will probably go to divas tonight. If you are around, drop on by."

So, I end up going to Divas and the guy is a no show, I assumed. But, then I get more emails from him. Now this is just precious. He manages to say about himself, without irony: "I'm not an asshole. I am the nice guy." Then states that he thinks he saw me and asks, "Are you fat." - then states that I'm "not cute."

This guy must have Asperger's Syndrome. I think the "not cute" part was the best. The word "cute" can be used to describe someone you are attracted to, like, "Oh, yeah, she's cute," or it can be used as a substitute for truth, like, "Oh, he's cute. But, he's not my type." In the latter example, the word "cute" is used as the innocuous compliment meaning, "I'm not attracted to him." It is a faux compliment. A social nicety in the form of a white lie.

James h. didn't even bother with that. Crazy. I start to think that Maggie (I'm talking about myself here in the third person) is dead.

Yet, the most amazing part is his next email, (in relevant part):

"Even if we are not sexually attracted to each other I still would like to meet you. Let's do lunch. Talk. Maybe we will become the good friends. Friends are hard to find. Your writng is fantastic. You stories are even more so. But then again, maybe you are in to it just for the money. I understand."

Then, after insulting me, he gives me his personal email and myspace page. I'm bamboozled.

Needless to say, being called fat and not cute didn't do much for me. I've been pretty much down in the dumps lately. After James injected me with his bitter irony, I decided I needed to climb back on the saddle.

9-12-09 (9:45 a.m.) I Got email from a fellow tranny, who contacted me through collarme.com. She is a dominant type. She invited to me to Kinky Salon. I've never met her before. Shes makes me pick her up waaaayyyyy across town near Larkin and Broadway. She is an Austrian tranny, with a heavy accent. She's the pushiest person I've dealt with for a long time. I assume she was drunk by the time I picked her up. At one point during the evening, she insisted that I am the "sub," and handed me a $20 bill and sent me out of KS for Champaign and cigarettes. She uses derision as a control mechanism.

Anyway, at KS I met some people. Touched some girlz boobs. I hope they don't close it...saw lots of people having sex. Like fun sex. Like sex between people who really like each other. All the KS participants are pretty young, and there were some beautiful bodies, having fun sex, with someone they enjoyed having sex with. Anyway, moving right along, back to Ms. Tranny.

A perfect example of Ms. Tranny's control issues comes at the end of the night. First, she offers a girl there (who's boobs I touched) a ride home. Which means, not only do I have to drive Ms. Tranny home, waaaaayyyyy across town, but now she's committed me to taking someone else home. Which I don't mind, because the girl was really nice. But as we are collectively going, Ms. Tranny keeps insisting that I drop her off first, waaaaayyyy across town, before I drop the girl she offered the ride who lives kind of close to mission control. As I reject that offer to drive waaaayyyy across town to drop off Ms. Tranny, and instead start dropping the nice girl (did I mention I touched her boobs?) home, Ms. Tranny, who is severly intoxicated by this time (and a mean drunk to boot) keeps chastening with a tone of ridicule for not driving her home. We drop off little miss perky boobs, and I take Ms. Tranny home. She get's out of the car and concludes the evening with, "Why did you drive the bitch home first." "Because, she's a bitch," I reply, "And the rule is you drop the girl off first." "You could have had her," she says.

9-13-09 (3:00 a.m.) Went to Power Exchange. As I am crossing the street, a girl calls out from a car filled with four girls. "Oh, chica baby. Sexy. Woo hoo." Women rock. I get to the new Power Exchange location. I like it. It is really nice. The girlz bathroom is crazy nice. I went to go pee, but one of the toilets had flooded, so two guys in the girlz bathroom were swabbing the poop deck (literally). "Girls are the worst," I over hear one say to the other. I went over to the boyz room. A guy followed me into a stall. He offered me $20 to blow him. Then a couple of the employees saw him in there, and blamed me. "No sex in the bathroom," one states to me sternly, pointing at a sign that reads, "No sex in the bathroom." That's what you get when you dress provocatively, I guess.

collarme.com come-ons.

