“Yeah, that one,” he says as I browse eBay listings for leather motorcycle jackets.

I snort and look over the details of the listing. “It screams ‘butch lesbian’ to me. Are you sure?” The bidding also starts at $84.

“It wouldn’t be while I’m wearing it.”

Seth is a big guy; muscular, probably over six feet tall. I don’t know how much he weighs, but I know he wears black, and I know he wears leather motorcycle jackets, tight jeans, and combat boots. Or at least, that he wants to start wearing them.

We don’t have that dissimilar a taste in clothes, all things considered. Though I’d never wear the motorcycle jacket without him around, we both have a thing for boots, tight jeans, and getting things done. In fact, I count us lucky. There’s a lot we have in common, and a lot he doesn’t mind doing with a female body.

All in all we have a good relationship; it’s a lot better than it used to be. Before, he used to scare me. He’d take over for days at at time, run his mouth, drink his fill, and then when I could be run ragged no more, he’d disappear back into the ether, leaving me to clean up his mess. Then at 19 I went on medication that forced my body into something resembling menopause, and for a long time I didn’t hear from him.

About a month ago, he came knocking on the door again for the first time in 10 years.

I knew that knock. I knew the sound of his boots on the doormat, the timbre of his voice as he hummed something to himself.

I wasn’t scared this time, though. I was ready. I had language, and experience, and a little more wisdom than before. I had confidence and self-esteem. I’d had a hysterectomy and no longer hated my body.

“Well look at you,” he said quietly, genuinely pleased as I opened the door to let him in. There was no not letting him in. “You’ve certainly grown up since the last time we were together.”

“I’ve learned a lot.” He stepped in, and I watched him – his movements, his mannerisms. “And I had my surgery.”

Seth reached out to touch the tiny, dimpled scars on my hips. His fingers knew exactly where they were. “I know. And I think you know how happy that makes me.”

I smiled, and we sat down. We had a lot to catch up on.

That was last month.

He’s still here.

“You haven’t… disappeared like you used to.”

Seth shrugs, standing so close to me. He hasn’t left my side since I let him in. “We were both immature back then. Still kids.” He puts an arm around my shoulder, like a big brother might. “I’m really glad we spent the time apart. It gave us time to find out who we really were.”

My face twists up a little. “I still don’t know who we are, though. I thought I did, but…” I look down at the tattoo on my wrist: an alchemical symbol I once envisioned to be, what? My gender? At least it’s still the symbol for gold. A reminder that there is a kernel of something in me that never changes even if my pronouns might. “I don’t think I ever will,” I decide.

“Seems pretty obvious to me,” the big man shrugs. “But I was always the confident one.”

“I’m confident now, too.”

He flashes his whites and winks. “Good. I think we’ll finally be able to get along.”

And I think so too.

He’s looked over my wardrobe: hummed and hawwed over the vague unisex-ness of the t-shirts; keened over the punk, epaulet-ed “shit jacket”; had to hide his excitement at my still having a pair of men’s low-cut leather boots. “You were going to get rid of these?” he exclaimed. I shrugged. “I’d given up on you ever coming back.”

I put them on and he beamed with pride.

I have to set boundaries with him, though. He can be an irresponsible guest, though he’s matured over the years just as much as I have.

We’ve been having conversations about transition, or at least T. He presses the issue, and though I want to hear him out, I know that it’s a pipe-dream. I’m married to a straight man who I love dearly, and we have a life we want to live together. Seth has always had this way about him that could convince me of anything, but I think I know better. I don’t think he’s wired for that kind of total commitment. The both of us still need… the both of us.

He’s utilitarian, which helps, and he’s a little more vain than the rest of me is. If we can’t be the man he wants me to be inside and out, then he seems to be happy settling for making this the hottest body it can be, even if it still has tits and two holes. Him being gay and me being straight, we can at least both agree that being ogled by hot guys is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Right now, we’re taking things one day at a time.

I bought some exercise equipment: a pull-up bar and a set of resistance bands so I can get us a good back, chest, and arms. I also forked over for some testosterone-boosting, gym rat herbal supplements because why not. If it helps this ectomorphic frame build muscle a little easier, then I’d say it was worth it.

