We’ll call her Morissa, because that’s the name she chose to use when she danced. She was not very nervous, the first time she performed. She knew that she moved well, she knew that she was beautiful, and she was an exhibitionist by nature. Still, her illogical courage led her to make her living with her natural attributes.
She began her career at ‘Le Strip’, in downtown Toronto. It was an upstairs theatre setting. Not a bar. In a bar, the girls were incidental to the drinks, and within reach of the drunks. The girls at ‘Le Strip’ were on stage individually, in the spotlight all the time. They chose their own music, usually the latest hard rock. Morissa was different, and chose some swinging Frank Sinatra, and Count Basie music.
One bad thing about ‘Le Strip’ was the lack of a rear or stage entrance. It was above some stores on Yonge Street. A person, dancer or customer, had to mount the long, narrow staircase to the box office. The route to the dressing room led all the way across behind the seats. The dressing room was at the opposite end, and some men would not take a seat, but stand in the dim light at the back wall, so they could get a close look at the girls as they came and went.
Morissa’s first task was to make the gauntlet run, from the top of the long stairway to the dressing room across the theatre. She kept her face away from the back wall of voyeurs and looked at the girl that was on the stage. She was just finishing her set, and removed her tiny pubic covering and strode around showing pubic hair. She strode back across the stage to the dressing room stage entrance and paused, turned to the audience, and spread her legs to reveal her vagina for several seconds before she darted into the dressing room.
Two seconds later, Morissa entered the dressing room from the other door. The dancer that just left the stage was glistening with sweat. She picked up a white towel to wipe herself down and looked over at Morissa.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Call me Morissa. Do we have to do that?” she said.
“Do what?” the dancer said, while she wiped sweat from between her breasts.
“Show our… uh… private places.” A black girl in a cotton robe was sitting on a stool at the cosmetics counter.
“There ain’t no private parts here, honey.” She laughed and took a long toque on a thick joint. The marijuana fragrance flowed through the air.
The drying dancer was naked, moving down the length of the room to the shower at the far end. She called over her shoulder to answer Morissa’s question.
“No, honey, you can if you want to. This is a theatre, so showing your honeypot is legal, and we get a $25 bonus if we do it for a few seconds. They’d jail you if you did it in a bar.” The black girl blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air and beckoned to Morissa.
“Come over here, honey. Take the chair next to me.” Morissa did that, and put her costume bag on a back shelf.
“Maybe I should change my name to Honey,” Morissa said.
“She calls everybody Honey,” said a third girl. She was dressed and prepared to go on stage. She walked to the stage door, and when she heard her music come booming through the wall, she darted out the door and began her routine.
Morissa dug into her bag and withdrew first her cosmetics. These she arrayed randomly on her counter space before the huge mirror. The mirror was surrounded with light bulbs. She chose her layers of costume, one by one. She put them on carefully. She had practiced several times, to be assured that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself in the spotlight.
Morissa sat with the black girl, who still wore only her robe. It fell open, and that was ignored because it didn’t matter. Morissa learned that she was called Blue, and that she was transsexual. They passed a joint back and forth. Blue assured Morissa that the smoke would improve her routine, and she’d enjoy it more. They heard a burst of applause as the dancer on stage finished her routine with a revealing spread that earned her $25 for 5 seconds of exposed vagina.
Morissa prepared for her first performance. She was eager to see the smiling, eager faces in the audience, as they appreciated her body and her dancing. Of course, she planned to expose her vagina. She didn’t care about the $25 bonus. She enjoyed the rush of excitement she gets when she’s sexually bold, anywhere in her life.
Her music began. Frank Sinatra sang, “You Make Me Feel So Young”. Morissa flung the stage door open and strode on her long legs into the spotlight at center stage.
The hostess was a former model and a friend of my wife’s. My wife was an art director and many of her friends and associates were models, photographers, designers and other assorted phonies. My wife, I learned too late, was the Queen Phoney over all other phonies. So we went to the dinner party at the interesting old home of the boring old model.
I found out after I got there that the party was a bon voyage affair for a man who was moving to New York for an interesting job as a writer for a news magazine. His wife was to move with him of course. I looked across the table at Mrs. News Writer and was not able to stop looking at her. She was Israeli I was told. Her face was stunning, her complexion was smooth and tawny and something made me desire her. Her name is Rebekah.
I hope you’ve experienced that kind of thing so you’ll understand what happened to me. I looked into her eyes, dark and deep as an ocean. She spoke with a knowing smile, her voice low and throaty yet I could hear her in spite of the conversations going on around us. I didn’t notice if her husband noticed that his wife and I were flushed with unexpected and unwanted stimulation.
“Arthur is leaving in two days,” she said. “I’ll stay here while he finds a home in New York. I’ll fly down and we’ll make the final choice together. Then I’ll come back here for a couple of weeks to arrange the rental of our home and moving of our belongings to the new place.”
“Do you have kids to put into school there?” I said.
“My kids are adults,” She said. “One’s in university and the other is in the military.”
