Unfunny Bunny: a Ladyface Life Lesson*

         Hello beautiful blog lurkers! I’m sorry I didn’t post my usual Sunday blog entry. This weekend became suddenly crazy busy. I auditioned at my favorite strip club on Saturday and I started on Sunday (eeps!) so I’ve had strange work hours and very few sleep hours. I feel a bit like a zombieface and haven’t had a chance to sit down and gather my thoughts. (They will literally have to be gathered, since right now they are a pile of smudged cocktail napkin scribbles.) All this to say, the story of this strange and wonderful weekend will have to wait. But I’ve missed you readerfolk and couldn’t bear to go to sleep without posting something tonight. So for now, here’s a something I wrote on a break at work last week: 

              I’ve had a few exchanges with a Ridiculously Attractive Person in my office building recently and I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth repeatedly. Each time I am reminded of the scene from Secretary in which Maggie Gyllenhall’s character, on the advice of an article she read in Cosmo, awkwardly compliments Mr. Grey’s tie in an effort to rekindle their relationship. She fails and leaves his office flustered and frustrated and looks so darn cute that I want to eat her but not in a sexy girl-on-girl kinda way. I want to swallow her whole like a little marzipan bunny.

               I probably won’t ever stop saying dumb things in front of beautiful people but maybe I can aspire to marzipan bunny status and at least look edible while I make an ass of myself. If I could make someone smile my suffering would not be in vain. Wait, what am I saying? This has already happened.
              About a month ago Ridiculously Attractive Person rushed into the elevator, soaking wet from a sudden downpour and I smiled empathically and said “Lovely weather for ducks, eh?” (apparently nervousness brings out my inner Canadian.) And she said “...what?” and I said “That’s what my grandmum says when it rains. Because it’s wet.” She absentmindedly mumbled “Oh. Yeah.” as she shook out her umbrella. And that’s when the third elevator passenger, a sandalwood-scented cisdude in a suit, smiled silently and looked down at his very shiny loafers. If he had offered to swallow me whole in that moment I would have been a very grateful bunny.
             In conclusion, your British grandmothers cutesy colloquialisms are NOT pick up lines.

*Ladyface Life Lesson (n): A situation wherein I do dumb shit so you don’t have to. You’re welcome.

image from Rebecca Russell

Inmate 12004

Hello world!  A close friend of mine is blogging for originalplumbing.com as Inmate 12004.  He's in jail for 3 months because he recently got his 3rd DUI.  He's an alcoholic and is currently in recovery.  He's writing to shed some light on the transmale incarceration experience and to open up a dialogue around the issue of substance abuse in the queer community.


I think of OP as a really supportive community but there have already been a couple comments from epic DBags who have made some unfounded and spectacularly inaccurate assumptions about him.  Regardless, what Inmate 12004 needs right now is love and support, not d-baggery.  Are you a transguy?  Or an ally?  Have you or a loved one struggled with substance abuse?  Please take a minute to contribute something meaningful and kind to the discussion.


lots of love (sans d-baggery),


a somewhat saddened ladyface


p.s. I'll go back to being ridiculous on Sunday.  I promise.  xoxo

Feeling Stripperific!

I realized today that I’ve been posting too many lists.  I’ll get back to posting regular blog entries this weekend but this one needs to be in list form because my brain is too scrambled to write like a normal human bean.

I’m getting ready to audition at my favorite strip club this Saturday.  I’m excited and terrified just like the first time I got lit on fire (but this time I won’t be blindfolded).

In preparation for my audition I have:

-visited the club on a slow weeknight and picked as many stripper brains as possible to get as much information as possible.  They were all very friendly and helpful.

-completed ½ of a pole dance class series

-started running again to keep my bum perky

-worked out a somewhat choreographed routine

-had a weird anxiety dream that my real-life boss was coaching me on my routine

-done a hair and makeup dress rehearsal

-bought stripper heels

-spent a week wearing my stripper heels around the house to break them in.  I’ve been 6 feet tall while: vacuuming, doing dishes, feeding the dog and cleaning the bathroom.

-picked a name then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first name I had chosen

-picked a song then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first song I had chosen

-picked an outfit then changed my mind a million times before finally coming back to the first outfit I had chosen and 

-scheduled a Brazilian  

So I think I’m all set. 

…now I just have to remember to take my clothes off.

Resolution Update #3 (and stuff)

          So, I didn't post on Wednesday like I usually do.  I'm sorry (ish).  I was too busy having a mental breakdown.  I'll post about that later, once it becomes funny.  But to make up for my absence, here's a long-ish post:  

Big day in femme land: I found the perfect little black dress!  Thanks White House Black Market!

