You’re not a Faggot, You’re a Straight Girl

One of my favorite blog websites is enthusiastically (and sexily) encouraging to transsexual girls. I love the website, with one major exception. The author tends to use the word “faggot” a lot.

In the US and UK, cultural opposition to homophobia has grown to where there’s often a knee-jerk negative reaction to that word being used anywhere, and though I think that’s an improvement over using that word as a derogatory term, the issue deserves more careful consideration. So, no, my issue isn’t with that word being used at all, because the lady who uses is does so in a well-intentioned context.

As an example of what I mean: in my favorite novel, Atlas Shrugged, there is a clash of cultures. One sub-culture works on the premise that earning money is good and noble, and the other sub-cultures oppose that concept. One of the heroes in the novel, Nr. Nulligan, is a banker who is very successful at earning money. He gets the nickname “Midas” because everything he touches turns to gold, as a figure of speech. By the standards of the anti-wealth sub-cultures, his success at earning money makes him exceptionally evil, so this nickname was intended as a slur. Mulligan fundamentally disagrees with these standards (as do I) and he takes the nickname as a compliment. He cheerfully explains that he carefully chooses what he touches, i.e., he chooses his investments rationally so the process is a lot less mystical and involves a lot more due diligence and hard work than is apparently to a clueless observer. He proceeds to have his name legally changed to Midas Mulligan, thus fundamentally rejecting the moral premise of his adversaries. What they irrationally consider to be shameful, is for him a source of pride — and he’s open about it.

I learned of another example today while reading up about the origins of the word “faggot” on Wikipedia.  The article explains that someone’s car, presumably a gay lady, had “fag” spray-painted on it by homophobic vandals. The picture shown here is of her car after she had it repainted in a way that makes it clear she is unashamed of, and instead openly proud of being gay and living as such. She even named her car “The Fagbug” and “embarked on a trans-American road trip to raise awareness of homophobia and LGBT rights that was documented in a film of the same name.”

640px-2008-09-27_Fagbug_in_DurhamPicture credit: 2008-09-27 Fagbug in Durham” by Ildar Sagdejev (Specious) – Own work. Licensed under GFDL via Wikimedia Commons.

I love her attitude. She fundamentally challenged the premise of her adversaries and threw it in their homophobic faces.

Another example is from the era of the Founding Fathers:

In the spring of 1765, the recently enacted Stamp Act was the prime topic of political conversation in the American colonies. In Virginia, [in] the current session of the House of Burgesses … Patrick Henry, who had held his seat for only a matter of days, celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday on May 29 by offering a series of resolutions related to the current crisis …

On May 30, Henry gave his maiden speech in the assembly and defended his resolutions. He expanded the scope of his criticism to include not only Parliament, but the king as well. Speaking of George III, he stated that, “Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell and George the Third — .” At that point he was interrupted by cries of “Treason!” from delegates who easily recognized the reference to assassinated leaders. Henry paused briefly, then calmly finished his sentence: “…may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.”

Back to the t-girl lady with the website. She uses the word “faggot” in the same spirit as the above examples, the VW Bug owner in particular.  I’d paraphrase her point as: “If you’re a t-girl and you feel attracted to men and want to be sexual with them, there’s no moral issue whatsoever with being a faggot, so go be gay — proudly.”

I love her attitude.  The problem I have is … with her logic.

Premise check: the now-obsolete definition of male is “someone with male-shaped body parts ‘down there.'” For lack of a better idea, that’s still used at birth. But, as a transsexual child develops, it becomes apparent that the child has a brain structure that’s the opposite of her officially assigned gender and so then it’s time to change things over, to correct the initial mis-categorization.

The brain-structure premise is the logical basis for someone being considered transsexual. But, until recently the basis for that logic was the science of psychology, and only recently that has been supported by medical science, as in: autopsies performed on girls who, while alive, claimed to be transsexual girls, and then the autopsies showed them to truly have had a female brain structure.

