Nadir: Pimped Out, in My Own House

By Ashley Olive *an extract from my unpublished autobiographical work ‘Last Mardi Gras.’

He was obsessed. Not with me — but with the part of my body that caused me the deepest dysphoria — my princess parts. It wasn’t about me specifically. It was about any chick with a dick. But he was gayer than he realised. An egg. Not in our trans sense of the word, but in the same kind of way: someone who doesn’t yet know they’re gay. But a trans girl can always spot an Easter egg at Christmas. 

He’d used the same technique as every Grindr pest: daily harassment. Yet there was a ruffle to this one’s feathers: there were two of them. Paul, and his decade-younger girlfriend, Tia. A woman so beautiful it made me scratch my head at why he’d want to be with me at all. But I already knew: he’s gayer than he realises. 

So many men, early in their kinks and unbridled sexual identities, try to treat us trans women like 'Diet-Gay', like 'Sugar-Free', as if sleeping with us is somehow less than gay. Which, sure, maybe for some. But not with me. I’m gay as hell and prouder of it. Once you sleep with me, you’re already 25% gayer than before — by osmosis. By default. 

The consensual inclusion of his partner kept me curious. I hadn’t been with a woman since I transitioned. Pre-hormones, I hadn’t yet received the gaze of lesbians that my breasts began to attract post-HRT. They wanted to sleep with me as a couple, and how could I say no? 

I can still taste my first kiss with Tia, my first with a cis woman since becoming a GRRL. It was different. Fragrant. Electric. But I can still taste their ever-packed crack pipe, too. 

Once I’d spoken with Tia alone on the phone to verify her consent, I gave in and arranged a wild night. Paul already had a sheen of meth-sweat on his forehead when he came rattling eagerly through my door, but my eyes went straight past him and landed on Tia with a big smile. We hugged — a warm embrace that told me she saw me. That she respected me. 

As we pulled apart, I saw the gorgeous serpent tattoo sliding from her neck around her shoulder, clinging to her forearm. Though I won’t share her real name, it meant snake. Or rather, Asp — a spiritual serpent, revered in the East and wrongly feared in the West. 

I was already gussied up for a slag’s night out. We sat in a circle in the lounge-room as the drinks began to flow. Lighters and crack accumulated in the middle like an addict’s séance. We broke down the scene — hard and soft limits — and agreed on terms. Then she asked if she could kiss me. The whole world faded as our lips met. Her mouth was soft, sweet, and so different from the spiky, sex-and-sweat-laced kiss of a man. 

I felt electrified yet completely safe in her arms. Paul must’ve sensed the passion and weaselled his way into the kiss like a neglected chihuahua, until everyone collapsed into a sexual soup on the floor. But eventually it became clear. He was only obsessed with being topped. And I don’t top, bro. 

When the red-raw night ended, midday the next day, all of us rattled, exhausted and satisfied, Tia asked for my Instagram and followed me. As they left into the blinding Sunday light, I gave them a hug, not thinking I’d ever see them again. But Paul was back on Grindr that night, trying to arrange another session. I hadn’t even slept yet. 

Weeks passed. A few more unsafe hook-ups with one-night strangers. A few more men who already had one foot in their underwear when they came and were even quicker out the door. So with Paul’s daily proposals on repeat, I finally gave in and arranged another session. People used me sexually regardless; at least I’d felt satisfied and seen that first time — even though 'gayer than he realises' still played on locked groove in my mind. And sadly, in my addiction, I knew he could get more meth too. 

We’d arranged the next session for Saturday night. I messaged Tia excitedly, happy just to be seeing her again. She seemed blue though — down, frustrated, something dark blooming inside her relationship — then she opened up like a fragile flower at dawn. 

'He pushed me away. We hooked up with another couple last night, but when I went to give him head… he pushed me away — he wanted the guy to do it.'

My heart broke for her. I’d met so many couples like this: compassionate, kind, understanding women, broken down by the misplaced fetish-desires of their male partners. 

The only connection left between them being the appreciation for enabling his devious, self-serving behaviour. I’d heard it so much in the beginning that I gave men like these a name: 9-to-5’ers. Cishet men in relationships — some even married — who contact you while their wives are at work. 

'Aw come on baby, there’s things I can do with you that I can’t do with my wife.'

'Ummm, not a compliment,' I’d retort, then add: 'Have you ever actually spoken to a woman? They’re pretty understanding. But when you dump some perverse fetish on her with no warning — your true desires festering in the dark through years of marriage — can you really blame her for not understanding why you suddenly want to be a crossdresser, a slave, a puppy? Can you really blame her?'

