How do you know when you’re a slut?

When you realize you have an insatiable curiosity to see random straight guys being your bitch.  It’s an extremely broad curiosity.  Sometimes when I’m stoned and walking down the street I wonder what it’s like for every guy I see to have his head buried between my legs.  Sluttiness requires that kind of curiosity. 

The guys don’t even have to be great looking.  In fact, the sex is often hotter when they’re just slightly cute: they’re cute enough to get noticed, they know what it’s like to really get into it (you don’t have to babysit them through sex), but they’re not hot enough to be vain.  The last is important because vanity leads to selfishness.  I should know: it’s the role I prefer to play.

So… I’m slutty.  I suppose I am a lot more curious about straight guys than gay guys.  The average middle-aged, middle-management, middle-class and, let’s face it, the completely mediocre, period, fascinates me a lot more than his equally mediocre gay counterpart.  There’s something about the unattainable – what I never expected possible – that makes it thrilling.  Who would have guessed in a million years that the buzzed cut former Marine who now works at San Quentin Prison loves sucking tranny cock and having a cock up his ass?  I know, I know: I’m not exactly shooting for the skies with what I find sexually fascinating. 

A slut, indeed.

I get fucking turned ON!  Especially when I get a newbie who’s getting fucked for the first time.  Straight guys love to TALK through sex.  They tell you exactly what they’re seeing, what’s going through their head.  They narrate the screenplay, frame by frame.  Oh I love me a good talker. 

Oh my god, they mutter to themselves, completely oblivious that I’m watching their every shiver; their every grunt and shallow, quick breath; the pleasurable pain they register on their faces.  Oh my god, I have a cock up my ass!

As long as they’re not ugly, I’m curious.  And as long as they don’t have halitosis.  Or bad manners.  And I’ve never done someone really old, like they look like they live in a nursing home. 

I was ruminating all of this the other day when I fucked a new customer doggy style.  This is why I like doggy style: I can let my mind wander and ponder over the deep thoughts that define my existence.  Like what it means to be a slut.  But OMG you tranny chasers: all you guys ever want is to be fucked like a woman, missionary style.  You need my complete and undivided attention.  It’s not enough I have my shecock up your ass and taking you to new depths.  You need me to look at you while I’m doing it.  You need me to kiss you.  You need me to look in your eyes.  You need to feel me cum inside you.

Greedy.  Greedy.  Greedy.

So I was fucking this guy.  I can’t even describe him accurately he was so average.  Maybe late thirties, early forties (he may even be early thirties you can never tell with white people especially when they’re very vanilla).  I remember thinking to myself as I pushed his head down and made him arch his back so his booty came right up to my shecock that I wasn’t excited as I should be.  When I first started as Cassandra this was the type of vanilla boring straight guy that I LOVED fucking.  They’re so boring looking in real life but when you fuck them up the ass they transform into this different person – a complete whore bitch – and they do the whole booty shaking with their butts while you’re inside.  National Geographic should really do an anthropologic feature: straight guys who want to shake it shake it shake it shake it like a salt shaker.

Nevertheless, after two years the thrill of the novelty is mostly gone.  All I’m left with is the realization that I’m fucking a very mediocre guy.  That was when I saw the glint off his wedding band.  The mere sight must have sent me into fantasy land because I started picturing him with a wife and two kids living in the suburbs.  Probably not Walnut Creek or Hillsborough or any place real expensive.  Again, he just screams average. 

But something about knowing that I’m fucking a married straight guy up the ass – this seemingly bland, average, all too average – boring even – straight guy with a wife and two kids, got me excited again.  I don’t know.  Maybe I have issues.  It’s like I’m being let in on this secret, and it’s probably the biggest secret of his boring mundane middle-class life.  This is something he can’t ever share with anyone.  Not his wife.  Not his kids.  Not his friends.  Just me.

It got me real excited again.  I started pounding him.  HARD.  I was slamming into his butt cheeks and they were sticking to my pelvis making these lube-ridden smack smack sounds when he said hey, can we try a different position?

I said sure. 

I pull out my cock and Out.  Comes.  A.  Clump.   Of.  TURD.  On my condom that landed on his right ass cheek!

