The Inverted Girl 2 free porn video

Chapter Two: Now and Then The first thing I want to tell you is, I'm not really gay. I know you're laughing. But the truth is when I walk down the street, I don't look at men, I don't find them attractive. I look at women. The way they dress, the way they move, the way they act. I want to be like that. I want to be sexy and beautiful, too. And men? Well, men are only there to make me feel more like a woman. To make me feel real. So, I tolerate men. I suck their cocks, I let them fuck me in the ass because that's what women do. But I don't find them attractive. I find women attractive. * * * So, here I am, lying on a beach towel in a black bikini, many years later but still the same silly girl inside. I still look cute, thanks to Botox and Radiesse and Voluma, I have big cheeks and plump lips and no frown lines when I frown (which isn't all that often because I like to think of myself as an upbeat gurl, or whatever it is I am after all this time, all these years...) I'm working on my tan and thinking about the past, who I was back in 1983, what New York City was like back in the day when I was a young, androgynous boy or whatever, listening to Lou Reed, hey baby, take a walk on the wild side, and David Bowie, rebel-rebel put on your dress, rebel-rebel your face is a mess... encouraging me to be the girl I was meant to be deep down inside... So, like I said, I was going to write about New York City in 1983 and all the crazy strange stuff that happened to me downtown in the hip art scene that dominated so much of lower Manhattan at the time. I was going to write about Madge and me and J. Michel making love on a giant canvas in his studio in Soho, then getting high and making love again... me and Madge (a young singer at the time... wild, carefree...) and J. Michel a crazy painter I admired... our naked bodies covered in paint, rolling back and forth on a canvas... I was going to write about that and those crazy times at the Mudd Club, dancing 'til dawn, dancing in fountains, acting like I was Audrey Hepburn playing Holly Golightly, the cute gamine star of Breakfast at Tiffany's... me and Madge and J. Michel hanging out in the East Village circa 1983, that was the scene I was picturing in my silly-little head... But then I watched a documentary about Jeffery Epstein; that crazy sexual vampire... that superrich rapist of young teenage girls... and I started having what you might call politically incorrect fantasies... about being one of those underage teenage girls trapped on Jeff's private island in the U.S. Virgin Islands (how ironic) and that got me hot because I'm a willing victim, I have always been a willing victim... at least in my sexual life and my fantasies... which have always been a bit extreme... and don't fit into neat little boxes... with appropriate pronouns attached... So that side-tracked me from my autobiography, such as it was, my memories of Madge and J. Michel in NYC... thinking about the past... and how I became the way I am... how it all started... a long time ago... I was just a little boy, seven or eight years old, I guess, living in the suburbs outside of Philadelphia... best friends with a boy named Jeff, who lived down the street and had a sister named, Jody, who was older and bigger than me. I don't know why she did what she did. Maybe Jody was just mean. Or maybe there was something about me, something I did, something I said that brought out the mean in her... like maybe there was about my pheromones that drew her to me. I mean, who really knows why we do what we do... it's hard enough just to keep my figure and smile... let alone try to figure out all the secret psychosexual dynamics inside a child's mind. All I really know for sure is that one day we were playing upstairs, in her house. It was just me and Jody and some of her little girlfriends. And for some reason she decided to make me wear a dress. I didn't want to do it. I fought back. I wriggled and squirmed while her girlfriends pinned me down. She forced the dress over my head and buttoned it up in back. Then she dragged me into a little attic clothing closet and locked the door. I was mortified. Humiliated. Locked inside a closet full of dresses, begging, please, oh please, let me out. Only if your good, she laughed. I'll be good, I promise, I cried. So, she let me out of my little cage. But she wasn't done with me yet. No, she decided her parents needed to see me like this. So, she and her girlfriends dragged me, pushed me, pulled me down the stairs, while I tried to escape, but I couldn't escape. Then they shoved me into the vestibule. Her parents were having a little early-evening, late- afternoon lunch-or-dinner-party or something; sitting at a table with a bunch of other grownups, having a good time, when suddenly they saw me, a little boy with long brown hair wearing a pretty pink party dress, standing in the foyer. And they all stopped talking for a moment. While I stood there totally mortified. Totally