And that’s exactly what it was with Paul. He wanted to be so much gayer than even cishet swinging or kink would allow. He didn’t want anything femme. He only wanted the least femme part of me: my lady dick. So what chance did Tia have, being true femme? She could only fuck him with a strap, but he wanted real dick — even if all he could get was a trans girl. 

About an hour before they arrived, my phone pinged. Another text from Tia. I thought it’d be a cutesy 'see you soon'. But it was so much more than that. It was a request. A call to action. Revenge. Girl Code. 

To me, BDSM — with its ‘safe, sane, consensual’ role play — has always been the safest form of sex. Safe words. Hard and soft limits. The discussion, the agreement about the scene. Our roles. Checking in. Aftercare. Leather pride. The contents of the contract are gospel; anything beyond that is non-consenting. Done right, BDSM is one of the few things in this life I’ve found to be truly black and white. No grey areas. 

I still offered the pro-submissive experience — only now for free. The first handful of times I’d made a little cash, working as a dominatrix’s assistant. But after those honest dollars, every payment turned to meth. Even when she sent me to work alone as a trans-domme — a ‘second-best’ fix by proxy for her regular deviants. 

As much as I tried, I couldn’t live on her meth alone. Not for the work. Not out of work. I was already in entropy. Makeup and medication add up, so I parted ways with Mistress Selena and tried a lick at tricking myself out. Yet what’s the value of someone who doesn’t value themselves? Less than zero, to borrow from Bret Easton Ellis. 

My healing still needed BDSM. My trauma didn’t need to charge for it though. It already occupied my sexual identity like the freckles on my skin. Both of them unwanted. Both ever-present regardless. So I advertised the ‘pro-submissive experience’ for nothing. On back pages and sex-work sites. On Gumtree. On personal ads. On the very wild-west pages of those days: Craigslist Personals — before they were specifically removed and banned in Australia for links to human trafficking. 

The depths of humanity I’d waded through in the murky waters of Grindr opened into bottomless trenches on Craigslist. There seemed to be no monitored limits for what could be posted or advertised in the personal ads. Drugs. Sex. Chemsex. Puff ’n’ Play. Private sex parties. Kink dungeons. Stolen goods and souls. 

At that nadir of my addiction and ongoing sexual violence traumas, I attracted the worst flies. Mistress Selena. Pipe-Daddy Wayne. Closet-carrying crossdressers. Trans-chasers. Jail-queer junkies and Dom-Daddy dealers. And Paul. Craigslist was where he first caught wind of me and my easy reputation. 

When Paul and Tia arrived this time, he was already out of his clothes by the time I shut the door. Already hard by the time I caught the cheeky glint in Tia’s eye — saw the devilish crook in her smirk — and, in my ear as we hugged, felt her warmly whisper: 'This is going to be fun.'

She wanted payback. She wanted him to feel exactly like what he’d made her feel with that couple: dismissed. Devalued. Humiliated. When she messaged, she’d asked if we could spoil him, give him all his dreams: blindfold and restrain him. Serve him, together. Obediently. And then — once cuffed in place — remove the blindfold and make love in front of him. Out of reach. Unwanted. Unblinded. As we made love without him. 

It was all, and only, to put too fine a point on it. To make him feel what his actions hadn’t let him see. Eye for eye. Kiss for kiss. A balance. She let him join us eventually, once let in on the prank — the life lesson our moans and outbursting laughter relayed at the peak of their authentic crescendo. He seemed to take it on board playfully. In stride, not to heart. We all took a breath. Released a sigh. Fell back in a naked, clammy mess, laughing. Now it was time to get high. 

At first I thought he’d pulled his puff-pipe out in peace. Pre-packed. Half-smoked. I dug in my own bag, offered a straw-tip of ice in return — to keep the peace and the pace. I knew my gear was good. I just should have looked harder in the pipe. It was smokable gas. Base. Not meth. 

Stars hugged the edges of my vision before I’d even finished my first puff. It hit like fire. Roaring strength. Immediate presence. Screaming at me: this is punishment, you fool. 

The sound of the vacuum rod shattering across my back snapped me into some kind of awareness. Laughter sprinkled the room like pieces of the broken tube around me. Sunlight forced its way into my perception like a door jam. As I started to come to — naked, on all fours — pain began to leak through the shield of drugs in all directions. Then another man’s voice drifted through the haze: 

'Is she aware of what’s going on?'

I let out a people-pleasing giggle to keep the peace, then purred over my left shoulder, 'Oh yes babe, it’s totally fine, I like it.' I waved my ass in the air like a prized pig — stalling for time. Playing the part. I still had no idea what had happened or what was going on. The last thing I remembered was hitting Paul’s pipe. But now it was midday? Where had 12+ hours gone? Who was this guy? 