And he was about to turn around and sit that ass onto my bed so I screamed Don’t Move!

DON’T MOVE!!!

I used to really, really enjoy fucking straight guys.  But these kind of experiences diminish my love for straight booty.  I can still picture that clumpy golf ball stuck on his lily white ass.  It is so not a pretty picture.  They should use the image for TV commercials to keep Tgirl Tops from becoming prostitutes.

It was a clump of dull-colored peanut butter.

With BIRDSEEDS mixed in!

In college I went on a camping trip where we looked for owl pellets.  A pellet is just a fancy term for saying poop.  We were looking for owl poop because you can tell about a lot about an owl through its excrements.  Apparently, some things don’t digest well – little mice nails and mice fur, for instance. 

Just when I think I can’t sink any lower I’ve now found myself becoming a shit detective.  Because, seriously, you can tell a lot about this guy through the clump that landed on his right cheek.

He’s an upwardly mobile,

Caucasian,

male,

STRAIGHT – because no gay bottom would ever consent to getting fucked without a proper “cleansing,”

who eats a lot of Whole Foods Grains!

Back in high school, I took an accounting course that taught me the meaning of the term “FOB.”  Free On Board.  It means free shipping to the point of destination.  When I came to San Francisco, I learned a new, and more definitive meaning: FRESH OFF the BOAT.  New immigrants.  Heavily accented.  Caricature specimens.

For my readers in the Midwest (or anywhere else lacking a significant Asian population), the acronym FOB is most often used by another subset of the Asian population: the ABC’s (American Born Chinese).  We use the term FOB, often in a pejorative sense, to describe our brothers and sister who look like us, yet couldn’t be stranger than if they came from Mars.

I suppose I am a hybrid of sorts: I wasn’t born here, but I grew up here starting from the 3^rd grade.  I’m a FOB/ABC.  I know how to think in both cultures. 

I started a new job this week as a filing clerk.  The files consisted mostly of Chinese and English documents.  I was hired as a Chinese reader; I got paid a little bit more. 

But I had to work with some major FOB’s.  You know how I write a lot about how Chinese I am?  Well, the truth is that I am very American Chinese.  I worked with my FOB cousins for a mere 5 hours before I realized…

I.  Don’t.  Really.  Like.  Chinese.  People.

Reuben says we dislike in others what we really hate in ourselves.  At the end of the day, it’s our own issues that we project onto other people.  I guess I’m ambivalent about being Chinese.  I understand what it’s like to be Chinese.  I know the language.  I know the thought process.  I carry the DNA.

But do we have to be so uncouth?

Because we were asked to work overtime, the company graciously offered us complimentary dinners.  No one loves food more than Cassandra.  But even I know that on the first day of work you at least have to put on the appearance of being consumed by the task at hand.  It’s not becoming to seem preoccupied with the freebie perks.  You either keep your mouth shut or you ask intelligent questions. 

What you *don’t* do is harp on the limit of the dinner stipend.  Or which dining establishments you may order from.  Or whether if you can keep the stipend if you bring your dinner from home.

When the Chinese lady asked this last question I was so ashamed to be Chinese and sitting next to her. 

She actually had the nerve to ask the supervisor if she could surf the web for other employment opportunities (like Craigslist) when using the company computers.  She explained that other job sites don’t usually allow for this.  Apparently, she doesn’t understand WHY it’s not an accepted practice.

Do you feel me?  Are you ever ashamed of your people? 

There were two Caucasian file clerks in the group.  Since they were filing only English documents it goes without saying that they would be paid less.  After all, there is a premium to being fluent in a second language.

But, if you already know this, why state the obvious?

Why must that Chinese lady ask the “American” file clerk, how much do you get paid?

She received a response that was polite, yet left no doubt as to the inappropriateness of the question: I don’t feel comfortable discussing it.  How much do YOU get paid, the American reviewer countered.

And then the Chinese lady shut up.

I don’t think the Chinese lady is a bad person.  She’s just very Chinese.  Very competitive.  Show-offish. Universal traits, to be sure.  But the problem is that she just doesn’t get it.  That there is a different way to do things in America.

