Link (Archive)
Long before I was competing on America’s Next Top Model, I was topping booty holes all across God’s country. But when I started my transition as a teenager, I never thought that I would still have my penis, let alone be using it!
Back then, I would spend hours watching YouTube videos of trans women sharing their journeys. Every video was centered around surgeries: FFS (facial feminization), boob jobs, and “sex changes.” (I am well aware that they’re called “gender confirmation surgeries” now, but since language is connected to time, it will always be a “sex change” to me.)
Watching these videos, I never imagined my womanhood without losing my manhood. Bottom surgery just felt like common sense: I’d get a sex change, become a movie star, marry a rich man, cut off everyone from my past, and never speak about being trans again. My transition was about getting as close to “cis” as possible, but I would soon learn that every inch of me was meant to be a transwoman.
One day, during a marathon of watching trans YouTube vlogs, I came across a video of a woman who was fresh off the operating table. As she lay in her hotel room with gauze logged inside her newly constructed canal, she gave a warning: “I’ve spent all of my life trying to get this surgery, and now that I have it, I’m 40 years old and I have no idea what I want to do with my life.”
Those words sunk in deep. I put my surgery obsession on pause and started to dream about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I loved watching America’s Next Top Model. The women on that show looked like me; they were skinny, tall, and had big feet, but were celebrated for it. They affirmed my identity as a trans woman and a star. But dreams cost money. And when you don’t have money, you find ways to make it.
Crypto might fluctuate, but selling pussy is the most stable income in existence. So I did what millions of women before me did: I started selling it. (Ass and dick, that is.) It was no big thing—I was a sexual, adventurous young woman, and sex work wasn’t exactly virgin territory to me. So when a Jamaican trans woman named Ferris told me about Eros.com, a website where I could unlock an endless supply of cash, I jumped at the opportunity. I’d have no agency or pimp—I could traffic my she-nis all on my own. I was 19 years old, in Los Angeles, broke, and desperate to stay. I figured I could save up for my sex change, make rent, and follow my dreams. All I had to do was have sex with some old-little-dick white men. I was in!
I’m a very feminine, passable, and beautiful doll. When I started doing sex work, I thought all my clients would want to penetrate me like they’d penetrate any other woman—that they’d want to top. God, was I wrong.
“THESE MEN ARE INSANE,” I cackled to my friend and hooker roommate, Luna, a
Filipina trans woman who always made sure you knew she was half white. “I spent 30 minutes douching and starving myself, just for these old men to tell me to dig in their backs!”
“We’re a delicacy,” Luna reminded me. “They want something they can’t get at home.”
“Yes, but we don’t have to top client after client,” I shot back. “You get to bottom for them.”
“They don’t want this little Asian thing, girl,” she said, gesturing at her dick. “They want that BBC.”
I had no time to go back and forth with transsexual Awkwafina; I had another client. But I knew she was right. Being a sex worker wasn’t about my pleasure. My body was my product, and however my clients wanted it packaged, it was my obligation as a businesswoman to fulfill their request. At work, I quickly learned that my clients didn’t just have a trans fetish, either; they had a race one, too. Submitting to a Big Black Cock was some of these white men’s idea of racial justice. And my dick isn’t even that big!
You can imagine how this affected my performance. Making it in Hollywood is hard, but keeping your dick hard while fucking your meth-and-McDonald’s-addicted client is even harder! It was so difficult to stay erect while looking at men I found unattractive, while doing an act I found so antithetical to the woman I wanted to become. I felt dysphoric, like I wasn’t a woman at all. Even though I defied the gender binary by transitioning, I put the most restrictive binary on myself. I wasn’t supposed to be using my dick! I thought the only time when I’d feel free in my body would be when I got a sex change.
This was all complicated by the fact that, a year earlier, I was date-raped by a man I met outside a club. The assault happened in his car. I was forced to “ride” him (pun intended). Having to steer your own rape is a different kind of mindfuck. I tried to pretend it didn’t affect me, but it did. Even though I hated it, at least topping didn’t remind me of being violated. Plus, men who wanted to bottom seemed softer and less likely to hurt me. That was appealing and empowering in its own way, but it was still hard to keep an erection with these obsequious clients.
Thankfully, I had a method for getting through it. I’d take my iPhone 5s, lay it on the back of a rotund businessman, and pull up Class Comics, a Canadian-made gay erotic comic series with characters named things like Naked Justice, Space Cadet, and the Taro Demon. They all have superpowers that are activated by their endowments. With their help, I could stay erect, make rent, and survive in L.A.
And then came Veterans Day.