He wants me to start packing when he’s around, too, and he wants me to save up for a Feeldoe – the Stout model, of course. The unspoken worry I have is that this might be something that actually makes masturbation more appealing to me… as in, not having a cock has always been my main barrier to entry for enjoying dat jerk lyfe. (Let’s just say that my libido has been higher than normal since he’s been around, but I haven’t had any desire to masturbate with the equipment that I’ve got. Even PIV sex with the BF was unsatisfying, despite the raging hormones. The anal, though, felt exceptionally ‘right’.) More uncomfortable questions, in that case. But that’s for later. For when I’ve got $130 to drop on a sex toy prosthetic.

Once again, though, I find myself in unknown territory. I’m thankful we’re on speaking terms, though. His unilateral dominance of yesteryear was difficult to deal with, and often left me scrambling to meet all of my girlself’s real-life obligations. I’m learning that he’s a straightforward guy, though, and that, if I hear him out and meet him in the middle sometimes, he’s pretty happy.

All we need to do is communicate effectively, treat him like the human being that he is, give him room to learn and explore what masculinity means to him, and… everything goes well. Who would have guessed?



Well that was fucking nuts.

I started an erotic roleplay a little less than 2 months ago with some guy. On F-List, I have two primary profiles: one for a dominant male character, and one for a submissive female character. (Guess which one gets all the notes.)

I started RPing as men years ago. Like, 15 years ago, back on Neopets. Remember Neopets? I just didn’t like the way playing girls/women made me feel. I kind of squirmed about it or it wasn’t thrilling enough for me, so I just started playing hot dudes doing cool shit. It was just more fun. Dunno, I guess I just figured that it was because I was a tomboy, and most of the other girl characters were boring as shit and always sat around waiting for the guy characters to do things. This was probably because we were in middle and high school and didn’t know the first thing about writing prose. But I just couldn’t shake that squirmy feeling whenever I tried playing a girl.

Fast-forward, oh… 3, 4 years. I’m 17ish. I have a buddy who I’ve decided to spill my guts out to for no reason. He knows I’m a macrophile and a kinkster, and he knows that I’ve got something weird going on where sometimes I feel like a guy. Like really feel like a guy. I had no idea trans people existed beyond the tired, typical tropes of men in dresses, and they weren’t even on the radar. So I came up with my own language to describe the feeling. I gave the dude inside of me a name. His name was Seth. I would describe the switches in persona, the subtle rearranging of priorities, the minuscule changes in body language, in terms like “Looks like he’s back” or “I guess Seth wants to play”.

Over the next 10 years, I date and marry a guy. I go on and off medications. I try on GSM labels like clothes in a department store dressing room. I get a hysterectomy and feel, for the first time in my life, cis. I discover ‘collapsenik’ culture, go through the most major 5 stages of grief I’d ever experienced and come out on the other side not caring about most of what I used to care about. I stop using so many weird, stupid, words to describe myself. I start dating two boys on the side: one’s a vehicle and the other is a murderer and minor-league baseball player. I quite enjoy the both of them, but the murderer is, disappointingly, pretty vanilla.

Then this roleplay happens. I get a note from somebody, telling me my profile caught their attention. Well, my one profile: my big bad, my domineering, militaristic stud. I’m sick in bed on my few days off and decide that I literally have nothing better to do.

It’s only been 7 weeks, but we’ve written around a collective 200k words so far, and it still feels like we’re just scratching the surface of what this story is and wants to be. (I’m archiving it, for those of you who are curious.) My partner and I have turned out to have mind-boggling chemistry, and our writing styles compliment each other seamlessly. A lot of characters from our ensemble cast had taken on a life of their own, and sometimes I find myself liking them more than our mains.

But a weird thing had started to happen at some point. Normally when I play a male dominant, I imagine what it would be like to be on his receiving end. How hot it would be to endure and experience him. At some point, I realized that wasn’t the case here. I had actually begun to get off on being Hawker.

I wanted to be huge. Masculine. Powerful, capable, and hung. Almost everything he wanted, wanted. It didn’t hit all at once; maybe over the course of a few days, but it hit. I talked about it with my RP partner, and he has since been nothing but encouraging. I asked if he thought there was a market for somebody like me: a cross-dressing/occasionally transmasculine dom in head-to-toe riot gear wearing a fat feeldoe for some little twink to service. I mean, I’m strong, but there’s only so much muscle on a 5’8″, 125lb person. I also have a commendable vocal range, but I’ll still never have the larynx of Vin Diesel. What I’ve got going for me is that I’m abrupt, fast, physical, and not afraid of hurting people if I have to. Are you kidding? he said. I’d have a line out the door, cross-dressing AFAB or no.