Everyone is competitive.  We are all secretly juggling our assessment of how we rank compared to our peers.  But there is a culturally accepted way of doing it.  Here in America, there is an American way.  I guess I would characterize it as daggers hidden in subtlety: you pry for information under false pretenses. 

But the Chinese lady – and the other FOB’s: they don’t get it.  They come across as having no tact.  They are seen as having bad manners.

I know all this, but I don’t have the balls to pull the Chinese Lady aside and tell her.

She reminds me too much of my mom.

It’s a quarter to midnite Wednesday night.  I just walked past Reuben’s room.  I stopped and listened.  To my surprise, he was not snoring.

After Reuben was gone with his boyfriend to the Caribbean’s for a Christmas cruise I was shocked when he came back and I heard his snoring through the walls again.  Two weeks was all it took for me to adjust.  Silence at bedtime.  I texted Reuben’s boyfriend the night Reuben came back and I was like, Garret, how do you do it?  How do you sleep next to a furnace, a vacuum cleaner, and a vibrator? 

It’s like trying to sleep while sandwiched between a washing machine and a dryer both going at full speed.   In times like this, I really appreciate how sleep occurs in cycles.  The gentle wheezing of the prewash.  Followed by the agitation of the churn cycle.  And then the furious spin cycle – his breathing seems to grow faster and faster.  Finally, the first rinse: oxygen is released and you can hear the water being gushed forth into a desert.  I can hear Reuben snoring through the walls, through my closet full of clothes, then through the thick wood paneling of my closet doors. 

Garret said, it’s what happens when you love someone. 

I wonder if it’s nights like tonight where it makes it bearable for Garret.  Or if it even matters.  The nights when Reuben doesn’t snore.  Is this what you look forward to when you’re in a relationship with someone who snores as loud as Reuben: a quiet night’s sleep?

Garret actually said to Reuben, I miss you the nights when we sleep in different cities because I miss hearing you next to me.

Do you think falling in love qualifies you for sainthood?

I don’t snore, but…

I talk in my sleep.

In Chinese.  Full on sentences, too.  I’ve been told I take on different characters.  Apparently, I even converse with myself. 

I went camping once with some of my ex roommates where we all slept in one tent.  Even though we live in the same apartment we’ve never gone to sleep together.  We each have our own rooms. 

The next day at camp the first thing they said was, girl, I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.

And then they said, it was like trying to sleep through the Chinese Cultural Revolution.  

Dear Diary

Help me.  I’m not sure if I know how to write interesting stuff anymore.  But I try!  I try really hard.  In fact, I get stoned almost EVERYDAY.  It’s not for my personal enjoyment, I tell myself.  It’s for my art. 

My art is a crusade: to find meaning (where there is none); to give life (to what should remain dead); and to connect the dots.  At times I feel like I’m trying to find hidden meaning in polka dots.  It’s like how they spun the stories of the constellations.  Haven’t you wondered how they came up with all these detailed images [what does a hunter’s belt look like, anyways?] and the complex story line [invincibility, poisoning, love, misunderstanding, death, immortality] – all of this – from just a few stars? 

Two words: Mush. Rooms.

Give me just a few meaningful side glances and I can construct a fantasy of an entire lifetime together.  That’s the power of weed for me.  I stone it hard!  Yet, for all my valiant efforts at enlightenment, all I seem to stimulate are my taste buds.  And an ever expanding waist line. 

At times I wonder if my feeble attempts at writing are just an excuse to make my life seem more interesting than it really is.  For example, the other day I bought a couple of new dresses that I was quite excited about.  That night, Mr. Skin Head texted to let me know how hot our last date was.  He asked if I wanted him to come over again.

The answer is always sure!  And then I’d follow up with the request if he could bring *something*.  Then he would text back and say sure, how much?  That was our ritual.

I did not bring up the issue of price this time.  I suppose he was all too willing not to bring it up on his own initiative either.  I don’t blame him.  I just looked online and it’s worth a roundtrip airfare from San Francisco to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. 

