Feel Like A Man
A trans, gay erotica story: first part
I began testosterone at the age of 25, but my androgen levels soon asserted the fact that I would appear soft and hairless forever. I turned desperately to masculine dress, as though my hairless face and breasts would simply relent to being called “he” if I wore a silk vest, tie and sports jacket everywhere.
My cunt made this even worse. In the one instance of virginal swooning at close contact I can recall, his hand dipped below my belt with an unhesitating grip. He knew. I ran away.
It was years before I had the strength to enter a gay bar again. This time, I had no illusions of success. I had been trying to get what I needed from a man for years, and none seemed to know how to dominate me without making me feel like a woman.
So fuck it, I thought. At least let me be a pretty sexless trans boy.
I used far too much dark black eyeliner that night. It was kohl, in fact, and the simple charcoal blackness of it had a smoldering affect on my hazel grey eye. I used a fair bit of highlighter to bring out my unnaturally sharp cheek bones, hoping the angles of my face might make me more masculine.
I was alone as always when I sat down in at the bar.
Warmth suddenly crashed into me from behind. I yelped as my cold beer hit my lap and soaked through my pants.
“Fuck, sorry,” came a voice from beside me. It was slurred, deep, and distressingly familiar.
Warmth from his chest was still spreading to my back, but I found I couldn’t move away. That’s when he finally looked at me: hunched over me from behind, his face hovered inches from mine.
“I know you, right?”
Yes, he did. He fucking did. He was my subordinate at work.
Subordinate is a stretch, I guess. More like a subordinate to a colleague in another office. Just subordinate enough to make my inability to move away from him inappropriate.
“You’re Wynn, right?” I said, trying to keep my voice deep and calm. I knew his name, alright. Simon Wynn. We only spoke formally once, but his name had been ringing in my mind for months. He was a foot taller than me, and the urge to lean back as we spoke, arching toward him, had made the mundane conversation monumentally awkward for me. He was the only man in the company I knew of with longer hair than mine, his a blue-black color. But it seemed somehow wrong to call us both men, me being what I was and he being what he was.
Simon was broad, but his frame had that triangular cinch in his waist that made him seem muscular and slight at once. He was pale, but gold-tinted, and the lines of shadow carved his face into strong curves. His smell was musky and yet so delicate I had to concentrate to catch it. The worst part of him was his lips: only a shade rosier than his skin, the top one thin and angular and the bottom slightly thicker. When he smiled, as he did now, half his mouth would cut into his cheek, defining the line near its hollow, and the other half would hang open slightly. His mouth was cruel, bordering on torturous as it glided closer to me ear so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music.
“You remembered me?” he asked.
“Can I help you?” I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, and I bit the inside of my cheek, scared I might send him away. Instead, he laughed and his breath hit my neck as his chest throbbed against my back. Something else throbbed too.
“I was sure I recognized you.” He finally noticed my drenched jeans and his eye brows crinkled together in guilt. “Was that my fault?”
I didn’t have time to answer before he grabbed the hem of his black T-shirt and pressed it into my thigh.
“You don’t have to do that!” I said with a bit too much energy. I’d worn my ripped jeans, and the ragged, square holes were over my upper thigh. The bottom of his knuckles grazed me: his skin was so warm. I gasped.
I hoped he didn’t notice, but his eyes snapped up to mine, and the soft flesh of his palm absently fell against my leg. He leaned in closer than before, and the tip of his nose ruffled the hair tucked behind my ears.
“I live upstairs,” he said. “I could lend you something.”
My own gasp was still ringing in my ears. If he didn’t know about my unfortunate monastic life-style, he probably just thought I wasn’t getting any. Either way, he had noticed the burning heat in my face. I couldn’t decide whether or not to take him up on his offer, until he raised his hand up into the crease above my thigh. Then, as though the decision had been made for me, I said:
“I think that’s a good idea.”
As soon as the door closed, Simon reached for my hip and pushed me against the wall. His lips overtook mine, fumbling gracefully to force my mouth open.
I expected to have to grab his wrists to stop his hands from slipping under my clothes: as most of my experiences told me, I had to be very explicit about the parts of my body that cause me dysphoria. But the moment never came: his lips stayed magnetically to mine, only slipping over my cheek or jaw occasionally.
He must know. He must get it. Unlike 98% of gay men I’d met at these places, and plenty of the bi/pan ones too, he saw my body as I did: as a man’s, with the kind of sensitivity that could shatter me at any moment. He could break me if he wanted to. Or grab my cunt and laugh, or squirm into me while ignoring my meek protests. But he only held my neck and face and kissed me.
Occasionally, he pulled away to talk. I realized, with a sort of delirious hilarity, that he had the faintest English accent. His voice often scraped the ground in a gravelly baritone, making it all but impossible to identify his accent. But the corners of his sentences lifted into his larynx with a sonorous lilt that luxuriously curled in the air between us.
I barely grasped what he said: I carefully stored his words into my mind to savor after I left.
You’ve been avoiding me, huh?
Put your hands up.
Shh, you okay?
What are your pronouns, by the way?
Fuck, you’re gorgeous.
It was such bullshit, and so heartbreakingly wonderful.
The throbbing of my clit had persisted since Simon had first touched my thigh, and my cunt was aching painfully, whining incessantly about his emptiness.
Yes: my cunt’s a ‘he’.
I ground against him uselessly, trying to force friction. But Simon was so much taller than me: all I could do was straddle his thigh and lower myself onto him as we stood.
I only noticed Simon was doing the same thing to my waist when I could feel his hard cock pressing into my hips. A high-pitched breath from my nose made him laugh, before grinding into my ruthlessly. My heels left the ground as the blatant pain between my legs made me desperate.
