It all started with a podcast

[Deleted member 124593]

I love all of this. You two are so perfect together.

She's a lot. And becoming lotter. But I wouldn't trade the quiet moments for anything. And she's been a huge help for my transition. Invaluable in countless ways. I do sometimes wonder what it's like to fuck her in 2026. I sometimes get sad that I can't. She was great before and now a guy will finish and be like "Jesus Fucking Christ."

 

[Deleted member 124593]

244.

In early September, she had dates with Brandon and Ryan a couple of nights apart. Considering we used the same hotel and followed the same process as we had in the past, the experiences could not have been more different.

Brandon was all about himself. My presence was tolerated – barely – and the only real interaction he and I had was when he told me to “sit and watch.” That type of command has all the potential in the world of being extremely hot. But in Brandon’s less-than-capable hands, there was no eroticism or even playfulness to it at all, and no follow through or payoff. It was nothing more than a declaration that he was going to fuck my wife.

And he did. He was good at it too. Afterwards when I asked her how it was, she judged it “top ten.” Decent praise, given the amount of guys she had been with.

But, as I said, there wasn’t any payoff afterwards. She likes it when a man is complicit in my humiliation. Not dominating me, but not ignoring me either. Teasing me. Or the occasional “good girl” or “good bitch” when I refresh a drink or fetch another condom. I like it too. I love the whole atmosphere of being sexually submissive and degraded. The more the guy is invested in it, the better it is. Brandon just wasn’t very invested. Still, the sex was good enough that she was willing to give him another chance. I didn’t love the idea, but it obviously wasn’t my call.

Ryan, on the other hand, was fun. He understood the assignment. Like he knew it wasn’t just about him and her – that I was part of the chemistry too. And while he wasn’t directly dominant towards me, he was a co-conspirator, funneling his desires through my wife and choosing to articulate his thoughts as a way to get his point across.

“I’m not sure why Alexandra hasn’t thanked me for coming,” he teased while we were still at the bar. It was bratty and tongue-in-cheek and it prompted the reaction he intended: my wife loved it.

“Thank Ryan for coming, Alexandra,” she ordered with a smile. I can assure you, I felt it in my panties when I had to look across the table and thank him. It is often those little submissive moments that stick with me and linger. Just the open submissiveness to thank a person in that situation frames the entire power dynamic in about 3 seconds. And it really was a full cup of servitude to say those simple words.

It was unusual for a first-time date to have the level of playfulness Ryan had. Normally, while at times her dates are highly charged with eroticism and my submission, the guys can be quiet. They’re talkative when we’re in the bar, but once we get upstairs, things change. They participate, but they don’t typically say very much. Ryan was talkative. He was inclusive. And he was curious. He wanted to know what all of this was like for me.

“So, you like to watch?” he asked while we were sipping drinks.

“I do,” I replied.

“What do you like about it?”

“I like seeing her happy,” I said. “I like the she can and I can’t. And I like being included this way.”

My wife couldn’t resist taking a teasing shot. “Thank me for including you.”

“Thank you for including me, Mistress.”

That did it. A second - and more explicit - public acknowledgment that I obeyed her at all times. I could see Ryan’s expression change. At that moment I think our marriage and dynamic became very real to him.

We went upstairs shortly after and it was electric. For the first time in a long time, it was clear we had found a guy who “got it.” Who understood that the best way to intensify the experience of being with my wife was not to shut me out or treat me like an insignificant prop, but to include me.

Some of it had been done before, but instead of going through the motions, there was a new kick to how it played out. I knelt in front of Ryan as she stroked his hardening cock and his smile spoke a thousand words. "Cages and thongs and boobies, oh my," he teased at one point. There wasn't a lot of filter to him, but his comments were always smartly delivered. I begged him to fuck my wife, eliciting a “that’s so hot” from him. I fetched drinks. I disposed of used condoms. Multiple. At one point, mid-sex he asked “how’s the view, Alexandra?” which flushed my face red and sent heat coursing through me. Using my name was a nice touch. I still think about it.

I could tell my wife loved it too. “Crawl to me,” she ordered. And I did. When I got there, she caressed my face right in front of him. “She’s so soft now. So delicate. It’s adorable how supportive she is of my sex life.” It was a wicked statement, full of historical weight. I let it all wash over me as she pressed her freshly fucked cunt into my mouth. She was a soaking wet mixture of sex, sweat and condom. Ryan watched it all with rapt attention.

We spent the night with her in the middle and at one point Ryan’s hand touched mine as we both spooned into her. “Alexandra, quit touching me,” he teased.

“You touched me,” I corrected back, giving "bratty" as good as I got it.

There was a long pause. The room was dark, so I couldn’t see his smile, but I could hear it. “It was an accident,” he playfully whispered.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

I meant to add that this is just for walking. I have not even attempted to master the other skills that Alexandra has described. What I've listed is just for the regular task of walking, not even specifically for heels, since I almost always were flats, but this effort is just for basic movement; not trying for sex appeal or anything other than walking comfortably as a woman.

Because, as Alexandra mentioned, the way you move draws attention, both good and bad.

There is so much to this as you correctly pointed out. Add in talking, sitting, standing, bending, eye contact, voice ... what you offer and what you choose to hold back. What I've come to learn about sex appeal is, while "you" don't want to play a role and it needs to be authentic, it has some curation to it. "We" aren't using doe eyes when we're raking leaves. But, in the right situation, they can be highly effective. I've seen my wife use them lots of times and it works ... Every. Single. Time.

Girls rule. Boys drool. Water is wet.

 

[Medea]

So true. You can't not communicate with your body.

No such thing as neutral body language.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

245.

And in late September we did it all over again. Or I should say, she did them all over again. First Brandon. Then Ryan. Same order. Same results.

I think Brandon was annoyed he had to pay for the hotel room again. He was on edge for most of it. That edginess paid off for her in the best way because I had not seen her (at that point) fucked as hard as she was that night. It was a sight, and, at times, concerning to the level that I checked in once in the middle of it. She was fine, if highly disheveled.

Call it a railing. Getting one’s brains fucked out. Guts rearranged. Whatever. This was that. She was screaming. And sore the next day. I had never seen her manhandled like this before. She liked it in the moment. She confessed later that she did not like how it made her look in front of me. I appreciated her vulnerability. But I also understood the dynamic and it did nothing to diminish her in my eyes. When she opened up her side of our marriage, I had considered the possibility of something like this happening as time wore on. She’s 5’4” and petite. It was never going to be surprising if some 6’5”, 260-pound guy ragdolled her. It was bound to happen.

I think it might have scared her a little too. She wasn’t in control the way she likes. She likes a guy who can fuck her hard. But she isn’t the type to all of sudden get submissive because a man is going to town on her. I don’t think she liked that it felt like a “using" - (it felt that way to me). There was a bit of a power struggle through the early stages, but Brandon is a big guy with a big cock and by the end he was pushing her face down while he fucked her from behind. The problem remained the same, however: They definitely had sexual chemistry, but Brandon was a dud in the personality department.

Ryan, on the other hand, was an even better version of himself during Hookup 2.0. He brought us both flowers. He held doors. Gave sincere compliments. Asked great questions. He continued to be sharp, handsome, funny and cool; displaying enough confidence to handle the unique situation he found himself in, while being humble enough to come right out and say “this is new to me.”