A client called the number on my ad. In those days, I didn’t have a screening process. I had no idea what he looked like or what he wanted. I assumed he was some middle-aged, middle-class white man who wanted to get topped. I told him to have my donation ready when he arrived.
I had just finished rehearsing a scene for acting class with a classmate who, ironically, was a veteran, when suddenly, my client texted that he was here. Who shows up to a hooker appointment early?! I walked my classmate out the front gate and welcomed my client through the revolving door.
The only problem was that when I went downstairs, I didn’t see a client. Instead, standing in front of me was a mid-to-late-20s Adonis of a man.
“You look just like your photos, Lana,” he told me. (That was my escort name: TS Teenage Lana. And if you don’t believe me, check out this review! Sidebar: Why are you men writing reviews for escorts? Putting a Yelp review on pussy is insane!).
“Thank you,” I said meekly. I kept my cool and tried not to let on that I found him breathtakingly attractive. I didn’t want him to try to get with me for free, which he certainly could have.
“Right this way,” I beckoned, looking over my shoulder seductively as I led him up the staircase to my apartment. I was wearing a pink Victoria’s Secret silk robe with my lace front expertly placed behind my hairline, blending into my natural hair. I looked like a young Kelly Rowland, and tasted even better. I could feel him staring.
After I got the cash and tucked it away, we sat on my bed.
“I’m Bobby,” he said.
That was odd. Clients didn’t usually offer a name. God, he was intoxicating. The cardamon steeped in his cologne made him even more so.
Then, he did what every biracial person apparently must do: He said he was Armenian and made sure I knew he was also half white.
White and … whiter, I thought.
“Oh, like Kim Kardashian?” I asked with a sardonic smile.
“Yes, like Kim Kardashian,” he replied, dead serious.
As Bobby started to undress I couldn’t help but notice that he had the face of a model, the body of a veteran (which he actually was), and the ass of Kim Kardashian. He could have slept with any woman he wanted to.
Even more amazingly, he wanted to top. After he choked me (consensually, of course) and stretched my provisional pussy beyond its limits, I thought we were done. But no. He wanted more.
“You know, if I’m into fucking you like that, it means I wanna get fucked, too,” he said.
“Is that what that means?” I asked, wide-eyed and gagged. I was sick of topping unseemly clients, but him? That I could do.
At some point during the act, I became curious as to why this handsome young man was paying for sex, and why this traditionally heterosexual young man wanted to get fucked in the ass. I was so accustomed to my regular client: burgeoning cross-dressers going through midlife crises (in other words, someone who wanted to have their prostate played with without feeling “gay” about it). These clients used me as some sort of half measure to sheepishly explore their forbidden desires. But not Bobby. Not the veteran. He was sexy, masculine, and made no apologies for what he wanted. I was shocked that this man had the audacity to fuck me like the 2008 housing crash and then turn around and be my submissive prime mortgage. And unsurprisingly, I had no problem getting hard and staying hard.
He lay back, lifted his legs, then wrapped them around me. As I prepared to enter him, I realized that even though I was the one on top, he was the one in control. I had never seen a man submit yet remain in charge. I thought you could only be submissive and feminine, but seeing that these categories weren’t rigid taught me that nothing had to be.
“I’m not into that freaky shit like you, so be gentle,” he said softly.
And something in me shifted. This was the first time a man was vulnerable with me. The first time I felt power. I hadn’t had to take it—he’d given it to me. There are very few circumstances in which a frail, feminine girl like me is seen as the one to be careful of. But here I was, cock in hand, ready to burrow inside him. All at once, in our own ways, we were both vulnerable and in control. It wasn’t robotic or transactional. It was pure, mutual enjoyment. What had once repulsed me felt like something I now couldn’t live without.
As I fell into him, I felt like I entered an eternity of peace. It was like being home. I closed my eyes so I could etch the sensation into my brain. I could feel it from the tip of my human hair wig to the bottom of my gel-manicured toes. Nirvana achieved.
We both came to completion. And I didn’t just make rent. I made a decision.
How could I cut off the dick that financed my dreams? How could I rearrange the body that had brought me here? How could I get rid of the appendage that facilitated such pleasure? Also, how could I keep it and still be a woman?
I realized that even though I’d imposed the binary on myself, I’d had this dick this whole time. I’d been a trans woman all along. Going from pre-op transsexual to non-op transsexual still made me a transsexual. Suddenly, rapturously, I loved my body as it was, and as it is. And with that, my identity crisis ended, along with my plans for a sex change. Through sex work, through pain, and through letting myself evolve, I let my plans evolve too.
And as for America’s Next Top Model? I got on the show, but I didn’t even last a full episode.
And yes, I’m still on top.