Anyway, there’s a certain mindset that considers the contents of one’s underwear to be basically more important that the contents of one’s head, and unsurprisingly, this mindset continues to classify people based on the shape of their visible body parts ‘down there,’ at birth, period. By that standard, the basic concept of being transsexual is a fantasy or delusion in the mind of the transsexual person, and so by this standard transsexual people are all mentally ill and need to go to “conversion therapy” so that they can start behaving properly, dammit. Some people even propose to kill transsexual people to do them a favor, supposedly to let a deity sort it out.

Whatever the supposed solution to the supposed problem, I have a fundamental problem with that entire idea set, including the notion that a transsexual girl is somehow “really” a male.

A transsexual girl is a girl. Period. The shape of her body ‘down there’ is secondary. One of my favorite R-rated images on this subject is a full frontal nude picture of  two ladies, one of them transsexual and the other one not. The caption reads “some girls are born with innies, some with outies.”  I think that sums it up well. That terminology is generally used to refer to belly buttons, and it really puts things in perspective to have it used with reference to the ladies’ body parts ‘down there’ too.

So, back to the lady who authors the website and tells t-girls that it’s totally OK to be attracted to men, i.e., to be a faggot, as she phrases it.  She means well and is trying to oppose and undo the effects of the many years of shame that most transsexual girls have felt.  But, she’s being fundamentally imprecise. A girl, transsexual or otherwise, who is sexually attracted to men is the precise opposite of gay.

She’s straight.



The Balance between Good Rednecks and Evil Rednecks

I live in a small rural town where the first day of deer or elk hunting season is more exciting, for many, than Christmas or New Year’s Day. The ratio of pickup trucks to sissymobiles is high. A flamethrower or a nice flatbed trailer is a status symbol. I understand that culture. I’ve lived here for 20 years.

Sometimes I make plans to move to Las Vegas (and some of my stuff is already there, in storage, as part of the move) and then I postpone them again.  I’ve been in the process of moving to Las Vegas for a long time.

I like the little town where I live, even though the other night it was 2 degrees, and I don’t mean Celsius. Of course folks here have a concealed carry permit and a revolver and a pistol and an AR15 and a shotgun, as do I. That goes without saying. But, how many speedloaders does one keep with the revolver and how quickly can one cycle them? That’s the sort of question worth discussing here.

If one doesn’t own a pickup truck then one had damn better own a Jeep, and I don’t mean any of that sissy new stuff Chrysler made. I mean something with an AMC or older engine in it, and if the Jeep still has a good paint job on it, it had better be primer or flat black or camo.  So, yeah, I also still own a Jeep like that, and I wasn’t kidding about the guns. If I violated these basic rules of citizenship they might deport me to a nearby big city, and I won’t like that. Don’t get me wrong, I walk around in high-heeled stilettos here sometimes. I’m not grungy. I’m just aware of what works here.

People here know me here, and they like me, and if someone threatens me with violence he’s probably someone new from out of town (which is anyone who’s lived here for less than 5 years) and he’s likely to get beat up by a local protective-of-me redneck guy more quickly than I could shoot him or that the local PD would arrest him, which means … pretty darn quickly.

Still, big cities are fun to visit, and today I went to a nearby big city, and had my long blonde hair done, all nice and straight with flippy ends like I’m a 1950s housewife or a dental hygienist. I had a fresh set of fake eyelashes glued on. The pink Hollister top and the chickey black leather jacket that I wore accentuated my huge fake boobs A LOT.  Plus, my black skirt looked nice, and went with my black cowboy boots. I don’t look all that pretty, but today I looked hot. (I don’t confuse the two).

I felt so good that at 5 p.m. I didn’t wanna go back home to the small town where I live, so I treated myself to dinner and three cups of coffee at a local big casino in the big city. As I walked towards the restaurant, I saw signs welcoming the Wild Sheep foundation. If you think these are tree huggers or animal rights folks, you’re mistaken. The reason people like having wild sheep around is not for hand-wringing reasons but because come hunting season, they wanna have something interesting to shoot at.

So, the folks looks a lot like the folks in the little town where I live, but these people came from other small towns and I’m not allowed to take my gun into the casino so I was unarmed, and getting kinda nervous because the only thing worse for a homophobic redneck than a t-girl, is … a hot-looking t-girl with long, flippy blonde hair, long eyelashes, huge fake boobs and pretty cowboy boots, and she shows up while his friends are around.

