Very Nice Next-Door Lady-Person Boobs

Hi. My name is Trixie!

You might perceive this as my condescending face . . .

big breasts shirt stains

. . . but really it is my “I have chocolate on my shirt” exasperated-with-myself face.

I have thick glasses . . . and big natural boobs!

nice lady trixie's big natural boobs

Some people like my boobs and even think I am a nice lady.

disarming next-door-lady smiles in glasses

They give my boobs one thumb up . . .

thumb up for big boobs!

. . . 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 . . .

tasty trixie sticking tongue out

. . . 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).

androgynous glasses nerd dork

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

cute Trixie with crooked teeth & glasses & big nipple

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.

Last Hairy Day

I have loved having body hair on and off, but I’m looking forward to getting on a waxing schedule. Tomorrow I’m getting my brows, underarms and lower legs waxed . . . and my first Brazilian wax. With the intention of never wasting time putting a razor to my skin again for purely maintenance reasons.

blonde leg hair

Nothing against razors, nothing against hair . . . I’m just sick of fucking with it and it never gets thick and full and furry enough to please fetishists anyway.

Now that we live in a city part-time and there’s such a thing as online scheduling to easily make appointments for such things with a variety of providers so I don’t have to schedule a month in advance (as we do in our small home town), it’s convenient, sensible and time-saving. Also: I’m getting white hairs in my pubes and eyebrows, and it’s a lot more disconcerting than I imagined it would be.

Trixie's hairy armpit in the mirror

After getting my first bikini wax I loved the smoothness and softer, slower grow-out.

I’ve had a handful of nice offers to shave me, and am particularly tempted by the people who are handy with straight razors, but I really enjoy getting waxed by professional ladies in the non-sexual atmosphere of a salon or spa. Here’s why:

  • I like paying for a service (rather than arranging & negotiating & scheduling a social interaction/exchange)
  • I like the name for them (aestheticians) and observing these women as they studiously perform these intimate acts on me alone in a small room, just the two of us but with this marvelous detachment they exhibit, focusing very intently on tiny details (recreating these scenes in my mind’s eye I almost imagine them wearing monocles)
  • RITUAL – I love rituals: they make my mind and spirit and body better (before, during and after)
  • I enjoy the sensations – depilation via wax is very dynamic with rhythms, contrasting temperatures, and extremely varied tactile stimuli . . . including bursts of (tolerable) pain

Having hot wax applied to me and my hair ripped out is definitely erotic to me, but in a private way that not only doesn’t pressure me to respond to it in that way (on the contrary, it’s important that I hide that appropriately), but allows me to enjoy the (unintended) humiliation of it (being humiliated by women is a hot button for me that I haven’t had pushed nearly enough). It’s meditative, absorbing, and full of exquisite sensations and scents.

Trixie's hairy front crack

I’m excited and curious to get SO MUCH of my body waxed in one session . . . having the ritual drawn out, being challenged a little more (from a pain tolerance perspective) . . . and being immersed even more deeply, I’m guessing.

And then being able to say a simple thank you, PAY FOR IT WITH MONEY. . . and go right back home to rest, feeling relaxed, peaceful, and cared-for. Without owing anybody anything. Without talking. Without having to communicate my pleasure, instead getting to savor it in my body without translating it into words or physical reciprocation. Allowing my face and body to be lit up and alive inside and out, but languidly so.

I might even come home and cry until I go floppy with fatigue. I might even be crying right now. Hard.


I want to be gently attended to like I’m not even capable of bathing myself. Like ? doesn’t even want me to bother my sweet little dirty head with that because ? will do it for me, lifting my heavy limbs . . . rubbing me with oils and medicines, reassuring me . . . forgiving me my exhaustion and stupidity. Telling me to sleep and that everything will be okay, and the medicine from their big crazy dick will be ready and waiting for me. And all I have to do is lay there and take it. Quietly. And then there will be soup in bed, more naps, and then maybe louder medicine. When I get my strength up. Won’t they be proud? And keep me all to themselves? And I can cry if I want to and be ugly and they will keep on fucking me and making me feel precious and wipe my mouth afterwards and bring back more raw thin strips of melty red meat into my small safe sickroom and sweet soft smelly bed.

I think I might be getting old enough and relatively-safe enough and tired enough to be small again. I want a big(?) strong(??) manly(?!?) slave(?!?!?) of few words to pretend to be my grandpa daddy brother doctor, pretend he loves me unconditionally and we stay up together all night after the rest of the audible world falls asleep. I want to be the tiny apple of the eye when we’re around each other. The late late show, brushes on drums, a radio station only we can hear . . . scrambled eggs just for the two of us. I have no memory of Grandpa cooking like that for anybody but me. And not wonder if he forgot about me for someone more grown-up or is embarrassed that people might notice we belong to each other or that he will disown me. Sometimes. At night, or in the heavy summer. I want him to be so proud of me when I grow up. Give me the clicker and laugh at what I pick out.

We had that once or a few times or in certain ways with Rugaru. It was insane, but there were some hours and words and feelings that will feed me for the rest of my life even though the rest of it is a big part of what’s making my subconscious terrified lately.


A couple of my favorite hairy pictures of me taken in Boston more than thirteen years ago:

Flashing my hairy bush in a Boston restaurant hairy Trixie's trench coat pussy flash


Here’s a post telling about the first (not good) time I got waxed.

A Portrait of the Artist as …







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.

Beamed Down to Beach

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.

Is Batman’s Mom REALLY Dead?

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?

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 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?

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!

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