Humping Scottsdalia's Leg
Llewena
Scottsdale
In downtown Scottsdale, Arizona, an immense adobe Vagina looks down on
Drinkwater Boulevard. You can clearly see the positioning of the
clitoris, the vaginal introitus, and the urethral meatus. In my
opinion, it is an excellent result. She is Scottsdalia: a giant
pussy-Goddess intended to welcome her Chosen Instrument to his new
temple. I go over to her and start humping, seeing if she minds.
I am not disappointed. Holding a custom #6 stent in a bendy arm
attached to the labia, her face compassionate, she extends it toward
me in a gesture that seems to say, "Open that crotch for me, sister. I
will show you the path to a special kind of womanhood. I'll need to
check your depth anyway; and for one such as yourself, it is likely
the only way to get off." I hope the words I have attributed to her
are true; in an hour I meet with Dr. Toby to sign my operative permit.
The circumstances are a little odd. Usually when I'm in this position,
I'm paying $300 an hour and the "doctor" has no degree and several
whips mounted on the wall, but this time is differentů Role-play with
a *real* doctor somehow heightens the excitement I get from
professional tension. I'm a physician myself, and I wonder if Toby (I
get to call him Toby) will treat me the way I treat my patients. I
like to let the healing power of touch work into them through gentle
caresses, especially their hard to reach areasů especially once
they've been put under. My relationship with Toby (hey, it's not like
just anyone can call him Toby) is an interesting mix of doctor-patient
and prophet-aspirant, befitting his role as the Chosen of the Goddess.
Toby (just kidding, anyone can call him Toby) usually doesn't operate
on Mondays, but the Goddess has commanded him to do so in my case. He
also usually doesn't operate wearing tight leather pants with the
ass-cheeks cut out, but I'm hoping he'll make an exception for me.
We enter the Temple of the Chosen, housed in an office building, to
perform preparations for the holy ceremony tomorrow. In the annals of
the Goddess, this is known as The Great Feast, wherein the Chosen
ritually consecrates a new Priestess. I know that the Chosen is
forbidden to speak of such mysteries, so today he must perform as if
this is nothing but an ordinary pre-operative checkup. I try to catch
his eye and wink, but he continues through the checkup with no sign.
Toby (heck, you could probably call him Fred if you wanted, he doesn't
care) can be coy. I find I don't mind, as I like being treated like a
real patient. Finally, he hands me the sacred bowel prep, and sends me
on my way.
Back at the hotel, I prepare for the Ritual of Cleansing. The first
stage of the Ritual is known as "polishing the apple." This is
intended to clear the mind and prepare oneself to be a proper vessel
for the Goddess. Afterwards, I begin drinking the sacred bowel prep. I
manage to get one glass-full down, but it tastes horrible. After
almost retching, I recover sufficiently for the next stage, called
"waxing the banana." Attempting my second glass of sacred prep, (Note:
It tastes MUCH better if you don't polish your apple into it, but not
doing so defiles the Ritual.) I quickly gag, finding it almost
impossible to drink. I give myself a pep talk: "So, wanna be a
priestess of the Goddess, eh? Nyah, ya see, nyah! Let's see if you've
got the courage for that pathů how about a lil fire, scarecrow?!" I
manage to get the second glassful down, and move on to the next stage:
"auditioning the finger puppets." With the next glass it becomes even
worse. I pray to the Goddess for strength, yet I can't bear to swallow
any more. My entreaties become ever more desperateů finally, they are
rewarded. A figure materializes in the room. I can't see it clearly;
its edges shimmer with spiritual power, yet its presence comforts me.
I have called upon the Goddess, and She has sent an emissary.
"What must I do?" I cry.
"It drinks the bowel prep. It does this whenever it's told." The
figure replies.
"But I can't! It's too-"
"It drinks the bowel prep, or else it gets the hose again." The figure
sternly intones.
"But-"
"Drink the fuckin bowel prep and put it back in the basket!!!" the
figure thunders. I immediately throw back my head and take the whole
glass in one gigantic gulp. I feel sure I will vomit, yet the Goddess
has compassion on me and I manage to keep it down. When I recover, I
notice the figure has vanished. After pausing for a silent prayer of
gratitude, I move on to the next stage: "cranking the gear shift."
Although drinking the sacred prep remains extremely difficult, I
manage to complete every stage of the Ritual. Alternating with more
drinking, I make it through "buffing the broom handle" and "lathering
the crowbar," on to "bouncing the pogo stick," and finally
"masturbating to thoughts of getting cut up."
