Tranny porn saved my life
 On my first
day working for a porn website, one of the other models rushed out
of the office, hysterical. “Her best client croaked from cancer
today,” the manager blurted. “His nurse used to type to her ’cause
he was too weak.” I wondered why a working girl would shed tears
for a guy who probably got his caregiver to jerk him off. It was
the beginning of my transition, and I was there to earn coins for
cosmetic surgery.
The other tranny cyberwhores put my flat chest and mannish face
to shame, but with two master’s degrees, I knew more adjectives
to describe anal rimming, golden showers and forced crossdressing.
With a typing speed of 60 words per minute, I managed eight web
chats at once, all on different subjects (five or six if I needed
to jerk off simultaneously). Desperate for male attention, I went
Tantric and learned how to maintain a hard-on for eight hours at
a time. Perverts from all over jacked in to my shows.
RadicalGuy52, a net-surfer from Phoenix, Arizona was looking for
friends, not fetish. He’d console me during shifts filled with chat
about spooge facials and fist-fucking, and guys who wanted to watch
their wives get fucked anally by foot-long shemale cocks. When online
porn addicts demanded more feminine-looking t-girls, RadicalGuy
had them booted from my webcast and kept me from crying on cam.
“How can you watch me every day, RadicalGuy?” I typed.
“My wife left me and Mom and Dad died, all within six months,” he
replied. “I haven’t left my house since.” That was more than 30
years ago. Until his credit ran out, I was happy to be his only
friend.
I was saving every cyber-cent and milking BigDaddy10, a doctor and
the VP of a major health insurance company, while inserting dildos
into XXX-treme close-up shots. I wanted company airline tickets
so I could fly to the best plastic surgeons in North America. That’s
when RadicalGuy started having chest pains and began missing my
shows. He tried ordering meds from online stores, but his aching
heart was palpitating worse than ever. Too scared to leave his home
for the doctor’s office, he typed: “You’ll probably be the only
one to miss me.”
I agreed to spend a weekend in Vegas with BigDaddy if he made a
house call to RadicalGuy. BigDaddy turned out to be an overweight,
married guy with a fake hip. I tired him out with gondola rides
at the Bellagio Hotel and virtual reality experiences at the Star
Trek exhibit. Then I sobbed, “I can’t have sex until I have
breasts and look like a woman anyway.” I got first-class airfare
to a tranny specialist in San Francisco, and BigDaddy still agreed
to see my cyber-buddy in Phoenix.
After BigDaddy examined RadicalGuy, the doctor had him knocked out
with a sedative and sent into emergency heart surgery. The surgeon
gave him a 50% chance of survival. I heard nothing for months. Then,
during one of my sex shows, RadicalGuy logged in. “I’m at the Courtyard
Marriott in Toronto.” After work, I joined him for room service.
He looked like the real-life version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons,
but he spoke in a kind, barely audible whisper. “I had to thank
you face to face.”
He seemed healthy, and since his heart surgery he was learning to
go out in public. He told me that before the doctor gave him the
anaesthetic, he said, “I want you to imagine the most beautiful
thing possible, because it could be your very last thought.” He
fantasized about a computer screen filled with my smiling face.
I laughed, “In one week I’m having a 13-hour reconstruction to alter
this face.”
In San Fran, I lay down on the operating table, and a nurse told
me to breathe deeply into a gas mask. I wondered what I would say
to God if I died during plastic surgery that I paid for by jerking
off online. About to fade into blackness, I remembered what I meant
to RadicalGuy.
nina arsenault
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