It was clear my wife liked him. I did too. The vibe is important, and Ryan seemed to fit into ours. He smiled easy, included me and deferred to my wife and her timing on how the night would go, without ever being a push-over. He continued to tease me and my submission through my wife in the fun, bratty way that made me smile and laugh and say to myself “you little bugger.” He was, as the Brits would say, cheeky.

And he could fuck too. Hard and deep and with a passion and focus on my wife that was wonderfully refreshing to witness. He wanted to make her feel good. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t focused, the way so many lovers are, on getting her off so he could get off. Instead, he took his time and seemed to not put so much pressure on himself, which led to a better experience all around.

Seeing it all as “the third” was mind-blowing. At one point he was taking her from behind and reached around, slowly caressing her thigh before finding her waist and then her clit. Her hand joined his and they worked her button in unison until she cried out and came, her body convulsing and involuntarily banging back onto him as she rode out the waves. It was passionate and lovely. I’m usually quiet when I’m watching her have sex, but even I exclaimed “that was so fucking hot,” when it happened. Because it was.

Witnessing her have elevated chemistry with another person stirred a range of emotions; from happiness and horniness to anxiety and agitation. For the first time in a long time, I felt fear. I also felt an overwhelming amount of submissive instinct. This was a hot session and I wanted to do my part to make it hotter. I crawled when she asked me to fetch them some water. I hungrily lapped at her pussy in between their rounds of sex, gently soothing her freshly fucked hole and putting my devotion for her on public display.

My wife could see my hunger for more and obliged. After she had milked Ryan into his condom, she summoned me from my chair.

“Come here, Alexandra,” she ordered.

I slid onto the floor and crawled to her.

“Up,” she said to me, when I had reached the edge of the bed. Then I watched, first with curiosity, then with humiliating realization as she slipped the condom off of Ryan, looped it around my chastity cage and tied a knot on it. The cum-filled, reservoir tip now dangled from me. It pushed every degradation button I had and my brain swam as I looked down to see her handiwork. “You can be our cum-rack,” she teased.

I couldn’t believe she had done it, but it was a wonderfully dirty squeeze of submissive juice, because when I went back to my chair, I now had their used condom resting on my thigh and reminding me of my place. At that moment, all I wanted was more. More of her. More of him. And more of the heightened submissive electricity that charged the entire room.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

246.

She had been a cuckoldress for a long time, so I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

We were out with Kim, the three of us, and she and my wife were on the vodka. I was on the wine. There were two guys just down the bar and one of them caught my wife’s eye when she laughed at something Kim said. Normally, my wife enjoys intimidating the shit out of men. But this time she smiled and didn’t look away. Guys being guys, they came over a moment later.

“Tito’s?” one of them asked.

“Grey Goose,” my wife said.

“Ah. Worth the few extra bucks.” And then they introduced themselves. “I’m Mike. This is Jason.”

Jason raised his glass. “Hi.”

My wife was in the middle. Kim looked past her to me and gave me the look – what just happened? Then she turned to the guys. “I’m Kim. That’s Alexandra. This is Sarah.”

I call it “the next contestant.” My wife gets hit on a lot when we’re out. Sometimes it is more overt than others. But it’s a fairly regular occurrence. And it had never once worked out. “Here comes the next contestant” was a familiar refrain in my head. I had seen guy after guy try and fail with her. And the funny thing is, my wife is a very dirty girl. She fucks. But the at-a-bar “contestants” can’t seem to crack the code. They usually do something dumb within a few minutes to disqualify themselves. Some are too cocky. Some are barely hanging on due to nerves and end up saying something foolish that kills the vibe. Some have no business approaching her in the first place.

But these guys were pretty good. I’ll give them credit. Easy conversations. Good looks. Funny. A winning combination. At one point we got into a pretty amusing conversation about who invented tequila and was it even a good idea.

I saw Jason’s eyes go right down the line. Kim’s wedding ring. My wife’s. Mine. He didn’t say anything. But Mike did. “I’m sorry. I should have asked this before. Are we interrupting anything?”

“No,” my wife said. And that was that. Another round. More laughing. Closer bodies. And the next thing I knew, my wife was making out with Jason. It was surprising to me, but I had already seen her kiss a bunch of people, just not in a bar. Kim, however, was speechless, looking back and forth between me and the spectacle of a deep kiss going on right in front of her. She looked like she was watching a tennis match; bouncing between her own processing of what was going on, my reaction and the actions of my wife, now casually finding Jason’s cock through his pants.

“Oh my god,” Kim said. In fairness, it was startling. But it was hot too. And watching Kim witness the hurricane that is my (hot)wife for the first time was definitely arousing and entertaining for me.

And then, my jaw dropped too, because my wife pivoted away from Jason, pulled Mike to her and started kissing him.

“Holy shit,” said Kim.

Holy shit indeed.

“So … we live a couple of blocks away,” Jason said. “Do you girls want to come back to our place?”

Now, these guys were not in their early twenties. They were thirty. Maybe a little under, maybe a little over. But call it thirty. And they still lived together? Questionable at best. But my job is just to report the news …

My wife, to her credit, looked at me first. Including me. I just smiled.

It’s her world. Hold on tight.

Then she looked at Kim, who gave her the “big eyes” but then a small, subtle nod. Kim’s husband, Mike, is a great guy. Mike knows about our dynamic. And he loves my wife. But that’s all well and good until his spouse ends up at some random apartment so her best friend can hook up like she’s 21 years old again. This adventure was going to cost Kim some “chips.” Didn’t apparently matter. Kim is fucking ride or die. In this case, how much of that was true ride-or-die energy and how much was sheer curiosity is debatable.

“That sounds fun,” said my wife, turning to Jason.

Walking to their apartment was a buzz of energy; my wife between the two guys, Kim and I a couple of steps behind, steadying one another and catching brief bits of the conversation up ahead. I think we could both feel the energy of what was about to happen.

When we got to their building, Mike held the door open. Kim and I followed Jason and my wife inside, Mike then trailing behind us. Waiting for the elevator was slightly awkward. For me anyway. Just silence. I saw Jason take my wife’s hand as the doors opened. And then closed. And then opened again on their floor.

Part of me was curious about how all of this was going to go. The other part of me was pretty sure exactly how it would go. The other part of me was right. With one exception: I thought Mike was going to blow it when he started flirting with Kim and me and took his attention off of my wife. There was no chance I was going to do anything unless she ordered it and she had given no hint of doing so. And Kim, while I couldn’t be sure what she was going to do, didn’t seem to have any plans other than seeing how this all unfolded with her hotwife best friend.

They opened the door to their apartment, we slipped inside and within seconds my wife was making out with both of them, one hand on each of their waistbands. That ended any needless flirting from Mike, which was the best thing that could have happened to him. She pulled away momentarily.

“Alexandra, get the condoms,” she ordered.

Speedy.

My wife doesn’t carry her condoms. I do. She likes it that way. The submissive’s chore, I suppose.

I wasn’t sure how many to give her. Oddly, I think I gave her five, which is a bizarro amount for an even number of cocks, but definitely fitting for the entire situation.

My wife had her first threesome in over 10 years that night. I didn’t see any of it, but I heard all of it. Part of me was initially mortified that Kim was there for it. But as the time wore on, I realized how glad I was that she was next to me.

“Has she ever done this before?” Kim asked me.

“Nope,” I said. “Arranged dates at hotels – yes. This? No.”

