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I went home, grabbed a shower, and got changed – see-thru black mesh shirt, black corset, black glittery burlesque skirt, black fishnets, rainbow socks (because socks with fishnets is a secret the sisterhood let me in on, and most men can conceive) and black stompy boots with red laces. Oh, and a 6″ beard and hair not nearly as good as Anson Mount’s, but what is? .

Folks, by the way I measure it, I look good.

I had a toke, popped a viagra, and called an Uber to the queer bit of my home city.

I went into the gay sauna (jacuzzi, saunas, play room, glory holes, sex swings), and got a locker, and popped out to walk around a bit. The Bear Bar is the only out-and-out gay bar in the area, and it’s very… Straight? It’s gay. Only gay. Not bi, not queer, not trans, not lesbian. Gay. I had a pint, realised I was a bit stoned, was struck dumb by the authority of a passing pedestrian (I’ll explain elsewhere), and walked down the street to a queer-friendly pub (with a rather charming trans server).

I got look at, commented on, stared at-and-away, and obvious snidey comments made. And I had my head up, shoulders back, owned the space, and eyeballed everyone.

You know what?

It made me hard. There was no hint of humiliation, there was not even fuck you. I’d perfected the shell. The exuding a full 10 on the confidence 1-10 thing.

And I’m in the pub, writing this, and by fuck, some fucker is gonna be sucking mummy’s cock tonight. And mummy’s cock up their arse. And mummy would quite fucking like their distribute of cock tonight too.

And I’m gonna make it happen.

NSFW: yes

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