Black Hat & Nude Stockings Gallery

My fantasy: Imagine! The death of my wealthy older husband leaves me alone and free to give into my lustful impulses with the gardener, the pool boy, and any other young thing I can pay to keep my indescretions silent. With all the money I’ve come into, there’s no need for me to ever get married again! I am free to arrange sordid encounters with as many stud-cocks as my free time will permit.


I’m emotionally untouchable, but delicious to stroke in my satin gloves, my sweaty nylon stockings, and my hot satin panties. And stroke me you must, or you’ll be dismissed, banished from my fleshy, cunt-needy presence. I like to be fucked with my clothes still on, and when I’ve gotten off I simply pull down my skirt, straighten the smart little hat on my head, and insert my sticky little fingers back in my gloves.

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WE’RE (not just) MARRIED!!!!

Delia and I have been together since 2002. We’ve wanted to get/be married for seven or eight of those years. But we also wanted to wait until we had money to have all of our family there, and for Delia to be able to have as much of the bridal experience as she might want.

white rose

Having that kind of wedding requires 1) money and 2) family to be knowledgeable and supportive enough to be able to celebrate with us instead of coming to our wedding with distracting and unpleasant amounts of confusion, discomfort and judgment. We still don’t have enough of 1 and 2 to be able to pull off and actually ENJOY that kind of an event, especially since Delia’s family lives halfway across the country and some even farther than that and they haven’t seen her since she transitioned (it requires some people a lot of time to get used to someone they knew their whole life and even raised themselves as a boy turning out to not be a boy).

There are things that mean way more to me than being “married”, or signify a lifetime commitment much more profoundly to me than a ceremony and/or “marriage”: owning and operating (a) business(es) together, as Delia and I have for over a decade, or buying a house and making a home with a person or persons (as I did with my ex).

Strangely enough, even though I felt very solid in Delia’s and my partnership, this weird thing started happening where I’d see my naked, ringless finger and suddenly panic that I’d lost my wedding ring. SUPER funny since wedding rings are another thing I was never into (until I got engaged the first time and suddenly had flocks of women looking at my hand like it was the most important thing EVER . . . it was weird, but some part of my brain must have caught that disease in a way). So yeah. I felt like something was missing . . . that I’d forgotten or misplaced something important.

white roses in black & white photo

We eventually realized we couldn’t wait for everything external to be perfect, and we wanted to get the same tax benefits as straight married people instead of paying extra the way unmarried people and those with state-recognized same-“sex” domestic partnerships or other as-yet-unaccepted arrangements have.

Basically, we had to get married while Delia still had an “M”  on her drivers license so we can have all of the rights and benefits that were then (and in many cases are still) only provided to hetero spouses. We had to get married so Delia could proceed to change that letter on her drivers license to an “F” and hope to be treated by the police and others as the woman she is without closing the tax loophole on our queer marriage. So far in our country this has worked to grandfather in a modicum of straight benefits/privileges to people when one of them officially transitions after the marriage — it has gone unchallenged as far as I know.

It may not sound romantic, but paying thousands of extra dollars in federal taxes every year when you already have tens of thousands of dollars of debt isn’t super fucking romantic either. Neither is having people question your identity and think about your genitals whenever you have to show them your identification.

As you may have already guessed, I find true partnerships much more profound than symbolic romantic bonds and white veils and shit. I’ve been much more brainwashed by capitalism and dude-designated cultural ideals of success than I have romance and chick-designated cultural ideals, so for me being bonded by money, business and property are the REALLY meaningful and intense things. Of course, that’s really what marriage is about anyway, but most people have shrouded that in so much tulle and crying flower-girls that it’s not really egalitarian and the profit motive is all hidden in shame and diamond illusions.

white rose bush leaves



And it actually was really romantic! Stress-free, with a respected judge who gets it and a couple of our best friends: two women who’ve also been together for more than a decade and are also our wise and patient elders. Just the five of us, doing what was important for just the two of us, with only support and love around us.

It’s also pretty fucking cool and powerful to be at a wedding with only women present.

And with that, I magically stopped getting anxiety attacks about having lost my nonexistent wedding ring. Clearly I have bought into SOME “romantic” bride-magazine symbolism, for that relief to have happened (but without an actual ring on my finger or hers).

three white roses & buds

We kept it a secret for a long time, not telling even our supportive family members and friends, hoping the time and resources and progress would allow us to tell them with invitations to a party or other ceremony of some kind where they could celebrate with us and not feel left out or excluded. Hoping we could even have TWO ceremonies – a family-friendly one, and a debauched, decadent, porn-site wedding we could share and commemorate with you on our sites!

