the intro...

Hello and welcome to my blog! I’m your hostess, Ladyface.

I'm a 27 year old queer femme sex worker. Between my fancypants day job and my super sexy side gig I spend a lot of time being an attentive, diplomatic Ladyface so this blog is where I’ll let my hair down...I might even curse. Though I curse like a kitten sneezes, which is too say it's infrequent and harmless and still shocks me more than anyone.

I am a sex positive lady and will write candidly about my kinks, my history, my exploits and my daily life (but only the good stuff). And so that I can write as openly as possibe, I'm keeping this space anonymous. All characters are real people in my life but all names are pseudonyms and always will be.




P.S. you can now follow me on Twitter! @1ladyface

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Good Morning!

This morning I awoke to a text from a Vanilla Friend: 
This reminded me of you:”
Of course I was flattered.  It was almost as good as waking up to this:

K, I don’t actually own a vibrating vagina alarm clock. And I’m not sure whether the experience would be horrifying or glorious. But I'm certainly curious! My birthday is right around the corner...though I'm not sure whom I'd be comfortable asking for this little present.

Plan A:

Dear Santa,

Do you do birthdays too? Cause I’ve got one coming up. I’ve been good-ish this year and there’s a little gizmo that has the potential to make me even better next year…

Plan B:

Or I could channel my inner Kardashian: pretend to get married and add it to the bridal registry?

We could set the date for April 1st and then when the guests show up my handsome Fake Fiance and I will be in hilariously gay pajamas (that way if anyone gets mad at us, it'll be a hate crime) and we'll yell "April Fools!" And the guest's will all chuckle and shake their heads as if to say, "Oh, you guys!"

And just in case some of our more traditional friends and family are offended by our ingenuity Fake Fiance will let down the tailgate of hys or hyr truck to reveal a truck load of...consolation puppies! And we will all snuggle and drink mimosas in a giant puppy pile on a giant quilt in the middle of a field of sunflowers.

Oh geez. I'm gonna need a lot of puppies. I sure hope Santa comes through.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

The Running of The Doodle

           Merry Christmas!  (if that's what you're into)  My family does Christmas on the 24th so today is reserved for naps and leftover ham sandwiches.  But I found out today that The Doodle hadn’t ever been running.  I suppose this makes sense since dad had a hip replacement, baby brother just had nose surgery and mum doesn’t believe in exercise.
So I broke from our family tradition of Christmas day laziness and borrowed mum’s brand-new-though-two-year-old running shoes.  They are really old lady walking shoes and are three sizes too big for my little feet.  But dammit, a doodle needs a well-rounded childhood.  I would take him running.
I put on two pairs of socks and the shoes, stretched, hydrated and grabbed the leash.  I run 5 miles of steep, narrow mountain trails with my ridgeback mix every weekend, so I felt pretty confident heading out on this adventure.
But running with a Doodle pup is like trying to run with a miniature Snuffleupagus.  He would run, giddy and floppy and flailing in a kinda straightish line, which would have been sloppy but sustainable.  But every ten feet or so he’d get distracted by a squirrel, a lemon tree, or a particularly delicious smelling rock and dart in front of me or wrap around me, tripping me or tangling me in the leash.  Between the shoe issue and the unwieldy pup the whole half mile or so was made up of a repeating sequence of flop, flop, flop, stumble, gasp, flop, flop, flop, stumble, etc.
And I learned a physics lesson: shoes that are too big actually undermine rather than bolster your equilibrium.  They are not skis.  And my equilibrium isn’t great to begin with.  But that may also have something to do with Femme Mountain Goat Theory*.
In conclusion, I think my baby brother and I will stick to walking, wrestling and fighting over squeaky toys.

*Femme Mountain Goat Theory (noun): the idea that femmes, like mountain goats are so accustomed to standing and walking on steep inclines (in the form of high heels and mountains) that if you take the incline away both groups are actually more rather than less clumsy.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

The New Favorite Child

This past summer one of my parents neighbors, a man in his 50's, dropped dead of a heart attack.  My mum called me to tell me the news and to share how she and dad were dealing with it.  Apparently their verbal processing eventually reached a logical conclusion.  In mum's words: "We just said, 'Fuck it, life's short.  Let's get a Labradoodle.' " 

The parents got The Doodle a couple months ago and he has quickly become the new favorite child. 

Evidence of Favorite Child Status:

1. The Doodles headshot is the biggest picture on the living room family photo wall.  It’s significantly larger than even the human childrens’ senior portraits.

2. [spoiler alert: ...this is where it gets weird] My dad asked if I could spin The Doodle’s fur into yarn to be made into a sweater when he gets his first haircut.  (really)  I told him that would be creepy but possible.  Mum rolled her eyes but dad looked pensive.  I won’t be surprised if I get a bag of Doodle fur in the mail in the next couple months to comb, spin, ply and knit.  

