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magdelyn - photo 1
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I mostly date black guys or other dark toned men. But, I don't discriminate. I like all people. I don't care if you are a sex offender. If you are a sex offender, AWESOME!!! You can be my first. I don't care if you are married, or anti-social. For all I care, you can cheat on me with your wife.

I am into abuse. That is getting abused. The true way to my heart is to be abusive. But, I don't date serial murders (I stick to a one murder limit), I don't fuck people with diseases, I don't do junkies, I don't like blood or other bodily fluids (except pee and semen).

About me: I AM NOT FEMALE! I am an infiltration unit - part woman, part machine. Underneath I am a hyper-allow combat chassis. Fully armored. Micro-processor controlled. I can't be bargained with. I can't be reasoned with. I don't feel pity - or remorse - or fear. And I absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.


I just need to get laid.  Is that too much to ask?
I had a crazy weekend, that involved Divas, Kinky Salon and the new Power Exchange.

My friend Molly recently said to me: "Your butt's not too big. You've got a badonkadonk. Deal with it."

Tranny Training
I am beginning a Tranny Training course. Potential must have the following pre-requisites: Students must be willing to be exposed to, (1) humiliation, (2) public exposure, (3) discipline (occassional corrective action such as physical discipline (pain is involved)), (4) short periods in a chastity device (1-2 days), and (5) physical intimacy with men. You must live in or near San Francisco, and must be willing to come to SF. You must be willing to make a commitment to the regimen, including hosting sessions at your home.

About me: I am not a girl. I am a tranz gal. I am cute, in a tranny sort of way. I am 5'10", 170lbs, big butt, into black men (they are a fetish of mine).

About you: Deep inside yourself, you know you are not a real man. Your life as a man has been a bust. You strike out with the ladies. You are adequately employed, but not a superstar at your job. You find pleasure in humiliation. You are sexually experimental. You are drug and disease free. You are loyal to a fault. You are the proverbial "nice guy," i.e. "beta male." You may drink socially, but not to excess. You are the type of man who women pass by and don't give a second thought to. You have an interest in cuckold websites. Your main source of sexual activity is watching internet porn and masturbating. You are, what they call in the law, the "reasonable man." In other words, you are better suited for womanhood.

"Homo-work" is assigned, such watching gay porn. Mental conditioning is involved (hence the previously mentioned pain). You must be willing to go to seedy gay venues (such as tea rooms). You must be willing to go to gay bars. You must be willing to present yourself as in women's attire or as gay. You must be willing to be trained to become the best woman you can be. You must also be able to host on at least two occassions.

“What do you do?” asks Ben. He is the shorter partner of the queer couple that invited me to sit at their table in Twin Peaks, a bar that sits at the acute angle that makes up the corner of 17th and Market. He wears a scruffy beard and the shapeless, casual clothes people wear these days. “I’m a Monican assassin,” I answer. He’s not amused. He is unemployed. His boyfriend of two years works in graphic design. “No, really,” he insists. I stick to my Monican assassin story, mostly because it pisses him off. His boyfriend smiles. I can picture each of these guys waking up next to each other every morning and thinking to themselves, “I can do better.”

The conversation is strained, like they wish I’d pick-up and leave. But, since they invited me to sit down, I decide to overstay my unwelcome. They each get another beer. I look at them. What unextraordinary lives they must lead, I think to myself. After twenty more minutes of banal conversation, they excuse themselves and get up to leave. Ben takes out a pencil and scribbles his phone number down...twice. He hands me the scrap and says, “If you want a boyfriend, not know, mortal stuff...if you want a boyfriend, call me. Really. Anytime.” I can’t figure out what the hell he is talking about. I thank him anyway.

I finish my Cabernet, and limp over to Wallgreens on Castro to buy some bandages. I need to bandage the blister on my heel. My high-heeled, penny-loafers are two sizes too small. I had to use make-up remover to slick my toes in order to squeeze them in. Now my feet are sliding all over the shoe, irritating the skin. I sit down on the sidewalk outside, take off my shoe, to put the bandage on. A skater kid, in his late teens, approaches and sits next to me. “You do meth?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I reply.

“You do anything?” he asks.

“No. Why?”

“I wanted some,” he says, “You working right now?”

“No. Maybe later.”

I assume he thinks I am a crack-whore or something. I smile and get up to leave.

Later on, I am in the Tenderloin. I go to Divas. It’s Tuesday. The place is empty but for the alcoholics. The obese bartender, who I later find out is named Alexis or something, has her back to the bar as I slip by. I go to the bathroom and pee. I fix my make up in the mirror. Alexis follows me into the bathroom. “Can I help you,” she states. Her tone is aggressive, as if I am unwelcome.

“Sure,” I reply.

“You have to get dressed before you come here,” she says as I touch up my lip liner.

“I am dressed.”

“I didn’t see you come in,” she states as if it is my fault.

I leave. As I walk, I pick up an admirer. He is a black dude, poor, but not homeless. He keeps talking to me. I ignore him. “What, you don’t talk?” He throws compliments at me. I’ve heard them all before. He is kind of like background noise as I walk, until he says, “I’ll pay you five dollars to suck on your toes.”

“You want to suck on my toes?”

His name is Tracy. I figure that letting someone suck on my toes isn’t illegal, even for money. He instructs me to follow him down a small side street that runs behind Divas. The few lonely men that walk passed us look me up and down as they tsk tsk about what a dirty girl I am. Tracy pulls out three crumbled up dollar bills. “I thought I had five,” he says, “But I only have three.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, pulling out my compact and touching up my lip liner. “Oh, wait,” he says, “Look, I have two dollar coins, to.” He hands me two Susan B. Anthony dollars. They are hard to differentiate from quarters at night. I stuff the money into my purse with my compact. I feel guilty about taking his money. I didn't need it, and it looked like he couldn't afford to give it up.

I lean against the wall, and pull off my shoe. He takes my foot and rubs it over his face. “You want me to be your slave, don’t you?” he asks breathlessly. I feel awkward, being that he is black and all. I push my foot against his cheek, trying to be dominant. I force his head to turn. He takes my toes into his mouth and makes love to them with his tongue. He stands up, and feels me up as I try to keep balanced on one leg. The five dollar trick is going on too long for my taste.

“Let me jack-off,” he asks, before I put on my shoe. As I squeeze my shoe back on, he masturbates and spills onto the sidewalk. "Oh, God," I think to myself. I want to tell him, "I'm not a real whore." But, I don't have the courage.

I make my way to the Mission where my car is parked. I will sleep in it tonight. Guys in cars circle like sharks. Slowly. If they drive slow, it is for sex. Otherwise, when a car pulls up aggressively, you happen to be walking past an empty parking space. A minivan stops up the street. I walk past and the driver signals me to get in. I get in the car and doors lock. The driver, a white skell, asks me, “Do you have, crack?”


“Oh, sorry.”

“Did you just ask me if I had crack?”


I try to open the door, but it is locked. “Could you please let me go?” The locks snap open and I get out. I see him pull over down the street. He picks up a girl and drives off. She must have had crack.