I arched and stretched my back like a cat, swung a leg under and rolled over to face them all. Both arms planted into the ground behind me like scaffolding, exhausted. Sweat stung my eyes. Bits of stray synthetic hair tangled in my dry mouth. Steam from my scalp felt like it was levitating my white wig, which had run grey with body heat and smeared makeup. Pins and needles bit at my tips and toes. Leather cuffs choked the blood flow from each ankle and wrist — buckles padlocked, jingling with confusion. 

I pierced my fingers up through the knotted mess my hair and wig had become, tugging the soggy hairpiece back to clear my vision, more hair snagging in the cuff buckles. Paul stood above me, sucking his pipe again, a look of accomplishment I couldn’t register etched across his face — a sick, self-congratulatory grin lighting him up. Tia was in the corner, distant, facing away. But all I could feel was the presence of a near seven-foot Polynesian man. 

Sione was from the Cook Islands. Tall like a silo. Sunglasses still on. Skinny jeans and a singlet emphasising his physique. Masculine. Versed in the ways of both the drug and kink worlds — a real first-wave raver from the Happy Valley days. His spiky dark hair almost touched the ceiling as his warm voice introduced himself. Even though I still couldn’t place what had been going on, his energy made me feel safe. He reached down, caressed my cheek gently, and pulled a wayward wig hair from the corner of my mouth. 

'Would you like a smoke, baby? I brought some green.'

Omg bless. Maybe a bong could ease my mind back into remembrance. Give me some other sense of what had happened besides the red welts on my thighs or my purple knees. I curled back up on all fours and crawled towards him as he reclined into my lounge like it was his own. He filled the bong and handed it to me, now at his feet, on my knees between his legs. Touching my face gently again with one hand, the lighter burst to life in his other, lighting it for me like a gentleman. 

And then I remembered two other voices, echoing from the blur of a lost night. Like the key lime pie waitress in Fear & Loathing, something had triggered fawning in Tia. Now wasn’t the time to solve the jigsaw. It was time to dissociate. To act. Time to get these people out of my house, out of my life. Almost on cue, Sione leaned over to Paul, enquiring: 

'Is there a room I can have her alone in?'

In my most naked queerness, of course I prefer women — mind, soul, and mystery. Is there any greater creation of the Goddess than the image of herself? Essences I feel more like. Emotions I feel through oestrogen. 

It’s just easier with guys sexually, though. I’m always the girl — get to be the girl. Unbound in my truest, fullest form. Authentic to the point of ache. Forgetting my body and just letting it feel — being felt. 

It’s dating men that’s the hard part. For them, not me. Being seen with me in public, rather than drooled over in private. Discreet. A dirty secret. For them — not me. 

But in relationships with cis women, gay or straight alike, at some point I always end up on the bottom — missionary’s role. On my back instead of my hands and knees. Never forced, just gravity and bodies conspiring. Regardless, dysphoria is a loyal interloper, eager to remind me I’m not a 'real girl'.

Yet I’m so grateful to be a trans woman. I found peace in my body after HRT — after socially transitioning in 2016. For two and a half years, I tried to live without hormones. I transitioned at work right after coming out, figuring it was the best way not to hide anymore. I transitioned with friends, family, and in community — in every part of my life. And yet, even then, something still felt misaligned. Incomplete. 

Reckless sex and addiction roared on feverishly — irrepressible, exponential. I was drunk on attention too. Grindr, Craigslist, Fetlife. It felt nice for other people to like my body, even if I couldn’t. It helped me grow — even just in style and sense. The less baby-trans I became, the more alive that once-silenced authenticity felt inside me. 

I’d hated my tomboy body my whole life. Even on peak days, I felt awkward all through. My skin was an ill-fitting layer of jelly. My voice sparked nervously from my lips, like knives in power points. Every curl was twisted steel wool. Dysphoric down to my DNA — from the first moment I can remember. Broken only by fleeting rays of gender euphoria first felt in wardrobes and Care Bears as a child, even if not understood at the time. 

When I first updated my gender on Grindr to 'trans woman', I wasn’t ready for the spotlight — for the wrong kinds of attention. I wasn’t prepared for the flattery, the lust, the chasers, the users. And lost in all that noise, I missed the gems too. 

But I learned so much about being a girl that first year — exposed and naive. Baby-trans. Already wounded, easy prey. I fell for every trick, once. Every pick-up line and sweet nothing from a liar’s tongue — just to be touched. Anything for affection. 

'We can use the front room!' I cut in — Paul still mid-pull on a bong, temporarily silenced. Sione turned his gaze to me, a warm, gentle smile rising on his face in rhythm. He extended an open palm, long fingers pluming like swan feathers. I felt my whole body blush — no one had ever treated me like a lady before. 

