22 mtf her, just a trans little trying to survive 😭 I love wearing pull ups/diapers! Little age 1-3 DM’s are open, feel free to message, just don’t be creepy or you’ll be immediately blocked.
This pinned post is a transitioning starter pack for all my trans folk out there!
Your transition is up to you- we want to provide information on all your options so you can make an informed decision about what you want. If you find a resource useful, then use it! If you’re not interested in doing any of the things listed, then don’t!
partially-managed mental illness is so fucking funny i'll be sitting around doing my job and suddenly think "wow i hate myself" and immediately get confused because, like, that's not TRUE! i love myself so much. who are you to talk to me like that
Throngs of beachgoers lacquered in oil glisten along the beach, bodies bare and unburdened, offered up to the sun’s incessant demand to kiss every inch of their exposed skin.
Salty air mingles with the aroma of fresh Cafecito—dark, sugared, sinful—unspooling from some café, along with coconut-scented tanning oil.
The wind came off the ocean like a benediction, a reprieve from the stifling summer heat, sweeping through the palms. The fronds sway in the wind, as if dancing to the rhythm of the reggaeton playing in the distance.
The heat and the salt and the low insistent beat and the oiled and glistening skin all converged and melted into one thing.
Appetite.
Carnal and sumptuous and everywhere all at once. Thick and dark and sweet as the Cafecito on the wind.
Miami Beach radiated sultry, sexual energy. A playground for the debaucherous.
Which is why I chose it.
Sweat trickled down my face as I finished setting up the green-and-white-striped Cool Cabana and placed a large beach blanket in the shade it provided.
“Alright, honey, let’s get some sunscreen on you so you can play. Those cheeks already look like they’re burning.”
It takes you a second to answer. “Wha--? Oh, yeah, okay..”
Your focus isn’t on me—you’re scanning the beach full of beautiful bikini-clad women tanning in the sun and the handsome, muscular men hoping to get with them.
The men notice you, too. Men have always noticed you. Not that I blame them.
With the breeze rippling through your hair, revealing the yellow floral tankini that accentuates your figure and complements the linen pants beneath it, you’re as beautiful and elegant as ever.
Your linen pants aren’t the only thing your tankini complements, though.
From a distance, your linen pants are opaque enough to render the patterns beneath them indistinct and unrecognizable.
Up close, I can easily spot Griffin the lion, Zack the zebra, Lily the hippo, Alex the monkey, and Johnny the parrot on your Rearz Safari diaper.
“Arms up, eyes closed, princess.”
You whimper when you notice the pink bottle of Banana Boat Baby sunscreen in my hand, but let me rub the sunscreen into your arms, shoulders, back, and face without any fuss.
The moment I stop, you open your eyes. “Can I have a soda, please?”
“Sure, let me just finish with the sunscreen. Thank you for asking, honey.”
“Do you need me to help you with your sunscreen?” you suggested, a bit too eagerly to hide your attempt at distraction.
“You’re a silly girl. What about your little leggies, hmm?”
Blushing wildly, you bite your lip, desperately trying to come up with a way out. “Umm, I..I already did it! Yeah, at home. I just forgot to tell you! So, all good, Daddy!”
By now, your cheeks were blushing shades of red I didn’t have names for. You looked around to make sure nobody heard you say Daddy after practically shouting it.
“Hmmm,” I say sniffing the air, “You’re hiding something. Did you make a boomboom? Is that why you’re acting so silly?”
“N-no!”
“I'd better check. A stinky diapie in this heat is a recipe for rashies.”
I could practically hear the gears turning in your head, knowing that if you argued, it would draw attention, but not wanting to be checked so openly.
“Let's see,” I teased, using your hesitation to spin you around and pull back your diaper, “No poopies! But then why are you being so silly?”
We both knew the reason, but this game was far too fun.
“Oh no, did Daddy forget to shave your legs? Are you a hairy baby?”
“N-no!”
