When I look back on my ultra-fabulous life and realize how far I’ve come and how truly amazing I am, I give thanks to cosmetic surgeons everywhere. I really do.
When I left you last, I was a crossdressing, piercing, plucking young nympho born to be wild. By 15, it seemed that I had truly outgrown the tepid pleasures of my hometown of Buttfuck, Nowhere. I needed to spread my tiny wings and fly away.
How I longed to fly! To dare to be me! I wanted to get out there and grab the world by the balls! Then, of course, there was my burning need to remove all the unsightly hairs from those balls…
My decision to fly the coop was precipitated by a bit of a tiff with darling Mater. She, poor misguided old dear, somehow got it into her teensy head that I was “parading around the mall, dressed up in her things.”
She seemed to feel that this would “make her a laughing stock.” I felt that what might actually make her a laughing stock was the fact that she owned such terribly tacky clothing, which I was forced to dress up in due to limited income. Needless to say, this was a conversation that did not go well.
Mother had no idea what to do with a gifted child like moi. They did not exactly teach Crossdressing 101 at our local high school.
She was often beside herself with worry and barely suppressed rage, as was I. Once, when she caught me done up in her favourite negligee, she thought that the ultimate punishment would be to force me to go out dressed like that. My dears, what she saw as torment, I saw as purest pleasure.
Many people commented on what a lovely daughter she had, and I paraded through that restaurant like the Queen of Sheba that I knew I was.
Right before I left our humble abode for the great beyond, Mother and I had quite an alarming set-to.
She ravaged my boydoir, destroying many of my cosmetics and some of her very own things in the process. I felt I could not live among such massive misunderstanding for one moment longer and that’s how I ended up hitchhiking out into my dreamy new life.
You can imagine, darling readers, what a sight I was. Standing by the highway off-ramp, cleavage proudly facing the wind, with my sign: Paris, France or Bust. Bravely I stuck out my impeccably manicured thumb and hoped for the best.
Luckily pour moi, the best is exactly what came down the turnpike. He was driving a Jaguar, the likes of which had never been seen in Buttfuck or the greater outlying Butterfuckia region. This car was hot! And the Daddy driving it was even hotter.
I’ve always so adored the charms of an older man, especially a wealthy older man with a really big, um, credit card, if you know what I mean.
Ah my little Tater Tots, I had such a lot to learn! But Daddy, bless his heart, was eager to teach me. One of the first things I learned was that one cannot drive to Paris, France from Buttfuck. Who knew? I blame the educational system for this complete lack of information on my part, really.
It was while in Paris, France that I continued my study of all things beautiful under the tutelage of Maya, world-renowned hairdresser for French Vogue. During the day I learned every scrap I could from Maya, then at night I attended the world’s most prestigious school of beauty. You know the one. It’s that extremely famous and super swanky beauty school that everyone has heard of. That’s the one I went to, really.
Of course, Daddy had a lot to teach me about the world, too. I spent many enraptured evenings learning just how lucrative being myself could be.
You see, although I was dressing as a luscious young woman, I had yet to undergo the transformative surgery that would make me the genuine femme fatale I am today. Chicks with dicks were in big demand on the continent. I made a lot more money than I had babysitting, let me tell you!
Around this same time, I began my very successful nightclub career. Oh dear, I was busy! What with the many “dates” Daddy arranged, beauty school, and singing in my new très French identity of Sucre Cane–why I barely had time to pass wind! Not that I would have, of course.
After a while, my glamorous life began to pale. I yearned to return to Canada, and share my beauty knowledge with all of you.
I was also still having serious thoughts about my gender identity. I had decided to just be gay, realizing that I could make a fortune with my particular anatomy. The problem was, in my heart of hearts, I longed to be a real woman. It seemed to me that the best place to make this decision would be in Vancouver, as my visa had expired, not to mention my Visa card! Ooooh là là and sacre bleu!
So, I bid my sugary Daddy a sweet farewell, and headed home.
Once established here, of course, I began to set up the lusciously decadent Kink Klinik and contemplate my next move. I thought I’d start at the tits, and possibly work my way down…