Kim rolled her eyes. “First time for everything.”

I just raised my eyebrows in response. I don’t think she knew how to interpret it. “Are you doing OK?” she asked.

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said. I chose to leave it at that rather than getting intimate with Kim at some random apartment. But in truth, I didn’t like that my wife was doing this, how she was doing it or where she was doing it, not to mention who she was doing it in front of.

Then we sat in silence. Or as much silence as two people can have when someone they love is getting smashed in the other room.

“This is fucking wild,” Kim said at one point. I didn't know if she was saying it to herself or saying it me. But I seized it anyway.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

 

[Deleted member 124593]

247.

“We’re going to try this tonight,” my wife said, placing the digital advertisement on her phone in front of me. It was an image of a sauna. A steamy mist filled the frame. In the foreground, there was a man in a red bathing suit with a towel over his shoulders. It was hard to tell through the mist, but it looked like he had an erection in his bathing suit. A few feet behind him, either entering or leaving the sauna, was a woman in shadow, wearing a sexy dress and high heels. The advertisement read:

“Trans Night – First Monday - Third Thursday, each month”

I was trying to figure out what I was looking at … and couldn’t.

“I’m not sure what it is,” I said.

“I’m not entirely sure either,” she said. “We shall see.”

It wasn’t much to go on. Was she purposefully being tight lipped or did she not know either?

“Dress sexy, bring a bathing suit, a change of clothes and pack condoms. For you.”

I nodded.

What the heck?

No matter. If she said we were going, then we were going.

___

We had drinks down the street from wherever this address was and then we set off to find “Trans Night.” All I can say is, thank God we had drinks first …

I have come to discover there are two bathhouses in Providence. This one was up a flight of stairs in a non-descript building. So non-descript that we weren’t sure we were at the right place. But we double-checked, opened the door, and, without any other directional options, went up the stairs. Reaching the top, we walked twenty feet and found what appeared to be the entrance. It was just a locked door with a bell, so we rang it and a moment later we were buzzed into a tiny foyer and greeted by a woman behind a pane of glass. We verified we were at the right address and then she asked us if we wanted a locker or a room.

“A room,” my wife said.

OK, a room it is.

We paid the entry fee and she buzzed us through the next door. The entire process was a little unsettling. It seemed really shady. But we stepped through the door into the lobby and things improved slightly. The lobby was softly lit and open and it, at least, appeared clean, far cleaner than the stairwell or the entry area.

As she was getting our room key, I looked around. There was no one else in the lobby for a time and then I saw a man with a towel around his waist walk through and disappear down a hallway. She handed us our room key and two towels.

“Second hallway,” she said. “B-three.”

The hallways were darker and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. But we found Room B3, turned the key and stepped into … spartan, dingy, dirty sin.

The “room,” if I can call it that, had a single lightbulb, a small bed, almost like a military cot – just a single thin mattress and a sheet – a small table, a trash bin, a tiny mirror on the wall and three condoms on a small shelf.

“OK then. Homey,” my wife said sarcastically. “Open the wine.”

I couldn’t do it fast enough. What the hell was this place? How the hell did she find it? What the hell are we doing here?

We sat on the bed and sipped at our wine. Trust me when I say we both did our best to make sure our tiny dresses covered our entire bottom before sitting.

We could hear people around us, because the “room” didn’t have a ceiling. Four walls, yes. But the actual building ceiling was a good four feet above where the walls stopped. It took me back to being a kid. It was more like an indoor fort or treehouse than a room.

My wife slugged down the last half of her wine and put the glass on the little table. The humor of our cheapest wine glasses being the nicest thing about the room was not lost on me.

We stepped out into the hallway, locked our door and went exploring, following the soft sounds of voices. The place was a bit like a maze. It wasn’t very big, but it was confusing. Eventually we came to a common space and there were loads of people in there. Mainly guys in towels and a few other “girls like me.”

The common space had a couple of benches, a sex swing, a large bed and a small private room (basically a closet) in one corner. EDM was playing softly over the speakers. Trans porn was playing silently on a television.

The common room was a quiet place. I could feel the nervous energy, some of it sexual nervous energy, but in general it was just a lot of strangers standing around. When one guy approached one of the other girls, I saw her run her hand under his towel to find his dick. A moment later she began blowing him.

And that’s when it all made sense.

Hookups. All random and anonymous, I assumed. Find someone you like, take them back to your “room” – or go to theirs. Or, as I began to discover, go for it right there in the common spaces.

This was wild. I was glad we had some drinks because it felt like stepping into a whole new world. It was sleazy, completely no-strings-attached and decidedly, at least on this particular night, trans focused. It’s hard to say how many people were there. Everyone seemed to be in and out of the common spaces (the room I described, as well as a sauna and a small gym-like area that - I think - had an exercise bike and nothing else) and in and out of rooms. It was definitely an experience. The guys outnumbered the girls ten to one.

At one point we reloaded our wine and walked around, just taking it all in. As the night wore on, the sounds of sex could be heard at times – again, no ceilings – bodies slapping, girls crying out in heat as they were fucked, sloppy blowjobs.

I remained unsure of what to make of the place. It was definitely dark and a bit dingy. But people were having fun, as awkward as the start of the hookups were. I had no shortage of interested “suitors,” and felt stared at a lot. A couple of guys groped me (and my wife) as we passed them in the narrow hallways. Inappropriate for sure, but not unexpected given where we were. I was nervous my wife was going to ask me to service some random guy, but thankfully she didn’t.

We ended up watching a few people have sex, my first (and second) time seeing another trans girl get banged live. We added another first to our list as well: our one “Trans Night” sexcapade transpired when we mutually jerked off one lucky guy in the common room. One never truly understands marital bonding until both you and your spouse “run for cover” when they guy you’re jerking off starts firing rope after rope and you’re wearing couture.

__

I have come to learn more about this Providence scene – and this particular place – over time. But I had no freaking clue what it was all about when we went, so I wrote this entry from my notes as a first-time reflection. It really was like stepping into a whole different world. I loved the freedom of it, but cringed at the health ramifications. I believe the sex we watched was all condom-protected. But the blowies weren’t. At least not that I saw. Alas, I am not one to judge. My wife, however, is. As we were descending the stairs to head home she quipped, “there were a couple of beautiful cocks in there.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her those “beautiful cocks” were likely more interested in girls like me, rather than girls like her. After all, it was Trans Night.

 

[Kali]

I used to go to a club in NYC that had rooms like that on one of the three floors, back when I first started transitioning. https://bowerybliss.com/ if anyone cares, they are apparently still in business. Met some very interesting people, and one night my car got hit by a limo and I called the cops.

The cops were very understanding of a 6'4" trans girl, in 4" heels, dressed in outright hooker wear (spandex tank and a skirt that "almost" covered my boy bits) while I leaned in their car window like my best L&O hooker looking at street camera video to find the limo that hit my car. We did find it, and the cops simply asked me about myself in a friendly and supportive way, which was a bot of a surprise.

 

[nohair]

247.

“We’re going to try this tonight,” my wife said, placing the digital advertisement on her phone in front of me. It was an image of a sauna. A steamy mist filled the frame. In the foreground, there was a man in a red bathing suit with a towel over his shoulders. It was hard to tell through the mist, but it looked like he had an erection in his bathing suit. A few feet behind him, either entering or leaving the sauna, was a woman in shadow, wearing a sexy dress and high heels. The advertisement read:

“Trans Night – First Monday - Third Thursday, each month”

I was trying to figure out what I was looking at … and couldn’t.