Your eyes meet mine, an unusual mix of neediness and daring. Not that it matters—there’s no going back to the way things were before.
This is what you begged for.
And where better to learn your rightful place in the world than here, surrounded by all these beautiful people?
Miami is where people go to see and be seen. To touch and be touched. A place that celebrates and perpetuates all the adult things that you gave up.
The people on the beach are no longer your equals.
No man will ever look at you in your thick, soggy diapers with the same lust as the women sunbathing on the beach.
Women will no longer be jealous of your beauty—the girl getting her diaper changed is adorable, not a threat.
All anyone will see is a silly girl.
“No? Hmm, this is quite the conundrum. Surely the baby isn’t scared of everyone seeing her friends?!”
I kneel in front of you and poke each character as I name them. “I thought you loved Lily..and Zack…and don’t forget Griffin!”
“D-Daddyyyy.”
“Princess…you’re not a big girl anymore. You’ll never be a big girl again. Look around, do you see anyone in diapers? No. They’re the adults—not you. This is your life now.”
“B-but…Daddy…”
Poor baby.
“No buts, sweetie. It’s time to let go of who you were, she’s not coming back. You’re never getting out of diapers or getting a second chance at adulthood. It’s time to show everyone the real you.”
You struggle to reply, surveying the crowd knowing every one of them is about to see your diaper.
“Now, are you ready to let Daddy put on your sunscreen?”
“Y-yeah, Daddy…”
“Do you want your binky?”
Your eyes flitter trying to decide. A binky will only draw attention to your infantile state—but you crave its calming power.
I smile at your teeny head nod.
“Good girl!” Inside your favorite binky in your mouth. “Daddy is proud of you, Princess.”
A weak, nervous smile creeps behind your pacifier.
I tickle your tummy before grabbing the sides of your linen pants, the last vestige of your adulthood, and slide them down, exposing your soggy Safari diaper.
“There’s my friends! Hi Lily!” I coo playfully, acting as if this is the most normal thing in the world. I grab the sunscreen and rub them into your legs, not even glancing at the reactions around me.
Because it doesn’t matter what they think. All that matters is ensuring my princess is properly protected from the sun.
Especially when the UV is at 11!
Your leg muscles are tight, locked in fear. I can feel your nerves in the way you're swaying and timidly fidgeting.
I ignore it.
You're not the woman I met two years ago. Not the woman one could shame a bartender with her dirty martinis. Or the woman who dominated every interaction at work.
That woman—whatever remains of her—is the one that’s nervous being seen in the diaper by all these hot twenty-something’s.
She’ll fade away into oblivion as the sweet, needy babygirl that I love gains more confidence. The one that belongs in diapers. The one that isn’t worried about things like sex, success, and fashion.
All I care about is the adorable little thing that yearns for the tender, intimate moments lying in Daddy’s lap, suckling on a baba, lost in my eyes. Hearing her silly giggles when Daddy makes funny faces during diaper changes.
And most of all, the way she blames her stuffy for her poopy diapers with such conviction.
“All done! Ready for that soda, princess?”
Your binky bobs a few times before you nod.
She has no idea how adorable she is right now. I almost feel bad that she’s struggling when I’m barely able to contain myself.
Here we are in the middle of South Beach—and she’s standing under a cabana in a floral print tankini and a soggy Rearz diaper, suckling on a pacifier.
Every bit the baby she’ll be for the rest of her life.
From the cooler, I grab you a soda and myself a Pacifico. You grab the soda but don't drink any, looking at me expectantly.
“Whoops, Daddy forgot to clip your binky to your shirt!”
Your cheeks are the most adorable shade of red as you stand there, letting me clip her pacifier to your top so you can drink your soda.
“Do you want to play in the sand for a bit before we go in the water?” I ask, knowing she’s not ready to venture beyond the relative safety of our cabana.
She nods.
I kiss your forehead before guiding you down to the sand. “I’ll grab your toys, sweetie.”
I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live. The way your diaper poofs out as you sit criss-cross applesauce looking up at me, waiting for Daddy to bring your toys play in the sand.