Finally, the Ritual is complete. I lie back exhausted; yet soon I am
jolted awake. The Goddess has sent a sign of her favor for my
faithfulness: explosive diarrhea. A waterfall of blessings erupts from
my anus. Soon, the blessings become almost more than I can handle. I
imagine I'm at the hospital already, peeing into a cup for the doctor.
It gets me hot and soon I find the situation bearable. Eventually the
well of blessings runs dry. Watching the chocolaty swirl disappear
down the toilet, I can summon no sadness at the loss of the precious
milk of the Goddess, for it has gone out to water new fields.
The next morning, I arrive at Greenbaum. After checking in, I am
whisked in back where I exchange my frilly lace dress for the
Ceremonial Robes. Normally there are lengthy forms to fill out,
however as a Priestess-in-waiting I am above such considerations.
Besides, explains the nurse, they want me out of here as soon as
possible. Clutching my Discman, headphones, sunbonnet, parasol, naked
Barbie doll, my great-grandmother's battered copy of "The Female Body,
and Why It's Dirty," a tampon inserted into my rectum, and 12 CDs of
women's music, I climb onto a surgical cart and am wheeled off to the
surgical holding area.
The nurse who checks me in is very maternal, which gets me wet. (I am
one of the few genetic males who can get wet through the anus.)
Fortunately, the tampon is there. I have asked the Goddess to send me
a female anesthesiologist today; but instead she sends twelve eunuch
candy stripers, who will be assisting my attending anesthesiologist, a
man. We discuss my request to have the procedure performed without
anesthesia, so I can truly partake of the mystery, but he counsels
against it. He also forbids me to have the theme from 2001 blasted at
high volume over the PA system while Toby (or maybe Buttons, that
would be a cool name for him) operates. He does allow my request to
have the candy stripers swing incense throughout the surgery, however.
I am placed on the altar while the ceremonial trappings: a blood
pressure cuff and that little clip-thing they always put on your
finger, are applied. Although I have fantasized about the ceremony
hundreds of times before, often two or three times a night, being here
is even more exciting. It's so exciting, in fact, that I am informed
the ceremony cannot begin until I am a little less excited. Just when
things are getting under control, someone shaves my pubic hair. Again,
we must wait. Finally, Toby (and then it's like, you could be in the
hospital, and the PA would come on, and they'd say, "Dr. Buttons to
the OR, Dr. Buttons to the OR." Wouldn't that be GREAT??!!) enters
from the side room, where he has been having his war paint applied.
He's covered in scrubs and a mask, so no one can see it, yet I know
the Markings of the Chosen are upon him. I put on my sunbonnet and
open my parasol. As the mask is placed over my face, Toby (or Dr.
Buttons) looks down on me. It's almost as if I can hear him saying,
"Take and breathe, this is my gas... passed for you" The anesthesia
smells oddly, yet I don't find it unpleasant.
I feel lighter and lighter as the gas passes into me. The Great Feast
is upon us, and the Goddess is entering me. Her ancient power seeps
into my being, filling my very cells with her. When the scalpel
contacts my scrotum, I burst out, "THE HIIIIIILLLS ARE ALIIIIIIVE,
WITH THE SOUND OF MUUUSSSIIIICů"
Over the next five and a half hours, the Great Feast is enacted. With
the song of the Goddess in me, I feel connected to everything around
me. My consciousness floods the room, and soon it is as if I am
hovering overhead, seeing all. After my testicles are removed, Toby
(you know, he's got this absolutely kick-ass Porsche) holds aloft the
ceremonial scalpel, streaked with blood. He raises the scalpel high
over his headů "This is the instrument of the Goddess!!!" The nurses
dance about in ecstatic reverie, and in the distance, I hear drums
beating. Suddenly, he lowers the scalpel, "Bring in the unclean one!"
The doors to the operating room swing wide. Attending priests march in
flanking Dr. Schrang, chained to a heavy yoke, "Behold blasphemer!
Witness the true Goddess!" A target is drawn on him and the candy
stripers take turns pelting my testicles at Dr. Schrang, trying to hit
him square on the forehead. A kewpie doll of Dr. Suporn is produced.