“I’m not sure what it is,” I said.

“I’m not entirely sure either,” she said. “We shall see.”

It wasn’t much to go on. Was she purposefully being tight lipped or did she not know either?

“Dress sexy, bring a bathing suit, a change of clothes and pack condoms. For you.”

I nodded.

What the heck?

No matter. If she said we were going, then we were going.

___

We had drinks down the street from wherever this address was and then we set off to find “Trans Night.” All I can say is, thank God we had drinks first …

I have come to discover there are two bathhouses in Providence. This one was up a flight of stairs in a non-descript building. So non-descript that we weren’t sure we were at the right place. But we double-checked, opened the door, and, without any other directional options, went up the stairs. Reaching the top, we walked twenty feet and found what appeared to be the entrance. It was just a locked door with a bell, so we rang it and a moment later we were buzzed into a tiny foyer and greeted by a woman behind a pane of glass. We verified we were at the right address and then she asked us if we wanted a locker or a room.

“A room,” my wife said.

OK, a room it is.

We paid the entry fee and she buzzed us through the next door. The entire process was a little unsettling. It seemed really shady. But we stepped through the door into the lobby and things improved slightly. The lobby was softly lit and open and it, at least, appeared clean, far cleaner than the stairwell or the entry area.

As she was getting our room key, I looked around. There was no one else in the lobby for a time and then I saw a man with a towel around his waist walk through and disappear down a hallway. She handed us our room key and two towels.

“Second hallway,” she said. “B-three.”

The hallways were darker and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. But we found Room B3, turned the key and stepped into … spartan, dingy, dirty sin.

The “room,” if I can call it that, had a single lightbulb, a small bed, almost like a military cot – just a single thin mattress and a sheet – a small table, a trash bin, a tiny mirror on the wall and three condoms on a small shelf.

“OK then. Homey,” my wife said sarcastically. “Open the wine.”

I couldn’t do it fast enough. What the hell was this place? How the hell did she find it? What the hell are we doing here?

We sat on the bed and sipped at our wine. Trust me when I say we both did our best to make sure our tiny dresses covered our entire bottom before sitting.

We could hear people around us, because the “room” didn’t have a ceiling. Four walls, yes. But the actual building ceiling was a good four feet above where the walls stopped. It took me back to being a kid. It was more like an indoor fort or treehouse than a room.

My wife slugged down the last half of her wine and put the glass on the little table. The humor of our cheapest wine glasses being the nicest thing about the room was not lost on me.

We stepped out into the hallway, locked our door and went exploring, following the soft sounds of voices. The place was a bit like a maze. It wasn’t very big, but it was confusing. Eventually we came to a common space and there were loads of people in there. Mainly guys in towels and a few other “girls like me.”

The common space had a couple of benches, a sex swing, a large bed and a small private room (basically a closet) in one corner. EDM was playing softly over the speakers. Trans porn was playing silently on a television.

The common room was a quiet place. I could feel the nervous energy, some of it sexual nervous energy, but in general it was just a lot of strangers standing around. When one guy approached one of the other girls, I saw her run her hand under his towel to find his dick. A moment later she began blowing him.

And that’s when it all made sense.

Hookups. All random and anonymous, I assumed. Find someone you like, take them back to your “room” – or go to theirs. Or, as I began to discover, go for it right there in the common spaces.

This was wild. I was glad we had some drinks because it felt like stepping into a whole new world. It was sleazy, completely no-strings-attached and decidedly, at least on this particular night, trans focused. It’s hard to say how many people were there. Everyone seemed to be in and out of the common spaces (the room I described, as well as a sauna and a small gym-like area that - I think - had an exercise bike and nothing else) and in and out of rooms. It was definitely an experience. The guys outnumbered the girls ten to one.

At one point we reloaded our wine and walked around, just taking it all in. As the night wore on, the sounds of sex could be heard at times – again, no ceilings – bodies slapping, girls crying out in heat as they were fucked, sloppy blowjobs.

I remained unsure of what to make of the place. It was definitely dark and a bit dingy. But people were having fun, as awkward as the start of the hookups were. I had no shortage of interested “suitors,” and felt stared at a lot. A couple of guys groped me (and my wife) as we passed them in the narrow hallways. Inappropriate for sure, but not unexpected given where we were. I was nervous my wife was going to ask me to service some random guy, but thankfully she didn’t.

We ended up watching a few people have sex, my first (and second) time seeing another trans girl get banged live. We added another first to our list as well: our one “Trans Night” sexcapade transpired when we mutually jerked off one lucky guy in the common room. One never truly understands marital bonding until both you and your spouse “run for cover” when they guy you’re jerking off starts firing rope after rope and you’re wearing couture.

__

I have come to learn more about this Providence scene – and this particular place – over time. But I had no freaking clue what it was all about when we went, so I wrote this entry from my notes as a first-time reflection. It really was like stepping into a whole different world. I loved the freedom of it, but cringed at the health ramifications. I believe the sex we watched was all condom-protected. But the blowies weren’t. At least not that I saw. Alas, I am not one to judge. My wife, however, is. As we were descending the stairs to head home she quipped, “there were a couple of beautiful cocks in there.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her those “beautiful cocks” were likely more interested in girls like me, rather than girls like her. After all, it was Trans Night.

Gay saunas are like that all over the world. Daunting when you first try it, but a male sex drive will take him into any environment if there is a chance of getting laid. If you like quick sex with random partners, then it is definitely the place for you.

Safe sex? Not so much

 

[Deleted member 124593]

I used to go to a club in NYC that had rooms like that on one of the three floors, back when I first started transitioning. https://bowerybliss.com/ if anyone cares, they are apparently still in business. Met some very interesting people, and one night my car got hit by a limo and I called the cops.

The cops were very understanding of a 6'4" trans girl, in 4" heels, dressed in outright hooker wear (spandex tank and a skirt that "almost" covered my boy bits) while I leaned in their car window like my best L&O hooker looking at street camera video to find the limo that hit my car. We did find it, and the cops simply asked me about myself in a friendly and supportive way, which was a bot of a surprise.

That’s a great story (minus the limo incident). “Your” place looks nicer than the one I described.

It was an interesting experience. By this point I had seen a million dicks on our iPad during anal training and a thousand more vetting dates for her. But I hadn’t seen that many right in front of me and all in the same room. A lot of guys took their towels off in that main common space I described. So it was cocks as far as the eye could see.

Related: in my opinion, the flaccid male penis is not attractive. However, a well groomed hard cock can be really beautiful.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

248.

Note: I wrote most of this entry back in November of 2025 as a way to try and work through some internal conflict. It’s a bit of an odd one: high-minded in places and a fever dream in others. I’ve returned to work on it several times, with slight improvement. It, at least, now has a through-line. When I first wrote it, it didn’t really seem to fit and had a long, since-deleted, passage about the gender of lovers. Ultimately, it’s just thoughts and feelings. But I worked on it again yesterday and feel it is now worth posting, because submission is complicated …
___

I had no shortage of interested “suitors,” and felt stared at a lot. A couple of guys groped me as we passed them in the narrow hallways … I was nervous my wife was going to ask me to service some random guy, but thankfully she didn’t.

I exist in the space between wanting and being wanted.