shocked. And yet, at the same time, wildly excited. The shock and the shame and the excitement all became one. Then I broke free of the girls who were holding me and I ran back upstairs. That was the first time I wore a dress. And it left a very big impression on me. After that, I started dressing up in secret... going through my mother's things in the attic, putting on her slips and shoes... and gazing at myself in the mirror... I couldn't help myself... I don't know why... but I wanted to... I needed to feel what I felt when Jody pushed down those stairs in a dress... I mean, I wanted to feel sexually humiliated again... I mean, that was a pivotal moment, for sure... but now, many years later, lying on the beach at Fort Tilden, working on my suntan in a little black string bikini, thinking back to how it all started... I don't really believe that moment made me who I am today... no, I think there is something inside us too, that makes us who we are... and I can't help but think that even then, as a little boy, there was something in me that wanted to be erased, ruined and destroyed... made to act like a girl... and be treated like a girl... call it a masochistic bent or something else... call it whatever you want... but it only got worse with adolescence. That's when I really started dressing up a lot--in secret--whenever my parents went out, whenever I was alone in the house, I would put on lingerie and lipstick and masturbate in the mirror... looking at this little hippie boy-girl wearing flowers in her long brown hair... that's me... listening to the Velvet Underground... wishing I was the lead singer Nico, a beautiful icy-blonde with beautiful pouting lips... and I'm, what, thirteen- years-old at the time? Listening to Lou Reed sing, whiplash girlchild in the night... sneaking upstairs... reading my father's pornography, hidden in a small locked closet in the attic (but I found the key hidden in his desk...) reading all sorts of dirty stuff that he kept hidden from us... I was most attracted to the stories about big-breasted dominant women who made men do things they didn't want to do--or said they didn't want to--or they were forced to do... despite themselves... until the one day, I discovered a book called Miss High Heels among my father's classic porn collection (which he displayed on a bookshelf in his attic office, since this was, like Kraft-Ebbing, of academic interest, not plain old porn). It was a story about a rich teenage boy with some evil female relatives... and a strict domineering governess... who transformed the boy into a girl. They made him wear fancy knickers and spanked him on the behind when he was bad and laced him into tight corsets... until finally he became what they wanted him to be: a docile, pliant effeminate toy... while his stepmother and her lady friends took over the family fortune... which should have rightfully been his... had he been any kind of man at all and not a simpering sissy-ass bitch-boy like me... I jerked off to that story over-and-over as a teenage boy, thirteen-fourteen years old... I wanted to be Miss High Heels... and so, you see, I was a very mixed-up child, growing up... until the day I finally graduated from high school, one year early (I was a real smarty-pants) and hitchhiked to Los Angeles... where I changed my name from Mathew Gerald Greene to Epiphany Valentine Smith... though I fluctuated back and forth for a while... between him and her... Epiphany and Mathew... though my mother always called me Maddie. And now here I am today, may years later, lying on the beach in a string bikini, planning to write about my life in New York City back in the early 1980s... when everybody was young and free... but finding myself distracted instead by these fantasies of me and that sexual vampire Jeffery Epstein... the point being that I'm still a mixed-up- crazy-twisted-boy-girl even now, after all this time... it seems like I just can't help myself. And yet, I don't want to be defined by my sexuality. I mean, I'm more than my sexuality. I mean, an orgasm lasts a just few seconds at most, and then what? Then you have to fill all the time between orgasms, so to speak, with the rest of your life, doing other stuff. And yet, it seems to me, like I've spent a lot of life my struggling with all those sexual feelings that drove me crazy, especially when I was young and full of hormones that kept me aroused and excited almost all the time. Now I don't get hard too much anymore. And I don't really care. I mean, why do I need to get hard? All I have to do is spread my legs, lift my butt and let someone put something into me. Which is fine--though most of the time I don't have actual sex, I mean, I'm sort of celibate now--though I still look hot for my age, and people still hit on me (or they did, pre-Covid 19) when I go to a fetish club or a trannie bar; some man or woman will usually cozy up to me. I mean, I still look like I'm 39 or 40 in a semi-darkened bar, if you're half-drunk and I'm