2009-08-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

I've been hanging out on collarme.com. Here are my favorite invitations into slavery:

8/22/09: "So beautiful I am a fan of bob wigs :) WOW I would love to robotize you."

8/25/09: "im looking for a sissy slave. U should be my slave full time. What im looking for is a slave, lady boy Non op sissyslut maid. Must be submissive, out going, wiling to dress to please us, Women U want to wear heels 4'' to 6'', sissy dresses. She will take care of the cooking, maid for the house and there for her Master. u will need to sign a contract, i will own u. U will be corseted to 22'' to 24'' never gain weight. on hormones, implants for your breasts. if needed."

8/30/09: "i seek a slave for LTR i could transform to my bimbo slut: huge siliconed boobs, full lips, blonde hair, always sexy outfit (pvc, latex so on)and high heels.
I will use and abuse you as my private whore. could u be interested? have you some limits about bimbofication? i will pay for implants and chirurgical operations if needed. project: you become a perfect trophy girl i could use and abuse. have you some limits about bimbofication? i will pay for implants and chirurgical operations if needed. project: you become a perfect trophy girl i could use and abuse."

My friend Molly...

2009-08-24T19:55:00.001-07:00

...recently said the following to me: "Your butt's not too big. You've got a badonkadonk. Deal with it."

Maggie's Porta-Potty VW Bus

2009-08-22T13:05:00.000-07:00

My Color Coordiantion is Amaaaazzzziiinnggg! Only after I got it painted, did I realize that my dream machine was the color of an out door toilet. Now I am afraid to park in on San Francisco's Russian Hill, where over 17 of these out door amenities have been set ablaze.

A Paper Rose? For Me?

2009-08-12T23:54:00.000-07:00

You made me a paper rose. Long ago. Don't you recall? "I give them to the pretty girls," you said. Who am I? You don't remember? That's okay.

You made me a rose. It was a rose born out of a dive bar knapkin. Actually, it was a Divas Bar knapkin, come to think of it. It was so very long ago. Two years. Two years, and I remember it like it was ten minutes ago.

Trinket. You gave me a trinket. Had you just bought me a string of drinks I'd have forgotten you by now. Instead, you sealed yourself into my consciousness. A silly little trick with a piece of trash. Had I been a Native American, I'd have sold you Manhattan for a paper rose - then slept with you to sweeten the deal.

Don't fret, sweet pea. I still have it. The rose, that is. It sits armoured against the elements in a specially made box. If you die before me, I will keep your memory alive for as long as I live. I will remember you. All for the price of a knapkin. A silly little trick with a piece of trash.

Thanx Bunches Kate

2009-07-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

Kate Coe said...
Well, I don't know who you are, but you sure can write. And anyone who pisses off the Salon faithful gets a gold star on her report card.

_______________
Kate Coe, who writes at DeepGLAMOUR and formerly for fishbowlLA left the above comment on my blog.

And now, let's get an update from our stalker report

2009-07-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

From my internet stalker, zack x.:

"dude, there's an error on your site. it should read: "Magdelyn presents a woman-hater's point of view, from a faux tgirl's perspective (i mean i do dress like a girl, but by no means want to be one, as they are obviously 2nd class citizens worth as much as street garbage. btw, if my parents did get me that pony none of it would have happened, but now all of you owe me money.)."

[July, 29, 2009]

Magnet

2009-07-18T23:10:00.000-07:00

This episode begins (again) in the office of Patick Califia, my therapist. I told Patrick that during my last visit to my primary care physician, I didn't tell my doctor that I needed to have STD testing done, again. "I just had the tests a couple of months ago," I tell Patrick. "Now I need them again because of the assault. I couldn't bring myself to tell my doctor. It's humiliating."

Patick tells me to go to Magnet in the Castro. He says they'll test me for free. I go this last Friday.

The important info:

Magnet
4122 18th Street
San Francisco, CA 94114
Phone: 415.581.1600
Fax: 415.581.1610
Email: info@magnetsf.org

From their website: "Magnet, a program of the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, holds a vision to promote the physical, mental and social well-being of gay men. We reflect the diversity and values of gay men who live, work or play in the Castro, seeking the participation and support of gay men to create and sustain the health and well-being of our community..."