3. When I called my mum last week to find out how my 25 year old brother was doing after his nose surgery this is how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, how’s my brother doing?
Mom: Oh he’s great!  We just gave him a bath.
Me: Eww.  Mom.  What?
Mom: Oh!  You mean your human brother.  He’s good.  He’s got drugs and TiVo.
Me: Oh good.
Mom: And your other brother just learned to fetch the paper and to ring a bell when he needs to poop!  He’s a genius!  I’ll send you a video.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Thanksgiving, belated

 I don’t like that my last post was a little…complainy.  So this one will be 100% positive.
Appreciation for butches/studs/ftms:

  1. Thanks for knowing that we do have brains between our pretty little ears.
  1. Thanks for not minding if our heels make us a little taller than you…or a lot taller.
  1. Thanks for appreciating all the work that goes into looking as fabulous as we do.
  1. Thanks for knowing the difference between being protective and being jealous.
  1. Thanks for your brutal hands, huge cocks and filthy minds.
  1. Thanks for the cuddles and spooning and those strong, safe arms.
  1. Thanks for smelling like wonderful things: sweat, old spice, sawdust, whiskey, coffee and (if I’m a lucky ladyface) sometimes even delicious desserts.
  1. Thanks for recognizing that we femmefolk don’t do femininity for you.  (Except sometimes, when we do.)
  1. Thanks for being patient and kind in those moments when we are…flustered, insecure, crestfallen or just plain grumpy.
  1. Thanks for the chivalry.  It is noticed and appreciated and no matter how many times you open a door for me, I still get that wonderful warm squiggly feeling in my tummy.  Really.
every. time.

love love love,


Thursday, December 15, 2011

on feeling old

I don't drink much and I can't remember the last time I stayed out late on a weeknight but last night I got a call from a friend who had just broken up with his partner of three years.  He wanted to go out to a queer music performance thing at a local bar.  Of course I wanted to support him so I said yes.  

The show consisted of six women in shiny gold raincoats hitting things.  (drums, buckets, cowbells, bamboo, chains, cymbals, the wall, etc.)  I spent the evening looking around a sea of nodding hipsters and smiling queers trying to spot the other people who were also thinking "...what the fuck?"

And this morning, as I walked from the bus stop to work the sound of my own heels on the sidewalk made my brain throb with the force of a thousand honey badgers.  In that moment I began to wonder: 
if the majority of the people in the world are of legal drinking age... 

Why is the world not carpeted?

Monday, December 12, 2011


My roommate is a cisdude.  He is approximately 8 feet tall and looks like a lumberjack.  I found him on Craigslist.  I kinda thought this setup might be weird or awkward at first since its just the two of us and our pups, but I had a good feeling about him and I had just been screwed over by the former roomie so I needed someone fast.  I went for it.
As it turns out, CisRoomie is perfect!  We have completely opposite schedules and never see each other.  I work a regular 9-5 and usually go to bed by 10:30 on weeknights.  He sleeps late, goes to school and then works the closing shift at a bar so he gets home around 1 or 2 every morning.  I haven’t seen him in at least a week, which has become the norm.  I’ve actually forgotten his dogs name.
In fact, I’m so confident that I’ll never run into him that every morning I get up, hang my outfit for the day in front of the heater vent in the hall, turn on the heat and change in the hallway, in front of the vent.  CR has lived here three months and has never caught me. But this blissful illusion of solitude was shattered this morning.  I hit the snooze on my alarm and heard CisRoomie get up and go to the bathroom during the time that I would normally be…naked right outside his bedroom door.
 So I did what any sensible ladyface would do: I waited for him to go back to his room then grabbed my days outfit and my glow-in-the-dark underwear* and changed in the hall heater closet.  It was dark and difficult, but still preferable to freezing my ass off trying to change in my very chilly bedroom.  If CisRoomie continues with this annoying morning peeing habit I may have to work on my closet changing skillz, or hunt down some glow-in-the-dark business casual. 
I wonder if Suze Orman changes in her heater closet too…

*the underwear are purely sentimental (until today!!!) My first girlfriend stole them for me from the drugstore.  A true romantic.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

A femme walks into a Gyno's office...

I recently went to the gyno.  This is usually unfun but I love this new lady!  She’s approachable, informative, and seems genuinely invested in ensuring that her patients have the knowledge to advocate for themselves.  And I learned stuff.  I like to be prepared so of course I had my list of questions on hand.  The list ended with my most silly question.  It’s an awkward sex question so it was written down with an extra big question mark.  I didn’t think I’d be comfortable enough to ask it.

But by the end of my appointment I was very comfortable and had even added an additional awkward questions to my list.  This is what I learned:

Q. (with context) I like big toys.  Crazy ridiculous big.  But when I look at those doctors office anatomical drawings and then at my lovers cock, or fist…what?  I don’t think I have a particularly cavernous pussy.  So how the heck does that work?  Where does it GO?

A. The vaginal canal expands not only laterally to encompass the girth of a large toy but also vertically.  This is what I didn’t understand.  So the cock doesn’t go past the cervix (ouch) but the cervix gets pushed up and out of the way by the cock.  HOT.