wearing a corset to give me a nice little shape... I mean, men still want to fuck me... and women do too, if I'm in a lesbian bar like the Cubbyhole... women flirt with me and buy me drinks, ask me for my number and say they want to keep in touch... but I don't usually keep in touch... because my life is complicated enough without a lot of new entanglements. A one-night stand... that?s okay... but I don?t really need a lot of new people in my life... not now, not anymore... I?ve known too many people as it is... and they?ve all left their mark on me... like the red roses tattooed on my lower back... like the butterfly tattooed on my left ankle... like the poem tattooed on my side... tyger, tyger burning bright in the forests of the night... like the tramp stamp on my butt, Bad Girl... like Madge and J. Michel back in 1983... the three of us naked, squirming on a giant canvas, our bodies smeared with water colors... licking... fucking each other in J. Michel?s Crosby Street studio filled with stupid, crazy paintings that looked like the work of an idiot child but which changed the course of art history and are worth millions of dollars now... like the painting we made squirming naked on that canvas which J. Michel subsequently painted on and painted over... which sold, just a few days ago, at Sotheby?s auction house for $26.7 million dollars... I feel like I should get commission for that, don?t you? I mean, part of me is imprinted there on that canvas forever... and I can still remember the three of us back then, laughing, snorting coke and heroin, drinking champagne... fucking in the candlelight... while David Bowie sang in the background, hot tramp I love you so... Yes, New York City was a lot of fun back in the day. And now here I am today, lying on a pink beach towel in the Rockaways (Fort Tilden to be exact... which is nice and empty today) trying to maintain my social distance and still maintain my mandatory tan lines, intending to write about stuff like me and Madge and J. Michel... but instead I got sidetracked watching a documentary about Jeffrey Epstein and started fantasizing about being one of those underage girls that he used and abused so heartlessly. And I have to admit that part of me... a big part of me... would like him or someone just like him... someone rich and powerful, to life up my skirt and fuck me from behind... The age of consent varies from state-to-state. In New York it?s seventeen. The website Fictionmania prefers eighteen. The fact remains that I was quite young when things?sexual things?started happening to me. And unlike Jeffrey Epstein?s victims I never felt like a victim. No, I chose the path I partied on. Perhaps to my own detriment. But here I am, many years later, lying on a beach towel in a cute string bikini, thinking about all the stuff that I did and didn?t do... remembering and dreaming and thinking, this is how it should?ve been, could?ve been... I?m not condoning Jeffrey Epstein. I?m just saying that if I was in that position I would have willingly bent over and let him fuck me in the ass in exchange for female hormones and other perks. I would have readily become that girl because the whole thing... life... is just a fantasy really... So, now here I am... Jeffery?s massage girl... rubbing Jeffrey?s back, straddling him with my legs, digging my painted nails into his thick muscular shoulders, hearing him moan...of course it?s licentious and vile but I don?t care. I like the touch of money. And I?m willing to do anything to get it. I guess that makes me a whore. So what? I enjoy my new position. The Massage Girl. That?s who I am. That?s who I need to be. Deep down inside I want to be a slut in heat... all the time... a big-hipped girl rocking back and forth, taking it, taking it... that?s me... debased, degraded, a fat, soft, sexual creature, designed to please. I?m a bitch in heat, right? That?s what I tell myself and the auto-programming works. I become what I think I am, a big-breasted honeypot with a nice compliant smile... "Hey, baby..." I sashay past the home boys in the music video cars, my big booty bouncing... I?m one of those girls, popping, twerking, shaking my ass... I mean, that?s who I want to be... a big-ass bitch... you and me, homey... right? So, that?s the fantasy that gets me off... I?m a chick in a music video. I?m one of Jeffrey Epstein?s girls on his private island in the Caribbean... I am whoever you want me to be. A sexy twerking girl. Just trying to stay alive in a big bad world. Doing what I do. As best I can. Life is a party, after all. And I started partying a long time ago. I?m a pole dance girl. I?m a twerking-working gurl. It takes Botox and silicone breast implants and butt implants and lip plumpers and cheek plumpers to make me look this good. This real. But now I?m ready to shake my ass, y? all. In addition to watching the Jeffery Epstein documentary, I?ve been watching Spring Breakers. And I identify with the girls (of course). I want to be one of those