We were lounging on my daybed in the awkward space of erotic ambiguity when he said, “I still haven’t seen you with your strap-on. I’d love to see it on you, if you don’t mind.” Though I wasn’t in a sexual mood, his desire to see me wearing a cock tickled my kinkiness. “All right. I’ll model it for you, but don’t expect me to do anything with it,” I said, already feeling the power of the phallus. Stepping into a harness is like stepping on stage; I know that whatever I do, the audience will adore me. When I turned around to reveal my new appendage, my bulging-in-his-pants audience of one uttered “Wow”—he couldn’t keep his eyes off it. My lack of arousal didn’t make the situation any less erotic; on the contrary my sexual detachment gave me the freedom to experience this performance from a purely psychological perspective.
What happens in the brain when a woman dons a fake penis? I liken it to dressing in drag … suddenly she’s more aggressive and dominant. It changes the way she stands and sits, walks and talks. The art of seduction flies out the window as she says goodbye to crossing her legs and her usual soft sultry gaze is replaced by a direct, lewd stare.
While wearing a suit and tie brings on the outward characteristics of masculinity, the strap-on actually makes me feel like a man. So, like a guy in a locker room, I grabbed my cock and started playing with it, looking down and admiring my perpetual erection, like all those well-endowed Dicks who seemed to convey a sense of pride when they stroked their penises in front of me. I was not only imitating this cockiness, I felt it. When my admirer reached for my silicone schlong, I pushed his hand away as if I were shooing a dog. “Did I say you could touch it?”
So Dick, what do you think of Jane now? “I feel like I’m approaching myself,” he said, as he followed me around the apartment. “It’s like switching roles.” He was on his knees and I didn’t do anything to bring him to that position—no command, no gesture—just me sitting in a chair, looking down at him in between glances at my computer, imagining myself as a stereotypical male interested only in his own sexual gratification. As I teased him with my tool, he fed me with column material, going on and on about how strange it was that he almost forgot he had a penis, and when he remembered that he was the guy, his penis became something else, something feminine.
My maskuline genitalia mystified him. What if I were a she-male? What if it were real? “No … it’s the fact that there’s a pussy behind it … it’s like a mask on the pussy,” he said. “Transforming it into another character.” Although he wanted to suck the dildo, he insisted that it alone didn’t turn him on. Attached to a woman, the phallus becomes a sort of intermediary magic wand, a male device through which the feminine can be reached, although the idea of me sporting a realistic fake penis had no appeal for him whatsoever. (Interestingly enough, the majority of she-male clients are straight men … see sexuality.org). “I want to give you something through it. If I was in a room alone with it, it wouldn’t interest me in the least,” he said.
Then he described the experience as metaphysical, and he kneeled before me as men prostrate before the temples of South India, stroking and kissing the phallus, worshipping it not for what it is, but for what it represents. My phallus worshipper, however, was not thinking about regeneration and fertility. Male-female strap-on interaction is about role-reversal, despite the homoerotic associations our culture is programmed to fixate on. If I’m playing a man, and he feels like a woman, then how is it homoerotic? How is it even real? “I’m flashing to another universe where it’s real … I don’t want it to be real, but part of me wants it to be … in my dream life, part of me is suspending reality … I don’t want it to actually be a cock, but in my fantasy world, it’s an archetype of a cock.”
So he gave me archetypal fellatio, the archetypal cock representing the source of a woman’s pleasure while simultaneously symbolizing his own genitalia. It was mutually vicarious—as if he were sucking himself and I were feeling what it must be like to be him, receiving a blowjob from a woman. Think of it this way: Most straight men don’t actually want to suck a cock just as most women don’t actually want to be raped, but many fantasize about it and use the scenario in role-play. It’s acceptable because in the fantasy, they have control. In this case, we were both in control—I, more obviously so, and he because as much as I felt like a man, I’m still a woman. Strap on, strap off, I’m still a woman, and neither I nor he nor anyone else expects that to change.
What happens in the brain when a woman dons a fake penis? I liken it to dressing in drag … suddenly she’s more aggressive and dominant. It changes the way she stands and sits, walks and talks. The art of seduction flies out the window as she says goodbye to crossing her legs and her usual soft sultry gaze is replaced by a direct, lewd stare.
While wearing a suit and tie brings on the outward characteristics of masculinity, the strap-on actually makes me feel like a man. So, like a guy in a locker room, I grabbed my cock and started playing with it, looking down and admiring my perpetual erection, like all those well-endowed Dicks who seemed to convey a sense of pride when they stroked their penises in front of me. I was not only imitating this cockiness, I felt it. When my admirer reached for my silicone schlong, I pushed his hand away as if I were shooing a dog. “Did I say you could touch it?”
So Dick, what do you think of Jane now? “I feel like I’m approaching myself,” he said, as he followed me around the apartment. “It’s like switching roles.” He was on his knees and I didn’t do anything to bring him to that position—no command, no gesture—just me sitting in a chair, looking down at him in between glances at my computer, imagining myself as a stereotypical male interested only in his own sexual gratification. As I teased him with my tool, he fed me with column material, going on and on about how strange it was that he almost forgot he had a penis, and when he remembered that he was the guy, his penis became something else, something feminine.
My maskuline genitalia mystified him. What if I were a she-male? What if it were real? “No … it’s the fact that there’s a pussy behind it … it’s like a mask on the pussy,” he said. “Transforming it into another character.” Although he wanted to suck the dildo, he insisted that it alone didn’t turn him on. Attached to a woman, the phallus becomes a sort of intermediary magic wand, a male device through which the feminine can be reached, although the idea of me sporting a realistic fake penis had no appeal for him whatsoever. (Interestingly enough, the majority of she-male clients are straight men … see sexuality.org). “I want to give you something through it. If I was in a room alone with it, it wouldn’t interest me in the least,” he said.
Then he described the experience as metaphysical, and he kneeled before me as men prostrate before the temples of South India, stroking and kissing the phallus, worshipping it not for what it is, but for what it represents. My phallus worshipper, however, was not thinking about regeneration and fertility. Male-female strap-on interaction is about role-reversal, despite the homoerotic associations our culture is programmed to fixate on. If I’m playing a man, and he feels like a woman, then how is it homoerotic? How is it even real? “I’m flashing to another universe where it’s real … I don’t want it to be real, but part of me wants it to be … in my dream life, part of me is suspending reality … I don’t want it to actually be a cock, but in my fantasy world, it’s an archetype of a cock.”
So he gave me archetypal fellatio, the archetypal cock representing the source of a woman’s pleasure while simultaneously symbolizing his own genitalia. It was mutually vicarious—as if he were sucking himself and I were feeling what it must be like to be him, receiving a blowjob from a woman. Think of it this way: Most straight men don’t actually want to suck a cock just as most women don’t actually want to be raped, but many fantasize about it and use the scenario in role-play. It’s acceptable because in the fantasy, they have control. In this case, we were both in control—I, more obviously so, and he because as much as I felt like a man, I’m still a woman. Strap on, strap off, I’m still a woman, and neither I nor he nor anyone else expects that to change.