The first time I go there it was Monday. I bicycled across the city, only to find that they are closed on Mondays. The next time, it's Wednesday. I bicycle across the city, only to be told that they have no more openings. I tell the guy behind the counter that I need the test because I've been assaulted. He gives me a card, and tells me to call the next day at 1 p.m. I do call, and make an appointment for Friday at 2:30 p.m. "Be here by 2 o'clock," the guy tells me over the phone, "We need you to fill out some paperwork first."

On Friday, I bicycle across the city on my fixed gear track bike. I arrive a bit early to find a line of queers waiting outside the still closed building. I ride up the sidewalk, in front of the building, and do a track-stand. After locking my bike, I move to the end of the line and wait in the unusually warm weather.

It seemed a long while that I stood there. The guy in front of me was squatting down, reading a news paper. Standing in front of the squatting guy is a butch guy, late thirties with a tribal arm band tattoo. He's too tan to be healthy, I think to myself. Two young twenty-somethings get in line after me. They seem to be together. The only part of their conversation I catch is one telling the other, repeatedly, "I feel terrible. It's totally my fault..."

After a time, the line rapidly starts moving into the facility. On the left is a metal covered wall with letter magnets covering it. Someone has taken some of the magnets to spell out the sentence, "Don't pay taxes." I find that rather ironic, considering the place runs on tax payer funding. I thought the "no tax" people all lived in the central valley. Paintings cover the walls. Each one has a number next to it. There is a table near the entrance, with a book people can write in. There is a beautiful etching of a lounging, seductive cat woman, with words that escape my memory at the moment. On the table is a sculpture made, in part, with an old rotary telephone. The reception desk is near the back of the large room. In front of me there are about 15 guys.

"We are a volunteer based organization," says the receptionist guy in a tone and cadence stereotypically gay. "Two of our volunteers called to say they will be out. We'll try to take you all. But, if we cannot, we'll refer you to alternative venues." I feel smug, knowing that, because I have an appointment, I won't be turned away. When I get to the desk, I get some forms to fill out. "These forms are confidential, not anonymous. We won't tell your health care provider, or insurance or anything." After I return the completed forms, I get a hand-held computer on which I am to fill out survey questions telling them how bad I've been. Not really, but it kind of felt that way. Once I filled out survey, the computer tells me that I may qualify for a "viral RNA" test. This makes me feel bad. I haven't even seen a health care provider, and I am already being told that I am such a slut that I pre-qualify for a more intensive HIV test.

I eventually do make it into a counseling room. I am greeted by a volunteer, in his fifties. I don't remember his name. He has grey hair, combed into a nice foppish British school boy style. The volunteer asks why I think I need the test. He wears a lab coat that cannot hide the fact that he is a out of shape. He seems rather interested in my sexual improprieties. He is from Boston. He has lived in the lower Haight for the last eleven years, in an apartment he doesn't like but cannot afford to move out of. He has me take an HIV oral swab, and he immediately gives it to the lab. Since I am getting the full range of sluts tests (STD tests), they have an Asian male nurse, wearing tight slacks, comes in and draw blood from me. After he leaves, the volunteer takes an throat swab.

After the throat swab, I am instructed to stand up, drop my pants, turn around, and bend over to hold the arms rests of the chair so that they can take an anal swab. Needless to say, I didn't expect that, having never had my anus swabbed before, I was rather surprised. I stood up, dropped my modesty, spun around, and bent over. I felt the volunteer grab the lobes of my ass, and spread them. "Jesus," I thought to myself, "Could this be any more humiliating?" I felt the swap being inserted, and spun. He places the contaminated swab into a vial, and breaks off the stick. He places the label with my name on the vial, and stands it next to the vial containing my throat swab. I get more blood drawn, this time from another male nurse, to check for Hepatitis C. I also get a Hep A+B vaccination.

Eventually, the volunteer leaves and comes back to tell me that the lab results from my earlier oral swab indicate that I don't have HIV. That statement made everything I had gone through seem to disappear. The anxiety that had clouded my life for so long dissipated. I was free.

As I pass the receptionist on the way out of the place, I say, "Au revoir, mon cheri."