girls in a string bikini on spring break forever, bitches! And I am, in fact, right now lying on the beach in a skimpy black PVC bikini... joyous and free... that?s me, y? all... just another beach bunny... looking for a good time, my butt slathered in coconut oil... bouncing up and down... that?s me in the cute little Playboy bunny suit... shaking my ass... that?s me down on my hands and knees crawling around... that?s me... cum dribbling down my chin... giggling... "Good girl." "Lick it up." "Like a doggie." That?s me. I?m a sexy, fucked-up creature, for sure, part boy, part girl, in a world where you?re supposed to be masculine or feminine, I am both at the same time, all the time... and so, here I am a million years later, lying on a beach, still working on my perfect tan, still dressing like a slut... nobody makes me do this... I do it to myself... I want to be that girl... caught on a private island... spread, splayed... hanging on the arm of a rich powerful man who shows me off to his rich powerful friends who laugh while he fucks me in the ass at Mara Lago with his buddy Donald J. looking on... watching us... chortling like a pig in shit... I?m cute and bouncing up-and-down in a black halter top and a pink wrap-around mini skirt... blonde and bimbo-licious... me, Jeffery and Donald J. (they were pals), just having fun, two-and-a-half boys together, having a good time, right? It is, after all, the early 1980s and girls just want to have fun... right? And now, here I am today, many years later, still a little sex kitten after all this time, still working on my perfect tan, lying on the beach listening to the waves as Covid 19 runs through the country like a tragic episode of Girls Gone Wild. I could talk about Donald J. and his peculiarities. But I won?t. That would be disgusting. Instead, I?ll tell you about Madge and me and J. Michel, the idiot savant artist with the golden cock, him and me and Madge in the early 1980s... New York City was a wild scene, full of crazy clubs and crazy people. I was still trying to figure out who I am. Just another party girl or something else? Sitting in the Yaffa Caf?, 4am, drinking a cup of coffee, playing with a silver spoon, after a long night at Webster Hall, asking myself the same eternal question, who am I? when Madge comes in, tired and frayed as well. And that?s how we meet, that night in the East Village. We started hanging out right away. Madge was fun and free, singing, dancing, driven and determined to rock the world, and J. Michel was equally fabulous, painting, painting all the time. New York City was a strange, mysterious playground. I had an apartment in Jersey City that I decorated in different themes... Jungle Queen (lots of cheap leopard prints), Mistress of Desire (shiny PVC). But the action was in Manhattan, with the graffiti boys and the tattooed girls, but I couldn?t afford Manhattan. I could afford Jersey City, which was not as fabulous as Soho but kind-of-sort- of- close (geographically) and so I did the best I could, hanging out downtown, living on the fringe of things... a no-talent non-girl with a pretty smile and a winning ?can-do? attitude... So, there I was in Soho with Madge and J. Michel. His cock reminded me of an eagle. Her pussy was like a serpent?s tongue. Sparkling. Inviting. Dangerous. I wore black lace. To be dramatic. We formed a little triangle, for a while, we were a threesome. Candles burning in J. Michel?s Crosby Street studio. "Let?s have fun!" People do a lot of stupid when they get high. Madge and J. Michel were making love; she was riding his cock, bouncing up and down, making sounds like, oh, oh, oh! And he was staring at the ceiling. Starry eyed. Stoned. High. Picturing things in his mind (I suspect). I was feeling a little left out, playing with myself, until Madge said, "Come here, baby..." and started licking on my titties. That was NYC back in day; a wild sexual wonderland full of punk rockers, Ru Paul, Grace Jones, trans gurls, trans bois, graffiti on the walls, people getting high, having fun. Andy W. acting aloof. Hello, Miss Thing. Like he was above it, not a part of it. All of us laughing, just laughing at the world, having a grand old time, like youth was everlasting, like nobody was dying anytime soon, and AIDs was not a thing. J. Michel is painting all this stupid shit and hanging out with Andy and I?m, like, not into that, not at all. I want to find a more stable scene than the Mudd Club and the Factory which is fading. G.G.s Barnum Room is fun for a while, but, honey, can you really live inside a circus forever? And the drugs are fun, of course. Studio 54 is fun, of course. Dancing with Grace Jones (me in a pink tutu, her in a blue sharkskin suit) is fun, and me getting fucked in the ass by a famous movie star, who shall remain nameless (even though he was super-hot in that disco flick, acting very butch in his white three-piece suit) that was fun, that was nice, but none of it lasted, none of it survived the moment... and neither