Eventually we started telling people. Because we want them to know. Because they love us and were worried wondering why (they thought) we HADN’T gotten married yet. Because some thought/think all the gay marriage horrors and hoopla are relevant and think whether we do or don’t depends on all of that and were asking tiring questions. Because most of us have been trained to think gender prescribes sexuality, so now that they see Delia as the woman she is, they assume SHE WILL NEED A MAN, and TRIXIE WILL NEED A MAN, because now THERE IS NO MAN (none of which are true or problematic in the ways they think).

We wanted to tell people because regardless of how we two people feel about our romance and marriage — whether we are or aren’t (in our hearts and minds and on paper), marriage really is a lot about how other people perceive us. Like gender, for better or worse, the present reality is that marriage (and the words “man” and “woman”) still have HUGE meaning to the majority of people in our communities, our country, our governments and even the world. And we want people to recognize as closely as they possibly can what we mean to each other. We are not just pals, we are not “just” / business partners or “girlfriends” (though it’s lamentable that the words “friends” and “girlfriends” don’t carry more weight and meaning and room for a range of possible commitments and ways of relating to each other).

I still love the word partner — always have, and it will continue to mean more to me *personally* than “spouse” — but I also want people we know and meet in the world to recognize what Delia and I have — what we mean to each other and how we relate to the world — is at least as big and real and ROMANTIC and legal and COMMITTED and purposeful as whatever they think of as marriage. Being “really” married and telling people so helps. And every time I tell people Delia is my wife it helps challenge and even break down some old, limiting paradigms. Plus, I like having a wife! And I still kind of subscribe to a lot of old BS myself so it makes me feel like a fucking KING being able to brag that SHE MARRIED ME!! She’s ****MINE****, mwahahahahaha!!! It’s a fucked-up thing for a feminist to feel, but it’s true. I feel successful and powerful because a rare and beautiful woman loves me and cooks for me and we belong to each other on paper. WHO WOULDN’T?

white roses, pink bud

Another huge reason we started telling people we’re married (and want YOU to know that we’re married) is that we took our open relationship from mostly-theory to practice and, as you know, have been having sex and romantic friendships with other people in addition to each other. Since most people a) don’t think relationships between women are as important as relationships where women are bound to men, and b) don’t think relationships are real if they aren’t monogamous, letting people know we are married removes or at least challenges some of those diminishing assumptions.

Yes, we may fuck and/or date and/or love other people, but we are only married to each other. That is as important for us to know as it is for other people. It’s also a boundary that I really need to be able to retreat behind emotionally.

Ghostly white old-fashioned rose

Delia is my home.


Last month I wandered into our backyard and got a surprise: these fragrant white roses we didn’t know were there, climbing high above a fence into sunshine and dripping down in a shady corner. I was so excited to show them to Delia — to share their beauty and to triumph together (they would never have made that showing without her work taming the blackberry jungle in the yard and her work giving us money to pay for help doing that). This is not really our house and cabin and yard (we actually rent it from her ex-wife who owns it), but the “discovery” of these roses are one of those quiet, intense, beautiful reminders of what marriage and happiness and love and peace and safety and home and Delia mean to me:

She is the one I want to plant things with.

She is the one I want to be with every week, season and year to witness the trees and plants growing and changing over the years.

She is the one I want to find new things with.

She is the one I want to work with in a garden.

perhaps roses?

I can’t imagine a home without her.

I can’t imagine the joy of a frog or an owl hooting in the middle of the night or being surprised that I love some magically-appearing roses this much or the smell of damp wormy soil without wanting to immediately share those joys with her.

She is the one I want to hear saying, “COME LOOK AT THIS, HONEY!” and be the one I say it to for the rest of my life. Even if it’s some music video on youtube I totally don’t want to watch and vice versa. Know what I mean?

That’s not all of the stuff, but it’s a glimmer. We’ve been meaning to announce this for a long time . . . it’s kind of like a post-dated soft-launch or something. Need to reword a lot of stuff on our site tours still, but now you know! And just as I posted this she came out to the cabin and said “you should see the moon out here . . . it’s pretty cool.” 😀

Naked with Long Blonde Hair

Look how long my hair is getting!


Still . . . not nearly long enough to be fetish-length. And because of Lightning Allie I’ve been thinking a lot and learning about different (head) hair-related fetishes.


I have never done any long-hair fetish stuff because it’s never been THAT long, it’s chemically processed, and it seems like the hair fetish people like really shiny medium brown and brunette hair. I have always found shampoo scenes hot, though, and love the variety of ways to approach hair cuts and head shaving. Not to mention all of the ways gender is supposedly articulated by how and where and with what you cut and style your hair.


It has been awhile since I thought about a time my brother was threatened and eventually punished with a buzz cut. I think they outsourced it / had my grandpa do it to him. I remember him coming back home tear-stained. I don’t remember everything about it except that it was kind of horrible. And now, as with a lot of emotional memories, I have crossed-wires when I look back on it, so I can relate to the ways a haircut can be fetishized or a trigger stimulating a variety of responses.