Strangely enough, doing pro bono work gave me a distinct sense of excitement, and, dare I say, enlightenment.  Oh My GOD I finally have my book proposal: a tranny top hooker who falls in love with her client! I was so excited I even had my notepad at the side of my bed during the session.  In case there was an image – or a thought – that was so hauntingly beautiful I had to capture it in words, at that very moment, lest it be lost to literature forever.  Something very poetic, subtle yet powerful: like me gazing intently at the lower lashes of my left eye the moment when I realized love has happened to me. 

That’s my impression of writers and poets: they notice really weird, banal stuff in moments of historical importance.  It’s why I am destined to be a Penguin Classic.  Joining the ranks of Madame Bovary.  Lolita.  Mary Magdalene.  Carrie Broadshaw.  And now, Cassandra Gorgeous. 

Sigh.

I don’t know why I do this to myself.  Why do I get so carried away in my imagination when reality is so mundane?  You know Ernest Hemingway killed himself, right?  I think his imagination got the best of him, too.  He just couldn’t deal with reality anymore.

The other day when I had an argument with Reuben I threatened him with suicide.  He said, Fine, just don’t do it in the house. 

He added, I pick up after your ass enough as it is. 

And, just in case his message wasn’t clear, he said, Bitch, you leave behind a mess when you go and I will personally mutilate your corpse. 

With friends like him…  I know: no wonder my life is a tragedy.

But getting back to Mister Skin Head.  The sex was just alright.  In fact, it was our least hot encounter.  Ever.  And I had such high expectations.  I kept trying to find that connection.  Let me get carried away by a thought, an image.  Please, give me something to write about at least.  I am doing it for free after all can I at least get a blog post out of it.

But nothing.  He didn’t even take a shower beforehand.  His crotch smelled musky.  He got so excited by me agreeing to see him for free he came straight from work.  When I asked him where he worked he looked sheepish and mumbled something about downtown.  AS IF! I would actually visit him there and embarrass the both of us in public. 

Sometimes there are no hidden meanings.

No matter how hard you look for it.

Sometimes polka dots are just polka dots.

A booty call is just a booty call.

The sex was definitely hotter when I charged for it. 

Definitely.

I suppose it’s time I wrote about Mr. Ferrari.  Mr. Ferrari is the Tgirl Admirer/Chaser/Lover who would be universally hated by all the rest.  He is the one who ruins the game for every other chaser.  When Mr. Ferrari calls, my heart skips a beat.  For Mr. Ferrari is the epitome of straight male success:  he’s filthy rich.

I met Mr. Ferrari about a month after I first became Cassandra.  Yes, he was one of the very early ones.  Back when I still posted on the casual encounters section of CL.  Back when I used to ask them to buy me either a “dress” or “dinner” for our dates.

Mr. Ferrari said sure when I asked if he could buy me a dress.  He asked , how about I buy you two? 

By the time we were done with our first date, Mr. Ferrari gave me money to buy four dresses.  He also left with me the rest of the cocaine he brought.  Mr. Ferrari said, wow, I feel like I won the lottery tonight when you opened the door.

Mr. Ferrari sure knows how to flatter a girl.  I don’t know if it’s because he has so much money that gives him such an effortless sincerity or if it’s his ability to fake sincerity that got him so much money in the first place.  It’s a dangerous combination.  I keep thinking he looks like a cross between Robert Redford and David Carradine but perhaps he looks nothing like them.  I know I see him through rose tinted lenses.  Wealth, not just merely wealthy like a senior partner at a prestigious law firm but the kind of wealthy that hires the law firm, is intoxicating to be around. 

I remember watching him as he tried to park his Ferrari in front of my apartment.  He had plenty of space.  But he could not parallel park to save his life.  When I saw him give up in frustration after the umpteenth time I thought that was the end of my date and the money for two new dresses. 

Little did I know he couldn’t park because HE WAS SO FUCKED UP ON COCAINE.  And that was the gist of all our dates: cocaine, cocaine, cocaine.  Mr. Ferrari may be a cliché of sorts – the recent divorcee going through a midlife crisis.  But whereas other men react to their existence by sleeping with their secretaries Mr. Ferrari sold his technology company, bought a Ferrari, plays golf all day, and discovered his inner lust for Tgirls (which he satiates nightly).