will I... I?m sad to say. I?m going to die one day. Though I have no doubt the actual moment will still come as a big surprise to me, like, Oops, I didn?t do it again (to paraphrase Britney). But death is a long way off in 1983. In fact, I?m just getting started. * * * I have a little fling with Grace J. that summer. She?s a beautiful ebony woman with close-cropped hair who dresses more like a man than a woman, or a mix of the two, which I like, of course. And she likes me, a little mewling kitten. I get handed off to her at Studio 54 one night, and we hang out for a few weeks at the Chelsea Hotel... doing acid and blow... she likes to wear a dildo, it makes her feel strong, it makes her feel powerful, and she likes to fuck me in the ass with it while I?m dressed up in different costumes like a nurse, a secretary, a school girl, or even like a boy sometimes... then she takes me from behind, grinding her fake phallus into my a-hole, making me buck and squirm in my short white nurses outfit while she laughs and tells me I?m a stupid, silly white bitch... which is true, very true... So that?s me and Grace for a couple weeks, back in the day... people come and go all the time... New York City is like a carousel... and I?m the painted pony that so many different boys and girls just want to ride for a little while... before they hop off. Soon enough, Madge is a superstar, a goddess and I love her. I do whatever she tells me to do. And she is very demanding. Ruling her world with an iron fist. Making us dance over and over. It has to be perfect. And I want to be perfect for her. Dancing and shimmying in time to the music. Rome. London. Berlin. Our little traveling circus. Madge is the queen. The Constant Center of attention. I?m just a little glitter on the side. A sparkling distraction in a sequin g-string. It?s amazing how far she?s come, how fast she?s come to this point, this pinnacle of power. I?m just a handmaiden. A chorus girl. One of those figures in the background. I get dragged along because I?m faithful and J. Michel is dead. I?m like a charity project. A memento. I don?t mind. I smile when she looks at me from time to time. I?m flattered she still remember me, Epiphany, right? Madge is so awesome right now. She rules the world and I?m just one of her vassals or vessels, probably both. Anyway, I attend to Madge. I dance in the show. But she?s moving on. I can feel it. She wants something new. Not memories of the Lower East Side. And so, we drift apart, Madge and me, now that J. Michel?s gone, now that the Mudd Club is gone, there isn?t much left to hold us together. And so, I find myself drifting into the late 1980s... trying to reinvent myself, just like Madge. But I still remember J. Michel?s cock. It was strangely tilted, very impressionistic (he painted it pink and blue), very Jackson Pollack as he splattered his seed inside me, down there in his Soho studio, and told me I was a very strange girl. Well, duh! He was a strange boy, too. Everybody seems to be a little strange. Once you get to know them. * * * I met Mistress Crimson around the same time J. Michel died and Madge moved on from me and everything else in her past to become what she became, a global superstar, while I went on to become what I eventually became, a dumb blonde parody of myself performing in seedy clubs everywhere. But back then, in the late 1980s, I was still relatively innocent, pretty and vivacious. Mistress Crimson was looking for someone new to play with, so she put an ad in the Village Voice and the Soho News (remember them?), looking for a young crossdresser to help with various B&D scenes, and I answered the ad because I was lonely, I missed J. Michel, I missed being fabulous, so Mistress Crimson and I became friends. She was a tall, sexy professional dominatrix with blazing red hair. And I was like her little sex kitten. So, that?s what she called me. Kitten. "You are such a naughty girl." Mistress Crimson toyed with my nipples. "Why is that, kitten?" "I don?t know. I really don?t." I pouted, prettily. "But when I look in a mirror and see myself dressed like this... I just feel so sexy and hot that I do it again and again. I mean, I guess, I just can?t stop..." "That?s all right, sweetie." She smiled slightly. "I don?t care if you dress up. In fact, I want you to be a big sexy woman?just like you were meant to be. In fact, I?ll help you realize all your pretty little dreams." She laughed. "You?ll see. It?ll be fun. Here, I want you to take this." She put a shiny black capsule on the countertop in the kitchen. "What is it?" I felt a little uneasy. "Just a little something for anxiety. You worry too much. Now get a glass of water and take your pill. See, that didn?t hurt too much did it? No, I didn?t think so. It should take about fifteen minutes to kick in. So, in the meantime, be a doll and wash my dirty dishes, okay? I?m just so busy these days, I rarely get a chance to clean up. So, if you just do that, it would really help. That?s great. Here?s