"À Bientôt," he replies.

I step outside, and think to myself, "What a fucking beautiful day."

Whipping Girl...

2009-07-05T22:50:00.000-07:00

is of course a book by Julia Serano. The complete title, "Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and Scapegoating of Femininity." I own a signed copy. I've never read it.

But, that is not what post is about. This post is about getting whipped. Not in the metaphysical, or metaphorical sense, but, for real. Once upon a New Years Eve, I was brought to the SF Citadel by a friend. The Citadel was back then located on 8th Street at the time. My friend introduced me to Robert Dante, who he said was a "famous bullwhip artist." Whatever the hell that means. Dante asked me if I wanted to be a demonstration model. I said okie dokie.

I was taken down stairs, stripped, and mounted onto a wooden "X" restraint. After being secured onto the the apparatus, a group of people gathered. Over the course of the next 45 minutes, Dante cracked a bullwhip, sometimes gently caressing my back or ass, other times drawing blood. It was horrendously painful. Yet, the worst part was the thirst that overwhelmed me because of the physical exertion of writhing and twisting in pain and my attempts to avoid the next lash. I asked my friend for a drink. She took a big gulp of water, and spit it into my mouth. I was so dehydrated, that I swallowed the water. I still get the jitters thinking about it.

I have been whipped, caned, flogged, and otherwise torchered on many many occasions during my youth. One time, at NYC's not defunct Hellfire Club in lower Manhattan, I was cuffed by my wrists, and hung from a cable on the ceiling. I was beaten for what seemed like hours. When I was let down, I couldn't lift my right arm above my shoulder. I suffered some sort of temporary nerve damage. As I lifted my arm to the level of my shoulder, the arm would just give out, and fall. This lasted for several weeks. It scared the bejeezus out of me.

There are some crazy mean people in this world. There are people who really want to hurt you. At one scene, some guy physically twisted my nipples until I thought they'd be ripped off. I had been restrained, blindfolded, and surrounded by people. You should always know who you are messing with. Of course, I never followed my own advice.

By request

2009-07-03T00:05:00.000-07:00

I post more stalker e-mails (from my admirer, zack x):

July 1, 2009:

ooh attention whoring much? lol. well i hope my posted emails will help u attract a couple of more clients to yer pitiful website and make a few more bucks...

seriously, pple like u r a reason for transphobia... u feed it. u make all trans look bad by whorish behavior.

nothing more to say other than posting my mails? run out of long-winded explanations and excuses for acting like a whore? want to solicit compassion from viewers--u seem to have a bad luck with zacks, huh? well if u stayed out of the streets u wouldn't get fucked up that 1st one thats 4 sure. and he was bad, of course... he's as good as you are, u 2 were worth each other, a hooker and client.

July 1, 2009:

yeah "keep u in their minds"... cause after seeing your site, each time i see mtf, somehow i think "whore?"

July 1, 2009:

notice how conveniently there's a donate button next to the post with my emails... of course, u haveta keep that site rolling

July 3, 2009:

come on... show the street ghetto trannies r not to be messed with--show sum guts and post my comment about "donate button". No, might hurt donationz?

Here's to thinking about me.

2009-06-25T23:06:00.000-07:00

It is amazing the people who keep me in their minds, long after I have done something to annoy them. As I wrote here, I had a rather fiery exchange of emails with zack x on May 7, 2009. Needless to say, I soon forgot about the whole thing. Apparently, zack x has not, because I get periodic unsolicited random emails from him/her.

May 19, 2009

(9:59 p.m.)

is... you--you, create a stigma for all transsexuals.
I know some goth transsexuals who are stigmatized because of behavior like yours (and the majority of trannies)--being prostitutes. Yes, you fucking harass me--prostitution is illegal by the way!

I can't go to a club where trannies (myself i'm intersexed and don't belong to Any gender--thanks god, no one ever guesses what gender I am)--because prostitution had really swallowed it all. Now I see 15-year olds want to do it, cause of total destruction of morals. This is disgusting.

Also, you create a bad rap for women--since some will mistake you for a woman. A woman--if you want to be that you need to know--is not a Whore, slut and a bitch (if someone's mother was that, doesn't mean all women are).
:)) truth.