On Top of the World
Long before I was competing on America’s Next Top Model, I was topping booty holes all across God’s country. But when I started my transition as a teenager, I never thought that I would still have my penis, let alone be using it!
Back then, I would spend hours watching YouTube videos of trans women sharing their journeys. Every video was centered around surgeries: FFS (facial feminization), boob jobs, and “sex changes.” (I am well aware that they’re called “gender confirmation surgeries” now, but since language is connected to time, it will always be a “sex change” to me.)
Watching these videos, I never imagined my womanhood without losing my manhood. Bottom surgery just felt like common sense: I’d get a sex change, become a movie star, marry a rich man, cut off everyone from my past, and never speak about being trans again. My transition was about getting as close to “cis” as possible, but I would soon learn that every inch of me was meant to be a transwoman.
One day, during a marathon of watching trans YouTube vlogs, I came across a video of a woman who was fresh off the operating table. As she lay in her hotel room with gauze logged inside her newly constructed canal, she gave a warning: “I’ve spent all of my life trying to get this surgery, and now that I have it, I’m 40 years old and I have no idea what I want to do with my life.”
Those words sunk in deep. I put my surgery obsession on pause and started to dream about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I loved watching America’s Next Top Model. The women on that show looked like me; they were skinny, tall, and had big feet, but were celebrated for it. They affirmed my identity as a trans woman and a star. But dreams cost money. And when you don’t have money, you find ways to make it.
Crypto might fluctuate, but selling pussy is the most stable income in existence. So I did what millions of women before me did: I started selling it. (Ass and dick, that is.) It was no big thing—I was a sexual, adventurous young woman, and sex work wasn’t exactly virgin territory to me. So when a Jamaican trans woman named Ferris told me about Eros.com, a website where I could unlock an endless supply of cash, I jumped at the opportunity. I’d have no agency or pimp—I could traffic my she-nis all on my own. I was 19 years old, in Los Angeles, broke, and desperate to stay. I figured I could save up for my sex change, make rent, and follow my dreams. All I had to do was have sex with some old-little-dick white men. I was in!
I’m a very feminine, passable, and beautiful doll. When I started doing sex work, I thought all my clients would want to penetrate me like they’d penetrate any other woman—that they’d want to top. God, was I wrong.
“THESE MEN ARE INSANE,” I cackled to my friend and hooker roommate, Luna, a
Filipina trans woman who always made sure you knew she was half white. “I spent 30 minutes douching and starving myself, just for these old men to tell me to dig in their backs!”
“We’re a delicacy,” Luna reminded me. “They want something they can’t get at home.”
“Yes, but we don’t have to top client after client,” I shot back. “You get to bottom for them.”
“They don’t want this little Asian thing, girl,” she said, gesturing at her dick. “They want that BBC.”
I had no time to go back and forth with transsexual Awkwafina; I had another client. But I knew she was right. Being a sex worker wasn’t about my pleasure. My body was my product, and however my clients wanted it packaged, it was my obligation as a businesswoman to fulfill their request. At work, I quickly learned that my clients didn’t just have a trans fetish, either; they had a race one, too. Submitting to a Big Black Cock was some of these white men’s idea of racial justice. And my dick isn’t even that big!
You can imagine how this affected my performance. Making it in Hollywood is hard, but keeping your dick hard while fucking your meth-and-McDonald’s-addicted client is even harder! It was so difficult to stay erect while looking at men I found unattractive, while doing an act I found so antithetical to the woman I wanted to become. I felt dysphoric, like I wasn’t a woman at all. Even though I defied the gender binary by transitioning, I put the most restrictive binary on myself. I wasn’t supposed to be using my dick! I thought the only time when I’d feel free in my body would be when I got a sex change.
This was all complicated by the fact that, a year earlier, I was date-raped by a man I met outside a club. The assault happened in his car. I was forced to “ride” him (pun intended). Having to steer your own rape is a different kind of mindfuck. I tried to pretend it didn’t affect me, but it did. Even though I hated it, at least topping didn’t remind me of being violated. Plus, men who wanted to bottom seemed softer and less likely to hurt me. That was appealing and empowering in its own way, but it was still hard to keep an erection with these obsequious clients.
Thankfully, I had a method for getting through it. I’d take my iPhone 5s, lay it on the back of a rotund businessman, and pull up Class Comics, a Canadian-made gay erotic comic series with characters named things like Naked Justice, Space Cadet, and the Taro Demon. They all have superpowers that are activated by their endowments. With their help, I could stay erect, make rent, and survive in L.A.
And then came Veterans Day.