When she tells me someone has reached out, I feel it. My stomach drops. My head buzzes. Some of it is scary. I’m not exactly “afraid” – but I feel unsettled – because it’s situations like this when my ownership and devotion anxiety quickly ramp. My sexuality isn’t mine in that moment. It may not be mine anymore at all. It becomes a chess piece on her board. And I have to wait and see how she’ll move it. Living with it is unsettling. Exciting, but unsettling.

There is relief in her being in charge of it all. I don’t have to decide whether I am attracted to someone. I don’t have to think or negotiate at all. Not on desire or ego. If she says “yes”, then yes is correct. If she says “no”, then no is correct. My responsibility ends at obedience.

But beneath that relief is something else. And that’s what makes my stomach drop and my head buzz. When she “puts it out there” that someone is interested and she watches my reaction to see if I’m excited, I feel naked. I feel exposed. It’s a psychological ploy. Because she knows before I do. She sees the look or the flicker in my eyes. She’s watching for it and collecting data on it. She’s measuring me. Like an object she owns. And that ownership is both comforting and destabilizing.

With someone like Adam, it’s easy. He’s attractive. He’s a good lover. Being sent to him is sexy and erotic. Like I’m being loaned out and not being discarded. I can tell myself I’m desirable and that my submission to my wife is elegant.

But when I imagine her choosing someone I am not attracted to, that’s where it gets complicated. The submissive in me says: “That’s the point. You don’t get to choose. You don’t get to have a preference. You only get to have a purpose.”

There is something so positively and unequivocally submissive about this. It is one element of the deepest part of The Deep. The idea that my body is not governed by my taste but by her will. That I exist to fulfill her decisions and desires and not my own cravings.

And that thought is both incredibly exciting and utterly terrifying.

Because, as much as I try to castrate every ounce of ego and self-worth inside me in service to her, it is still in there. And obedience to that level feels like I might disappear as a human being.

If she chose someone who didn’t validate me, someone I would not have chosen for myself, I think I would feel stripped away. It would end all agency. It would castrate all ego. And as a result, it would remove all illusion of who and what I am. I would be reduced to function.

Part of me would kneel deeper into that reduction. I know myself. It’s depraved and a part of me would want it. I would tell myself that pleasing her is the point and any discomfort I felt is merely proof of devotion to her.

The other part of me – and this is what scares me the most – might rebel. Not out of anger. But out of some small, meek, trembling need to still matter as a person.

And if she ever sent me somewhere public or risky on my own (like the bathhouse) something she teases from time to time – somewhere that could have real life ramifications, safety concerns or alter how others see me – it gets even more emotional and more tangled. There would be fear. Real adrenaline. Real consequences. The sense that something irreversible could happen.

And yet, there would also be intense clarity. She orders. I obey. It would be a loss of self. There would be no person with layered identities and roles. I’d be reduced to function and one word: Hers.

That idea is intoxicating and dangerous. It trumps everything else – career, reputation, outside respect. It reduces my world down to her approval.

I struggle with so much of this. Reduction can become suffocation if it goes too far. When I call myself an “unpaid whore” in my own head, it’s not just powerful degradation, it’s an acknowledgment that my sexuality is entirely hers, to be allocated as she chooses. There is no profit. There is no choice. And the humiliating confession here is that I crave that. Some days, anyway.

What, I think, keeps all of this from turning into resentment and rebellion is this essential thing: the feeling that she sees the sacrifice. If she “sent me out” and looked at me afterward and said nothing – if she treated my submission like a given rather than a gift – like something owed rather than offered, then I think something inside me would break and I would kick and scream and even run.

But when she looks at me with that knowing expression, when she recognizes that I did something incredibly difficult because she asked, then I feel valued in a way that is almost paradoxical. I am not being valued for my autonomy or my agency. I am being valued for my surrender.

Would I rebel? In the big picture - I don’t know. If she crossed a line without acknowledging it, maybe. I don’t know how that would play out. Quietly? Internally? Explosive? It has happened once since I wrote down these complicated feelings and I will detail what happened in a coming entry. Short answer: all three, although in this particular case, explosive is too strong of a description.

But if she owned it fully – if she said “Yes, this is humiliating. Yes, this is hard. I will acknowledge those things but I am still choosing it because you are mine,” then I would probably do it. Not because I am weak or blind. But because that’s what being owned means. It’s not always sunny in Philadelphia. Sometimes we have to wade through the mud to get to the beautiful meadow. That’s when it all becomes worth it. Being owned, when it is cultivated properly, feels better than anything. It feels perfect.

And that’s the most vulnerable truth: I don’t just want to be used. If I am to be used, then I want to be used deliberately. I want my lack of agency and ego to mean something. Without meaning, it is only degradation and that could be horribly dark. But with meaning, it is devotion, and that is a beautiful meadow of happiness and light. That is a meadow I want to live in.

 

[Kali]

"The other part of me – and this is what scares me the most – might rebel. Not out of anger. But out of some small, meek, trembling need to still matter as a person."

I'm sure this is something you have considered, but when I read this my first thought was "The amount of effort that Sarah has put into you, your relationship, and your personal journey, makes it very clear how much you matter to her as a person, far beyond what she does to feed your degradation kink "

I acknowledge this is an external view, and I know it is often easier to see someone else than yourself.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

"The other part of me – and this is what scares me the most – might rebel. Not out of anger. But out of some small, meek, trembling need to still matter as a person."

I'm sure this is something you have considered, but when I read this my first thought was "The amount of effort that Sarah has put into you, your relationship, and your personal journey, makes it very clear how much you matter to her as a person, far beyond what she does to feed your degradation kink "

I acknowledge this is an external view, and I know it is often easier to see someone else than yourself.

It’s a fair point. When I step back I see it. I admire that she never goes to “poor me” about it. She very much owns it and puts the time in without needing any validation or acknowledgement of her efforts from me. She’s not wired that way. Work needs to be done so she does the work.

All that said, I need to do a better job of thanking her for it. Regardless of whether she needs it or not, I should offer it.

Thank you for making me realize this!

 

[okbobbi]

It’s a fair point. When I step back I see it. I admire that she never goes to “poor me” about it. She very much owns it and puts the time in without needing any validation or acknowledgement of her efforts from me. She’s not wired that way. Work needs to be done so she does the work.

All that said, I need to do a better job of thanking her for it. Regardless of whether she needs it or not, I should offer it.

Thank you for making me realize this!

All of us humans need some hugs, thank you’s and attaboys occasionally.

 

[Kali]

"Work needs to be done so she does the work."

My wife is exactly the same way.

But, once again, I took inspiration from something you wrote. This manifested as me writing my wife a letter, thanking her for all she does for me, and us. And letting her know that without her, I couldn't be me.

 

[Deleted member 124593]

249.

It’s no big deal in Jamaica. The shuttle driver announced it casually, like it was any other resort. “Here we are. Hedonism,” he said.

I had felt the anticipation and nerves building for days. They ramped the night before when I put my head on my pillow. They ramped again when our alarm rang in the morning. Then at the airport. Then when we took off. Definitely when we landed. And my nerves peaked on the shuttle as it made its slow drive to drop off passengers at the various resorts along the route.

Now, here we were. Hedonism II in Jamaica, a clothing-optional, very sex-forward resort; her with all the freedom that comes with being a cuckoldress … and me … locked, trans, off-balance, excited, turned-on and terrified. There was nothing casual about this for me.

