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.
I love men’s bodies. I love men’s hands. I love men’s hands on my body. I love those hands moving around to different places on my body, pulling me and pawing me, or being gentle or inquisitive or senselessly in love with touching. I love the fucking hair on men’s bodies.
I love when I can see the boyish face shining out of a grown man — unabashed new joy and wonder, like I’m ice cream and puppies and the first time you realized touching your butthole felt good. I love when I get to see this boyish face shine out of women, too.
I love the way men sound when their dick is starting to feel really good inside my body, and the way they sound as they start feeling even BETTER, and the way they sound when it feels like the best thing in the world. Happening inside my hand or mouth or pussy or ass, or in their own hand onto my tits or feet or belly. I love feeling their bulk bumping up against me. I love the ways they are soft, and where they are bigger than I am.
I love that I have the luxury of choosing when and if and for how long and how many men I get to wallow in. That I am not bound by anything to any one man or any JUST ONE person in general or to men at all if I’m not in the mood for one.
I love nestling myself in under a man’s arm, head on chest, along his side with his arm around me and my hand playing with his cock. This is a place I love seeking out more than I ever could being married to one or being limited to just one “boyfriend”.
I love how generous men are with love, and having (some) stereotypes about them proved wrong every time I’m with them, or you hear them singing songs. I love all of the different shapes and sizes and weights of penises as long as the men enjoy fiddling with them, and all of the faces that are alive behind the eyes and care to see me and are vulnerable to desire. I love scared limp dicks and fast sudden cums.
I love chub and girth and mass and solid walls of chest and shoulders.
I love hearing Daddy talk about work, and I love when they become my sweet pretty eager-to-please big boys. I love when their faces light up grinning from ear-to-ear or their eyes just get real big at a simple offer to touch my boob that I’ve lazily pulled out.
Talking is hard. You wanna touch my boob? My top opening up or coming off: the greatest story ever told.
I love how easy it is for me to love people. It is a gift, to be able to feel and express love easily, and it crushes my heart to think of all the ways the world (and undue attention to it) throws unnecessary obstacles up in the free path to sharing it.
None of this is true all of the time, but this is all true enough.
I love all of the people who have survived the shit of the world with the incredible capacity to love and be kind. You are all motherfucking miracles.
I love the girl whose favorite doughnut is lemon-glazed, and I love my mom. I love that my wife almost had an assgasm shooting porn with a big-dicked guy in a funny wig and condom who was having a difficult day.
Life really has its ups and downs.
Here’s what I posted from my humidifying tub time last night:
And here’s the version COMPLETE WITH CAMELTOE:
My head and chest are thick and heavy, but I suspect everything is being timed perfectly for maximum clarifying and enlightening results. I’m super fucking excited about spring approaching, and imagine the phlegm-haze being lifted from my body as the sun gains more and more bright clean time and power.
Watched The Price of Gold over the past few days; surprised one of the things I enjoyed most was actually about Nancy Kerrigan (was never a fan, having been brought up by my mom to treat all princess-types with contempt and being from Tonya Harding’s corner of the country, and obviously being brainwashed by the media to think of Kerrigan very one-dimensionally/as a “princess”). The way she prioritized training for the Olympics in those brief weeks after being attacked and injured, absolutely refusing to waste any of her limited precious vital time on publicly processing or engaging with people about what happened to her was pretty fucking amazing. To see her so unapologetic about protecting her time and health, and refusing distractions is something everyone can learn from.
Time is precious. Youth is fleeting. If you want to do your best at something(s), you can’t do everything . . . especially not drama. Even if you’re hobbled by it. DUH.
Know your limits, protect yourself and just say no to bullshit. You shouldn’t have to explain to people that there are only twenty-four hours in a day and only one gold fucking medal – not enough time to put on a tragic emo catfighting freakshow for your bloodthirsty “fans”. Of course when I put it THAT way it sounds a lot more exciting than a few brief moments “ice-dancing” in Vera Wang, but whatever. PRIORITIES!!
I finally shaved my armpits last week AND got a bikini wax:
That was actually the first time I’ve gotten anything waxed besides my eyebrows. I enjoyed it. I will do more / the whole kit and caboodle soon.
Before I did all that hair removal, though, I really should have asked one of our friends who was coming to see us if he wanted me to wait until AFTER he saw us; he looked crestfallen and said, “oh no . . . oh noooooo” when I announced the change and displayed my freshly depilated underarms.
That reminded me of being in college in the early nineties, in one of the tons of communities where YOU JUST DIDN’T SEE HAIR ON WOMEN’S LEGS OR ARMPITS so I was an oddity in a tank top viewed with . . . you know, expressions of shock and mortification. I distinctly remember one of my sickeningly smart Republican friends (it used to be easier to have those) eventually expressing his change in attitude towards it, vehemently insisting DON’T EVER SHAVE IT, TRIXIE.
And you know how earnestly those blonde ROTC boys say things. VERY EARNESTLY AND WITH GREAT VIGOR. I thought it was pretty fucking precious, anyway.