I definitely have a barber shop “fetish”. As a child, I *loved* going to the barber shop with my grandpa or my dad. It was the seventies . . . small town (I think there’s a scene in a second-season Twin Peaks episode or two where you can see the barber shop I’m talking about, or at least the space it inhabited).

Anyway, I loved being in that men-only space. LOVED the sound and swing and shine and elegant shape of the razor against the strop.  OMFG I just googled “barber shop strop” and just SEEING this drawing turned me on:

So. Fucking. EXCITING!

So. Fucking. EXCITING!

When I walk by barber shops — REAL barber shops — in Vancouver, BC, in Portland, in Chicago — I just . . . I don’t know. I always have to stop or at least slow down and try to appear nonchalant while I try to soak up all of the sights inside. I want them. I want to be in them. I want to spy on them. I want to sneak into them at night. I want to dream about them. I want to play in them. I want to dress up. I want to have my neck shaved. I want to smell the combs coming out of the blue stuff. I want to look at the men’s shoes. I want to look UP at the men. I want to BE the men. I want to sit on their laps. I want to go in the back room. I want to adore the big chairs. I want the curtains to be pulled and the cocks to come out. I want to snap the suspenders. I want the strop.

I’m sad I’ve never had the budget and contacts to make barber shop porn. OH MY HOLY FUCKNESS IT IS WITH EXQUISITE LONGING THAT I THINK OF THESE THINGS.


Lady hair salons? Not so much. Do not do anything for me. Even when they look really cool. I get how they could be appealing to other people, but for me they could never hold a candle to a barber shop. Unless there was some CFNM going on, maybe some forced femme – DEFINITELY a gang of women toying with and degrading a beautiful young man. And I don’t mean me as a boi, either, because it hits way too close to the mark and I would start crying immediately.

Which reminds me of the time my mom made me get my brows waxed in junior high. These were the eighties. I didn’t even know such a thing as waxing EXISTED. Brooke Shields obtained Endless Love WITH THICK BROWS. Not that I ever got to watch that movie because my stepdad was always watching football and Chuck Norris movies and Death Wish on our tiny tv set. And pretending he’d never seen it/all of them before. And I would actually prefer to watch any Charles Bronson movie rather than Endless Love, but I digress.

My mom halfway thought she was treating me to something special and the other half was just really wrong; if she had all of the information back then I could give her today, I kind of hope she would be mortified that she did that, even if she thought she was doing me a social favor by feminizing me.

I wouldn’t call the experience devastating, but it was fundamentally fucked-up and torture for me. Not because waxing hurts, but because it was humiliating and she made me do it even though I (think I remember I) vehemently protested / said I didn’t want to, and I felt miserable, powerless, self-conscious, and degraded knowing I would get in trouble if I wasn’t nice to the salon lady while they both talked down to me and made me feel worse.

I wonder if that’s why I have loved getting my brows waxed as an adult, to the point where it’s erotic. I wonder why I never put those two things together until now.

Actually, I don’t think the forced wax has anything to do with what I enjoy about being waxed now. Or not very much. Hmmm . . .

Note: I am not judging any parent who takes a kid WHO WANTS TO GO to the salon FOR SERVICES THEY WANT. I mostly don’t give a fuck if someone spray tans or waxes or makes up their kids if their kids desire such things. And I’m sorry if my mom is reading this and feels bad about something she can’t do anything about now. I’m not trying to make anybody feel shitty, I’m just talking about part of something that happened as I perceived it, and part of what it meant to me. Which I’d actually like to talk about more (the make-up, body hair, fear of ugliness, etc. messages and how I received and/or rejected them and how I’ve dealt with them as an adult and a sex worker). I’m not a parent, and I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if I were and wound up pressuring my teenager to do things that I thought would make them more attractive / be more socially accepted.

Oh, so are you wondering how that worked out? I actually don’t think any of my peers had a problem with my eyebrows (though their prominence may, in fact, have contributed to my general expression of dorkiness). For sure my social stock didn’t go through the roof the following week, though. But who knows? Maybe I just don’t remember all of the compliments and cheers I got.

Maybe I was too surly and resistant to acknowledge anything positive about the wax job. Maybe I was too socially moronic to leverage my less-hairy face into an immediate loss of virginity. Maybe if I’d have been told to SMILE! five billion and ONE times instead of just five billion, I’d have radiated a confidence that, paired with my newfound freedom from excessive facial hair, would have propelled me into a higher tier of popularity and dispelled any of my mom’s concerns that I might be a lesbian. Maybe I would have gotten “dates” and stopped wanting to read so many books about socially awkward teens trying to be more popular. And/or lose their virginity.