She squeezed my hand. “Ready?” she asked.

I nodded. And swallowed hard.

The front entrance at Hedonism II – or “Hedo” as many call it (note: there is no longer a Hedonism I, so even though it’s named Hedonism II, it’s the only one in the world) – is pretty understated. Palm trees. Lush, green hedges. It’s the lobby that feels like crossing over. It’s open air – that superb Caribbean cocktail of salt water, flowers and humidity with a dash of something sweet - wide, breezy and inviting.

“Welcome Home,” the woman at the front desk said.

We had read that many people who go to Hedonism repeatedly call it “Home.” It was different hearing it said when it was directed at us and we were on the premises. I wondered how many unsure, nervous faces like mine they had seen staring back at them. It had to be thousands.

We got checked in and received our “all-inclusive” bracelets at the front desk. A rum-based, fruity drink magically appeared in our hands. Then we began the walk to our room. My wife had dealt with most of her own luggage at Logan Airport in Boston and when we landed in Montego Bay. But now, as she began to walk towards our room, she left it all behind. It would be mine to deal with. Three suitcases, two backpacks and two handbags. All mine. I slung our backpacks over each shoulder, looped our purses around one arm and did my best to gather two of the rolling suitcase handles in the other hand. Parts of the resort were tile and the bags rolled pretty well. But on the carpeted parts, I simply couldn’t get enough momentum to keep them rolling. I ended up having to leave two bags behind, get most of our luggage to the elevator and then go back and retrieve them.

Dominant privilege.

And a serious mind-fuck too. My submission had played out in public before. But those were intimate, barely-noticeable-if-you-weren’t-paying-attention situations. Usually there was only one other person involved, or maybe a sharp-eyed member of the hotel staff. This was different. Anyone who watched us – and it was probably impossible not to notice considering how much luggage we had and the fact only one person was dealing with it – could clearly form their “quite right” conclusion of who was in charge. My wife had just announced it to the lobby.

(Side note: Hedonism is a nude resort. Five pieces of luggage and two full-sized handbags were an egregious overpack. If you plan to go and you’re bringing more than even one medium-sized suitcase, you’re doing it wrong. Most of what you need could fit inside a lingerie and makeup bag.)

I realized once we got to our room and unpacked, that there was nothing else to do besides start our vacation. Normally that would be the fun part – all the work was done – but this was Hedonism. Starting our vacation meant gearing down. I’d be naked. There’d be no hiding my cage and the fact I was trans.

We had discussed this several times prior to the trip. My wife was always reassuring, confident and positive. But there was no way to know how it was all going to go.

For context, Hedonism II has two sides, referred to as the “prude” side – think of a more conventional Caribbean resort – and a “nude” side. The prude side is clothing optional. Nudity is fine. So is a snow suit. You can wear whatever you’re comfortable in. We didn’t spend much time on that side after the first day, but in general, it was roughly a split between people in full bathing suits, women being topless and people completely naked. The nude side is not clothing optional. It is mandatory. You’re either naked or you can’t be there. I will point out that chastity cages and butt plugs (no plugs in the pool) are welcome and OK to “wear” on the nude side. But that’s it. Even the tiniest bikini bottom isn’t allowed. You’re either in what your Mama made or you’re “banished” to the prude side. They take it very seriously.

I assumed we’d spend no time on the prude side and was surprised when my wife began to put her bikini on. I followed suit, adding a sarong around my waist to cover my cage. We touched up our makeup, slid our room keys into our beach bag and then …

“Ready, baby?” she asked.

“I’m nervous.”

“You’ll do fine. Trust me,” she said reassuringly.

We were off. We went back down to the lobby and at her prompting I asked for directions to the “prude” side, and before we knew it, we were there. The centerpieces of both sides are their pools. That’s where the most people are. Certainly the ones who want to party. Hedonism has a prude and nude beach as well, both of which are better options for a more quiet, relaxing time. But the pools are where the action is, specifically the nude pool. Swim-up bars, other bars, tropical music, new friends. Very much a party atmosphere. We came to learn that the mornings are quieter, which makes sense since people were up late partying the night before. But the pools start to rock with increasing intensity by lunch time. It was midafternoon, so the party was reaching full-swing.

We found some seats at the bar on the prude side, refreshed our drinks, sat for a bit and then she wanted to keep exploring. We walked all around, found the prude beach, put our toes in the sand and then the ocean and took it all in. The beautiful air, gorgeous blue water, soft sand. Island time. It felt great. But still, the nerves, because at this point there was only one thing left to do.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” she asked.

“Are you?”

“I am. I just want to make sure you’re going to be OK,” she said.

“I … guess.” It was impossible to know.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

She wasn’t wrong.

We heard it first. The music. The voices. The laughter. And then we saw it. A sign: “No clothing beyond this point.”

She looked at me and smiled. I looked at her and didn’t smile. First, she lost her top. Then she dropped her bottoms. Then she stood in front of me naked.

I shook my head. Fuck me. Here goes nothing.

I pulled the string on my bikini top, untied my sarong and dropped my bottoms. I put our suits into our beach bag. Then I slung it over my shoulder and stepped into another world.

 

[analsissyslut]

249.

It’s no big deal in Jamaica. The shuttle driver announced it casually, like it was any other resort. “Here we are. Hedonism,” he said.

I had felt the anticipation and nerves building for days. They ramped the night before when I put my head on my pillow. They ramped again when our alarm rang in the morning. Then at the airport. Then when we took off. Definitely when we landed. And my nerves peaked on the shuttle as it made its slow drive to drop off passengers at the various resorts along the route.

Now, here we were. Hedonism II in Jamaica, a clothing-optional, very sex-forward resort; her with all the freedom that comes with being a cuckoldress … and me … locked, trans, off-balance, excited, turned-on and terrified. There was nothing casual about this for me.

She squeezed my hand. “Ready?” she asked.

I nodded. And swallowed hard.

The front entrance at Hedonism II – or “Hedo” as many call it (note: there is no longer a Hedonism I, so even though it’s named Hedonism II, it’s the only one in the world) – is pretty understated. Palm trees. Lush, green hedges. It’s the lobby that feels like crossing over. It’s open air – that superb Caribbean cocktail of salt water, flowers and humidity with a dash of something sweet - wide, breezy and inviting.

“Welcome Home,” the woman at the front desk said.

We had read that many people who go to Hedonism repeatedly call it “Home.” It was different hearing it said when it was directed at us and we were on the premises. I wondered how many unsure, nervous faces like mine they had seen staring back at them. It had to be thousands.

We got checked in and received our “all-inclusive” bracelets at the front desk. A rum-based, fruity drink magically appeared in our hands. Then we began the walk to our room. My wife had dealt with most of her own luggage at Logan Airport in Boston and when we landed in Montego Bay. But now, as she began to walk towards our room, she left it all behind. It would be mine to deal with. Three suitcases, two backpacks and two handbags. All mine. I slung our backpacks over each shoulder, looped our purses around one arm and did my best to gather two of the rolling suitcase handles in the other hand. Parts of the resort were tile and the bags rolled pretty well. But on the carpeted parts, I simply couldn’t get enough momentum to keep them rolling. I ended up having to leave two bags behind, get most of our luggage to the elevator and then go back and retrieve them.

Dominant privilege.

