MS. OGENY By John Candu The old cliche, "looks can be deceiving," applies to me. I'm told I'm the spitting image of Jay Davidson who portrayed Dil in the "Crying Game." I rather doubt that, as I'm shorter and never do drag and never will. It's a tiresome waste of time, don't you think?, for a guy to spend hours in front of a mirror trying to transform himself into a woman, only to disappear like a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight when the whiskers begin emerging from the thick base of make-up. Neither do I cross dress. I *do* admit to appreciating the androgynous look, especially when it's all cotton and on sale. I believe it may be this proclivity in particular that leads to many of the false impressions about me. But any confusion is strictly on the part of the beholder, and they can deal with it as they wish. My life, lately, has been about overcoming other people's assumptions, expectation, prejudices. My salvation is the realization that everyone is a one-of-a-kind and that all labels, sexual or otherwise, are mostly evil. For example, the prevailing false assumptions about myself. I take pride in my appearance. I do love my long thick black hair and I have a thing for earrings, bracelets and necklaces. I'm also a bit darker than Dil, I think; I look as if I have a deep brown tan thanks to my father, who was black. So it's quite forgivable when people mistake me for a woman, for with the made-up hair and jewelry and all rest of it also comes a soft voice and what some call an effeminate nature that's, however, not feigned in the least. But it would be a devastating mistake to think I'm a pushover, especially physically. I can get angry and kick your ass; when I knock you down, you will stay down. So, society has one impression of me; I have another. But the confused souls who offer me advice on how to change myself for the "better" -- i.e., to fit their molds -- can kick-start their jumbo vibrators and go fuck themselves. For they'd never guess my unique appearance belies the fact I have an 8-inch cock and enjoy to sinking it deeply into a lover's ass and hearing him scream with pleasure. Perhaps I *do* come off Nelly and perhaps my lithe, graceful body is too much like a ballerina's to fit the male stereotype. Even so, my vision of a perfect evening is to spend it screwing one or more lovers till the sun comes up. Several years ago I legally changed my name from Samuel Orton to Ms. Ogeny. I think it's symbolically rich, though the new name probably exaggerates the true level of my misogyny. For example, I've met many women in the artistic circles I travel who love truth and approach the world in terms of who they really are, with no facade, and with a commendable striving for independence. They are a minority. At the same time, I think *most* modern women are worse than charlatans. I can't say I *hate* them, strictly speaking, because their ways are mostly a product of their upbringing. Yet, on the whole I find them to be a greedy, self-centred lot. Takers, not givers. The empty, vacuous faces of men you see in the city, in the bars and on the sidewalks and behind steering wheels, are proof enough. Those alienated males are weighed down with burdens imposed largely by women. But in a way I should thank them, for if their men were happy I wouldn't be so well-blessed with lovers like Adam. I encounter many straight guys who are so fed up with women that they decide the only solution is to turn to things like sex in public restrooms. At the core, they're decent men, largely, but they need uncomplicated companionship and sex. I enter here. I'm with Adam tonight. He's napping now and my dick is content. I can see streaks of cum drying on his asscheeks, and his hole is glistening. Adam used to be married and miserable. *Was* miserable, I should say, before I started sucking his cock and fucking him. Adam is in the employ of my publisher who produces limited editions of my paintings. When we met a year ago, the poor boy was so sad and high-strung that I took pity on him immediately. I invited him to my townhouse. When we got to my place, instead of letting him continue to wallow and whine about his marriage, I unzipped his pants, got down on my knees in the foyer, and swallowed him whole. *That* hushed him. What he needed so badly at that precise moment was the blowjob, not counseling, you see. He was so pent up that he couldn't allow his soul to heal till his dick got taken care of. I say take care of the cock first and the soul will follow. Adam is a little taller than me at 5'9". He weighs about 150 and is blond. His dick is perpetually erect, it seems, though we're trying to get him satisfied enough to cut back to two orgasms a day. His 7-inch cock is not remarkable, but *he* is; he uses what he's got quite well. Our first night, I clutched his shaft as I submitted myself to his cockhead, running my tongue around the crown and teasing his pee hole. The fact that I slipped into my submissive persona that particular evening may have been his biggest turn-on; no one had submitted to him in years. Pent-up straight guys are the most appreciative -- more so than gays. As I slipped my tongue under his head and down his shaft to his balls and back, he was stroking my hair, caressing my shoulders. His every touch conveyed love and appreciation. Out of respect, he even asked if he might thrust a bit, and I stifled a laugh and nodded my permission. He fucked my mouth desperately and came quickly. He must've cum bucketloads because I got terribly splattered despite my finesse in swallowing large wads. Naturally, poor Adam began wondering if our act meant he was gay. He traded one problem for another, you see. We had our drink then several more as I explained that there were no labels. Any "thing" or act has meaning ONLY insofar as we assign it meaning. I told him, " *You* have the power to define who you are! Only *you* can assign value and meaning to your life and the way you want to live it! Don't you get it?!" He did. I began seeing him regularly, even letting him sleep over occasionally, though I was irritated that he was too uptight to allow me to indulge myself by fucking him. But over the months that followed, Adam eventually saw it my way -- that we're two equal human beings with equally strong biological urges. The night I fucked him, he was at first so tense that I couldn't have driven a toothpick up his ass with a hammer. With a lot of foreplay and talk, he relaxed and allowed me to stroke his puckered muscles with a finger dipped in KY. We kept up the conversation and he relaxed more and more, and before long he didn't flinch a bit as my fingers found and toyed with his prostate. Soon he was thrusting his hips back against my finger and I knew he was ready. I entered him to the hilt in a one strong motion -- may as well get the initial pain over with! He made considerable complaint at first, then began thrusting against me again. I'm the type of man who likes a slow fuck. Rushed orgasms are just no fun for me. I lovingly and carefully -- but thoroughly! -- fucked him that evening, taking nearly 45 minutes to come. He, meanwhile, shot several sizable wads on the bed long before I was ready. Afterwards, he wanted to take on *another* problem. Like most unhappy straight men, he was just a *magnet* for guilt. This time, he figured that being my bottom for the evening meant that he was a passive, no-guts so-and-so. Those were his words; such name-calling! So we had to straighten that out. "Nothing's more manly or kind than reciprocation," I told him during another long conversation. Later, Adam fell in love with me, therefore taking on still *another* problem. Simply stated, he bought into the myth that love must necessarily lead to a monogamous relationship. He vowed to leave his wife and move in with me and expressed a desire to take care of me. I can become monstrous when I'm angry. I said, "Leave your wife for YOU, not me! I don't NEED you!" And: "I don't *want* you to move in! I was independent when we met and I'll damn sure be independent after you've gone!" Then: "Can't you SEE it? With me you want to create the SAME TRAP for yourself that you created in your marriage!" He finally got it. And now Adam is content knowing that we're *friends* and that that is good enough. And Adam knows that he's by no means my only lover. I often sleep with others, and Adam has made progress in not feeling at all hurt. Adam and his dick are waking up now. So, dear diary, I will quickly conclude today's entry. In summary, Adam is another success story. I'm beginning to think I'm some sort of fucking missionary to the world of unhappy straight men.