In case you’re not clear on what homophobia means: it’s basically where someone feels an attraction to someone else and he thinks that makes him gay and it bothers him — so he tries to be mean to whomever he is attracted to. It’s basically the asshole-adult version behavior of the little elementary-school boy who is mean to the little girl on whom he has a crush. So, if someone homophobic is attracted to me, then he goes into an internal meltdown and if his friends are around, he feels the need to act mean towards me to hide his embarrassment. That’s how many t-girls get beat up or killed. So, looking hot to a homophobe can be dangerous.

Imagine, then, how I felt about my safety as I walked back to my car. By then it was already dark. I’d parked in a quiet, dark-ish section of the parking lot, which is normally not a great idea but when there isn’t a redneck convention going on, the place is very safe, and I didn’t realize there IS such a convention here until I got inside. And it didn’t occur to me that I had better go back and park in a safer area.

After all, it’s not like these people are violent trained killers. Oh, wait, that’s actually precisely what they are. Anyway … mostly rednecks I meet know me and are nice to me and protect me. So, I feel sort of conflicted about them. It’s sort of like Wizards. There are good ones and evil ones.

As I approached my feminine-looking little gold-colored 3-series BMW, I saw three redneck guys in their early 20s standing near the front of my car, chatting cheerfully and enjoying cigarettes. I didn’t know any of them, which means one of them (if I go by past odds for redneck strangers) was quite likely dangerous to me.

An acquaintance of mine is an evil redneck. He used to be married to a close friend of mine. He’d love to go hunting, of course he drove a pickup truck and had a collection of guns, and he’d yell mean things out the car window when he drove past people who were openly gay … he’s an evil redneck. The way he’d start his offensive diatribe was with the phrase “what the …?”  I’m not omitting an expletive. He really just said only those two words. They are the magic phrase of the evil redneck going into active-asshole mode.

I decided the best approach was to consider these guys to be invisible, and to walk past quickly, NOT say hello, not smile and not make eye contact in a way that socially engages them.

Walk past, get into the car, back up … don’t drive forward, back up, leave. Survive the day.

Before they saw me, the conversation literally involved the Jeep flat-six engine and how reliable it is. That kind of caught me off-guard. See, I really do own a Jeep and I didn’t know Jeeps ever came with a flat-six engine. Did they mean flat-six as in the Porsche 911 boxer air-cooled engine, which is certainly a model of reliability? Or was flat-six redneck-speak for straight-six, which, yeah, of course, Detroit made many of them, and some of them were famous for reliability. Heck, I’ve owned a couple of Plymouths with Chrysler straight-six engines.

So, instead of concentrating on being safe and walking quickly and getting the hell out of there, when seconds count … I was a ditzy blonde and I slowed down, and listened, and pondered what they were saying, and I almost asked them in my chickey voice which flat-six engine they meant.

Then I heard it: “What the …?” … and then I heard one of the other two rednecks say: ” … easy … !” Meaning: “don’t do anything stupid, Stupid, just keep your mouth shut and let her go.”

So, for the good gentleman who kept his dumb-ass friend in check long enough for me to walk past and start my car and back up and drive away …  thank you.  The terms “gentleman” and “redneck” are very much not mutually exclusive, I know, and tonight I saw one more example.

As long as there’s a good Wizard to be a counterforce to every evil Wizard, the universe is a safe-enough place.  As long as there’s a good redneck who says ” … easy … !” when an evil redneck says “what the …?” then my life is safe enough.

Why, Thank You, Mr. Homophobe

This is what I looked like yesterday with no make-up except some eyebrow pencil. And yes, it’s a “selfie” from a phone camera, sorry.


This is a chatty, rambling post so if you’re looking for word economy, you’re in the wrong place anwyay as to anything I write — but especially today. I’m writing at least as much for my own mental well-being as for my audience. Interestingly enough, some folks actually like to read a lot of detail. Go figure. Maybe there are some other people who think as I do.