It is slapped with my severed penis as ritualistic curses are chanted:
"Suporn"
"Suporn"
"Soon porn"
"Sore poon"
"Suporn"
My consciousness expands beyond the operating room. I flit down the
hallways, finally coming out into the waiting room. The true Spirit of
the Goddess has descended upon this place, and the room has grown to
cavernous proportions. A small army of lifestyle transvestites fills
it to overflowing. They have come to pay their respects to the new
Priestess; their new queen. They have their own part in the ritual,
and as they await the climax, they kneel in their ball gowns and
miniskirts, chanting over and over:
"We are more than transvestites, less than transsexuals."
"We are more than transvestites, less than transsexuals."
Every so often, one will rise, spit in the direction of the operating
room, and exclaim, "Oh, she doesn't know what she's doing!" before
kneeling and beginning her oblations again. The reason for these
seemingly disparate parts of their ritual is given in a sacred story I
am not permitted to disclose.
Their devotions gradually become more frenzied, and they arise,
chanting faster and faster. From the back of the room, a great platter
is carried forward, bearing a large live turkey. The crowd grows more
and more ecstatic, and finally, as if on cue, they all rush in and
wring its neck. At this point, the power of the Goddess becomes too
overwhelming, and I black out.
I awaken in a recovery room dominated by a large ceiling mirror,
allowing me to get a good look at my crotch whenever the mood takes
me. My first glimpse of myself is extremely arousing. My new vagina is
five feet wide and ringed with razor-sharp teeth. Staring at it in
wonder, I blink suddenly, and the vision sent by the Goddess vanishes.
It is replaced by a glimpse of my real crotch, which consists of a
jumble of bulges, grenades, a catheter, and a little pink paper
umbrella and swizzle stick that is presumably the remains of my penis.
During the night I take out my hand mirror and attempt to polish my
apple, but then I remember and slap my forehead; no penis, of course.
With a sigh, I regard my reflection in the mirrorů "Would you fuck me?
I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me so hardů" I find myself longing for the day I
can get back to my video camera, so I can do the dance without tucking
back this time. My swollen labia are now purple-black, and remind me
of a badly over-ripe banana. I make a mental note to be sure and order
the banana split for lunch tomorrow. In fact, if I slather the ice
cream on my surgical site, perhaps Toby (I wonder if he'd let me ride
in itů) can be tempted to have a taste?
In the morning I get a clear liquid breakfast, but they let me have
dessert. As I'm finishing up eating, a doctor comes by, dips a finger
in my crotch, licks the ice cream off, and pronounces himself pleased.
Suddenly the phone rings, it's my friend Sabrina from Paducah. "Are
you dressed?" she asks. I swoon, envious that she's in gold lame
while Toby (maybe he would if I got him a license plate that said
"Buttons1") prohibits wardrobe changes until the second day post-op.
The next morning the nurses arrive to check me over. Toby's (tell me
he wouldn't get mad snaps tooling down the highway in the "Buttons1"
Porscheů) patients normally spend nine days in the hospital, but in my
case the nurses have other ideas. They want to call a cab. They offer
to pay for my fare anywhere, but I refuse. They offer to get a limo if
I'll just leave, but I know the Goddess has further work for me here.
They also warn me about a strange man wandering the halls pretending
to be a doctor, but say he's normally harmless. One thing I find
amusing is that so many of the staff seem to think I am an FtM. In
fact, upon being told the truth, one avowedly homosexual male nurse
tells his supervisor that he would gladly have sex with me, even
knowing that I now possess a vagina. This results in a heated exchange
where the supervisor admonishes the nurse that the patients here are
human beings and not sex objects, that it absolutely disgusts her that
one of her underlings would ever think it was appropriate to make a
remark like that, that she runs a hospital unit, not a brothel, that
such remarks display an astonishing insensitivity and complete lack of
respect for the patient, and if she ever hears such a thing again, she
will fire him on the spot. This is, apparently, the way normal people
respond to these kinds of remarks, but I believe the Goddess feels I
am supposed to take it as a compliment.
The days are interminable, but at last the doctor who came earlier
arrives to remove my drains and vaginal pack. Next he pulls out a bag
tied with a delicate pink ribbon, sewn from floral print flannel,
which contains my dilators. Each is encased in its own floral- print
sheath. The dilators are clear acrylic rods, covered with duckies and
bunnies. There are four of them, numbered 1-4. I decide to name them,
in order, "Princess" "Captain Ahab" "French Tickler" and the biggest
one is "Toby." (There's good long highways in Arizona) Looking at
them, I shiver and actually exclaim aloud: "Give it to me Goddess!!!"