(10:07 p.m.)

people like you cause objectification and hatred towards other trannies, cause everyone will be viewed as a prostitute. While not everyone is.

May 23, 2009 (3:40 p.m.)

a self-defined intersexed?
well, sorry but i am identified as intersexed by your mainstream medicine and society.
and you... you're nothing but a mainstream square ( mundane) biomale... who wants to play a little game of dressup and being a prostitute.
i can imagine your life... a boring vanilla yuppie existance that who needs to be spiced up by playing games once in a while and teasing the whore thing (sort of like married yuppie trash cheating on their wifeys once in a while, but always going back to their breeder hole). the reason why you walk down the streets like that is cause you have no true friends who're still interesting and exciting for you, and cause you're too unattractive to be meeting hot and pretty people--so, you allow some dirty scum johns to violate you... i'm sorry for you. :) u post shit about me...well, at least i'm pretty, and i dance...&i only date young and pretty people, i'd never let someone old & ugly come within 10 feet of me.... youre bored to death and probbly lost all enjoyment of life and sex by now. well go post more shit about me!

June 25, 2009 (1:20 p.m.)

yes, damn people are going to be upset by your blog and your pride about u being a whore.
a whore is not just the one who has sex for money... it is also the one who whores for drinks and gifts, and takes things from people without a feeling for them and fucks with theirs emotions by flaunting sexuality at strangers. being a woman doesn't mean that the world owes a shit for her beauty or sexuality or whatever. no wonder american whores are hated by the entire world, whatever gender they were born to. shame on them.

Weird.

2009-06-22T20:17:00.000-07:00

Today, I was on the train home from work. I looked like a bicycle messenger. The train slowed, and I got ready to disembark. As I held my bike, facing the doors, I felt somebody fumbling with the collar of my shirt. I turned around and saw a tall black guy, probably about 6'4", pinching my collar and pushing the label of my shirt down. I looked at him. Stunned, all I can do is to awkwardly say, "Thank you."

Ah, Lorenzo

2009-05-31T00:34:00.000-07:00

Since the unfortunate incident, i.e. bad trick, I brought upon myself back on April 19th, I've had no desire to present feminine. I tried to Maggie-fy myself at Charlie Anders May 9th Writer's With Drinks, but did not enjoy myself. I even went to the Milk Club's annual dinner in drag, i.e. in boy form, with the Whores for Social Justice. I couldn't bring myself to go as a girl. For over a month, I've been de-Maggie-fied. I've been missing my therapy sessions with Patrick Califia, as well. Which isn't good, since I am depressed out of my mind.

I decided to see Patrick this last Friday, in an attempt to get back into the saddle. I put myself together, but felt hideous. We talked about the my bad trick, and the reaction I got from various people. I told him about how violated I felt when various people attacked me for being a whore, even though I am not a prostitute. One trick does not a whore make. Yet, I've suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (in this case, $100). I guess if you cross the line into sex work, you are branded a whore - even if you don't do sex work. Must be some analogy to virginity I could make, but I'm not in the frame of mind to be clever. Needless to say, I think my reputation, such as it was, in the community is shot.

I was - or should I say am - horrified by the woman who tried to have a heart to heart with me about my bad trick, and get me to confide in her emotions and feelings she though I ought have. When I graciously told her that I was not that traumatized, she publicly questioned my motives and veracity on a public message board, presenting herself as having been victimized by me. All I can extrapolate from this is that people in San Francisco are so self-centered that if they can't share in your victimization, they get hostile.

Anyway, I went to Divas last night and picked up an admirer. He bought me drinks until I unceromoniously abandoned him. I left the place and ran into Lorenzo on the street. He was the last guy I spoke with before I left on my bad trick with the scumbag who denigrated, humiliated and physically abused me. Again, he was dressed impressively. He gave me necklace and a bracelet. He invited me to be part of his world. I actually wanted to go there with him. I told him that I didn't feel safe on the street anymore. He said he'd look out for me when I'm working. I didn't tell him that my prossy experience was over. He said he'd keep me safe. It was pretty to think so.