* * *

Several months ago, I drove my 30-year old BMW down to Las Vegas to sell it on consignment. It didn’t sell. So, this week I rented a car one-way, drove down to Las Vegas and took my own car back, to drive it back home to the Reno area. Problem is, after sitting so long, even with a fresh battery, the car now refuses to start, and it’s automatic so I can’t push-start it. When I try long enough there’s a burning smell, as in the starter is burning up. I figured that renting a car in Las Vegas over the weekend means paying a way higher rate, so plan B is to spend the weekend in my favorite city and then Sunday night I’ll rent a car, drive back to the Reno area where I live, remove a starter from one of my similar cars, pack some tools and come back the next day to play Ms. Mechanic, hoping the car or starter doesn’t fall on my head as I’m working underneath it. I have an interesting life.

Here’s a picture of the car. It’s lovely. If only it would start …


Hotel prices are sky-high in Las Vegas over the weekends, except somehow for Hampton Inns, so I checked out of Treasure Island and checked into a nearby Hampton Inn.

I’ve done my share of escorting work and I miss the sex and the excitement, but it’s so much hassle to make it clear to clients that they’re buying time and NOT sex, and if I feel like having sex with them then I shall and otherwise not. I actually have them read and mark a paper to that effect, and some of my clients who are in law enforcement think that it’s all pretty funny. Bottom line: I don’t wanna get arrested for prostitution when that’s not what I’m doing. If the speed limit is 65 and I’m driving 64, then I want everyone to be pretty darn clear about that. Not that I think prostitution should be illegal or that there’s anything wrong with it or about choosing that as a way to earn a living. It just isn’t what I have been doing. Yet, anyway.

Escorting in Las Vegas this weekend would seem like the perfect idea. I look better than I ever have, and I haven’t had sex with a guy for many months, and extra money is always welcome. The problem is that there’s the hassle of convincing someone that really, I’m not selling sex so they should not have an entitlement mentality about it … they should try to seduce me instead, like if they were on a date with a hot girl, which in fact is precisely what this would be. And then there’s some risk that the cops or judge wouldn’t believe me anyway. So, instead I went online to Craigslist and found an ad from a nice-seeming and well-endowed gentleman who seemed to appreciate t-girls like me and seemed fine with safe sex, and my particular requirements such as always being on the receiving end of the festivities. In US-speak, a bottom girl, not a top. In UK-speak, I’m a passive girl. And, no money will be exchanged. That’s fine with me.

Transsexual hookers are a big thing in Las Vegas so I didn’t exactly wanna look like one, while standing outside my hotel waiting for the guy to pick me up. I figured the cops, hotel and maybe someone else might develop a more-than-idle interest in me, had I done so.

Before my date, I wandered around the Strip area. I wore some short shorts (not super-short, but enough to show off my long legs) … here’s what they look like nowadays, this being a picture from a few months ago.


Anyway, with no make-up and while wearing flat sandals, I walked along Tropicana Blvd. towards my hotel. A car drove past me and the occupants made the sort of noises that suggested that if I so chose, then in half an hour I’d be on my back in their hotel room, being ridden hard. Afterwards (I’m guessing) I’d either leave with a crisp couple of hundred-dollar bills or they’d beat me up, break my phone, steal my purse, rip or keep my clothes and throw me out of the room. I give these two events maybe a 50:50 chance though I haven’t ever actually done car whoring (or any sort of whoring, for that matter). So, as I’m mentally processing this, the car pulls over and stops in a traffic lane, clearly illegally, waiting for me to catch up to it. In another thirty seconds of me walking I’d be right by it, ready to get in and be whisked away to an adventure. I decide it’s flattering that just the sight of my ass and legs have inspired this much enthusiasm, but that’s not the sort of adventure I want. So, no thanks. I make a sharp right turn and cut across the valet parking entrance to the New York, New York casino. My would-be clients eventually lose patience, and the car takes off. So, what I got out of that was an implied compliment. That’s nice. Thank you.

This part of Las Vegas is NOT meant for pedestrians so it’s a long and weird walk from the Strip to the Hampton Inn, down the sort of abandoned sidewalks that would have had me nervous for my safety if I didn’t have a don’t-mess-with-me attitude and enough martial arts training to feel fearless.