'Shall we, my dear?' he crooned, taking my hand. Lifting, leading me into the dark bedroom, away from the sunlight’s questions. The absence of light felt safer than the memories lurking outside as he closed the door behind us. 

I moved to the bed in the centre of the room, eyes adjusting to dim halos hugging the edges of doors and curtains. He slid his sunglasses off like a gunslinger — two kind, piercing eyes glowing in silhouette. 

I melted into the sheets as he waltzed slowly toward me, circling the bed before settling cross-legged beside me on the floor — serene, smiling. Staring into me. I realised I didn’t need to splay or parade myself for him. My skin blushed a different shade — embarrassed at how loose I was, how far I’d fallen. Each nadir smugly laughing at the one above, at its arrogance for thinking it was the last. Rock-bottom after rock-bottom, layered like strata. 

'Is this your place, baby?'

His measured voice eased my nerves. I nudged closer, whispering yes — my mouth too dry to muster more. When had I last put anything in my body that wasn’t drugs? 

Sione nodded softly, something lingering between his words, 'Do you work for Paul out there?'

Curiosity curdled into concern. What had Paul told him? What the hell was going on? Flashbacks from the night before forced themselves through the pinhole of my mind. Deep, rough voices echoed from the stillness — men’s voices, neither Paul’s nor Sione’s. Around me, not for me. 

As I stared at Sione, visible worry spilling into my pores, I caught sight of the word 'whore' scrawled across my forearm in thick black marker. Half the W hidden under a still-too-tight cuff. My whole body was covered — slut. pig. slag. SLAVE. 

'You didn’t post the ad on Craigslist, did you, honey?'

My body gagged. Recoiling. Remembering. The harsh burn in my throat after I’d exhaled. Dry, chemical smoke. Only a pinch of meth taste before the crushed fluorescent tang of caustic base. I’d felt the hit instantly — roaring through me. 

Paul had dug into his esky as I coughed, handing me a cold blue Powerade. I guzzled it down, gasping between swallows. My hand clenched the bottle, claw-like. Berry Ice. Not Mountain Blast. I was fucking out of it. 

Sione’s tone shifted — calm but sharp. 'Did you take any hypnotics last night? Seroquel? Neuroleptics? Maybe some benzos?'

His bedside manner tethered my rising panic. The cuffs suddenly felt like thick medical restraints. I heard the sound of work boots in the hall — stampeding back into recollection. The smell of grease. Mechanics. Two of them. I was chained to the bed — ankles spread, wrists bound. Naked. Violated. 

I’d been roofied. The perfect zombie. Mind gone, body awake. Warm, breathing, beatable. Robota. Forced labour. 

I buried my face in the sheets, sobbing. Pain flooding back as the drugs’ shield faded. I hadn’t been roofied since high school. 

Sione caressed my back gently, weaving around the bruises, careful. He rose like a blade, sliding his sunglasses on again, and closed the door softly behind him — almost motherly. 

Moments later, Paul’s voice pierced the silence — a frat-boy cheer, mocking. Then, a thud. Silence. Only the creatures of dusk outside. And a man’s muffled whimpering under Sione’s size 13 boot. 

Soon after, I heard bags rustle, keys jingle, the front door open and the screen door slam. Then a gentle knock — Sione again, gripping Paul by the scruff like a bear. He forced him to apologise, head bowed. Words spilling through spit and tears: 

'…for whoring you out. In your own house.'

I never saw him again. Or Tia, though we stayed in touch awhile — sisters-in-arms. Her scene had been soft, sincere, pure in intention. She tried to make it work for a while, but she shed him like a serpent’s old skin the day I found him on Grindr again. 

I never saw Sione again either. After he threw Paul out, he showed me the Craigslist ad — my body, my room, my house. Paul’s number. But you have to pull the good from the bad, even with pliers — at least I looked saucy in some of the photos. 

Sione never took from me. Even as we lay there till no light was left. Even as I wanted to please him, to thank him. We just talked. Held. Aftercare. He told me he ran a post office out bush — said I should drop by sometime. 

Maybe I should’ve. Maybe dogs should rest, not hunt. I’m just grateful that in all that darkness, I had a guard dog — an old guard, a gentleman. The first man who ever truly treated me like a lady. A woman. 

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Bio: Ashley Olive is a proud queer trans woman and artist living on Wonnarua land, Australia. She’s a survivor, and advocate of recovery, peer support and mutual aid, with a community services background. She’s co-facilitated ACON Trans Vitality Workshops in Newcastle and participated in Equality Australia’s first TransLeading program. From gender-dysphoria to euphoria – she’s always found liberation in community, and family in pride. 

Follow Ashley on Instagram @lastmardigras