Maybe I don’t remember grudgingly thinking it actually wound up looking pretty nice (I doubt it, or I would have asked to have it done again instead of waiting to experience brow waxing again until I was over twenty to go along with a college friend who was doing it).

Maybe back then I actually really would have watched Endless Love than Death Wish. PROBABLY. Teen sex and stuff? For sure. Who am I kidding????

By the way, here’s one of my favorite songs from the eighties, including Brooke Shields’ eyebrows:

Maybe if I looked like Brooke Shields and my eyebrows were straight caterpillars instead of unruly Eddie Munster styled brows, things would have been different.


The Hunter said I could shave him. With a straight razor even. But then it never happened. So many ideas, so few willing exposed necks . . . .

At least that’s how *I* remember it.

Bugs & Boobs! (pics)

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Delia knows exactly what kind of thoughtful presents to give me; she brought home the most awesome present for me:

Scorpion gift box

Scorpion gift box

Nevermind what’s inside . . . the box is super cool!

Opening my little bug box

Opening my little bug box

Look at the shiny, iridescent beetle necklace my girlfriend got me!!

A symbol of true love!

A symbol of true love!

There is a special reason why this pendant made Delia think of me; once upon a time I was a beetle breeder.

In elementary school I was always interested but totally lost and intimidated when teachers sprang special projects on us like building rockets, making volcanoes or constructing cameras out of milk cartons. It’s like I was always absent on the days that the secret instructions were handed out telling us to bring money for those brown motors or maybe it was always the OTHER class that got to do those things. I think the mealworm project studying beetle life cycles was one of those things the OTHER class got to do that I was totally jealous of.

So I did the mealworm project at home. Purely for fun.

My mom would never let me have a pet snake so I guess bugs were the next best thing. Not that I was ever totally unafraid of spiders and such, and I *hated* moths, but I was also fascinated by insects and all the little dark nooks and crannies and tunnels they could explore.

I consulted with my friend Ruth (she was in the OTHER class) to determine what supplies I needed: jars with airholes, oatmeal, apple chunks. I captured my own beetles from the base of our old apple tree in the backyard. It grossed my out a little, the way they skittered around so quickly, but I viewed overcoming this fear as a healthy challenge and soon grew to enjoy the tiny tickles of their little black legs scurrying up my arm.

I thought my ability to unflinchingly let bugs crawl on me was an enviable trait to cultivate that would impress people, like when nobody else in my class wanted to hold and stroke a small, velvety black slug during a field trip to the zoo. I don’t remember why the fuck this zookeeper was teaching us about slugs, but I do remember feeling that I’d found a niche where I could jump straight to the top. So what if I failed at rockets and wanted to cry on field day? I could save face by being an imperturbable slug and bug handler! Plus I kind of liked making girls scream and giggle.

In no time I was observing beetle life in all of its stages. The alien-looking pupae were the most disturbingly mesmerizing. I had to increase my containers to hold all of my grubs, pupae and mature beetles. I didn’t have enough covered jars so I just used different bowls from our kitchen and loosely covered them with plastic. Pretty soon the bedroom I shared with my sister started to smell like dusty oatmeal and decomposing apples, but in my role as omnipotent overlord of the beetles I could watch the beetles’ frenzied mating. They were exposed and vulnerable, driven by instinct to procreate in the open on beds of Quaker Oats.

They were also developing genetic defects because of inbreeding. This was a lesson the limited research of the OTHER class never got around to learning! I tried introducing new beetles to the population, but the rate of abnormalities increased. Soon there were albino beetles, pupae with black lesions, slow-moving beetles that failed to thrive and aggressive, kamikaze beetles hell-bent on escaping the bowls of oatmeal.

One day I looked at the bowls full of beetles spread all over my desk so close to our beds and was suddenly horrified by them. I could learn no more from them and they were on the verge of mutiny.

I had to get rid of them FAST before they overran the bowls and poured out in black waves (dotted with albino white) all over our bedroom. I pushed open a window and started flinging beetles and oatmeal outside. I couldn’t dump them quickly enough . . . they were trying to climb back up the wall outside to get in and seek revenge! I kept throwing bowl after bowl of beetles in various stages of life out of the window, shrieking when they clung to the bowl and started climbing up my arm. I cruelly flicked them off with my fingernails, trying to launch them as far away from the window as possible.

It would have been perfect if I could’ve graduated to snakes or lizards because then I could have fed my beetles to them instead of wasting them all like that. Once, when I was a little older, my mom got mad at me when I screamed after reaching into a bag of potatoes in our dark pantry and pulling out a few maggots on a damp spud. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to point out her hypocrisy, having the balls to chastise me for reacting to a handful of maggots on our food when she had a snake phobia precluding me from having the best pet of all: a beautiful legless reptile to hang around my neck while reading.

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Believe it or not, this is not my only story about bug-keeping. I’ll try to tell you about my other bug endeavors one of these days. . .


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