an apron. Yes, I know it?s girly, but that?s the point, isn?t it? Don?t you want to look pretty, sweetheart? Yes, I know you do, honey. Give me a kiss. Here on the cheek. That?s a good girl." And for some reason I couldn?t say no. Actually, I didn?t want to say no. I liked the way she treated me. I don?t know why, but I did. "That?s right, kitten, suck on my nipple." She told me. "Here, let me play with yours. "She rubbed and tugged on my nipples, making them hard. "That?s right, honey, moan for me, baby." I started to squirm. "Yes, this is who you really are." She whispered in my ear. "Now jiggle for me, baby." She smacked my butt and I squealed in surprise. "That?s right. Shake it, bitch. Work that moneymaker, kitten." I did the best I could. "Needs work." She laughed. "But you?ll get the hang of it, kitten. Practice makes perfect, sweetie. And I promise you, once we?re done, you?ll have a big round ass to shake for all the boys. And big boobies too. I personally guarantee it." "Really?" "Yeah, absolutely, honey." She shoved her tongue in my mouth. "You?re going to be my real-life sex doll." I found it hard not to come right then and there. "Here. Put this on." She handed me a shiny black corset. "It?ll give you a nice figure." I owe a lot to Mistress Crimson. She was the one who really encouraged me to be all I could be. She was the one who taught me how to pole dance. And she was the one who got me my first job working as a waitress, then a stripper at the Wiggle Room, because, she said, she saw ?real potential? in me. "You just need to let go, baby..." she pushed three fingers into my ass and worked them slowly back and forth. "Can you do that for me, honey?" "Yes, Mistress Crimson..." I licked my lips and wriggled my ass. "Now I want you to moo for me, baby, like a big girly cow... because that?s all you are, really, isn?t it, sweetie? Just a big dumb cow with big fat udders hanging down... and now it?s time to milk you, baby... squirt for me, baby... c?mon, baby, squirt!" * * * And now look at me. A coarse debased creature of my own imagination. Wrecked and ruined like Miss Havisham?s wedding cake, draped in cobwebs... trapped in the past... Or, look at me twenty years ago, standing in a backstage dressing room, surrounded by smoke and mirrors, feather boas, false eyelashes. The girl in the mirror, upon closer inspection, is not really a girl at all. Beneath the pancake makeup, the foundation, the rouge, the eyes, so alluring at first, are somewhat dull and dazed. A dark silent figure laces me into a corset. "Do I look okay?" "You look fine." "Are you sure." "Absolutely." "I feel a little, uh, over-exposed this way." "Just go with it, have fun with it." A dry, heartless chuckle. I was always told to follow your heart... and now look at me... a dumb blonde with big tits. Wiggling into a tight-fitting dress, drinking martinis, giggling and flirting, batting my lashes, doing my lips. Drawing the stares of all these men; working hard to keep their attention. My point is this: you have to be very careful when somebody says, follow your heart. You never know where it?s going to lead. That?s something I learned the hard way, honey. Now excuse me, I have to go on stage. The minute you walked in the joint... Spotlight, snare drum. I could tell you were a man of distinction... I stand on stage encased in a shiny blue rubber dress, singing, Hey Big Spender. My ass rotating like a piston under the skintight material, gleaming in the spotlights as I pace across the floorboards, a golden beehive wig on my head like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Glancing down, I saw a big black man in a racoon coat and a purple fedora, smoking a big Cuban cigar, drinking French champagne. He waved a fifty-dollar bill at me. And so, I sashayed over and let him stuff the money down the front of my dress. "Spend a little time with me!" I finished my act (to scattered applause) and went backstage where I put on a tight black satin dress, a pair of three-inch heels, and made my way back out to the bar, where I found my potential sugar daddy sitting at the same front row table. "Buy a lady a drink?" "Of course." He smiled. "I enjoyed your show." "Thank you ever so much." I lit a pink cigarette. "You?re quite welcome." He raised a glass. I gave him a sexy little pout. "God, you?re hot!" He grabbed my ass. And that?s how I met Bobby Mack. Bobby was a pimp, a big, fat, ugly pimp, but I kind of liked that; I mean, I liked it when he made me sit on his ample lap, laughing, drinking French champagne, wiggling my ass like a little toy poodle he kept on a leash. Soon enough, I quit my job at the Wiggle Room and moved into Bobby?s place where he was lord and master of his domain which consisted of me, Chi-Chi Dementia, Wendy Oh! And Suzy Blue. I was sexy, pliant, ditsy, vain. Of course, sometimes I misbehaved and then, well, I had to be punished. And we both enjoyed that. I mean he liked spanking me on my big white ass while I kicked my legs