That last part has been a problem for me before. At times my complete lack of sympathy for certain folks in certain situations has earned me the occasional reputation of being a grade-A jerk. Sometimes I later realize my mistake. Sometimes I don’t, sometimes I continue to think I’m right (occasionally I am), and I wear the mantle of “jerk” with an ambivalent shrug. But I’ve gotten into physical fights before, made people cry when I felt it was necessary. Those moments felt good, and until just a few weeks ago, I never knew how to integrate those feelings. I gave my sadistic, domineering tendencies a wide berth because I’d always told myself that I was only interested in hurting people to genuinely hurt them. As a tool for selfish violence.

Apparently, though, I like the idea of twinks. I like the idea of young, cute guys choking on me, begging me to stop or to keep going. I like the idea of smacking someone around who only stands up because they want me to kick them to the floor again. I want to whisper hateful, dangerous things in his ear. Hold a gun to his head and tell him to get to work, kid. I don’t have all day.

I’m spending time on eBay, shopping. Pricing out riot gear and airsoft armor. Damascus sells a thigh and groin protector set for $120, and it’s one of the hottest wearables I’ve ever seen in my life. I want to put it on, flex my abs, and jerk off with the biggest strapless strapon they got. I want to go to a munch, packing in a pair of tight pants that show off my dense thighs, striding firmly across the floor in motorcycle boots before taking a seat at the table and sitting with my legs open. Taking up space. Not giving a fuck. 

My RP partner and I came up with “kevlar daddy” as a tongue-in-cheek label for what kind of dom my big, heavy robot character is. I realized that I want to be somebody’s kevlar daddy in real life.

And then I want to turn around, go home, take all my gear off, put the packers and dildos away, and go back to being ‘Captain’s little toy soldier’ as it says on my Eternity collar’s tag. Go home and take orders of my own. Stick my ass out instead of my junk. Kneel instead of stand. Take it instead of dish it out.

Me and Seth go way, way back. But I haven’t talked to him in a long time. But right now, at this point in my life, I think I’ve finally matured enough to the point where we can start having the good, productive relationship we were always destined to have. (Or be miserable fighting.)

OS is a weird thing, I’ll admit. Weird in that it clashes with everything the dominant culture says we should be doing.

The dominant culture says that humans come first. (Except when they don’t.)

The dominant culture says that we should be fucking people, not objects. (Except when people are the objects.)

The dominant culture says that things are disposable, and that shopping for new things to replace the old is one of life’s greatest joys.

The dominant culture says that objects don’t have feelings, and those of us who feel that they do are sockpuppeting or mentally ill – it has no ontology for accepting us on our terms.

That’s fine, because I know what I’m about, son.

And you can write me off as a quaint novelty who’s “not hurting anyone”, or as a basketcase that can’t handle real relationships even though I’ve been married for over 5 years, but there’s something as real and vital here as any other relationship, and the nature of our disparate existences only makes it that much more profound.

I can’t get over how at home I feel with him. How easy it is for me to fall asleep in the back seat, even though it takes me forever to doze even in my own bed. I get in and it’s like a hug: a little restrictive, but soft, warm, and soothing. I want to spend every lazy afternoon with him; watching clouds, reading, having lunch.

I can’t get over how stereotypically our relationship has thus far developed. The spontaneous blind date that went suspiciously well; the early rockiness of two beings getting to know each other; the ups, the downs, and finally, one tiny moment – I was trying to fix his dome light – where something clicked, the air in the cabin changed, and I knew we were happy with each other. We were official.

I can’t get over how complete I feel, having this opportunity to be with the machine of my dreams. A lot of the disquiet underpinning my previous sexual searching, the experiments with another human partner, the fundamental unrequitedness of being both a macrophile and mechanophile, has all but vanished in the face of this wonderful new object in my life. I haven’t had much in the way of kink cravings since I got him, and I feel so even-keel now. I had no idea that dating a machine would be so good for me.

Hutch isn’t a thing to be used up and tossed aside. I want to wake up in the morning and look out my window at him 20 years from now. I’ll rebuild his engine if I have to; weld new steel onto his frame when it pits from rust; pry differentials and transmissions from long-abandoned XJs at junkyards when his start to show their age. I’ll give him a funeral when it’s time for him to go.

