Mermaid, Me

Chapter 5: Being Bitchy? Making You Smile?

Memoirs of a Tgirl, Chapter 5

Is this is a self-improvement book?  Or should I say self-degradation?  The very best things are always intrinsically paradoxical, right?  It takes balls to castrate yourself!  Whatever...

It’s thrilling, this ride that I'm relating.  And addictive.  I don’t do it just for myself.  I do it for you, dear reader.  Self-exposure can be thrilling, too.  Like a striptease! 

Let's start with my name.  Instead of Joy, I started to call myself Moll.  After Moll Flanders, that 18th century heroine promiscuously ahead of her times.  A postmodern Moll, that’s me. A plastic girl, a psuedo girl, sometimes a cyber girl (check out my website http://joystjames.wordpress.com/) -- a totally touchable Tgirl.  

You probably won’t believe this, but I’ll confide in you anyway: Before I became Joy, I had never sucked a single cock.  In fact, I thought they were repulsive.  Aesthetically, my opinion hasn’t changed much; the difference is that Joy’s mere existence can now make them hard.  There’s a power, and incomparable thrill, in that.  Yes, there is no greater thrill than to make a cock hard.

Hi, sweetie.  What’s your name?  You don’t have to tell me.  I understand.  You say it’s Bob?  John?  Peter?  Forgive me if I don’t believe you.  It’s all right.  I understand.  I’m not the kind of girl you’d take home to meet your mother.  Or your wife!  Yes, I know, you’re probably married.  I don’t mind, sweetie, really I don’t. 

Believe it or not, I actually prefer straight married guys.  To know that you’ve got a warm, wet pussy waiting for you in bed at home -- the real thing -- and you’d still rather be with me!  That makes me happy.  It’s the highest compliment a girl like me can get. 

I’ll never forget one guy, one of my very first.  When we met, he said, “Just call me Jay.”  I was so naïve then, and stupid.  I really thought he loved me – and really thought his name was Jay.  I kept waiting for a box of long-stemmed, red roses, with a card signed, “Love always, Jay.”  Finally, I called his phone number; he had never given it to me, but I had Caller ID.  A woman answered.  I hung up.  Then, hours later, I called again.  I asked to speak to Jay.  “You mean John?” she said.  “Sorry,” I said, “I must have the wrong number.”  I started to cry.  Jay existed only in my imagination.  It wasn’t “Jay” at all, but simply “J’ for “John.”  Then I found myself laughing: he hadn’t even been very imaginative in coming up with his alias.  And as a pseudo-girl, why should I even be surprised with a pseudonym?

Wiser now, I just call all men “sweetie.”  I don’t want or need to know your name.  I wouldn’t remember it anyway. There are too many men.  Or never enough.  It depends on my mood. 

In any event, all men are alike, but each man’s cock is different in its own way.  Cocks are like faces.  So instead of remembering men by the names they call themselves, I remember their cocks – and the private nicknames I christen them.  Old Faithful.  Pencil.  Nubby.  Sidewinder.  Parabola.  Sour Lollipop.  Banana Curve.  Cucumber Thick .  The men, with their fake names, never know what I really call them – and therefore think of them.        

Women’s names, on the other hand, I’ll never forget.  Debbie, Jane, Maureen, Rosemary, Kirsten….  You’ve all helped me so much along the way.  And Jennifer, especially.  My best girlfriend’s name is Jennifer.  Some people call her Jenny, but I much prefer Jennifer.  It’s such a sexy name – maybe because it’s the only feminine name I can think of that’s not softened as it’s spoken but ends in the hard, assertive sound of “r.”  Oh, yes, silly me, Heather is another.  Heather Locklear, of course...remember her?  If I had it to do all over again, maybe I’d name myself Heather. After all, I can be whoever I want to be, do whatever I want to do.  That’s my American birthright, that’s freedom, isn’t it?