And a serious mind-fuck too. My submission had played out in public before. But those were intimate, barely-noticeable-if-you-weren’t-paying-attention situations. Usually there was only one other person involved, or maybe a sharp-eyed member of the hotel staff. This was different. Anyone who watched us – and it was probably impossible not to notice considering how much luggage we had and the fact only one person was dealing with it – could clearly form their “quite right” conclusion of who was in charge. My wife had just announced it to the lobby.

(Side note: Hedonism is a nude resort. Five pieces of luggage and two full-sized handbags were an egregious overpack. If you plan to go and you’re bringing more than even one medium-sized suitcase, you’re doing it wrong. Most of what you need could fit inside a lingerie and makeup bag.)

I realized once we got to our room and unpacked, that there was nothing else to do besides start our vacation. Normally that would be the fun part – all the work was done – but this was Hedonism. Starting our vacation meant gearing down. I’d be naked. There’d be no hiding my cage and the fact I was trans.

We had discussed this several times prior to the trip. My wife was always reassuring, confident and positive. But there was no way to know how it was all going to go.

For context, Hedonism II has two sides, referred to as the “prude” side – think of a more conventional Caribbean resort – and a “nude” side. The prude side is clothing optional. Nudity is fine. So is a snow suit. You can wear whatever you’re comfortable in. We didn’t spend much time on that side after the first day, but in general, it was roughly a split between people in full bathing suits, women being topless and people completely naked. The nude side is not clothing optional. It is mandatory. You’re either naked or you can’t be there. I will point out that chastity cages and butt plugs (no plugs in the pool) are welcome and OK to “wear” on the nude side. But that’s it. Even the tiniest bikini bottom isn’t allowed. You’re either in what your Mama made or you’re “banished” to the prude side. They take it very seriously.

I assumed we’d spend no time on the prude side and was surprised when my wife began to put her bikini on. I followed suit, adding a sarong around my waist to cover my cage. We touched up our makeup, slid our room keys into our beach bag and then …

“Ready, baby?” she asked.

“I’m nervous.”

“You’ll do fine. Trust me,” she said reassuringly.

We were off. We went back down to the lobby and at her prompting I asked for directions to the “prude” side, and before we knew it, we were there. The centerpieces of both sides are their pools. That’s where the most people are. Certainly the ones who want to party. Hedonism has a prude and nude beach as well, both of which are better options for a more quiet, relaxing time. But the pools are where the action is, specifically the nude pool. Swim-up bars, other bars, tropical music, new friends. Very much a party atmosphere. We came to learn that the mornings are quieter, which makes sense since people were up late partying the night before. But the pools start to rock with increasing intensity by lunch time. It was midafternoon, so the party was reaching full-swing.

We found some seats at the bar on the prude side, refreshed our drinks, sat for a bit and then she wanted to keep exploring. We walked all around, found the prude beach, put our toes in the sand and then the ocean and took it all in. The beautiful air, gorgeous blue water, soft sand. Island time. It felt great. But still, the nerves, because at this point there was only one thing left to do.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” she asked.

“Are you?”

“I am. I just want to make sure you’re going to be OK,” she said.

“I … guess.” It was impossible to know.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

She wasn’t wrong.

We heard it first. The music. The voices. The laughter. And then we saw it. A sign: “No clothing beyond this point.”

She looked at me and smiled. I looked at her and didn’t smile. First, she lost her top. Then she dropped her bottoms. Then she stood in front of me naked.

I shook my head. Fuck me. Here goes nothing.

I pulled the string on my bikini top, untied my sarong and dropped my bottoms. I put our suits into our beach bag. Then I slung it over my shoulder and stepped into another world.

I’m sure you’re going to be in for some fun. If you don’t mind me asking what type / size of cage do you wear and do you use a waist strap to support it ? Alice xxxx

 

[Deleted member 124593]

I’m sure you’re going to be in for some fun. If you don’t mind me asking what type / size of cage do you wear and do you use a waist strap to support it ? Alice xxxx

Hi Alice. Thanks for writing. It was definitely fun. Shoutout to the handful of you who reached out to say some variation of "Hedonism, finally, I've been waiting for you to get to it." I got to it!

Alice, I'm in a Kink3D Baby Cobra Narrow in Fusion Pink. The cage is 35mm long. The ring is 38.1mm. Hope this helps. Please reach out if you have any questions!

 

[NikkiAnton]

Alice, I'm in a Kink3D Baby Cobra Narrow in Fusion Pink. The cage is 35mm long. The ring is 38.1mm.

I love your story, and hope someday to see it published as a book, i=or become a streaming series! I am surprised though at your cage selection, although everyone is different and cage preference and fit is an individual thing.

With long term wear, I was never happy with resin cages, as they seemed to be harder to keep clean, and required regular removal for that reason. Stainless steel was much better for hygiene, but they are heavy, and I eventually developed a skin reaction to the nickel in stainless. I then went to a open design, custom titanium cage, which was a game changer! Almost as light as resin, more comfortable, and very easy to keep clean without removal.

How do you deal with your hygiene and cleaning?

 

[Deleted member 124593]

We have a handheld in our shower. Handheld + Loofah Sponge = Clean. I also think the general chastity conversation doesn’t talk about drying as much as we should. It’s vital to be completely dry. I’m also out 2x a week for maintenance on me and my cage.

I am really happy with the cage and ring. It’s light, sits tight and is easy to pee with. Plus it’s cute!

 

[Deleted member 124593]

250.

“Look at her go,” my wife said.

There is something surreal about watching a stranger give a blowjob when it is happening in a crowded pool ten feet away. The level of surreal increases exponentially when you watch the girl giving the blowjob finish one guy and move onto the next.

Such can be the views at Hedonism.

As stated, it a fully nude, highly sex-forward resort where nudity and sexual activity are welcome – aside from the restaurants – throughout the property.

We saw public sex almost every day we were there. Some days only a little. Some days we saw a lot. Some of these sexcapades were subtle, like a wife giving her husband a handjob on the beach. Others were less so, like the blowies in the pool. We saw plenty of girls being orally pleasured too. (The pool was very “equal opportunity”). Others were overt, like the three guys who fucked the girl in the hot tub.

Hedonism is a wild place.
__

I don’t believe there is, at first blush, a more vulnerable environment to be trans in than a nude resort. Trans people make up a very small percentage of the world’s population. We’re not very common. When we were at Hedonism there were likely around six hundred people there. Only one was trans unless I missed something. Me. That’s it. I was on my own island, naked and exposed, my cage loudly announcing my trans-ness and my submission.

And yet, there may not be a more inclusive environment anywhere. I heard some comments, but they were, with one “he-she” exception I will get to in a moment, mainly the disbelieving kind. Hedonism is an accepting place. Genders. Bodies. Colors. Kinks. All are welcome. It was pretty remarkable. I didn’t know this when we first got there. But I saw it firsthand over the course of the week.

At home I have some control over how I present myself. I prefer a very feminine look and the tiny, useless thing between my legs to be hidden away. But, at Hedo, there’s no place to hide. The first time I walked onto the nude side, I was hyper-aware of every inch of myself and it made me insecure. All of the work I had put in, had it been enough? All of that discipline, had it been worth it? Self-doubt and no place to conceal it. All of this effort to “pass” as female. But, at Hedo, I had no choice but to own who and what I am. I accept myself. Will these people accept me? It was a heavy unknown in what is supposed to be a light, fun, party place.

