transretrogurl

WARNING! I’m feeling very feral at the moment and this blog is pretty spicy. Normal fashionista service will be restored but this post is definitely NSFW. Here be dragons, as they say….

This post has been brewing for a long time; lots of caveats before you start reading. This won’t be ‘safe for work’, as they say, because I’m in a feral mood (more of that in a moment). Also, if you have any hang-ups around sexuality this probably won’t be the post for you. To put it simply I tend to live on somewhat of a spectrum when it comes to urges; there’s always a part of my brain that is craving the act of dressing, it’s been there since I was four years old (and isn’t related to sexuality/sex-drive at all). At the other end of the spectrum I can, occasionally, be terribly horny and the way my mind is wired means that is something else. I call it the ‘feral’ side. Today I am incredibly feral and hence I can finally get the blog post written.

Before we get going though; fantasies are perfectly healthy. It doesn’t matter what the little bit of your brain that has been bruised and indoctrinated into other people’s opinions tells you, your body wants what it wants. For the majority of people (and I’m not going to use the term ‘normal’; not only am I feral today I’m feeling bolshy towards the world in general – in an ideal situation where 80% of my brain wasn’t catholic guilt I’d understand that normal is me) fantasies are linked directly to the act of sex; their brains are wired for breeding, no offence, and the usual tropes of lingerie, a little naughtiness, oral sex outdoors, the works, are good enough to satiate that singing voice inside that needs some form of satisfaction.

We all need fantasies. Oddly enough if you ever, and I have, acted on these fantasies you find that 9 times out of 10 the reality is nothing like the fantasy and destroys the power of it. You tend to remember the crap bits and associate them with the fantasy from then on; you effectively spoil it.

And that’s the odd quandary of the whole fantasy thing. I have an amazing imagination (she says modestly), I can conjure up the sensations and tactile feelings of a fantasy and often that’s enough to give me the satisfaction I need.

And I need to get it out there; by satisfaction I do mean sexual gratification. I’m lucky/unlucky enough to class myself as asexual; it doesn’t mean I don’t get urges (and I get serious urges that literally stop me thinking) but I’m not turned on by the idea of sexual intercourse with a man or a woman. For me the fantasies are all situational, all stories that have a delicious twist to them that gives me that little warm thrill.

And going back to my original point; I believe my messed up puberty interfered with my association of dressing and other factors, which I’ll explain in a moment. I promise this won’t be a dry, Freudian blog post; far from it, this may be one I have to take down at some point. But it’s worth quickly understanding the root of my fantasies.

As I said, I’m on a spectrum. There are days when I wake up and the thought of posing, delicately, dressed in a full maternity dress with a fake baby bump, is a huge turn on. There are other days when I wake up and the idea of wrapping my lips, heavily made-up with red lipstick and oversized, around a huge erection is not only a turn-on but a compulsion. Until the point of release (and yes, I masterbate a lot which is another indication of an over-sexed mind) I can’t focus on anything else. And there are days when I wake up wanting cheese.

The brain is like that. There are days when I am absolutely feral and there are days when there’s no urge at all. It comes and goes in waves. In the old days (i.e. less than five years ago) the shame of some of the fantasies was almost unbearable. Listening to all the programming from society and childhood gave me the impression that to even think of these kind of intimate encounters (always dressed as a woman) made me broken, socially outcast, the works. It’s got a lot better, to the point I can actually type ‘I took him into my warmth, wet mouth’ without having to beat myself up internally for days.

And it comes and goes. I used to call it the ‘monthly’, or even ‘my period’ when I was feeling particularly naughty. Going to be honest though, with myself and with you, dear reader; none of my feral periods entail any fantasies of being with a woman. One of the lovely things about baring your soul to yourself first is that I am 100% sure my efforts to be a masculine heterosexual person (i.e. ‘normal’, even though I promised not to use that term) required way too much energy to sustain.

I was talking to a dear friend of mine this weekend and I told her that I’ve finally realised just how much effort I have put in my entire life in *not* acting the way my brain wants me to. Every masculine nuance, every ‘joke with the lads’, every copious drinking session, I’m working massively hard behind the scenes not to let my wrist droop, not to cross my legs in that lovely way that forces a tuck, not to bat my eyelids. All those mannerisms are natural to me and I exert so much energy pretending they are not.

Complete aside but when I am doing a photoshoot I just relax the guards; all the pose, smiles, mannerisms, they are all hard coded into my soul. It’s a lot of work pretending to be male.

Anyway, fantasies…..

For a long time my fantasies were (and still are, not going to pretend) about complete emasculation. The idea of being down on my knees in a dress, fully made-up, giving pleasure to a man is all about release, all about giving up the pretence of masculinity. For a long while there was a serious sado-masochistical edge as well; being forced to be the woman by a strong man factored a lot into quick (and guilty) little fantasies. That is directly attributable to the guilt and urges growing up seen through a filter of toxic-masculinity. But as I said, fantasies are fine (as long as you don’t try to live them out, especially the rougher ones). It’s a way for our minds to let off steam in a way that gives us pleasure.

It’s also worth pointing out a mantra I’d love to live my life to; whatever happens between consenting adults is perfectly fine. I put a lot of labels on my pictures describing role-playing with my boyfriend (I don’t have a boyfriend, again just a fantasy) and it’s all ‘we were playing mommys and daddys’ and ‘my boyfriend wanted a proper 1950’s stay at home wife’. Still a degree of S/M to it. I have no idea where or why the idea of pure emasculation turns me on so much but it tends to be my goto place for feral fantasies.