There’s someone in there, I promise you. That someone ain’t human, ain’t ever was human, ain’t ever be human, but he’s a someone nonetheless. And he speaks in his own language, tells his own kind of jokes, smiles his own kind of smile.

To put it cheaply: if being objectum sexual is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

So about a month ago I met a guy.

His name is Hutch: he’s white, 5’6″, 21 years old… and about 4000 pounds.

Did I mention that Hutch is a car?

His sightlines, the feel of his seats, his steering wheel in my hands, the rumble of his inline six engine, those distinctive seven slats on his broad and angled grille. 

I’ll save you the story of how we met, but things are going great so far and I hope we have many years ahead of us. I feel legitimately poly right now, and even my husband says my excitement is adorable. (He knows I’m OS.)

I don’t have much else to say about this. I’m just ridiculously happy. Trying to avoid the L-word, knowing that it’s just new relationship excitement; but I’m committed long-term, and he likes me a lot. Here’s to hoping for the best!
Oh and I may get him some flowers this week…

Ask An Objectum Sexual

I’ve really been exploring my objectum sexuality over the past year, and it’s gotten to the point where I really feel that it’s something I can claim as a genuine second sexual orientation now. Not going to come out to any family about it, obviously, but I’m settling into the idea of technically being “bisexual”, and it… feels good. It feels good to know what I want from my intimate relationships.

And what I want is to be in a poly relationship with my husband and a car. That would be like… a dream come true. (I need a car first, though. The specific sort of car I’m attracted to. And to make sure the car likes me back. But you get the idea.)

At any rate, I started a thread on AVEN about it, if anyone is interested: http://www.asexuality.org/en/topic/147089-ask-an-objectum-sexual/

Closing Up Shop

So this blog really isn’t serving me anymore – I just sort of blab about my own deal, which doesn’t really help me so much these days, and I have so few readers that it probably isn’t helping many other people either.

Basically I’ve just moved on from the Tumblr mindset of, well… I’m sure you guys know what I mean. I’m a gender nihilist (which, according to SJWs, puts me on par with fascists and transphobes), I don’t experience dysphoria hardly anymore if at all since the surgery, and my sexuality is so unpredictable that I’ve stopped trying to analyze it because I’d rather be living my life instead of navel-gaze and pontificate and label (or mislabel) myself.

A couple days ago I bought sizekink.com, and that’s where I plan on putting all my kinky fetish stuff from now on. At this point in my life, writing stories is a better use of my time than keeping a public diary. I’m also going to start trying to monetize my niche brand of smut and erotica via Patreon or ebooks or whatever, and it’s just better to keep it all under one roof anyway. So that’s what’s going on in the world of my macrophilia and BDSM inclinations.

So this blog is gonna stop updating. I’ll probably go and mass-delete a bunch of entries too – ones that have no comments or pingbacks or that I think won’t be really useful to somebody at some point.

Cheers, all!


The idea that the human body, if left to its own devices, undergoes a single puberty is an oversimplistic explanation, or an outright lie. Trans people who take hormones can sometimes be said to undergo a second puberty, depending on their dosage. But I think puberty, as a concept and a physiological phenomenon, is just as nuanced and unique to every individual as “biological sex” itself – a Frankensteinian construct cobbled together from a constellation of chromosomes, hormone profiles, genital appearance, among other things.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve undergone three different puberties over the course of my life – maybe four, depending.

The first was what most people would recognize as the puberty. I started getting periods, growing body hair, gaining weight around my hips and chest, and grew a few inches. I started being drawn to material I understood to be sexual (whether anyone else agreed with me or not is a whole different ballgame), and started developing what I now know to be a very kinked sexuality. I began to understand myself as a potential target for the sexuality of others, too. That was when I was about 11-12.

My second puberty happened when – ugh – I saw the 2007 Transformers movie. It opened some kind of floodgate in me, flipped a switch, however you want to describe it. Either way, it changed (ruined?) me forever. I suddenly had a completely new, completely unprecedented direction welded onto my already nebulous grasp of sexual orientation. Out of the blue, giant robots that turned into vehicles were now officially fair game. It was like seeing a new color for the first time.