A client called the number on my ad. In those days, I didn’t have a screening process. I had no idea what he looked like or what he wanted. I assumed he was some middle-aged, middle-class white man who wanted to get topped. I told him to have my donation ready when he arrived.
I had just finished rehearsing a scene for acting class with a classmate who, ironically, was a veteran, when suddenly, my client texted that he was here. Who shows up to a hooker appointment early?! I walked my classmate out the front gate and welcomed my client through the revolving door.
The only problem was that when I went downstairs, I didn’t see a client. Instead, standing in front of me was a mid-to-late-20s Adonis of a man.
“You look just like your photos, Lana,” he told me. (That was my escort name: TS Teenage Lana. And if you don’t believe me, check out this review! Sidebar: Why are you men writing reviews for escorts? Putting a Yelp review on pussy is insane!).
“Thank you,” I said meekly. I kept my cool and tried not to let on that I found him breathtakingly attractive. I didn’t want him to try to get with me for free, which he certainly could have.
“Right this way,” I beckoned, looking over my shoulder seductively as I led him up the staircase to my apartment. I was wearing a pink Victoria’s Secret silk robe with my lace front expertly placed behind my hairline, blending into my natural hair. I looked like a young Kelly Rowland, and tasted even better. I could feel him staring.
After I got the cash and tucked it away, we sat on my bed.
“I’m Bobby,” he said.
That was odd. Clients didn’t usually offer a name. God, he was intoxicating. The cardamon steeped in his cologne made him even more so.
Then, he did what every biracial person apparently must do: He said he was Armenian and made sure I knew he was also half white.
White and … whiter, I thought.
“Oh, like Kim Kardashian?” I asked with a sardonic smile.
“Yes, like Kim Kardashian,” he replied, dead serious.
As Bobby started to undress I couldn’t help but notice that he had the face of a model, the body of a veteran (which he actually was), and the ass of Kim Kardashian. He could have slept with any woman he wanted to.
Even more amazingly, he wanted to top. After he choked me (consensually, of course) and stretched my provisional pussy beyond its limits, I thought we were done. But no. He wanted more.
“You know, if I’m into fucking you like that, it means I wanna get fucked, too,” he said.
“Is that what that means?” I asked, wide-eyed and gagged. I was sick of topping unseemly clients, but him? That I could do.
At some point during the act, I became curious as to why this handsome young man was paying for sex, and why this traditionally heterosexual young man wanted to get fucked in the ass. I was so accustomed to my regular client: burgeoning cross-dressers going through midlife crises (in other words, someone who wanted to have their prostate played with without feeling “gay” about it). These clients used me as some sort of half measure to sheepishly explore their forbidden desires. But not Bobby. Not the veteran. He was sexy, masculine, and made no apologies for what he wanted. I was shocked that this man had the audacity to fuck me like the 2008 housing crash and then turn around and be my submissive prime mortgage. And unsurprisingly, I had no problem getting hard and staying hard.
He lay back, lifted his legs, then wrapped them around me. As I prepared to enter him, I realized that even though I was the one on top, he was the one in control. I had never seen a man submit yet remain in charge. I thought you could only be submissive and feminine, but seeing that these categories weren’t rigid taught me that nothing had to be.
“I’m not into that freaky shit like you, so be gentle,” he said softly.
And something in me shifted. This was the first time a man was vulnerable with me. The first time I felt power. I hadn’t had to take it—he’d given it to me. There are very few circumstances in which a frail, feminine girl like me is seen as the one to be careful of. But here I was, cock in hand, ready to burrow inside him. All at once, in our own ways, we were both vulnerable and in control. It wasn’t robotic or transactional. It was pure, mutual enjoyment. What had once repulsed me felt like something I now couldn’t live without.
As I fell into him, I felt like I entered an eternity of peace. It was like being home. I closed my eyes so I could etch the sensation into my brain. I could feel it from the tip of my human hair wig to the bottom of my gel-manicured toes. Nirvana achieved.
We both came to completion. And I didn’t just make rent. I made a decision.
How could I cut off the dick that financed my dreams? How could I rearrange the body that had brought me here? How could I get rid of the appendage that facilitated such pleasure? Also, how could I keep it and still be a woman?
I realized that even though I’d imposed the binary on myself, I’d had this dick this whole time. I’d been a trans woman all along. Going from pre-op transsexual to non-op transsexual still made me a transsexual. Suddenly, rapturously, I loved my body as it was, and as it is. And with that, my identity crisis ended, along with my plans for a sex change. Through sex work, through pain, and through letting myself evolve, I let my plans evolve too.
And as for America’s Next Top Model? I got on the show, but I didn’t even last a full episode.
And yes, I’m still on top.