The doctor smiles, lubes up the smallest dilator, exclaims, "Here
comes the airplane into the hangar!" and very quickly slides it into
me, a full six inches. I let out a squeal of surprise, indignation and
intense feeling - - it's not exactly painful, but it's surely not
pleasurable, either.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the doctor exclaims as he withdraws it, "That was
your ass,
my bad." Next, he inserts the 1-1/8 inch dilator. This time I'm ready,
and I
merely pant loudly, anticipating pain that never comes. "Whoops, wrong
place
again!" he exclaims. With the largest dilator, he manages to hit the
right
hole. Grinning with insane delight, I pick up my hand mirror and take
a good
look. There it is, thick as a closet rod, inserted 6 inches into me.
For so
many years I have longed to be penetrable, to be a vessel, a
receptacle, a
fuck-hole: and now I am. Imagine my surprise when I am informed later
that it
is possible to have anal or oral sex.
Next, he lubes up a crowbar... the sensation is delightful. After
that, we go
through a length of PVC pipe, a Coke bottle, an alto saxophone, and
then, he
lies perpendicular to me and sticks his right leg in up to the thigh.
After that, Toby (VRRRROOOOMMMM!!!) comes in. Bathing quickly in lube,
he dons a pith helmet, takes several deep breaths, and crawls inside.
I smile; this "special dilator" is reserved just for me. I squirm with
the sensation of him inside me. From deep within, I can hear his
voice, "Crikey! This vagoina's about six inches deep!"
Later that day, I have my first bowel movement, straining severely
against my stitches. Finally, Toby (we'd need matching Bvlgari shades,
of course) plops out into the toilet, looking sticky but none the
worse for wear. I help him up, and he comments candidly that he
considers this his best work ever. Why have I never noticed before
what a handsome man he is? Mmmmmmů Mrs. Dr. Toby (you know, in all
fairness he is kinda cuteů). I find I like it.
On the evening of post-operative day 8, my Chosen comes to visit me.
Out come the retention sutures and the swizzle stick. "Who the hell
put that in there?" he remarks. We chat for half an hour, and I thank
Toby (he's a bit shorter than you might picture him) sincerely for the
care he has so skillfully and gently provided me. I also ask him to
thank the other doctor who was so helpful to me. His brow furrows,
"What other doctor? I don't have a partner." I ask who could have
brought me my delightfully feminine dilator set? "Yeah, well, I saw
that, I just figured you brought your own." he says. I ask him to at
least thank the candy stripers. "Ummmů this hospital doesn't have
candy stripers. Maybe I should check your medication."
"Oh," I say with a sardonic smile, "and I suppose you haven't got
Schrang stashed away in the hospital dungeon either? Did we never
enact the Great Feast? You just happened to miss the great
congregation that gathered to pay me homage?"
He stares at me blankly for a few seconds, "Ummmmmů. yeahů I think
you might be having a reaction toů somethingů"
"Oh fluffy bear," I say, "let's at least wait until after the wedding
for our first quarrel."
His eyes grow wide, "Okayů I think it's time for me to leave." He gets
up and backs away to the door, never taking his eyes off me, his
beloved.
"Is it the transsexual fundamentalists?" I ask him, "If you can't
talk, just blink three times." My fluffy bear has been intimidated to
silence, it seems. The enemies of the Goddess are everywhere. I
console myself with the knowledge that they're just jealous my vagina
is deeper than theirs'.
In the days that follow, I am able to move around more, and get to
know some of the other patients recovering on the ward. Most seem
strangers to the ways of the Goddess, so I make the effort to
enlighten them. I also explain how important it is for me to check
their depth, but this curiously evokes hostility. I suspect that many
of the patients who deny wanting me to finger them are being less than
honest with themselves. I am, however, fortunately able to gather a
fair amount of data in spite of this, which I hope to be able to soon
turn into a paper I plan to submit to the prestigious Journal Of
Things That Give You A Boner.
Soon after, I learn that Toby (gotta love that mustache) has taken
notice of my generous offer to check the depths of his patients, all
in service to the Goddess, mind you. In gratitude, he has granted me a
room to myself. So precious am I to him that he has adorned the walls
with some sort of pleather. He also seems to have locked me in, so
prized a possession of his I am. This fortunately leaves me plenty of
time to indulge my favorite hobby: fantasizing about being forced to
picture myself being forced to write forced feminization fantasies.
On my last night in the hospital, I sit down to pee. I find that being
forced to sit down to pee makes me hot. I get so into it, however,
that my stream is coming out before I realize I'm sitting on the chair
in my room instead of my toilet. I decide to spray all over, to leave
my mark for fluffy bear as a sign of my love.