Luckily, I couldn’t help myself at the store, buying every adorable shovel, bucket, and sandcastle mold in sight.
I place them all in front of you.
In an hour, you're no longer glancing around at the curious beachgoers, consumed in play. As I work on another beer, you look up at me and smile.
“Having fun, baby?”
“Mhm!”
“Wanna go in the water?”
“Ummm…” you stares out at the water, debating. As she does, her face suddenly focuses on something.
“What ya looking at princess?”
No response.
“Princess?”
Your hands ball into fists as she leans forward, still starting at nothing in particular.
“Mmmghhp.”
“Are you making a boomboom for Daddy?”
“Mmmpgghhh.”
Three college girls in University of Miami sorority shirts, walking by, hear your little grunts and stop to watch a girl their age mess a diaper with cartoon animals grunting behind a pacifier.
A loud, bubbly toot trumpets into your diaper, which they take as their cue to move on. But not before giving me sympathetic smiles—especially after you grunt again.
You're too lost in your pushie stupor to notice anything around you. Every grunt and every push is another step into babyhood.
A small, needy voice breaks the silence.
“D-Dada….”
Your voice cracks, small and needy barely louder than the distant crash of the waves. Your cheeks are the deepest shade of crimson I’ve ever seen, eyes wide and glistening as you glance towards the sorority girls still lingering a few steps away.
They’re pretending they aren’t watching your babyish display but their knowing smiles and whispered giggles tell a different story.
I lean in closer, my voice low and velvet-soft against your ear.
“What’s wrong, Princess? Use your words. Tell Daddy what you need.”
“I…I…”
“Did my princess make a boomboom?”
“M-mhm…”
“You silly baby, c’mon, let’s get Daddy’s lil’ stinker changed!”
I don’t even bother finding anywhere secluded to change her. This is her life now—and mine.
All around us the hot and sweaty dance of Miami Beach continues on as if we were never there. As it will for every summer after.
But not for you.
Next summer I’ll take you somewhere age appropriate.
In case it's not so clear, a woman wanting to be called Mom or mommy as a kink does not mean she's going to tolerate a manipulative manchild who tries to force her into doing all the emotional and/or physical labor in a relationship, AND it doesn't mean she's not a feminist looking for an egalitarian partnership. By the way.
This post by @littleghxstmouse got my brain brrring. And now I can't stop thinking about a content creator whose subby baby brain forgets just how far they've already sunk...
Thinking of staging an accident in front of their friends... then realizing that that ship sailed long ago. Everyone knows they're in diapers anyway!
Wanting to do something about wetting the bed and being punished for ruining the mattress... but then remembering that their CG never takes off the ultra-thick plastic protector their nightly indiscretions earned years ago.
Thinking of filming a scene of them eating messily and being laughed at and given a bib for being such a baby... then recollecting that it's been over a year since they were even allowed to try feeding themselves.
Imagining a bit with their pull-ups being discovered and mocked during a sleepover... only to recall that their CG hasn't bought them anything thinner than daytime diapers in years.
Wanting to do a scene of them "accidentally" sucking their thumb in public... but then looking down at the giant pacifier clipped onto their clothes and realizing they've already slipped way past that.
Dreaming of embarrassing themselves by pissing themselves during sex... but then having to admit the closest thing to sex they get these days is humping their stuffies through their diaper while their CG cheers them on.
I think a lot of transmisogyny stems from this idea that people are really scared to see a dick. The reason bathrooms and locker rooms and hot springs keep being flash points is because these are all places where if a trans woman is using them, it's possible you might see her dick. A lot of transmisogynistic humor revolves around being traumatized because the subject saw a woman with a penis. And look, to a certain extent I sympathize. I'm not a fan of dick; I dont want this thing either. But if you want to be an ally to trans women, I think a big important step you can take personally is to examine your own reaction to the scenarios I described above, and recognize that a dick is just a body part a girl has sometimes. Seeing it as inherently sexual and/or traumatizing is a major wedge conservatives use to justify their rhetoric
Seriously if I have to hear one more joke where the punchline is a woman with a penis I’m gonna lose it. It’s not even a good joke 99% of the time, the joke usually is ‘haha look at this trans person she’s a freak hahahahaha’
I think one of the funniest abortion stances I've heard was from my parents neighbor. He's a like, hard-core libertarian viking larper guy who is very tall and very fat and very bald.
