The ‘faceless man’ and the terrifying possibility that we have no sexual orientation.
Hi, my name’s Felix Conrad and I love black cock.
I apologise in advance to black men across the world for this blatant sexualisation of their organs but, let’s face it, that’s what sexual organs are for. Furthermore, by the same logic I’ll have to start apologising to Swedish girls who work as au-pairs, French women that are actually French maids, and any other class of people who have become the object of saucy stereotypes.
So I repeat…I love black c%*k. In fact, I love black coc*s – plural…the more the better, and the blacker and bigger and shinier they are, the better too. I would stuff them one after the other in my cake hole and merrily chomp on them like there was no tomorrow.
Or would I?
You see, this love only exists in the heat of the moment. It may surprise you to know that I’ve never sucked…or even seen a black co*k in my life, and when I walk down the street and see a black guy I don’t ask myself if he’s packing eight inches down below. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that if you actually placed his black co*k, or indeed any co*k – white, yellow or russet brown – in my vicinity, I’d be more likely to spew on it than suck. This is in stark contrast to women in the street, who my eye greedily seeks out with unquenchable thirst and who can induce in me endless sighs of appreciation and erotic thoughts.
But here’s the thing: while it’s women that interest me in the outside world, I can honestly say I’ve never fantasised about penetrating a woman in my life. I have, of course, fantasised about being a woman, and have penetrated dozens, but most of my masturbatory fantasies since I was a kid, have always involved men. And not just any old men…but hulking slabs of meat with rippling muscles and big dicks. Oh yes…and I forgot to mention…they are faceless. I think you know where I’m going with this.
Yes, my friends, what we have here is a classic case of the ‘faceless man’ as mentioned in theories such as autogynephilia – also known as ‘I’m a crossdreamer – do you mind wearing a bag over your head while I suck your cock?’ syndrome and many other terms beside. All such labels describe a phenomenon long observed in gender variant sexuality – the propensity to fantasise about men but to not put a face to the man…he is just a hunk of male matter with no features other than his rippling muscles and generous sized member.
Curiously, I’ve never mentioned him before in my writing, which is strange as he looms so large in my fantasies (extra large!) This omission has no complex explanation: I’ve been thinking about him…analysing him…probing him just as he probes me, and have never been able to come up with much to say; he really is just a faceless slab of meat. But then the existence of gravitational waves changed everything.
What changed, exactly?
A recent flurry of Einsteinian experiments inspired me to make a fifth attempt to understand two things I have never been able to get my head around: relativity and quantum physics. I understand that time slows down and that a particle can be in two places at one time and something about a dead cat…but I want to understand why and have never been able to.
Not surprisingly, it wasn’t fifth time lucky, but in my reading I came across something that inspired this book: the way that tiny, seemingly irrelevant phenomena can lead directly to some of the biggest discoveries in science. For example – the seemingly irrelevant cosmic background radiation led to the extremely relevant Big Bang. And I contemplated the fact that in the universe you can understand massive things from a single micro component…and I began to wonder if the same might not be true in our search to understand transgender sexuality. And decided that it was.
Even on this page, for example, I have mentioned in passing something which I think is of big importance for understanding that sexuality: I have never fantasised about penetrating a woman. The fact that women interest me erotically but I never look at them and think…‘I’d give her one’…speaks volumes. However, penetration was not the phenomena I settled on. Instead it was our friend: the faceless man who lords it over my sexuality – sometimes my boss, sometimes my daddy, and sometimes my husband in a parallel word where I am a beautiful woman.
As you will discover in this essay, he did not disappoint. His beautiful veiny c%*k soon led to a deeper, richer vein of understanding, because to understand a crossdreamer’s erotic relationship with men you have to understand their erotic relationship with women and with themselves, and that is the point when I discovered that when Blanchard said that autogynephiliac orientation competed with heterosexual orientation, he was mistaken. The truth is far more unsettling, and that’s where our faceless man took me: towards the startling discovery that whatever you call yourself – sissy c%*k-whore, crossdreamer, two-spirit, transgender –
…You probably have no orientation at all.
(An excerpt from our new collection of books on crossgender sexuality) The science and art of transgender erotica,