The next morning, I'm still urinating as I walk out to the nurses'
desk to be officially discharged. To my delight, I find my nurses
discussing what seems to be the wonderful new pet name my fluffy bear
has developed just for me: Restraining Order. I try it out, feeling
the syllables roll off my tongue... relishing my new priestess-name. I
head to the airport for my flight back. No doubt Scottsdalia
metaphorically queefs on me as I step on the plane. I tremble with
anticipation of my new life to come. I'm also excited because by the
time I get home, my monthly order from Transformations should have
arrived.
In the months that follow, I try to stay in close contact with Toby
(he reminds me a little of an Oompah-loompah, but in a good way) to
work out the wedding details. Unfortunately, he seems too intimidated
by the fundamentalists. Anyway, I must be realistic. The two of us are
really on a higher plane than everyone else. Communication in our
special Chosen/priestess relationship cannot always proceed along the
same lines as with lesser mortals. Soon, however, we develop the
perfect system. He leaves me signs of the Goddess in his trash bins,
and I rummage through them nightly. When the police show up and warn
me to stay away, I know it is a test from the Goddess. I vow my
devotion shall remain steadfast. I am a Priestess of the Goddess now,
consecrated by the Chosen. I am a true fuck-hole. That is the mystery;
that is the joy.
Llewena Teria Conanos, MD., Ph.D., BDSM
Rave reviews for ĹHumping Scottsdalia's Leg'
I would like to state my opinion, as a scientist but also as a single,
heterosexual man, that Humping Scottsdalia's Leg is an outstanding
contribution to our understanding of the cult of the Goddess. I
recently had the honor of meeting Llewena, and she gave me a very
enjoyable narcissistic blow. During regular trips to El Gato Negro, I
have also personally initiated many transsexuals into the ways of the
Goddess in a slightly different ritual, and they have experienced
satisfying self-discovery and peace of mind after their initiations,
which suddenly made their predicaments comprehensible to them.
Transgendered people looking for a single, heterosexual man,
especially a straight-acting one, should give me a call.
Tim Kelaely Soobaii
The explosion of semen detonated by my reading of Llewena Teria
Conanos' surgical account, Humping Scottsdalia's Leg, has largely
obscured an important message of that account: I am aroused by
male-to-female transsexuals, but that does not make me gay. The
good-looking type arouses me simply by the thought or image of them
naked, while the other type arouses me when I observe them having
erections.
When I joined the "No Pervert Left Behind" movement in 1980, the
literalist interpretation of transsexualism as the condition of
if-you-give-me-a-stiffy-I'll-think-you're-enough-of-a-woman-to-give-you-hormones
reigned supreme. Many clinicians dismissed all transsexuals who were
not sexy enough to fuck as "mere transvestites" and summarily excluded
them from consideration for sex reassignment surgery. This situation
was extremely confusing to many male-to-female transsexuals who
desperately wanted to take it from a straight man, such as myself, but
who thought they didn't look enough like effeminate gay men to arouse
me.
Fortunately for these patients, a policy of "show me an erection or
you're out" was followed at the Toronto movement. Several of the
earliest patients approved for sex reassignment freely allowed me to
strap them to penis-monitoring machines and observe their erections as
they were exposed to pornography. It gradually became clear to me that
the erotic value of simply observing the erections of
less-than-attractive transsexuals could be enough to stimulate me to
orgasm, and that my erection and ejaculation from watching them was
not simply an accidental by-product. I never saw this as an invalid
reason for masturbating, I never saw what it did for me as some lesser
breed of arousal, and I never designated the intense orgasms produced
in my loins as "secondary."
During the years when I was publishing transgendered erotica under the
pen-name "Sissy Blanchett," several unattractive transsexuals wrote me
to express their relief that there was a clinician they could turn on
by their actions if not their looks, and the hope that one day they
too could stimulate a heterosexual man to orgasm was not a delusion.
That erotica was published on specialty web sites with limited appeal,
and it is remarkable that so many unattractive transsexuals not only
found them, but connected the pen name back to me. Llewena Conanos'
account, which is written for a general audience in a clear and
accessible style, has the potential to bring the same reassurance to a
much larger group of people. The audiences for which this account was
intended, which include lifestyle transvestites, foot fetishists,
furries, and both doms and subs, should not mistake the angry cries of
an ideologically-driven group of self appointed "activists," such as,
"Take your hand off my ass, you perve!" and "No I won't let you smell
my panties, you disgusting perve!" as the universal view of all
transsexual and transgendered persons.
