Monday, April 15, 2013

Special Report! Behind The Curtain With Amber Aldrich

Doc here with a treat for you, the good readers of The Journal.
Amber Aldrich's articles are thought-provoking, insightful, and tantalizing all at the same time.
One of her first reports submitted to The Good Doctor, "Pink Girls", is still one of the most read reports here at The Journal, even though it was published in 2010.
This report from Amber is excellent, and focuses on how she got her start in this thing of ours (with a twist). 
Good Doctor,
There are hundreds of posts on the joys of adult theater sex from the perspective of the woman, the perspective of the men, and the perspective of the husband (in the case of a couple). This post presents the adult theater experience from a rarely mentioned fourth point of view – one that I present through the experiences of my first adult theater partner, a man named Erno.
Before my indoctrination into the wonderfully wicked underbelly of adult theater sex, I thought porn theaters were places men go to watch porn. After all, there were no VCRs, no internet, no cable TV, and the only purveyors of porn were porn theaters. So I envisioned porn theaters as being filled with darkly dressed men resembling Lon Chaney characters spacing themselves as far apart as possible, slouching in their seats so as to not be visible to each other while secretly masturbating under long trench coats.
Despite my naiveté about adult theaters, I was a very sexually active teen, never without a boyfriend, and always hanging with the “nasty” boys, college men or older. Just before my 18th birthday I met Erno, a gay man in his late 30s. Erno fascinated me. He was an extremely intelligent, very wealthy, well-travelled, well educated, handsome, and sophisticated man fluent in five languages. He was personal friends with Joe Strummer from the rock bank The Clash. But beyond that, there was restlessness in his sexuality that captivated me. Sex for Erno had an intangible significance – a power that would obsess every morsel of his being. For Erno, being “horny” was torture. Imagine what the torment of thirst would be like if you had no mouth, and therefore no ability to quench the thirst. This was Erno’s “horny”, for Erno needed to be … a girl.
Erno was totally convinced that he was not gay, but in fact a woman in a male body. Unfortunately during Erno’s sexually formative years, sex change operations were still experimental, and being outwardly gay was guaranteed to get you ostracized. So Erno resorted to the secretive world of adult theater sex to provide relief from his torture … even if just a facsimile of what he really craved. There, in the dark anonymity, he would take off his overcoat to reveal a heavenly deception – a miniskirt through which protrudes legs shaved smooth as silk and baby soft by avoiding any masculinising exercise, a low cut top to expose small but real breasts carefully cultivated by a diet of fatty foods and by breaking down connective collagen via gripping and pulling calisthenics, a main of natural long blond hair teased and styled in a Farah Fawcett mimic, and a bustier squeezing a waist into a distinctly female form. In the adult theater, Erno became Erna.
But despite the effectiveness of this “pseudofemale” in providing a bit of heaven for the crowd, despite the countless ejaculations deposited in his mouth, despite the numerous penises filled with enough desperation to sojourn into his rectum, despite even the knowledge that a few of those men actually think the skin they are touching is real girl, being a “pseudofemale” was not enough. And he viewed me as his salvation. I was young, gorgeous, and eager to discover that wonderfully wicked underbelly.
Queen Anne Theatre
Bogata, NJ - 1986
(Closed - Now a dry cleaners)
Erno didn’t want to simply live vicariously through me, he wanted to BE me. His ultimate crossdressing fantasy was to somehow open me up and wear me like a functioning body suit. We pondered how to transfer the fury directed at me in the adult theatres to him. How can a penis go up my vagina and have HIM feel it? And we finally came up with a method. Erna would slouch back in a front pew seat. I would then sit on his lap facing away from him, pull my skirt up to my waist, and wrap my legs around his. In this posture his upper legs protrude between mine. Thus if a man were to fuck me, he would have to insert his penis between Erna’s thighs to get into my vagina. Since Erna’s pleasure was our goal, we called the men at the Queen Anne Theater our “victims”.
We discovered that once a man penetrates me he reflexively pushes hard forward to get as much of his penis inside me as possible. This presses his waist against the back of Erna’s thighs, and inserts the man’s penis about half way up my vagina, with the lower half of his shaft remaining between Erna’s thighs … depending on how long the penis is. For the shorter penises, only the head goes inside me. But it doesn’t matter. Even if only the very tip penetrates me, that’s enough sensation to induce a decisive orgasm, especially with the shaft stroking between the silky smooth thighs of a very passable crossdresser.
Queen Anne Theatre Facade - 2013
Bogata, NJ
In this position the man sees essentially only me, nearly face to face in a quasi-missionary position. His hands can feel up both my and Erna’s legs and butt. As each man gets into position, Erna guides the penis through the lubrication slick between her thighs. Erna can then feel that subtle, yet powerful, hardening of the shaft from the sensation of the penis’s head slipping into my vagina. She can feel the pressure of the “victim’s” body against the back of her thighs as he strives to shove as much of his penis into the heaven in which it’s enveloped. As the penis fucks me, it has to stroke back and forth between Erna’s thighs, enabling him (her) to feel the fury that only a real girl can produce.
Even though the penis is not pumping into Erna’s rectum or mouth, the sensations she feels are in many ways sexier. For example, every nuance of the man’s autonomic quest to get his penis deeper and deeper into my body has to first drive through Erna’s “thigh pussy”. Erna can feel the subtle quivers in the man’s abdomen and legs as the sensations caused by my insides floods through the “victim’s” penis. Erna could feel the skin-on-skin friction as the victim’s hands took in the texture of my thighs and butt. And every so often a hand will slide off my leg and onto hers, and she will get a sample of the hunger that devours a real girl.