“You look much too young,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. Conversations around the table had quieted as a next course of the meal was served. I was embarrassed to think that everyone had been listening to our conversation, although nothing out of line was said. I’m sure the intellectual mating dance was obvious to all, with the possible exception of her husband. He seemed to be oblivious to the incredible hotness of his wife.
“Where is your home here?” I said. “Perhaps I’d like to rent it from you when you’re ready to rent it.” My wife heard that and glared at me. I didn’t care. I’d already decided I was done with her phoniness, and had to move on.
She gave me her address and phone number and asked me to call first if I decided to look at the place so she could make it nice. I said I would, and we dropped the dance of seduction we’d been doing below the surface. We returned to the general gab around the table while we enjoyed really excellent squab. The hostess graciously accepted my compliments on the meal. My wife later told me that the hostess hadn’t cooked it, just ordered it from a caterer. It came with the uniformed servant who had brought the courses to the table.
Three days later I left the office at noon and drove to the address that Rebekah had given me. I called ahead from the car and she told me it would be convenient for her as well. She opened the door in a white terrycloth robe, a white towel wrapped around her head, drying the just washed hair.
“I wanted to be nice and clean for you,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re a cunnilingus kind of man.” I was caught off guard and hesitated a moment before I replied.
“You’re right,” I said. “Perhaps you’re a fellatio kind of woman, so please show me where the shower is.
We enjoyed each other that way three or four afternoons each week, until she moved to New York. It had to end, so it was just as well. My wife and I split up as we would have anyway. I enjoy my freedom, but I miss Rebekah.
It was never my intension to be a Transition Man. In fact, I didn’t know I was one until a woman told me I was. Even stranger, I actually never heard of Transition Men until Judy said it to me. She was a very beautiful, tall, slender married suburban mother of two teenage children. She popped up on my monitor back when I had ICQ on it.
“Hi!” she wrote. “This is Judy in Chi.”
“Hello. How did you know I would know what Chi is?” I wrote back.
“Everybody knows Chi is Chicago, don’t they?” she wrote.
“I don’t know what everybody knows,” I wrote.
As time passed, we corresponded, and I guess we both liked what we read from each other. She told me she’d married a guy who had been a platonic friend in high school. Such a pal, it seems, that he took her out to lunch the day after she lost her virginity to some other guy, I assume. Somehow, they eventually married and had first a daughter and then a son, both of who were teenagers and in high school. Her husband had grown indifferent to her, and I suspected he had an outside lover. I still can’t understand a man who would grow indifferent to a truly beautiful woman with a remarkable body and flawless skin. One thing that especially drew me to her was her desire to do ‘everything’. She had a movie-star kind of face, a lovely body with large breasts and nipples, long legs that were very attractively shaped. Long black hair was a perfect top to the whole.
We grew to trust each other, and even feel strong affection for each other on line. Eventually, I had a good excuse to go to Chicago, and after I was checked in to my hotel room in the Ritz Carlton, I wrote to her with details of where I was. She wrote back about her estimated time of arrival, and I prepared by stripping down and putting on my Japanese silk robe. She tapped lightly on the door and I welcomed her in. She was just as beautiful as the photos she’d sent, and I hoped I measured up to the photos I’d sent to her. Apparently, I did.
I undressed her and lay her across the bed and lowered my face between her thighs. She made delightfully encouraging sounds, whimpers and moans mostly until the climax when she stifled a scream. She lay on the bed in a magnificent living graphic pose of beauty, her eyes closed as she recovered from her intense convulsions. I looked down at her in appreciation of her alabaster skin against the dark pattern of the hotel bedspread. I removed my silk robe and draped it over her. I sat at the obligatory hotel room corner table and sipped coffee I’d made with the hotel’s in-room equipment.
Looking at Judy, I was able to fully appreciate how fortunate I was that this fine, lovely, neglected woman permitted me to enjoy these special moments with her. I was attracted back to her internal sweetness and had a sudden impulse. I held hot coffee in my mouth and swallowed it at the last second before I put my lips and tongue on her. She caught in her breath at the feeling and almost immediately had another series of spasms.
As she left the room, five hours later, she said, “I never knew one could make love all day.” Now she knew it.
We met in this way once each month for about a year. During that time, she moved ahead to leave her husband and kids. She found an apartment not far from them with an extra room should they want to visit her overnight. She did not force the sale of their mutual home at that time.
When the affair had run its course, I was becoming interested in a woman closer to home. Judy and I met a final time, happily. I thanked her for the wonderful hours of love-making, and the new ‘firsts’ she had shared with me. She thanked me for being there for her, restoring her excitement in making love, and also the ‘first time’ things we explored together. Finally, she thanked me for being her ‘transition man’, from stilted married woman’s life to a level of freedom and adventure.
If you have ever known a person who seemed to be untouched by scenes and situations that affected your emotions strongly, you have known a sociopath. The person that feels no regret after having cheated, stolen and lied, and left anxious victims in difficulty, is a sociopath.
A young woman that worked as an office temp also had a night job. She took advantage of her pulchritudinous form and love of dance to work as a stripper. She was not driven to this profession by desperation. She was, by nature, an exhibitionist. No profession is more suited to an exhibitionist than is exotic dancer. She felt no shame nor fear, she felt only the eager admiration from the men in her audience.