Then, still high on the dress victory, I visited Sephora.  I always enter that store hesitant at first and then end up dazzled and disoriented by the very friendly black-smocked Martians with their acrylic talons and glittery eye shadow.  How do they fit so many shades in the space between their lash line and eyebrows?  Sunsets don’t have that many colors. 

But what’s even more impressive than the Martians themselves is their collective power: if you walk into a Sephora not wearing makeup (or just not wearing enough makeup by Martian standards) within just a few minutes you feel like an ugly invader duckling.  That little tiny zit that popped up next to your ear lobe yesterday suddenly triples in size, your split ends reach out, away from your zitty head like angry medusa snakes and your once full lips become sad little gray worms.

Hopefully this intro will explain, at least in part, the events that followed...

I bought something.  It’s really hard to leave that store empty handed.  But this particular something is pretty special.  It’s definitely of questionable taste and may pose a health risk.  Hello lip plumper!  This product was clearly made for masochisty femmes like myself.  I tried it in the store and initially didn’t feel anything.  I started to get impatient and began to wander around.  Then I felt a tingle at my lip line, which quickly became an all-over burn.  I looked in the mirror.  Success!  My lips were fuller and definitely pinker. 

Downside: the discomfort kinda turned me on.  But I’m on day 19 of my New Years Resolution so most things turn me on.  My, that’s a handsome 5 o-clock shadow/backho/ice cream cone you have there.    So, no more lip plumper for me until I break my resolution and re-enter the world of sex.  Haha, enter.

Things that turn me on after 19 days of no O’s (this is not an exhaustive list):

1.     Stretching.  It’s a kind of discomfort and a kind of release but it’s just so terribly not quite satisfying.

2.     Chocolate cake.  (or any cake, or cupcake)  When I see cake in any form it reminds me that I’m not allowed to have it and that in turn reminds me what else I’m not allowed to have.  Then I cry.

3.     Cartoon super heros.  You know, the ones with inverted triangle torsos and grotesquely large jaws.  I’m not into cisdudes (even the cartoon kind) but they look so...mmm… virile!  I bet their little cartoon spermys have identical jaws. 

4.     Pine.  The smell of the forest my pup and I hike in every weekend now reminds me of manly mountain (trans)men.  I’m hoping there’s one in a rainbow loincloth hiding in a treehouse just waiting to scoop me up Tarzan style and save me from my self-imposed suffering.  This would of course involve a bear skin rug and an obscenely large strap-on hidden magically beneath the teeny loincloth (the queer equivalent of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag). 

5.     Pants.  No really.  It’s really hard to wear tight jeans when you haven’t o-ed in  NINETEEN DAYS.  When you sit down there’s that delicious little pressure…right…there.

6.     Vocabulary that wouldn’t normally be dirty like red velvet, oscillate and man hole cover.  Not sure what that last one means… 

7.     Curvy things.  This was the biggest surprise of all since I’m normally into ridiculously masculine beings.  Maybe I’m just into anything that looks butt-plug-ish.  That includes an unidentified root vegetable I saw at a roadside produce stand, a soft boiled egg sitting in an eggcup and, of course, lightbulbs.*   

8.     PAIN.  I knew I was a masochist but geez.  I guess I’m more hard up than I realized.  I stubbed my toe the other day and had a transcendent experience. 

9.     Muscles.  On anyone, anywhere, doing anything.  My brain now sees muscle movement in slow motion like a super sexy deodorant commercial.

10.     Handkerchiefs.  Any and all.  I immediately think of the hanky code.  As in: ooo, that hippie lady working at the produce stand on the side of the road has a malachite handkerchief in her left pocket! What does it mean?  Daddy?  Uniform top?  Into opera singers or jello wrestling or competitive chess?  Wait!  She’s pulling it out!  What’s she going to do with it? 

Oh, right. 

She’s using it to wipe off her pocket knife after chopping up samples of agave sweetened carob balls.   

       Damn.

Goalz.

I was thinking about my long term plans today and I realized that the majority of my goals fall into the category of Arbitrary but Awesome. Here are my top ten from that category: 

1. Strip to Tom Waits’ Little Drop of Poison in red pointe shoes

2. Couples Halloween costume, but with my dog. So wrong. (Since she’s a girl we’d totally look like homos.) We could be Tegan and Sara! 

(I'll be the one reading, my pup will be the one making eyes at you.)