I remember sitting on a barstool, pushing my cage down and instinctively crossing my legs. Sitting like that, everything looked exactly how I wanted it to look. But when I got up, there was no hiding my cage and what was inside it.

My wife could sense my turmoil. “Just be the beautiful you.”

Timing is everything. I needed that reassurance. Because I didn’t know if I believed her yet.
__

The less said about the “he-she” comment, the better, but I want to address it briefly for any transitioning girls (or potentially transitioning girls) reading this. Society judges and people can be cruel, so, while I would never suggest letting the fear (or reality) of nasty comments stop you – if fact, I would urge you to continue because the good parts far outweigh the bad – just go in with your eyes and ears open. You’re going to hear them. And they can cut deep.

Keep in mind, no matter how passable a trans woman is, there’s no hiding it at a nude resort. I was way-way-way out on a limb you may never find yourself on.

Here’s the context: The “he-she” comment was made by a woman in the pool and delivered with an intentional volume so I would overhear it. Others did too.

Here’s the good news: It was said about me when I was walking back to our lounge chairs after getting some waters from the bar. I was about six feet away from my wife when it happened and I don’t think this noisy person knew she was within earshot of The Dragon. She may have thought I was alone or just passing by. Her mistake. I had barely registered what had been said and my wife was already up off of her lounge chair like a missile. She looked to a guy a few feet away and said “you heard that, right?”

To his credit, because I’m sure he didn’t want to get involved, he said “I did.”

That was all she needed.

Next thing I know my wife is in full Dragon mode berating this lady with a ferocity that I can only smile about as I relive it. My wife is a fucking badass. She's terrifying. The woman tried to deny it at first and then looked to her partner for support, but two other people stepped up, then the “I did” guy jumped into it as well and the woman's partner, I think, saw which way the tide was running and smartly left her out at sea to fend for herself. After a short back and forth The Dragon made the lady apologize to me. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. It all happened so fast, I was still holding the waters.

Once it all calmed down, a few people clapped and a quick-witted guy yelled out – partially to the noisy lady and partially for the audience pop – “do it again, you were supposed to say ‘I'm fucking sorry.’” People laughed and his comment relieved most of the tension. He forever came to be known to us as “The Diffuser.” Side note: my wife ended up fucking him.

We saw the lady from a distance one more time later that day, but then never again, so the timing was good because she must have been scheduled to check out. It’s just as well.
__

I got a lot of compliments ranging from “holy shit” and “I would never have known” to “I love your body” and “you’re gorgeous.” That last one was a doozy to hear.

“I told youuuu …” came the singsong “told you so” from my wife.

No matter. It was a booze-induced compliment. At Hedonism, I think everything might be booze induced.

I got a lot of questions too. A few were borderline shitty, without being intentionally harmful. Some were simple curiosity. Some were clumsy and awkward. Some were surprisingly thoughtful.

“Are you gay?” – Well, that’s my wife - how would you define it? I could literally see his brain twist into a pretzel, the lone highlight of an otherwise boorish interaction.

“Was it a long process?” – It remains a process. How much time do you have for this conversation?

“Does it still work?” – No. Dirty boy. But I likely have an award-winning asshole.

“Are you happier now?” – I am. Hornier, too. Some days, anyway. Like today.

“Do you mind me asking” – Not at all. Thank you for being one of the few to look at my eyes and not at my tits.

The amount of alcohol consumed by interested parties played a role here. Very few were rude. But the forwardness of the questions ramped as each day went on. Funny how that works.

__

It came down to this: people were accepting of me as a person, someone fun to be around and as a sexual being. When coupled with my wife’s free and liberated attitude, we were, to put it bluntly, a Hedonism hit. But it came with a price.

We swam, danced, drank, flirted and lived wild. It was a whirlwind. The issue was: as my wife became increasingly more popular to others, she became increasingly more difficult to me.

 

[Kali]

I'll start with this: I was enjoying where this entry was going, right up until the last sentence. I don't want to speculate as to what was going on in your head at that point; I look forward to the next installment.

Earlier, my thoughts went this way on two points you made. I love the fact of how protective your wife is, and as my wife is the same way, understand the value of that behavior in a partner. My wife is always quick to correct someone who misgenders me, and if you are a jackass who does it because they think it makes them edgy, she will tear them a new one.

When my neurologist's PA just kept referring to me with different male pronouns she went ballistic on her in a very large and busy medical practice. It didn't seem to have any impact on the woman, but my next visit I saw only the neurologist, a different nurse, and the PA was nowhere in sight.

The doctor and nurse were very respectful, simply treating me as a female patient with no errors in gendering (despite the fact that the use of anything other than birth gender on official documents is unlawful in TN). I've since noticed that all of my records in that hospital system now have my female name, and my medication lists lead with estrogen and progesterone.

I know it's the luck of the draw, but having partners like ours makes the whole transition thing so much easier.

The one other comment I wanted to make is about the questions you were asked. There is a meme that floats around in trans social media groups that has answers to a lot of stupid questions we get asked. It's very popular and is regularly reposted. The last line of the meme is "I am not your transgender information guide" or something of that nature.

I think that is an incredibly stupid response to give someone asking you questions about your life. I am often the first or only trans person someone has met and while I might get tired of answering the same questions over and over again, I'd rather those questions were answered by me than some internet-informed idiot with an axe to grind.

And I will apologize now. If we ever meet in real life, it will take me at least 5 minutes to stop ogling your tits. And yes, I have actually used the phrase "Hey, my eyes are up here" in real life

 

[tdk34]

Blimey mate!!

 

[tdk34]

I'll start with this: I was enjoying where this entry was going, right up until the last sentence. I don't want to speculate as to what was going on in your head at that point; I look forward to the next installment.

Earlier, my thoughts went this way on two points you made. I love the fact of how protective your wife is, and as my wife is the same way, understand the value of that behavior in a partner. My wife is always quick to correct someone who misgenders me, and if you are a jackass who does it because they think it makes them edgy, she will tear them a new one.

When my neurologist's PA just kept referring to me with different male pronouns she went ballistic on her in a very large and busy medical practice. It didn't seem to have any impact on the woman, but my next visit I saw only the neurologist, a different nurse, and the PA was nowhere in sight.

The doctor and nurse were very respectful, simply treating me as a female patient with no errors in gendering (despite the fact that the use of anything other than birth gender on official documents is unlawful in TN). I've since noticed that all of my records in that hospital system now have my female name, and my medication lists lead with estrogen and progesterone.

I know it's the luck of the draw, but having partners like ours makes the whole transition thing so much easier.

The one other comment I wanted to make is about the questions you were asked. There is a meme that floats around in trans social media groups that has answers to a lot of stupid questions we get asked. It's very popular and is regularly reposted. The last line of the meme is "I am not your transgender information guide" or something of that nature.

I think that is an incredibly stupid response to give someone asking you questions about your life. I am often the first or only trans person someone has met and while I might get tired of answering the same questions over and over again, I'd rather those questions were answered by me than some internet-informed idiot with an axe to grind.

And I will apologize now. If we ever meet in real life, it will take me at least 5 minutes to stop ogling your tits. And yes, I have actually used the phrase "Hey, my eyes are up here" in real life

Phew, some one had to.

 

[ChazTD]

I love your story, and hope someday to see it published as a book, i=or become a streaming series! I am surprised though at your cage selection, although everyone is different and cage preference and fit is an individual thing.

Bring on the Netflix series.