From my Tribe: Ask a Tranny Whore Anything

2009-05-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

Nathan's question:

"Some Transexuals actually prefer to be non op ! I was just wondering what your thoughts were on non op transexuals VS those who go through SRS! & if you have your penis (which I assume you do)do you plan to keep it? I'd also like to add that although I am not on hormones,I am wishing to be a transexual & I plan to keep my penis,but get breasts implants! I considered penisectomy,but I am not too sure I want that now! I kinda enjoy my penis!"

My answer:

The great majority of trannies I know keep their pee-pee's. That goes even for the really femme one's who live full time as a girl. I know one tranny that got a orchiectomy, but kept the the rest. Most don't have any genital surgery at all. I suggest the reason for this is either cost, or sex. Of course, California law requires that in order to change the sex on your birth certificate, you’ll need a letter from your health care provider declaring that you have undergone “surgical treatment for the purpose of altering [your] sexual characteristics to those of the opposite sex.” [California Health and Safety Code 103425.]

If you wanna feel what its like to lose one's manhood, take some t-blockers. Your sex drive will plummet, you'll gain weight, lose muscle mass, and your boobies will blossom...

The one thing about keeping your junk, of course, is that they interfere with wearing tight pants. Sometimes, no amount of tucking is going to hide what your papa gave you. That's why a lot of tranz folk prefer to wear dresses or skirts.

Being a tranny whore and all, the second part of all this is, if you wanna work as a whore, and you don't pass 100%, you're gonna wanna keep you thingy, cause it's your money maker. At least 75% of your Johns are gonna wanna get busy on you 8" clitty.

Leave Carrie Prejean ALONE! (sob) (sob)

2009-05-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

She's 21 years old - and the subject of revolting vitriol all because "Perez Hilton," a self described "queen," who's only claim to fame is drawing ejaculating penises on stolen photographs of celebrities, knowing that Prejean was a practicing Christian, asked her a question to sabotage her chances of winning Miss USA.

The truth of the matter is, is that she is a relatively unsophisticated woman, for no other reason except the fact that she is ONLY twenty-one years old. She gave the best answer she could, under the circumstances.

This whole thing reminds me of reality T.V. shows like America's Top Model, or Dallas Cheerleaders: Making the Team. What these shows do is allow people, who are pissed off at the pretty girls, to humiliate young, unsophisticated women by putting them in impossible situations. When they inevitably fail, you can denigrate them to a point where it becomes psychological rape. It is an act of violence. In essence, my point is that those who attack her are basically raping this girl. The horrendous part is, is the rapists are self-satisfied for having done so.

And since it is women and gay guys that watch these shows, it's not the patriarchy doing it.

Dude! Stop Harshing My Mellow.

2009-05-07T23:45:00.000-07:00

In an intense and vitriolic exchange of email between zack (a self defined "intersexed" person) and myself regarding my post about harassment in bars, there were some ad hominem attacks made, on both sides. I am posting some of the more provocative comments leveled at me. They are of course out of context. I'm not going to help by providing context. I just liked the quotes:

"...not everyone is a whore, like some trannies..."

"...you're a prostitute... how much lower can you fall?"

"...you are mad you have no vagina."

"...u should then go to 24-hour fitness. considering yer liking/tolerance for dirt, diseases and ugly old pervs..."

"...i don't bother...to pretend to be a white-washed wannabe yuppie fake or to show that i'm better than ghetto."

"...when u change into a woman u'll get the full impact of misogyny and your feminism-bashing will backfire and pay you in full. though if u have no problem with selling yourself to males already, u probably won't care. those who offer u $2 for sex aren't boring. so go be entertained."

Me: "BTW....as indicated by the counter at the bottom of the webpage, faux whore has received over 5000 visitiers since January....

zack: "...well 5000 might be a part of a police crackdown..."

_________________________

The email exchange has gone on. I did learn one thing from this conversation though, that there was an incident in Washington, D.C., in which two lesbians attacked to female-to-male transgendered persons, after they started questioning the gender of one of the FTM's. Story Here.

What is the tranz feminine?