3. Learn morse code so I can embroider smut into the rain in my crafty projects.

4. Knit my dog an ugly Christmas sweater and make her wear it every day of December 2012 and possibly into January. (I’ll wash it.)

5. Salvage an old, broken upright piano and plant things in it. Not cute, British garden plants like peonies or pansies but epic big ass plants like ferns and birds of paradise and crazy climbing vines with giant purple blossoms. It should look like I salvaged the piano from a RAINFOREST.

6. Deconstruct, line and reconstruct these: 

I'll make them into uber manly oven mitts to serve as a not so subtle hint to future lovers that I like a boi who can cook. 

sidenote: If the presence of such mitts (hung prominently over my oven) isn’t enough, here’s step two: Dress like a lovely little June Cleaver but struggle to put on my giant manly mitts, letting them fall off several times and refusing help before finally managing (with apparent difficulty) to keep them on just long enough to retrieve a flavorless charred casserole-like-thing from the oven. (ideally at this point the kitchen smells nothing like food and very much like fire). Then, upon seeing my creation and realizing I’ve failed at my wifely duties, collapse at the kitchen table, across from Lover, dropping my now mascara-tear stained face into my giant leather mittened hands, defeated. (Ideally each glove would be larger than my face) What kind of bastard wouldn’t take up the manly mitts and cook for such a sorry soul? 


...or I could just use my words.

7. Master the lost art of unbuttoning buttons with my toes, then time myself!  hot.

8. Learn to play cello just well enough so that I can sing Lady GaGa songs and accompany myself. I will wear a classic little black dress and pearls but do my hair in a giant crazy updo with a glittery white finger monkey peaking out one side at a jaunty angle, winning the audience over with its big, blinky eyes and teeny dexterous fingers. 

(because feather extensions are so 2011) Of course I'm anti animal cruelty so the glitter would have to be the finger monkeys choice. I would leave an Altoid tin sandbox full of food grade glitter on my vanity and let them decide whether they would like to role around in it. (I hope to find a femme self-identified teenage finger monkey who would be TOTALLY into it and would feel very pretty in their shimmery fur coat.)

9. Sunbathe naked on the rock in front of Bridal Veil Falls. Well, not naked naked, I’d wear my Fancy Lady Sunglasses so nobody would question my behavior. It would be clear that it was indeed MY naked public sunbathing rock. 

10. Win a MacArthur

Resolution Update #2

Day 7: no sugar and no orgasms

I rarely have sex dreams.  I’ve had maybe five in my life and they were so magical I wanted to stay asleep forever like a naughty Rip Van Ladyface.

But last night I had my first sex nightmare*.  I dreamt I was lying on a bale of hay in the middle of a field and the old dude from Back to the Future was going down on me.

 

Yes Doc Brown, I was as surprised as you are!  It was not good (sorry).  And I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up there or how to gracefully excuse myself from the situation, so I went with:

“Ummm…I think I forgot my purse.” And then wandered off disoriented, pants-less  and vaguely concerned about a purse that may have been fictional.

So, it’s official, this New Years resolution is messing with me. 

*I’m sure Mister Lloyd is a very nice guy and his hair certainly looks touchably soft, but he’s not really my ‘type’.

A word of advice...

Don't wash your dog with all-natural-essential-oil-based-vegan-hippie shampoo before pole dancing.  That stuff doesn't come off.  And slippery in this context is not sexy.  Thank goodness I only injured my pride.

Babyface

Update: the new years resolution is going strong!  Four days of no sugar and no orgasms.  But it’s no fun to talk about the delicious sex and chocolate cake I'm not having, so todays post will be about something else entirely.

Here are a few excerpts from a journal entry I wrote the night of my very first foot fetish party 5 years ago when I was a baby ladyface.  Enjoy! 

Alejandro:

Alejandro is a nondescript middle-aged Asian man.  He’s also evidence that it isn’t just the women who use pseudonyms when they play.  The session with “Alejandro” started out pretty simple with the two of us sitting on the couch with my feet in his face as he licked/sucked and kissed all over them.

Sometimes he’d close his eyes and leave his mouth squished up and his tongue slightly out and have me move my toes flirtatiously over that little oral anemone.  It looked ridiculous and tickled like crazy but I got the impression that “Alejandro” is the kinda guy who wouldn’t appreciate humor in a session. 

I moaned instead.