Thad Geoncarlo Nikalh Bistyr
It is my belief that the coming Great Galtonian Paradigm Shift will
produce just such a race of super-women as embodied by Llewena Teria
Conanos. I have read Jan Morris' Conundrum, and I don't believe Ms.
Morris would arouse me the same way someone like Llewena does. Oh, and
I'm not gay.
Elias Stegan Valteris Stoore
I used to be a primitive homophobe who believed that queers were
sinners against God. Thanks to the efforts of people like Llewena
Teria Conanos, I am now a hip, modern homophobe who believes that
queers are evolutionary mistakes. And I'm not gay either. It doesn't
count as buggery if you're at boarding school.
Ben "Drools Quiet" Hetethe
Dr. Vagina Inspectoré VERSUS ANTI-HOMOPHOBISTS AND ASSORTED FAGGOTS
People who have enjoyed Humping Scottsdalia's Leg as much as I have
may be interested in joining the campaign against paedohysteria. Not
that I'd ever have sex with a young boy, mind you. I only defend those
who do.
I Child Ben Rate Coors Raspy
I like Humping Scottsdalia's Leg because being a gay man, Llewena
Teria Conanos makes me look more normal. Llewena's respect for the
other patients she tries to finger serves as a role model for those
who still struggle in their attempts to score a little trans-poon. In
the following passage, Llewena writes about an unnamed gay male nurse:
In fact, upon being told the truth, one avowedly homosexual male nurse
tells his supervisor that he would gladly have sex with me, even
knowing that I now possess a vagina.
I too would probably enjoy fucking Llewena, except she wouldn't be
able to top me, so that's out. I would also like to say that as a gay
man, I find the pain of gender nonconforming children to be
exceptionally funny. It's okay for me to laugh at them though, because
I'm a gay man. Reparative therapy is bad when performed on willing gay
men, but good when performed on unwilling transkids. I have a chart
that explains why.
Jo-Ron Loqueecia Metassart
This was a very difficult decision, but after seriously considering
the integrity of the process and depth of feelings aroused, we have
made the decision to masturbate while reading Humping Scottsdalia's
Leg. Our penises felt very sensitive while we were reading this best
and brightest account of transsexual surgery the community has to
offer. Fortunately we do not feel strange about this, because science
has proven that as gay men, we have the right to speak for
transsexuals. We didn't know this until recently, but as booksellers,
we are also apparently empowered to speak for electricians. What a
strange and wonderful world it is. The results of our masturbation
will be shown at a gala awards banquet, but tickets are $175 a plate,
so attractive transsexuals will no doubt need to blow several straight
men to afford to get in.
tools just are Literary Lambda
This account will be posted to alt.support.srs; truly the only online
forum worthy of the Goddess.
Copyright 2004 by no one whatsoever. No rights reserved. Please feel
free to copy and distribute far and wide, that all may come to know
the ways of the Great Goddess.
[Author's note: Attention future Janice Raymonds: this has been a
PARODY. Its sole purpose is to mock certain attitudes, beliefs, and
experiences which are currently being promoted by a small group of
self-appointed experts as being representative of the transsexual
population when in fact they are not. In real life, Dr. Toby Meltzer
is a caring, professional, highly competent surgeon. He is also
happily married, and to the best of my knowledge not interested in
becoming anyone's Chosen, lover, god, or pool-boy.]
Jennifer Usher
"Llewena" <llewena...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:cccb418.04042...@posting.google.com...
> Humping Scottsdalia's Leg: Body Integrity Identity Disorder in
> Scottsdale
Cute. Things begin to calm down, and someone has to try to stoke up the
fire.
--
Jennifer Usher
Paulinev01
>fire.
>
>--
>Jennifer Usher
>Humping Scottsdalia's Leg
interesting, if its hot enough it coule burn some rather interesting body
parts.
P/B
WHEN ITS TIME ITS TIME
The hardest step of any journey is the first,
The most satisfying is the last.........
www.TAVAUSA.org
www.TSTGSociety.org
REV Pauline Overby
www.churchofopenassumptions.org
PAULINE/Paula
Jennifer Usher
"Paulinev01" <pauli...@cs.com> wrote in message
news:20040422215127...@mb-m01.news.cs.com...
> interesting, if its hot enough it coule burn some rather interesting body
> parts.
Ouch!
--
Jennifer Usher