Not a bad midlife crisis if you ask me.  If you must go through this stage in life I’d say this is the right way to go about it. 

We’ve had some interesting conversations while very coked up.  I remember one time I was telling him about my failed taqueria.  Mr. Ferrari said why don’t we start a restaurant together, Cassandra.  He asked me to come up with some numbers.  Just like that.  That’s what it’s like for rich people: they can do whatever they want.

The only thing nicer than being a really wealthy tranny chaser is to be the tranny being chased, don’t you think?  

You know, the cute young ones never have any money.  And the 30’s to mid 40’s are saving up for something special.  A house?  A new toy?  I don’t know – maybe they still don’t have any money.  But the 50’s and up… that’s when the right ones surface. 

I see why smart, successful women prefer older men.  It’s hard to bet on someone who’s young – unless the woman betting is young and naïve as well.  If you’ve gained any wisdom from experience, you know that talk is just talk.  Dreams are just dreams.  Guys with “potential” are a crapshoot, really. 

Nothing beats reality like the cold refreshing taste of success.

I had some of my most glamorous nights as Cassandra with Donnie.  It was everything I expected of being a prostitute.  I feel a story arc coming up. 

Stay tuned.

When I am not working (either as Cassandra or at my “real” job), my favorite thing to do is to spend an afternoon at Border’s bookstore.  It’s not very sexy hobby for a prostitute, I know, to prefer the company of books and magazines over people.  But at Border’s Union Square, I get the best of both worlds:  I’m surrounded by people, yet doing something completely solitary.  It’s one of the rare places where I’m very at peace being myself.

A while back while I was at Border’s, an album the store was promoting caught my attention.  Catchy lyrics.  Melodies that hook.  And a voice that was at once pleasing, yet not quite forgettable. 

The song in particular that stayed in my mind was New York to California.  The singer was a guy named Matt Kearney.  

I never buy CD’s these days, but I did that day.  It was a go-with-the-moment kind of feeling, and I felt the songs and the singer.  I listened to Matt on my drive to work, and I listened to him on my way to Safeway, and I played New York to California for Reuben when his boyfriend left to move to New York.

And, one night months ago, I went and saw Matt Kearny live in concert at the Fillmore.

Seeing Matt live on stage is a different experience than seeing a Kylie show or the Scissor Sisters.  Don’t get me wrong: I love them all.  The difference is that Matt has a pop sound, yet his performance is very reserved.  He’s a shy, skinny white boy.  Without much theatrics.  He doesn’t really work the crowd like a real popstar.

Instead, he performed with an earnestness.  He’s singing songs he wrote.  He fed energy off his bandmates.    

All of which got me thinking: is he just “selling” his songs – a la Britney Spears – or does he really believe in his lyrics? 

When Matt sings

cause I might have been wrong

 I might have been scared

All alone

I might have standing on the TOP

Of the world

What  a difference a day makes

I turned and watched you walk away

Cause I might have been wrong.

I am suspicious.  Precisely because I am moved. 

Is it just cheap sentiments he’s “selling”?  Did he write this because he experienced this for himself?  Or did he write to fool gullibles like me? 

Speaking of his fans, there were A LOT of girls there that night.  It figures: the sensitive straight male.  Drives all the girls crazy.  OMG Cassandra is just a girl like all the rest of the biological ones there! 

So.  Fucking.  Sentimental.

I have bad taste in music.  When I was younger I was a huge Bon Jovi fan.  Enough said.  I cringe when I hear them on the radio these days.  Was I really that pathetic that I fell for such cheap and contrived sentiments.  It’s Cheesiness Per Se!

And then I got into the Eagles.  I felt like their stuff really spoke to me.  I felt like I cast my stones with the wrong lot again when I read in an interview that they just wrote the songs because they wanted fame for sex and money for drugs. 

Is there anything accessible and entertaining that’s real any more?

I was fascinated by Matt on stage.  His songs. His delivery.  It’s all love songs.  Love songs of hope and loss and sweet nothings.  And I kept wondering if he really believed it or was just selling it.