Q. Is it possible to damage my lovely lady bits with LOTS of magical sex with hot transguys and their obscenely large cocks/fists/toys/organic zucchinis?

A. Not unless it’s particularly pointy.  In which case you could potentially hurt your pretty pink cervix.  So, you know, just don’t use your pole-vaulting pole.  (I’m talking to you Balian Buschbaum!)

I even referred my Mormon friend to Magic Gyno and the doctor was equally patient and informative with a woman who also had a lot of questions and concerns.  Very different questions and concerns from mine of course…but the doctor handled them with the same ease, candor and genuine care I experienced as an out hussy.

In conclusion, health is important.  So is your safety and comfort.  So go find a nice gyno, ask questions ahead of time to make sure he or she can rock the getting-to-know-you-before-I-get-all-up-in-your-business part of the exam and then get your shit checked out and your burning, yearning, itching, twitching, haunting, taunting questions/STIs attended to.  

Sunday, August 7, 2011


I always lead by example. So why does my pup still bark at the mailman, chew pillows and lick her butt? She has NEVER seen her mum engage in any of those behaviors. If she began chewing her bottom lip when she’s concentrating or leaving her makeup all over the bathroom or eating raw cookie dough for breakfast, then I’d have an idea of where she may have picked up those habits…

But butt licking? Aggressive barking? Pillow chewing!? K, I have been known to chew pillows. Really though, what am I supposed to do about that stuff? (to clarify: that is not a rhetorical question; any advice from more experienced dog owners would be much appreciated.)

In other puppy-related news: I recently got out a strap-on I haven’t used in ages. Oh. That probably sounds bad. Trust me and keep reading, this isn’t going where you think it is. Pervert.

So, I pulled up my favorite porn site, pulled down my lacy underwears, took care of business and fell asleep soft and satiated. Thanks iPhone! Then a few minutes later I woke to discover…

The Pup licking my toy.

And all I could do in that moment was plummet headlong and groggy through the 3 stages of parental freak out:

1. Anger: “Ewwwww! Not for puppies! This is NOT for puppies! Daddies and Mommies but definitely NOT puppies! Bad! Bad behavior! Sexy toys are NOT for puppies!” (there was dildo waving involved)

2. Guilt: “Oh god. I’m so sorry sweetie, mama doesn’t mean to yell. Are you mad at me? Is this because   I borrowed your leash? I’m sorry. I should have asked, but I was running late to that play party and the leather is so nice…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. It is your leash. I'll buy you another one. I’m sorry baby girl.” 

3. Acceptance: “Well, shit. I love you anyway...

So, what do I do? (Again, not rhetorical)

Of course I keep a Queer Kosher home* (as defined below) but is it safe to boil the pup-contaminated toy in the same pot I use for the rest of my toys? Does it need special additional cleaning? Any advice or insights from fellow queermos would be much appreciated.

*Queer Kosher: (adj.) Describes the practice of using separate, distinct and preferably color-coded or labeled pots for: preparing food, boiling sex toys and dying clothes.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

The Day Job (for now)

I am currently so underemployed that I frequently forget I have a job. I “work” for a private company tutoring (torturing) kids for the SATs and ACTs. It’s something, but it’s not enough to fund my frozen yogurt habit, especially if I want sprinkles. (And I always want sprinkles). But back to the topic at hand, I was hired to tutor teens and on occasion I end up stepping in to tutor children as well. Yesterday was one such day. After two hours of working with a wonderfully diligent and sincere SAT kid I got switched over to munchkinland.

As I mentioned in my intro I will create pseudonyms for all characters to keep this space anonymous. And as the majority of the children I tutor seem to have been named by the “random” wikipedia function I will follow suit.

So, where were we? After two hours of SAT tutoring I was switched over into munchkinland. I was teaching a six year old girl. She was to read aloud from her workbook, discuss the picture with me and answer a few questions. After one story about a pizza shop we were discussing the picture: a 70’s-ish black and white line drawing with some red highlights. I listened and occasionally offered words of encouragement as she pointed with her teeny finger and explained what was happening in the picture using the context of the story. “That’s the man, and that’s the woman. That’s the pepperoni pizza. There’s the restaurant and the sign and that’s the pepperoni bush.”

She was right. The bushy shrub in front of the restaurant was covered with red smudges that looked just like the red smudges on the pizza. I was about to explain that it wasn’t actually a pepperoni bush but then I imagined getting suckered into explaining where pepperoni actually comes from and then explaining to her parents why their first grader had become a vegan. So I went with: “Precisely, Cleopatra. That’s the pepperoni bush. Excellent deductive reasoning! Here, have a dolphin sticker.”

And then we read stories about jellyfish and peanut butter and hot air balloons. In the one story we even flew to the moon! Which, as it turns out, is not made of cheese. Because cheese comes from cheese trees, clearly.