Hi. My name is Trixie!
You might perceive this as my condescending face . . .
. . . but really it is my “I have chocolate on my shirt” exasperated-with-myself face.
I have thick glasses . . . and big natural boobs!
Some people like my boobs and even think I am a nice lady.
They give my boobs one thumb up . . .
. . . sometimes two thumbs up, but most individuals only have one (cough) “thumb”.
You might think this face is reserved for corny heard-it-all-before penis euphemisms . . .
. . . but I don’t mind that so much. This is actually how I feel when people give me compliments. I have to try not to look that way, instead being gracious and self-confident rather than off-putting and strange.
It’s important to be a nice lady when you’re sort of just a regular average-to-comical-looking person making money with your boobs and stuff on the internet. Make people feel happy and good. That means smiling in a genuine fashion and being relaxed and not hurrying from one expression to another. It also means making pictures brighter and saturated with fleshy warm colors. But I don’t always have time for that (like today), or for being a nice relaxed simple booby lady with no complaints or complications. Or ghastly wrinkles on her neck (chocolate on shirt helps draw eye away from crepey turkey wattles . . . but not as much as boobs / not wearing a shirt at all).
I don’t really believe I’m that much of a lady. It’s all a bullshit charade (and boobs).
Okay, it’s not ALL a bullshit charade. But a lot of it is an illusion.
posture head-tilts self-censoring shiny blonde (fake) hair BOOBS eagerness-to-please responsive facials & head nods raised eyebrows tiny smirks omg this is exhausting pretty little dresses fortunately I don’t have to work at loving cock
My teeth are crooked! I think crooked teeth are cute: charming, disarming and natural.
When we show our crooked teeth that makes you feel like you can trust us and we could never ever hurt you. We’re goofy! Shy! Quick to roll over and show our bellies! But if you really look at any still version of a smile it’s just a scary grimace of bared teeth.
Today on the train I looked down at a really pretty lady driving in her car and she looked up at me and our eyes locked and I immediately uncontrollably blushed and smiled/grimaced. And she smiled back (with straight teeth and lipstick) and it made me so happy that I don’t care if any of it is fake or scared monkey business.
I don’t know how she kept driving straight without crashing, it felt like she looked at me that long; it was like an old movie (or Pulp Fiction) where the people don’t have to look at the road and they’re just very beautiful and the cars drive themselves while they engage with their passengers. I guess I was like the poor girl on the train in the movie who the pretty lady decides is the one she can seduce into killing her husband for insurance money, promising me we’ll make off for Mexico and live happily ever after in the sun eating tortillas with butter made from goat milk. Except I failed to fact check whether goat milk butter is any good or a suitable product for home-making and for the rest of my life in prison I have nightmare visions of rancid goat butter escalating into a severed goat head on a platter with those gross cooked goat eyeballs gleaming death at me.
The pretty lady was like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Tousled Elegance. And she didn’t seem at all like a film noir femme fatale . . . her smile was so pretty I felt like I didn’t even deserve to have her spend that much time looking at me. Which is exactly why if she’d been wearing a trench coat waiting for me at the train station I would have gone with her and done ANYTHING SHE WANTED. The muscles in her face and neck were so naturally relaxed, she couldn’t possibly do me or anybody any harm.
A PORTRAIT OF THE HEADACHE AS A MIDDLE-AGED MAN:
A PORTRAIT OF THE HEADACHE AS A MIDDLE-AGED MAN WITH BIG TITS:
A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A PINK-EYED CYCLOPS:
I don’t even know if I could muster up the energy for a magical threesome with young Clive Owen and young Elvis.
I wouldn’t beat myself up over it though if I could just kick back and watch the two of them play jack-off buddies and suck each other off.
A few nights ago I had another stressful freeway-of-many-mysterious-exits and loop-de-loops dream. Everything was so grey and I was supposed to know where I was going, but of course I didn’t. It was supposed to be Tacoma but of course it wasn’t.
And then I was in a dingy compact economy car with Conan O’Brien. He seemed sad and furtive, like he felt sorry for my sluttiness while being ashamed of himself for getting in the car with me to find a place to have sex while his wife and kids were waiting for him at a nearby hotel. I could tell his mind wasn’t really made up and he might back out at any second.
I have no idea how his tall body fit into the car, or why he had such a small car in the first place, but I hoped the freeway would stop being so confusing so we could park and kiss and fuck before he changed his mind.
Even though his behavior indicated his guilty preoccupation with recognizing he’d sunk to a new low (and I was the new low, even with the crappy car for competition), I could almost read it as tortured, doomed love for me. I desperately wanted to him to kiss me with his tiny, thin-lipped mouth.
Finally we stopped somewhere and started making out. He had a familiar, unmistakably ginger man smell I recognized from the Irish Think Tank that one time he insisted on giving me a massage and that other time he cried all over me. I’m so hot for Conan that the bad association with his scent didn’t take any of the romantic and erotic edge off of the sight of that strawberry pompadour flopping towards me when our lips parted for breath.
He pulled back from the kissing with that look I love of hungry-for-more to get at my breasts. But when he lifted my t-shirt over my boobs, I had a rash all over my belly. While I tried to explain it was nothing contagious, he seemed to come to his senses and detach from me completely. He got out of the car and left me there alone and exposed with sad, uniformly-overcast daylight shadowing grey on my spotty chest.
I woke up horny and depressed, yet pathetically grateful for the brief intimate experience with Conesy.
I’m not making this shit up; I’ve been crushing on Conan for decades (even though I loathed his brief Tonight Show stint). And I really do have PMS. And it’s not just my subconscious mind that feels all low-self-esteemed right now.
Last night my ship zoomed to a promising location over a sandy beach on the Salish Sea:
I decided to beam down to the surface:
Fortunately it was twilight in winter; no Earthlings were present to see the adjustments I had to make to my experimental human form, such as pulling my hand out of my neck and firmly pressing my head onto its stump (I can easily remove this head at any time to reach into my hollow “body” where I store spare human parts).
A military chopper appeared above, attempting to surveil my arrival and acquire knowledge of my master plan. I needed only “body” language to indicate to them that I WILL TRIUMPH AND REIGN VICTORIOUSLY:
They beat a hasty retreat from the presence of my joyously hostile form, going back to their base to formulate a plan to prevent my domination over this land, but NOT BEFORE I CHOSE A MATE FOR MYSELF:
Take note, Earthlings: you may hover, but I SHALL NOT HIDE.
We’re taking a special day off today, but I still wanted to post nudie pics that would really give you something to think about:
Batman’s Blonde Mom?
Do any of my friends and fans who are also into Batman know if/how much that question is/was ever played with, particularly in fanfic, especially of the, ummm, taboo erotic kind? Anyway, I don’t know much about Batman beyond Christian-Bale-as-The-Batman, but I certainly do like toying with that notion, as I mentioned in the gallery I posted for members:
Do I look old enough to be Bruce Wayne’s Mom?
Do you imagine Batman’s mom’s boobs as being as big as mine?
Batman’s mom in black leather gloves & thigh high boots?
Thanks to Lightning Allie for the awesome opera-length black leather gloves, Delia for taking the pictures, and my Aesthetician for cancelling my brow waxing appointment at the last minute, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have spotted these sunglasses and thought of them as a perfect way to get a shoot in without grooming my face AND squeeze in a Halloween-appropriate photo set!
JOIN NOW for all 83 pics in this gallery & to read more!