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.