Tired but sexy Debbie

You are going to have to have the courage of your convictions, Deborah, aren't you, petal? You ain't going to get much support as an earnest autogynephiliac who has no interest in transitioning and not much interest in crossdressing, who doesn't insist that they are inwardly biologically female, who tends to recoil from pornography.

But having the courage of my convictions just isn't me. I am a doubter by instinct. And I am tired, so tired, so world-weary. Life has that effect upon one.

But I am not so world-weary that I don't feel like treating myself to this fun erotic bit of choosing a sexy femme picture for me to identify with. The desire to do this comes from deep down; it's a sensitive keen thrill. Eros defies thanatos yet.

Lost Deborah

I have a sense that if I am lost for words then I am lost.

What is it, though, to be lost? How can a person actually be lost?

Do I not know where I am? Have I been disconnected from something to which I belong?

Who really does know where they are, in a spiritual or psychological sense? Who really even knows what it is to which they ought to belong?

If you are honest then don't doubt your doubt. If you are courageous then don't fear your doubting.

Again a state of existential uncertainty which could be attributed to trans seems to me better attributed to the modern human condition.

Gender uncertainty just highlights the uncertainty prevalent in life in general.

Do I create a kind of home, a kind of comfort for myself in self-expression? Is this a false comfort, a delusion of home?

Vulgar sincerity

Oh, the exhibitionism of crude sincerity.

Roll up, roll up, come and gawp at Deborah's naked feelings. Laid so bare they are positively naughty...

Inner queen

Turn off, tune in, descend.

Switch off that outer 'reality' that they try to impose upon you. Put on your earrings, your ballgown, your stilettos.

Descend those stairs with the golden railings. In all your gracious beauty and sexual magnificence. Wave to acknowledge the applause.

You are the audience. You are the stairs. You are the First Lady. You are the Queen.

You need no more.

In-Debs-isive (as usual)

Feelings from all the place of my psyche draw me in numerous incompatible directions. Such clashes are certainly not the exclusive prerogative of the trans folk. It's the human lot, for the whole lot of humanity. At least in modernity. Was it ever different?

I accept my outer maleness, the influence upon me of male experience, and I accept my AGP sexuality. About the exact ontological status of my inner femininity I do not know, I can only speculate. The pull of it is sexy, and sexuality comes from somewhere deep. The relationship between one's sexual psychology, one's sexual fantasies and one's outer life is another complex element in everyone's lives. Let no one think that if you're cisgendered then all that is sorted.

I am interested in contemplating, in an open, non-judgemental way, the inner-outer and self-other axes (pl. of axis) of autogynephilia, alongside the female-male one. Politically I would like to promote AGP/crossdreaming pride, akin to gay pride. But I do not wish to take on the (online) public role that significant contributions in these fields would require. Hats off to Jack Molay for putting in the commitment that a prominent role in these fields requires.

As for the progress of my personal descent, we are back to the numerous incompatible directions again. I can't even make up my mind about what exactly I should make my mind up about.

Debbie wonders

Can there be (or is there already: my knowledge of internet trans is thoroughly limited?) a place on the net for people exploring autogynephiliac sexuality:

a) that is positive, supportive and exploratory.

b) that is intelligent but not intimidatingly academic/theoretical.

c) that isn't predominantly pornographic.

d) where the sexuality isn't overshadowed by concerns about dysphoria, transitioning etc.

e) that doesn't focus on crossdressing.

f) that isn't inhabited by people wanting to be 'cured' of autogynephilia?


I don't know.

Deb beds a shoe

Upon putting some old clothes into a recycling skip, I discovered perched on top of the pile within the skip, a pair of shiny black, silver-studded stiletto-heeled ladies' shoes. Well, I had to have them. In fact they were crying out to me, ' we want to be yours, Deborah', so it would have been harsh of me to have left them to an ignominious fate inside the skip.

Having taken them home, I contemplate 'are these shoes pure femme sex, or what?' I mean, I do my best, but I humbly admit that these shoes are better at it than I am. That night I took one of the shoes to bed with me (please don't feel sorry for the other one: she will have her turn shortly). Going to bed with women always serves to remind me that women are human beings: complex, sensitive, imperfect, just like myself. Empathy, responsibility and kindness soon dominate over sexual feelings within Deborah. Stiletto-heeled shoes, on the other hand, are not human beings just like myself. They are just sex, sex, and more sex!

Yes, sheer unadulterated female sexiness. The world doesn't offer much better than that. In fact I don't know why it bothers trying, with all its social organisation, its high culture, its education, its big business: a sharp stiletto stabs through all of these, piercing into the heart of human feeling. Just give us all beds to lie in and ply us with high-heeled shoes.