I wrote this piece originally for Fab! magazine (fall, 2005) for a regular autobiographical column I was writing called T-Girl. Some of the stories in the T-Girl columns went on to become my one woman play The Silicone Diaries. But lots of good ones did not. I love how brash and bold voice is in these pieces.
No envy, micropenises
“Derek” (a trifling I threw away…) Derek’s GHB high could make him horny enough to fuck a tranny or aggro enough to beat her. He was 6’3, 240lbs of muscle, with a face like young Harrison Ford—and we were already riding to his Rosedale home when I told him what I am. “Well, is your cock big?” he stammered. I tried to reassure him with a laugh, “No, you’re hardly going to notice it. It’ll be easy for you to pretend it’s not there.”
Two vials of G later, I took a deep breath and dropped my thong. He gasped and gripped his Calvin’s. The tiny white tent pitched between his legs couldn’t have been more than a 1/2 inch high and didn’t compare to me. Embarrassed for both of us, I blew him.
We woke up sober, and he served me smoked salmon. He asked to take me to dinner sometime. “I’d love to.” But I dropped his number in a Rosedale garbage can. I barely got through that night convincingly trashed on a few self administered doses of the date rape drug.
“Keith” (the same huge problem!)
When I became an escort, I used to entertain myself by giving small dicked guys extra large condoms to put on. When it wouldn’t fit I’d refuse to have sex with them. “Sorry, I don’t want to catch a disease from you.” I’d still take their cash.
But a new client, Keith, wanted to grind into my behind without actually penetrating me. I had more than enough volume in my silicone injected ass cheeks to keep his 1/4 incher outside of my body, and shame kept him from women who didn’t charge. Moved by charity, I ordered “Just don’t cum on me!” He came every week.
One day, he asked “Do you think a person can ever score love, real love, when they’re stuck with my equipment?” Hmm…as a tranny, I had uttered nearly the exact same words about myself.
“Mario” (my big chance?)
“You don’t need a sex change operation. You’re perfect how you are.” Mario took me for a drive after a week-end together. He joked that his Porsche 911 Turbo was an extension of his penis. He had less than ¼ inch, seemed comfortable with it, and owned an exotic car dealership.
He told me that doctors advised his parents that he should undergo gender reassignment surgery before he grew older than an infant. They theorized that being surgically altered as a young child and reared as a female would give him a better chance at a normal life. His Sicilian father refused. I was shocked doctors would take such extreme action and jealous he was offered a free sex change.
“Why don’t we see where things go between us?” He was everything I adored in a man –intelligent, sexy, rich and Italian, but he had a micropenis. I rejected romance and felt like a bit like a hypocrite.
“Chad” (…a little love and understanding)
Chad called me at a shemale sex phone line more for therapy than for getting off. He’d been married three times to women he loved dearly. His button-like penis could barely rub against their labial folds. Filling their vaginal cavities with battery powered plastic wasn’t doing it either. They left him with a nervous breakdown and an array of toys.
“Maybe you could be a bottom for a beautiful shemale?” I suggested that he could insert one of his wives’ dildos into his ass, while I whispered sweet nothings about anal fucking into the phone for five dollars/minute. Instead, Chad wanted to talk heart to heart. “Guys like me don’t go public and form a support group.”
He knew his wives had entered into relationships with him without much sexual attraction. That is what he found most painful. I thought back to the men I had known and a great breath heaved through me as I said, “They must have really, really loved you to do that.” “Thank you. It’s great to talk to someone who understands.”
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