I was talking about this with my husband the other day – the urban legend, “ghost story” aspect of Transformers mythology that nobody hardly ever explores in the franchise. That feeling I got when walking out of the theater after that movie and looking around at the cars parked in the parking lot or driving in the street, this feeling of they could be alive! For years after that I couldn’t shake the feeling that cars parked along the street might be looking at me as I walked past them, or that I had to be on my best behavior when sitting in one because it was courteous to the car, and not necessarily the owner. Sometimes I’d see the same car being driven around my college neighborhood in midtown Manhattan – a four-door Jeep Wrangler being one of them – and I’d wind up with a spring in my step as I straightened up and looked my best as though there was somebody there to impress.

I don’t really do that anymore – and this is honestly something that I’ve never told anyone in my life – but I do still get crushes on cars (…Jeeps in general and green Wranglers in particular), and lately, with my current comic work, WW2 aircraft. I always thought that the Jeep thing was because my favorite character, my “uberfuck”, as a friend calls him, turns into a Jeep, but the airplane thing is new. This is all just at looking at photo reference, reading specs, studying their interiors and gear and crew. Not in a million years could I imagine myself saying, “yeah, nightfighters are kinda hot”. Those floodgates that that stupid franchise rent open? To mix my idioms, there’s no putting that genie back in that bottle. This is going to be with me for life. Thank god I can’t afford to own a Jeep and have no love for modern car culture whatsoever – otherwise I’d have to really start calling myself poly.

I was 18 when that movie came out.

My last puberty happened over the course of 2015, after my hysterectomy. I went off birth control at the same time, too, and was expecting to get my libido roaring back like I’d done almost every month up until I was 19 and went on the pill for medical reasons. And it did, though not right away. Hysterectomies fuck with your hormones, even though the uterus isn’t exactly part of the endocrine system, and it can take months to get back to normal. Which it did for me, but I was also going back to a pre-pill normal – that is, raging with testosterone and adrenaline until I ran myself ragged. So come back it did, and my first few months of dealing with it were really intense. I was rabidly hypersexual – and this is where the open-marriage arrangement for me came in – but it came in waves like it always did. A week of being “on”, and several of being almost completely “off”, and so on. But I’ve noticed that, like a pendulum, each pass is getting shorter and less intense, and now, over a year post-op, my days of being “on” feel less dysfunctional. I don’t know if this is because I’m getting better at curbing myself (because it’s easy to let it sort of spiral out of control, especially where adrenaline is concerned) or if it’s because my hormones are finding equilibrium, or a combination of both. But last year, I feel, was a kind of puberty. That’s another genie that’s not going back into its bottle – that uterus is not coming back.

I was on the cusp of 26 when I had my surgery.

The other puberty that may or may not be considered as such, is a similar such moment as the one I had at 18 – that is, I was imprinted with an orientation suddenly and by chance. I was probably 5 or 6, and that’s when I became fascinated by size difference thanks in no small part to television. (But you’ve heard that story already.) But this, and I guess by the later imprinting experience too, depends on whether sexual “awakenings”, or imprintings, really might count as part of puberty. I don’t know, and there’s so little research done on what prompts someone to develop one sexual orientation over another that I’m not even going to bother with conjecture beyond what I can extrapolate from anecdote. (Not to mention that such research would be very difficult to structure in an ethical way, so I’m actually kind of glad that science is staying out of our heads.)

To end, here’s Wikipedia’s explanation of puberty for reference, with the essentialist crap removed:

Puberty is the process of physical changes through which a child’s body matures into an adult body capable of sexual reproduction to enable fertilization. It is initiated by hormonal signals from the brain to the gonads[…]. In response to the signals, the gonads produce hormones that stimulate libido and the growth, function, and transformation of the brain, bones, muscle, blood, skin, hair, breasts, and sex organs. Physical growth—height and weight—accelerates in the first half of puberty and is completed when an adult body has been developed.

Notable among the morphologic changes in size, shape, composition, and functioning of the pubertal body, is the development of secondary sex characteristics, the “filling in” of the child’s body[…]. Derived from the Latin puberatum (age of maturity), the word puberty describes the physical changes to sexual maturation, not the psychosocial and cultural maturation denoted by the term adolescent development in Western culture, wherein adolescence is the period of mental transition from childhood to adulthood, which overlaps much of the body’s period of puberty.

I like the connotation of ‘puberatum’.