Eventually, I get to the hotel. I want to look hot when I meet my date but not whorishly hot.

To prepare:
1. No make-up, just the eyebrow pencil I have been wearing all day
2. No special hair treatment
3. My legs and butt apparently look amazing (see above) so I put on a long skirt instead of my short shorts.
4. I tend to get complimented out loud when I walk around with my bare midriff, so I decide to keep on my long, mid-riff-concealing, kinda conservative top.
5. I can really rock a pair of 6″ stilettos but I decide against them too. So, flat sandals.

So, all I have to show off are my natural looks and a pair of fairly large fake boobs. My point is that I could have looked a lot hotter had I chosen to do so. (Incidentally, however conservative my look was, it was hot enough for my date to be very enthused about me. I ended up having a great time in the way I’d hoped for.) Back to the time-line as I was walking out of the hotel to wait for my date:

Imagine my surprise when, in spite of my toned-down look, a young Hispanic guy loses his self-control right at the front door of the Hampton Inn. He’s in his early 20s and is standing there next to his pretty girl-friend and a male buddy.

The way homophobia works is kinda complicated. The relevant person (always male, in my experience so far) is gay to some extent, 1% or 100% or somewhere in between, and he buys into cultural norms by which “gay” is considered a bad thing. So, he’s horribly embarrassed about it. He tries to hide it from himself and especially those around him so that they please, please not think he’s gay. It’s sort of the lame-adult version of the 5-year old boy who’s mean to the 5-year old girl whom he’s attracted to. Often the homophobe can manage to keep under control the precarious mess in his head, but what really makes things fall apart is when he feels sexual arousal towards someone in a way that makes him think it means he’s gay. Perhaps his “type” isn’t a big, hairy guy otherwise’d be feeling aroused and embarrassed all the time. But, many guys are attracted to t-girls, and we show up rarely enough. I happen to know that, hot or not, I look androgynous. I have many female traits as to my looks, but I know I don’t look 100% female.

Even with the slightest time-slice of social interaction or observation, most girls immediately figure me out as being a girl. With guys it can go either way. Some successfully figure out I’m basically a girl. Some guys get misled by my too-male-shaped brow and strong jaw, and they think I’m a guy. The homophobe at the front door of the Hampton Inn was in the latter category. If I were obviously a girl this entire thing would have been a non-event. The irony of the whole thing is that I fundamentally AM a girl and so whatever sexual attraction he felt was towards someone who, in the final analysis, is female, so … yeah, supremely ironic, the whole thing.

The homophobe sees me and starts shouting, as in: really loudly. He yells aloud that I’m so hot that if he didn’t have a girl-friend he’d be boffing me SO hard tonight. He didn’t say “boffing” but I’m trying to keep this blog from being R-rated so … you figure it out. On an on he went, yelling out what he’d do to me sexually. Now, keep in mind that this isn’t some budget motel in a bad neighborhood. It’s a pretty classy place. And yet, here’s this guy making a huge spectacle of himself. At some level I assume he intends to make it clear to the world that, oh, he’s being SO ironic and is meaning the exact opposite but the ultimate irony is that deep down, what he says is really what he means. It’s sort of sad that it’s preferable to the homophobe to yell out his deepest confessions in public, to the excuriciating embarrassment of his bewildered-looking girl-friend, rather than face the quiet judgment in his own mind that, hey dude, you might actually be as gay as a Maypole.

By now I’m psychologically impervious to this sort of thing. A thousand years ago, a more-naive version of me might have been puzzled or had her feelings hurt, but now that I understand homophobia I’m clear that it’s really not my issue. I’m just the catalyst.

And then, it occurs to me that I triggered this melt-down even in my dressed-down state. I kinda wonder what the reaction would have been had I sashayed past, leaving behind the scent of my fruity perfume, my toned midriff bare, elegantly swishing by on 6-inch stilettos, make-up and hair resplendent, shapely legs and butt looking extra nice. Maybe his head would have exploded.

For what it’s worth, dear pretty lady who is (or was) this guy’s girl-friend: I hope you are reading this, and … you deserve better.