2009-05-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

So my primary care physician, Dr. Charles Moser, MD, Ph.D, gave me a copy of his recent paper, Autogynephilia in Women. In it, his findings contradict Ray Blanchard's assertion that autogynephilia does not exist in women. Actually, better put, Dr. Moser's study finds that using the definition of autogynephila as "ever having erotic arousal to the thought or image of oneself as a woman," 93% of women would be classified as autogynefiliacs. Even with a more narrow definition, a full 28% could so be classified. This leads off to a tangent.

Before I go on, autogynephilia has been defined as "love of oneself as a woman" - the term was coined in 1989 by Ray Blanchard to refer to "a man's paraphilic tendency to be sexually aroused by the thought or image of himself as a woman." The argument goes that men put on women's clothes, get sexually excited, and often masturbates using the clothing as an aid. Blanchard has said that autogynephilia is best conceived as misdirected heterosexuality. In The Man Who Would Be Queen, J. Michael Bailey argues, using Blanchard as his basis, that "autogynephilia is a common motivation for male-to-female transsexualism."

One of my observations about transgenderism is that there a wide spectrum of feminine behavior in the tranz community. There are definately some tranz gals who are sexually excited by women's clothing. Although I prefer to wear men's speedo type swim bottoms as underwear (because it helps control one's, uh, you know), many sisterz love to wear frilly women's underwear. I don't need a bra, and don't wear one. But, for some, wearing a bra is required, whether needed or not. There is a whole "sissy" subculture in the tranny world, in which retro little girls dresses, with bows and frills are worn. There are also many tranz types indulge in stereo-typical little girl behavior and symbology. It is as if many tranz girlz are "playing," instead of just being. For instance, the color pink is over represented in the tranz community. Many tranz gals write emails with expressions like "*giggles*" interspersed in the message or, end correspondence with cutsey little phrases like "hugs," "kisses." How many genetic girls in your life actually talk like that? None. At least I know of no adult woman who speaks, writes or acts like that.

It is amazing to see the spectrum of creativity in the tranz community. From the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, to sissies, to those who gender fuck and gender bend.

Embarassed by my sisters?

2009-04-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

Isn't it amazing. I am compelled to write this blog, knowing no one reads it. I mean really, what am I doing? Is this just a diary that I've left unlocked? Unfortunately, I don't have a little brother who wants to steal it and read my thoughts. Is this an exercise in the delusion of self importance? Or am I trying to reach out to save myself from my devouring irrelevance? Sometimes, I try to entice potential readers with pretty pictures added to the posts. Pathetic. I'm like a woman preparing for a wedding, not realizing the proposal will never come.

Its been eleven days since I wanted to be Maggie. Ever since my little tramatic experience, I've come to loathe even the thought of it. But, now I feel I have nothing to live for. The highlight of my day yesterday was getting a root canal. At least it made me feel alive. I feel like my life is spent. I should give up my seat and let someone else have a chance at life, I suppose. To change the subject...

Have you ever been part of a group and been embarrassed by other members of the group? Like say you are a black dude, and some guy comes out all Stepin Fetchit or something? Well, I was at the Transgender Job Fair at the San Francisco LGBT Community Center today, and had to cringe at some of my sisters presentations. I didn't bother to dress the part. I just showed up looking like a boy bicycle messenger.

You had all of these pretty pretty business types pedaling their companies to we trannys, and representin' the sisterhood were some of the biggest cliches around. Some sisters looked like punchlines to bad jokes about Frankentrannys. Why is it that some trannys don't think they need deoderant? I hate smelling body odor on a sista. It just brings us all down. And how come our community seems to have such a high proportion of people on the lower economic scale? Tranzphobia? Or is it low self esteem brought on by years of humiliation and degradation? I don't know.

Blah. So I am on the Power Exchange Yahoo! group. Everybody is self-pitying about the fact that the Power Exchange closed, and the new one failed to open because of community opposition from the Mission. Anyway, I invited people to read my blog. Turns out that some of the board members start attacking me for prostitution, and how, like, I am exactly the type of influence that should not be around the group because it gives the community activists something to use in their fight to keep the Power Exchange from opening.

Somebody kill me, please. Any serial killers out there listening? I won't mind if you murder me. I promise, if you waste me, I won't call the police.