I have a hard time believing anyone really believes what they’re selling when they’re selling love.  And I adore love songs.  There were moments I got all teary eyed at the concert.

But, you don’t even have to go very deep within me to find me questioning his motivation.  Always, at the back of my mind, I think of the word “pander.”  He’s selling emotional intimacy in a song.  That’s why SO MANY girls showed up at his concert.  Including Cassandra.  He’s pandering to our emotional needs.

Pandering… I wonder where that word came from, and why it was the first thing that popped into my mind.

I looked it up in the dictionary, and to pander is to furnish clients for a prostitute; or to supply persons for illicit sexual intercourse.

That about sums it up, don’t you think?

Some words come with instant pictures attached.  Like the word shit, for instance.  There’s a color to it, too.  For people whose olfactory systems are turbo charged the word can also elicit a smelly association.  It is a strong word that assaults all your senses, and it never adds up to a pretty picture.  No matter the context.

Other words suggest the intangibles, like race and socioeconomic status.  Think NASCAR.  The word Fuck (another example) would never be elegant.  Fuck can be hot and sweaty, and dirty and pleasurable.  But boy, does it flaunt its lack of refinement with a huge middle finger raised to the world.

The word that has been on my mind lately is “actually.”  Actually seems kind of flirty, does she not?  You can almost picture her with one hand on her hips, arching her right eye ever so slightly as she smiles mischievously and says, “Actually, I am worth the chase.”

The definition of actually, an adverb, is “in fact; in reality.”  By logic, the need to call attention to and clarify the reality at hand strongly suggests the presence of a preconceived falsehood.  As in, “that demure petite secretary is actually a raging dominatrix in bed!”

Thus, it can also be used to express a sense of the unexpected, the wonderment at reality being different from the situation imagined.  It is a word pregnant with possibilities, for the need to emphasize, “actually,…” commands the receiver to acknowledge that the reality of the situation is not what it seems.

Actually can give hope to what was once hopeless, and it can extinguish once lofty dreams with the words that follow.

Come to think of it, actually is kind of a bitch.  Either way, you’re not going to get what you expected.

Couple this meaning, along with its usual companion in the sentence structure – the sensuous and curvaceous comma (,)

– and you realize actually is both a tease and an attention whore.  The comma instructs you to pause.  As a member of the Adverbs family, actually’s role in life is to add emphasis for effect.

Actually is like the pretty and seductive girl in high school; she has the face of an angel and a body for sin.  The comma is her chubby girlfriend who follows her wherever she goes.  Actually travels with her own posse.

Don’t believe me?  Just say to yourself, “Actually,”: does your utterance not linger on a dramatic pause built into the DNA of the word?  Does it not instill a sense of anticipation for what’s about to follow?

Sometimes actually is just used to express a sense of incredulity, a bewilderment surpassing your wildest expectations.  As in, “That lying, no-good sack of shit actually thinks she’s fit to be President of the United States of America!”

In the movie, Love, Actually, the word is used to emphasize the overarching theme: that, in reality, it was all love.  Even when you didn’t think it was love – that’s what it was.  Love is all around us, the movie insists.  It’s in the miscommunications, the wandering heart, the unfailing devotion of a good friend, the wife who discovers the affections of her husband for another woman.  The movie suggests we go through life enveloped in love, actually.

Always.  Somewhere.  Someone is thinking of us.

Lately, the word actually has caused me endless grief.  When Gym Boy turned me down for my sparerib dinner, he texted “I am actually headed to NY for about 8 days for a funeral.”

Do you see how the inclusion of the word gives me hope?  If he had just said, “I am headed to NY…” I can then proceed with the burial of our potential romance.  The same sentence without actually is curt and finite.  But its inclusion – can’t it be a substitution for reluctantly, or unwillingly, or maybe he’s using the word to emphasize that it’s a funeral which requires his presence out of town?

Keep hope alive, Jesse Jackson said in defense of affirmative action.  But hope is such a cruel gift!  It is torture!

In fact, I’ve already dug the hole for the casket in the cemetery that is my heart.  I am impatient to lower it into the ground and toss that first fist of dirt.