and pleaded, "Daddy I?m sorry!" And I liked it too. So, life was good for a little while. I worked nights for Bobby, on the streets, giving hand-jobs and blow-jobs to men driving around the Lincoln Tunnel. Bobby took the money and took care of me. Chi-Chi and Wendy were trannies too. Suzy Blue was Bobby?s bottom bitch. That meant she ran the house and told us what to do. She liked to point out the fact that she was a real woman with a natural- born pussy, while Chi-Chi, Wendy, and I were just a bunch of little sissy boys pretending to be women. She got a kick out of talking to us like that, reminding us we weren?t real, we were just imitation girls. And so inferior to her. That was fine with me. I liked the subordinate role. The only problem was, Bobby found a new girl, Latoya Doll, and when he did, he seemed to lose interest in me. I tried to reignite the flame?I changed my appearance, I played different parts?nurse, secretary, milkmaid. But it didn?t seem to work. "What?s wrong, Daddy?" "Nothing..." He yawned. "You don?t love me anymore?" "Of course, I do, kitten." "Well, you don?t act like you love me anymore. I mean, we used to go out... we used to have fun... but now we don?t do anything anymore... you spend all your time with Suzy Blue or Latoya..." Bobby chewed thoughtfully on a pig?s knuckle. "I?m sorry sweet-cheeks." He paused. "But me and Suzy Blue go way back. And Latoya?s new. So, I got to break her in. And you, well, you?re already broken in. So, just be a good girl, baby, and do what your Auntie Suzy tells you to do, okay?" "No, I want you to pay attention to me!" I stamped my foot. Bobby Mack just laughed. "Shut the fuck up, bitch." And then he smacked me on the ass. But the fact was, Bobby didn?t pay much attention to me anymore. He was distracted, inattentive, and so, I began to fret. What would I do if he threw me out? I was nearly 29 years old by then. My looks were fading. Every girl needed a backup plan, just in case true love let her down. But I didn?t have a backup plan. All I had was Bobby. "You heard the man." Suzy Blue smiled evilly at me. "Now mind me, girl. I don?t want to have to tell you this twice." She grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into her bedroom. "My pussy needs attention." And so, I attended to her needs. A few days later, I shifted my weight and resettled my buttocks on a red tasseled pillow where I sat curled up, cat-like, in a slinky red dress, watching Bobby devour a ten-pound lobster. I was appalled and fascinated by his gargantuan appetite, his constant need to eat everything in sight. "Daddy, I?m bored." I pouted. "Let?s gave some fun. Let?s go somewhere." "Shut the fuck up, bitch." He told me that a lot. I didn?t mind. I was used to it by now. I was used him telling me I was a dumb white bitch (it reminded me of Ritchie P., back in the day?see The Inverted Girl 1). I was used to him treating me like a child. And telling me what to do. It just sort of reinforced how I already saw myself. A stupid bitch with a big fat ass that people liked to use. Smile, bitch. Shake it, bitch. Do what you?re told, bitch. So now I was down and out, I suppose. Though I didn?t see a big difference between the way rich people treated me and the way poor people treated me. They all seemed to treat me like one of those rubbery inflatable sex dolls. They didn?t see me as a person. Or care what I thought. All they wanted to do was fuck me in the ass. And to use me like a piece of meat. Because that?s all I was to them, a fleshy, semi-human sex-hole-toy. And I suppose I have no one to blame for that but me. I mean, I could have said, no, at any point, but I didn?t. I just went happily down the drain. * * * Bobby was in a bad mood. And when Bobby was in a bad mood, I tried to stay as far away as possible. But it seemed like everything I did that day (the way I walked, the way I talked, the way I breathed) made him angry. So, he slapped me across the face. Then he dragged me by my hair into the bedroom where he threw me down on the bed and raped me because, like he always said, you?re a no-good lying bitch! He ripped my panties off. He flipped me over. He held my arms behind my back and he stuck his big black dick into my plump white ass; then he fucked me hard, saying, this is who you are, this what you are, this is all you?ll ever be... a stupid bitch... with big tits and a big ass! He held me by those hips and he rammed his cock into me, and I rocked back and forth and made little sounds like, "Oh, oh, daddy! Fuck me, Daddy! Please fuck me!" And that made me happy for a while. But like I said, I?m a twisted bitch, and nothing keeps me happy for long. I got tired of Bobby Mack and the whole pimp-whore dynamic. I figured there had to be more to life than a big black dick and a no- good man who me feel like a real woman from time to time... when he wasn?t mistreating me... I mean I couldn?t play that scene forever, right? Six months, a year at most. Then I started to think, what else can I be?