She did not perform in bars with platforms and poles for the girls. One could not legally strip down to absolutely nothing in bars. For that reason alone, she danced only in theatre settings. She loved the thrill when she revealed her vagina, surrounded with trimmed hair. She was elated when she saw the stunned faces of the men in the first few rows.
She earned good fees for her office work, she did very well at her night work, and earned voluminous tips there, as well. When approached by an audience member outside the theatre, she might pause to acknowledge him, or she might just brush past him to slide into the waiting taxi. On the other hand, if he was good looking, well dressed, felt warm and sincere and spoke with a nice voice and good diction, she might pause a moment to chat.
In the case of Paul Nealand, she paused because he seemed to fit the bill. His eyes were a penetrating, dark blue. He spoke like a man with an education, in a voice that was like a quiet rumble. He asked if he could take her to supper. She considered it for a moment. She liked the way he looked into her eyes while they talked. The waiting taxi took them to the Bristol Steak House, where they talked of life and ate very lightly.
Paul fell in love with her. She told him she didn’t know what love is. He suggested they live together and he could help her to know love. Devoid of feelings, she agreed to live with him if he paid the way. He agreed, and the woman quit her day job and rejected any offers of temporary positions. She became a permanent stripper on the circuit, and lived life as she chose.
She had no feelings, as she is a sociopath. It didn’t trouble her to tell Paul that she’d enjoyed several lovers while away for a week, performing in another city. Paul had expected such behaviour and had hoped to avoid it by being devoted and productive. Still, the blow was delivered in an arrogant way, as if she was sure she had Paul totally under her control. Her cold cruelty diminished his feelings toward her, and he soon expelled her from his home.
He heard from her several years later. She called to gloat that she was marrying a successful lawyer who had just bought her the new Mazda RX8 from which she was calling. He congratulated her, and asked her to forget that she’d ever known him. She asked him why. She was shocked. He pointed out that she was dishonest, a sneak, promiscuous and lacking sincerity. She claimed that she couldn’t help it. He knew that, so he agreed, and hung up.
She called one last time. The new lawyer/husband had thrown her out of his home, and she had no place to go. Paul told her that he was sure she could sell herself to another victim, and hung up forever.
Imagine a gorgeous model, making her successful way through a life of glamour. There comes an occasion when she sees an older man. People seem to gather around him. Melania wonders why. She finds him quite unattractive, like the fabled ‘Ugly American’. He is, in fact, quite ugly, with a radiant, orange face and a hairstyle like an Orangutan.
“Why is that homely oaf in the baggy suit getting all that attention?” she wonders aloud. A nearby servant overhears her.
“He has several billion dollars,” the servant says, “and many New York buildings. He even has a personal Boing 747 jet plane. They say it’s lined with gold.”
“What’s his name?” Melania asks.
“Trump,” the servant says. “Donald J. Trump.”
“Thank you,” says Melania. She puts her drink down on a table and snakes her way across the room to the object of her fancy. “Oh, Mr. Trunk,” she says.
“It’s Trump!” he says.
“Oh, Mr. Trump,” she says, “I’ve been a follower of yours for a long time. I’m so pleased to finally meet you in person.”
“You should be pleased,” Trump says. “Everybody wants to meet me. I have thousands of people trying to meet me. Putin, Churchill…”
“Uh… Churchill’s dead,” Melania points out.
“Oh, I didn’t hear. I’m sorry,” Donald says. “I was wondering why he didn’t return my calls.”
“He’s been dead a long time,” she says.
“He didn’t call for a long time,” Trump shrugs. Meanwhile, Melania smiles sweetly as Donald grasps her vagina and kisses her mouth with his suction cup lips.
“Oh, Thank you Mr. Trump,” she says.
“Call me Donald,” he says. “Let’s get married.”
“Yes, let’s,” says Melania, with a girlish blush.
Does this make Melania Trump, soon to be first lady of America, the most expensive whore in the USA?
My granddaughter calls her vagina her ‘nunu’. She says that boys’ nunus have cookies in them. It’s the confused, innocent point of view of a four year old. When we get older we might become comfortable with our bodies. Teen age years are filled with confusion and insecurity, so they’re not ready, but later. I’m sure it’s different from individual to individual when they’re ready to get friendly with their privates.
I’m thinking of renaming my penis. He’s been known for decades as ‘Little Willie’. It’s too common, and is the usual name of penises on British school boys. I haven’t come up with an original yet appropriate name for Little Willie. However, my tongue is famous as Riccardo, and there’s no reason to change his name.
Do you name your penis, tongue, or vagina? I think it’s a good idea. It’s friendlier than simply referring them by their anatomical names: my penis; my vagina; my tongue. That sounds too indifferent for one so close to you.
A penis might be called ‘Big Joe’, ‘Sweet Harry’, or ‘Slim’. A vagina might enjoy being called ‘Daphne’, ‘Rose’, or ‘Lily’. A tongue invites a more exotic name; ‘Andre’, ‘Dominic’, or ‘Gaetan’. Female tongues could be ‘Belle’, ‘Lady’, or ‘Ilse’. It’s just something to think about.