Arthur:

Arthur is a 60 year old, clean-cut East Coast academic. He was the first of the guys to really worship.  He touched, kissed and licked my feet as if they were fragile. By the end of our two consecutive sessions I was running my hand through his hair while he sucked on my toes and stared longingly at me.  Whenever my toes weren’t in his mouth he was murmuring compliments.  I laid back and enjoyed his vocabulary.  Apparently I am a “resplendent seraphim” with “tantalizing” toes and “luminous” eyes.  I should have been paying him for the GRE prep. 

Dillon:

My last session of the evening was with a 26 year old grad student from Prague named Dillon.  He was well-dressed and kinda cute for a boy.  Since he was more into tickling than oral play we got to talk throughout the session. And…I broke one of my boundaries with Dillon.  (already!  Oh geez.) 

He asked if I ever do footplay with boyfriends.  I said no and he was shocked.  He kept inquiring and after a moment of consideration I told him simply “I don’t date boys.” He got all excited, stuttered, recovered and said in his cute Prague-y accent: “Oh!  So you understand!  I like feet and you like girls.”  Luckily he was tickling me or I might have had to explain my laughter at his equating my queerness with his distinctive fetish.  The correct analogy would have been "I like feet like you like fisting" but I didn't go there.  I don’t regret outing myself to Dillon but I expect that it will become harder to negotiate to what extent my work persona resembles actual me and where her truth ends.

In conclusion, the only nervousness I experienced in the course of the evening was my concern that the teeth of a toe-nibbling client might chip my toenail polish, but as far as occupational hazards go that one is rather benign.  And I came home feeling sexy, powerful, at home in my body and untouchable.  (I recognize the irony of that last bit)  I’m glad I made the decision to do this for myself.  Go me.  

Resolution Update #1

This year my New Year's resolution is to give up sugar and orgasms for as long as I can.  (link to explanation) But, as it turns out, yesterday was my birthday.  

I ate cake and took care of business.

In my defense, I decided to indulge ahead of time when I realized I didn’t have a reasonable excuse to not partake of my own birthday cake at my workplace birthday celebration. 

I considered faking diabetes but that has no cure and I’m not great at commitment.  I was also unable to find a suitable disease on WebMd.  Of all the weird shit out there you’d think there’d be something that causes temporary sugar intolerance.  If there is I couldn’t find it, and I looked for at least ten minutes.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to not eat cake on your birthday (diabetes being the only reasonable defense).

As for orgasms, you can’t NOT have an orgasm on your special day.  If breaking a mirror gives you 7 years bad luck then not o-ing on your birthday has to garner at least a decades worth of bad juju.  And even if you didn’t get sexy on your birthday, the b-day orgasm would happen anyway.  That’s God’s way of letting us know he loves us.  He just reaches down with that giant finger and…

nevermind.

In conclusion, I’m gonna queer this New Year and reclaim January 4^th as my New Years Day so that today is no longer just the day that Thomas Edison electrocuted Topsy the elephant (really) but can now be celebrated as a new beginning by the pachyderm lover in all of us!

Happy New New Year!

Tweets!

I set up a twitter account: @1ladyface  The content is much like the blog content, but shorter. (obviously)   

Enjoy!

Have a Somewhat Happy New Year!

I’ve had a week off and I’ve been thinking.  (this is dangerous)  I haven’t made a New Year’s resolution in a few years so this year I’m going to give up sugar and orgasms for as long as I can.

The Explanation:

I have a Mormon Friend who is getting married on the 20^th, so I’d better be able to make it at least that long.  It’ll be like shaving my head in solidarity with a Cancer Friend but with a lot more suffering and loss of personal identity.

And the giving up sugar part is because sugar is my kryptonite, second only to masculine female born perverts in its ability to turn my brain to mush and my pupils to cartoon hearts.  And I ate way too much sugar over the holidays so I really should get back to taking care of my body.

But, my motives aren’t purely altruistic.  I’ve committed to posting at least every Sunday in 2012 and I’m terrified of running out of material.  So, if nothing’s coming (pardon the pun) at least for the time being I can post about this experiment so that you can all lay back, post-coital in your lovers sexy, sweaty arms and laugh at my suffering as you shovel organic, fair trade, vegan bonbons (lovingly crafted and bike-delivered by local confectionery artisans) into your slutty, slutty mouths.  


So jealous.

I anticipate that, for the time being, this blog space will be used primarily to document my mental deterioration.  Or maybe, after days (or even weeks) of not indulging I’ll reach a point of pure transcendence and from within that glistening bubble of bliss I’ll have the awareness and perspective to finally answer with confidence the age-old question:

How much yoga does it take to replace pleasure?