As the victim approaches orgasm, his zeal begins to blind him to the distinction between shemale and real girl flesh. His hands wonder wildly in a quest to take in as much “girl” as they can in those magical few seconds when the victim knows he has absorbed too much intensity and is now GOING to cum. And now Erna and I are one. I am the insides she’s longed to have all her life. The sensation of my insides has brought the victim to this extreme point, but now the victim’s penis is overwhelmed from tip to base … and half of that is the caressing by Erna’s thighs.
Queen Anne Theatre
From the Highway
When the victim ejaculates Erna can feel the semen pulsing up through the shaft, bloating with each burst between her thighs. A final perfection to this technique was to place Erna’s penis between my lubricated butt cheeks. Thus, as the men pump into me, the force against my body rocks my butt along Erna’s penis, literally jerking him (her) off to the “rhythm of being fucked like a girl”. For Erno, this was the closest he can get to “wearing” a girl’s body.
Erno and I went to the Queen Anne Theater about twice a month. Left up to Erno, we would have gone every day. But I always felt somehow guilty after each trip to the Queen Anne. It would take me about two weeks to get back in the mood for it, but when in the mood, I could think of nothing as a substitute. The craving for it felt very different than normal “horny”. It felt (and still does) more like a fever, complete with shortness of breath, hot skin, cold sweats, dry mouth, shaking, loss of appetite, and confusion. Erno felt this same “fever”. I would later learn that this is the common feeling of arousal for the sexually obsessed.
What is uncommon was my feelings of guilt afterwards. After each venture to the Queen Anne, I would sit silently in the car on the drive home promising myself “this is the last time … I’ll never do this again”. I stare at Erno’s profile and see such a handsome man, who just 15 minutes ago was an irresistibly sexy woman … now looking like a circus clown with smudges of lipstick and foundation too stubborn to be removed by a baby wipe in the darkness of the Queen Anne’s vestibule. The vamp-like tease in his long flowing blond hair long collapsed into a stringy mop from the groping of men reaching over from behind our seat.
I watch Erno massage a kink in his neck from cocking his head over the seat back to accept penises reaching for his mouth. Erna’s head bent 90 degrees over the seat back and the man standing on tippy-toes arching his back to get enough of the penis into Erna’s mouth to induce a small approximation of the heaven the men at the other side of our row are enduring. I smirk at an image of the Sistine Chapel where God and Adam’s fingers are reaching for each other. 
After each episode I would insert a tampon – a futile attempt to stop the backflow of literally ½ cup of semen. In the car’s vanity mirror I see the face of a girl who provided heaven to a bunch of creatures for whom “horny” is torture. Heaven that occurs in bursts that last only a seconds, but so vital to these creatures to dominate their whole lives. The earthy remnants of that heaven peppering my skirt and blouse, and forming white crusty blotches on my legs, arms and belly. I glance over to Erno and see similar crusty spots on his shirt and hands.
I have a recurring flashback to one such “deposit” that happened the first time Erno took me there. There was a line up to fuck the Erna/Amber combination. One man was standing to the side, glaring at the sight of each successive penis vanishing between Erna’s thighs, then quickly glanced up at the “victim’s” face to see his expression when the penis vanishes enough to penetrate me. I noticed this man’s face began to look like he was about to cry. His penis, so erect that it was pointing nearly vertical to the ceiling, began to bounce up and down like a cantilever. Then all of a sudden a stream of semen shot out and lashed across my belly. Then another, and another, and another. The man’s face was contorted, but his eyes were fixed on the action taking place behind Erna’s legs. Have you ever seen a penis ejaculate spontaneously without anything touching it? It’s quite a sight, resembling a bratty kid spitting between his teeth bobbing his head up with each squirt … and it happens frequently at adult theatres.
In the mirror I see the face of a girl who just absorbed too many thrills too fast. I’ve seen faces like that before. Driving down skid row, you see those same faces on the crack addicts. The face of girls who absorb too many thrills too fast. That was me on the ride home every time. A face that would otherwise be way too pretty to be doing this. So I swear I’ll never do it again, sometimes even to the point of breaking up with Erno. But he’s unfazed, for he knows in a couple weeks I’ll get the “fever” back again … and so do I. And when I do I swear to myself, “ok, ok, just this one more time … this is the last time, then it’s out of my system”. But I know it will never be the “last time”. There will be no “last time”, for I am addicted to something so good that it can’t be described by words. And before Erno was out of my life, I would no longer be plagued with guilt over feeling so much enjoyment out of something so depraved.
Erno and I broke up when I moved away for college. It would be about a year before I returned to an adult theater. I was reluctant to go alone knowing the sexual feeding frenzy in which I am the feast. But eventually the “fever” would be too much for me to ignore, and, at age 19, I ventured into an adult theater in upper Manhattan … alone. And from that day on, the adult theater would become my sexual mainstay.
I heard from Erno on occasion. Shortly after I left he found another woman to take my place at the Queen Anne. We spoke on the phone a few times, and toyed with the idea of getting together again for adult theater adventures, but never did. We were now 100 miles apart, I didn’t need him anymore, and he had another woman. But I will never forget how I got my start.


Doc here again... I am very interested in your comments for this report.  The Comments Section is open, so what is your take?

Many, many thanks to Amber Aldrich for her fine work on this article.  Please keep submitting reports and/or articles.

Thanks Amber!