He believes a fetus is human with a soul, but also its "basically attacking the woman's body" so if she wants to get rid of it, that's "basically self-defense". He compared it to shooting a home invader. So he supports abortion not as healthcare, but as killing a baby in self-defense
Y'know I'm so glad someone reminded me of this. Because this was also discussed.
My stepmother did NOT like the way her Libertarian Viking Neighbor framed pregnancy as the fetus "attacking the woman". She incredulously told him this was extremely disrespectful to expectant mothers to portray pregnancy as so violent and negative.
Libertarian Viking Neighbor's response was that people consensually hurt each other all the time, and "there's like a whole community about that, with the acronym the one that starts with a B" And his reasoning was that if the mother was consenting to bring attacked by the baby, it in fact wasn't violent and negative because there was consent.
He brought up people consensually hurting each other, didn't go for one of the obvious answers like boxing or body mods or something, no he went STRAIGHT TO BDSM and he DIDN'T EVEN REMEMBER THE ACRONYM
Hey, hey, look me in the eyes when I tell you this okay? The whole "do trans women or trans men have it worse?" debate going on right now is the most obvious CIA bullshit on earth cause honestly we've both got it pretty shitty and fighting each other isn't helping anyone
Trans men can have discussions about the unique transphobia they face and spaces to find community with each other without being accused of speaking over trans women. Trans women can have discussions about the unique transphobia they face and spaces to find community with each other without being accused of leaving out trans men. Trans women don't have "male privilege" and never will, even if they were hypermasculine in the closet they are not going to internalize it the same way as a cis man. Trans men don't hold the same societal status as cis men unless they're deep stealth and never found out. Though there will always be exceptions, trans men on average have an easier time passing as cis due to testosterone's "adding" effects, and if we do so we have the ability to use it for good. Trans women have a harder time going stealth due to hypervisibility and estrogen's subtler effects, and even when they do, they still have to deal with misogyny. Radfems love to fetishize trans men as "safe men who I still think are women underneath" and show disgust towards anyone they think is too close to manhood for their liking. Trans men are repeatedly erased and categorized as butches or masculine women after their deaths, and while in recent years we have been able to begin stepping up, we have historically been swept under the rug. Trans women were historically lumped in with drag queens and crossdressers, whether they ever began their journeys as one or not - and seen again in recent years with the craze around femboys. In almost every murder or hate crime of a trans man, rape is involved due to the bodies we inhabit. Nearly everyone can clock top surgery scars. Third sexing affects all of us in different degrees and ways. Malgendering affects all of us in different degrees and ways. Both of our puberties can warp our bodies in ways we can never be rid of. Trans womens' visibility can be a blessing but also a massive, deadly curse - more public figures to look up to, more practiced surgeries, and rich historical culture, but more victims of hate crimes, mockery in pop culture, and public transphobic scrutiny than any other demographic in the LGBT community.
Trans men and womens' struggles are not going to be perfect mirrors of each other. I can't cover every way we differ and every way we overlap. And intersectionality is always, ALWAYS at play. We need to have each other's backs more than ever right now.
Just really want to lay a girl down on a soft bed, tie her gently and kiss her neck, slowly warm her up until she's humming in delight. Then slip an ovipositor into her and letting her know im not going to stop putting eggs into her until her stomach is bulging. Seeing that pleased hum turn to confusion and horror as it becomes serious, as she realizes im serious. Suddenly those binds aren't just for show. Breathe deep baby you'll need too. Biiiiggg stretch.