But the word actually has thrown everything into disarray.  The casket is suspended in mid-air.  This often used 8 letter word gives hope against my better instincts for self-preservation.  Why would he take the extra second to insert the word actually?

Does it not contain an implicit binary opposition: that, but for the funeral and the required travel out of state, he would have come?

Other possibilities:

I am actually imagining all these possibilities when there’s nothing there.

Actually, this is driving me crazy.

I actually can’t let this go…

I am one half of a whole: I am a top girl without a good bottom.  Oh I know I have my pick of men as Cassandra.  But throw out all the severely misshaped, disfigured, smelly, unclean and/or massively over sized buttocks, and I’m really just left with a handful.  No plans to add to the roster, either.  All it will take is one more straight guy who wants to get fucked but doesn’t douche beforehand.  No more surprises, please.  In my precarious state of mind, I *will* jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. 

Don’t get me wrong, a blowjob more than suffices 95% of the time.  Silver Fox is on his way over in a few hours and I will be well taken care of.  I love my BJ dates.  But at least once a week, a top girl needs to be inside a manhole.  I need to be inside.  I need to feel it.

It’s even worse lately, because I feel the need to *make love.*  My crush on Gym Boy is driving me nuts – not just my animal instincts but also a need to express tenderness.  There are so many things I want to do with Gym Boy.  I need an outlet, damn it!  But not just any outlet.  I can’t stick it in just any hole right now because that would leave me feeling really disgusted.  When you feel the need to make love you need the whole package, don’t you think?  I want to kiss someone, cradle them in my arms, pull up one leg so it drapes over my hips as we lay intertwined.  I need to slow it down.

I also want to charge money for it.  If I’m doing it as Cassandra I am not getting emotionally involved.  It is important to take money (not only because I can), but because it’s the surest way to separate sex from intimacy.  So, potential customers — you will love me because I will never be that crazy psycho bitch who boils your rabbit when you’re out of town.

To summarize: I need a nice booty, and not just a nice booty but a booty attached to a man I’m very attracted to overall.  In other words, a Top Shelf Booty.  And I need it to be CLEAN.  And I need to take money for it.

What I’m about to tell you is not very kosher.  Some part of me know it perhaps wasn’t the fairest thing to do.  But I was thinking about Gym Boy all day yesterday, and then I rang up Mister Skin Head.  Do you remember him?  The shaved head tall guy with tattoos and a cock that reminded me of a slab of pork tenderloin wrapped in cellophane? 

He’s been to see me a few more times since I first wrote about him.  It’s fireworks every time.  He would text me for days afterwards reliving the intensity of our date.  Judging from his outfits, I don’t think he’s rich (and probably far from it).  I know he is into my shit, and he comes to see me when he can.   Thus, I don’t text him, because I’m not a cruel person.

But I couldn’t help it yesterday.  I tell myself all I did was text him to say hello to see how he was doing.  Maybe calling him baby was a bit suggestive.  But he came over and was under my covers in half an hour.  I thought about asking him what he did for a living.  Then I thought I shouldn’t want to know.  It’s really not my business whether he can afford me.

Mister Skinhead got the benefits of all my pent up passion for Gym Boy.   Thinking about it now, I don’t feel bad at all for taking money because he REALLY got what he came for.  Can you imagine a TGirl really making love to you, from beginning to end?  Damn if I could do that every time with every customer I could conquer the world.

Don’t worry – it wasn’t like I superimposed Gym Boy’s face on top of his or anything cheesy like that.  I was in the moment with Mister Skin Head.  I’ve always found him sexy.  And, because he doesn’t need to be tied up, raped, or rendered helpless in any other one-way fantasies, I actually had an interactive sexual experience with someone I really dug.

He came while riding me.  I’ve noticed this is his preferred way of coming.  He is polite to a fault: when I ask him which position he liked the best he always says he liked them all.  But I can tell when he straddles me — that feels the best for him; he comes right away.  This last time as soon as he took me out of him he curled up into a fetal position next to me.  It was an unusual sight to see a grown man retreat into such a child-like state so immediately.  He looked up at me with these puppy eyes that said he wanted to be held. 

I pulled the blankets up over us and then I cradled him.