But as I said, on some days I can calm the howling beast by staring at pictures of me wearing Marks and Spencers modern dresses; seeing a picture of me where, if I looked quickly and then looked away, I just see a normal woman, fashion conscious, attractive. Some days that is enough. And others it’s going to the Wayout club specifically to pick up a man for late night, down and dirty, hotel sex. And again, some times it’s just a really good Cheddar.

There are some standouts though, and in the throes of a feral moment I thought I’d share.

The Strip Club

I was obsessed for a while with those kinky vids you occasionally see of a hen-night at a strip bar; well dressed and slightly tipsy women that you wouldn’t expect to be there taking it in turns to laugh and lick cream off of naked stripper’s members. And I fantasised (and still do) of going to one of these evenings as Sarah. Sitting nervously with friends, maybe genuine girls, in the front row as a muscular hunk dance and removes his clothes in front of me. Seeing him shake up the can of cream, apply a dollop to the end of his you-know-what. Having the girls encourage me as I shake my head and say no, only to have his hand on the back of my head pull me close. Listening to the hoots and hollers as I take it into my mouth and swallow the sugary cream, pulling back with a little blush on my face as the stripper bends down to give me a kiss.

Just another one of *those* girls at one of those parties. For some reason that fantasy was (and is) just a rush; the normal naughtiness of it combined with, well, the pretence of being just an average girl on a night out.

The Weekend Wife

Oh lord, this one is a doozy and basically is my goto for relief and release when the feral mood is on me. Finding someone who is willing to fully roleplay the husband/wife dynamic for a whole weekend. Hiring an apartment or, even better, going to his place. Not letting him see me in drab, spending the entire time as a married couple. Rings, maybe even getting a registrar in to start with and having a little ceremony, getting a certificate. Taking care of him the way my mind says a traditional wife would; the cooking, the cleaning. Watching a romantic movie together as we cuddle. Sharing a bed.

Calling each other pet names. The little things that a man and woman in love would do.

Sometimes the fantasy extends a little; having a dinner party with another couple (where the couple are actually a man and a woman). Having a wife to wife chat with the other woman during the evening. Completely adopting the two couple dynamic. This one ticks a load of boxes for me; not only am I fulfilling the role of a woman for a man, combining it with another couple accentuates the differences.

The Oral Fixation

I don’t know where to being with this one. For those who follow me on Fetlife (where I put up a lot more naughty, risque and pure erotica pictures) you’ll know I have a bit of a fixation. In my mind it is the boundary I have yet to cross; satisfying a man sexually using my mouth. For some reason it ticks all my ‘naughty’ boxes; it’s the ‘once you have done that you will never be able to go back’ thrill.

I have a sneaking suspicion I have done it in the past. I have too many vivid dreams of the sensation, the taste, the feel of a man’s hands on my head, that feel way too much like a suppressed memory as opposed to a vivd fantasy. If so it would explain a lot. Either way it’s an almost painful compulsion and my mind goes to that fantasy a lot when I’m not thinking or directing it.

The whole intimacy of the situation is huge, if you’ll pardon the pun, for me. The idea that a man would be aroused by the way I look or behave, and the submission of giving him pleasure is an adorably kinky rush.

I’ve had a lot of drunken conversations with girlfriends (friends as opposed to partners) where the subject of oral sex has come up. The majority of women don’t seem to like it; it’s seen as being a little demeaning, a little one-sided in the pleasure that is derived and, well, a little down and dirty. All of which feed into my fantasies; again, there’s a lot of self-hate and emasculation behind the scenes, or at least there used to be. Now it feels a lot more of a natural progression down the route I’m on.

Out of all the fantasies this one feels like the one I would life out and not regret it. In the past, post-orgasm, I’d feel a lot of shame at being turned on at the idea, but now it feels, without being able to aptly describe it, warm.

It’s taken a long time to be comfortable in myself with these fantasies; I don’t create them, they come to me naturally. When I surf porn (and yes, I surf porn; growing up in the 70s and 80s it was illicit and now being able to do a Google Search for ‘crossdresser date night’ and getting taken straight to Pornhub or Xhamster? Still blows my mind, if you’ll pardon the pun again) I can’t help but think of myself performing the role of the person I am watching. The fantasy of doing a professional porn shoot has popped up a number of times.

The thing is this; these are delightful fantasies and, as I said, realising them negates what they are. I actually went on a date with someone male as Sarah back in March to see what it was like; he was an utter gentleman, cooked me a meal, we drank a little too much, talked until the late hours and finished with a cuddle and some kissing. And that was perfect; I had the opportunity then and there to live out some of the fantasies and my mind, even under the influence of a lot of alcohol, gently said no. Getting that close to realising a fantasy and understanding that the fantasy is what gives the pleasure is an interesting and eye-opening epiphany.

I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think of going further, but a part of me didn’t want to be ‘she sleeps around on a first date’. Bless.

Anyway, as I said, this one is not safe for work, which is ironic if you got to this point before realising that. I’m deeply in the throes of a feral moment; it may pass tomorrow, it may last all week. It’s just a case of ride it while it is here.

Stay beautiful and remember that your fantasies are what gives your life that little bit of kinky spice that makes it worth living.