When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I forced my hands under the hem of his black t-shirt, delighted to find that the carved grooves in the fabric had been truthful in their promise of a cut torso. He wasn’t ripped or anything, and as I pulled the shirt up to his collar bone, I realized he was more lean than muscular.
A fucking Michelangelo sculpture, my brain quipped. It seems that the syllables “…angelo” escaped my throat, and his laughed again, tipping his head back and heaving his shoulders.
“I think that’s a compliment, but I don’t think I should ask about it,” he said as I brought my mouth to his throat.
I closed my eyes suddenly and bit my lip, overcome with a sudden urge to laugh ecstatically.
Simon seemed immune to offense. He laughed deeply too, even as he asked me what on earth I was laughing about.
“What? You’re embarrassing me,” he said, shoving me playfully toward his bed before folding me back toward his body in an oddly casual embrace.
“How the fuck have I kept my hands off you all this time?” I said before I could stop myself. I slipped my bottom lip between my teeth, suddenly bashful.
He laughed again and captured my mouth in another kiss. His tenderness was still there, but it was a bit more authentic in intent now. I felt the softness of Simon’s bed behind my knees a second too late, and he used the chance to push me flat on my back.
I pushed myself onto my elbows in time to watch Simon undo his belt and step unceremoniously out of his jeans. The bulge in his underwear made me swallow painfully. He climbed onto my lap and straddled me: I suddenly felt dangerously closed to tears.
Do men straddle women? Had I ever seen that on TV, in porn, anywhere?
I tried to distract myself by pulling off his shirt, but the curve his spine made as he wrapped his arms around my neck had me stupidly emotional. I had half a thought to throw Simon off my lap and run before I started crying like an idiot.
Simon seemed to predict my thoughts. He took my chin, pinching it between his thumb and index finger. He held his face in front of mine, and I noticed for the first time that I had no idea what color his eyes were. In this light, they were a cool gunpowder color, but the ambient light in his studio picked up an autumnal brown color: almost yellow. I had time to think on this thoroughly before he finally brought the tip of his nose to mine. His irises were almost black in the shadows, and I thought for a second that he might be angry with me.
Instead, his gaze faltered to the side, and before I could make sense of this, he was peeling off my shirt. The cool air in the room made my eyes flick anxiously toward my breasts, now flat and bound in my gc2b. Whether or not Simon could see my nipples hardening, I grabbed his face and kissed him deeply so he wouldn’t be able to dwell on it.
But Simon’s hands were already running up my body: his touch so light, I squirmed to feel his warmth flush against me. His hips seemed to move with unconscious grace, grinding against my lap. I don’t know what I could possibly have been doing for him, but I moaned every time the slight circles of his hips brushed my skin over my sensitive clit.
Suddenly, Simon slipped his thigh between my own, grabbing my waist and pulling it up towards his as hard as my spine could bear. I desperately caught a whimper in my throat, only to whine as his teeth dug sharply against my Adam’s apple.
The tip of Simon’s index finger slid under the tight material of my binder. I waited eagerly for his hand to rise to my nipple, but it couldn’t, I remembered.
“Can I…” he breathed into my neck, and I interrupted with a slurred “uh-huh” before he removed my binder.
I was trembling. I can’t tell you how hard I was trembling.
I’d imagined myself spread out on a mattress beneath another man, my throat wet and warm where his tongue was still burning me. But always with a flat chest.
I realize, shocked and a little disturbed, that the air on my naked breasts was refreshing and lovely, and the softness between Simon and myself felt real, in a way I’m not sure I can explain to those who can always feel the bodies they’re born into.
Simon’s eyes, now seeming almost teal due to the dying light of a street lamp outside, met mine. He seemed almost solemn for a second, and I wanted to laugh again even as panic started dripping into my chest cavity.
“Can I-” he hesitated, his thumb slowly brushing over my nipple, sending a pang of sensation down to my clit. He swallowed before saying, “…use my mouth?”
I really did feel like laughing, then. Fuck, maybe there was one person in this room more nervous than I was. Whether or not he’d been with a trans guy before, he certainly didn’t know how he was “allowed” to interact with one who had breasts and a cunt.
I knew almost nothing about him, but the heat, pain and safety Simon presented made me absolutely sure that, in that moment, I could say yes to anything.
So I nodded, and he brought his mouth over one of my breasts while softly massaging the other.
“You can do anything, Simon,” I said languidly, positive in that moment that I meant it.
Simon’s eyes shot up to mine, and he looked almost innocent for a half-second before his lips carved that cruel smile into his marble face.
“I might have to take you up on that.”
He started pulling down my jeans, and I rose my hips to help him. They pressed into Simon’s chest as he kissed and licked the skin along the hem of my underwear. His tongue tugged at some hair there, and I felt that familiar need to laugh and moan: the subtlest shift over my clit sent a salve over the ache that dominated the lower half of my body.
And then he slipped them off. His followed unceremoniously behind, and I almost wished I had been able to savor the reveal.
I don’t know anything about dicks. Honestly. Truly.
My fascination and desire was always too complicated to unpack (heh), and I never paid enough attention to things like size and girth in my “research.”
But, he was the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life. His cock was slightly pink in comparison to the rest of his ivory skin. He was wet, almost as much as I was, and the skin seemed taut and irritated. He may have been aching as much as I was.
The unexpected sound of Simon clearing his throat made me flush and tear my eyes guiltily to his own. But he wasn’t chastising me: instead, his full bottom lip was slipped between his teeth.
“Listen,” he started.
“It’s fine,” I said, unable to stop myself. I regretted it instantly, and quickly looked out the window. Thankfully, he merely chuckled again. Was he a saint, or simply a good lover?
“I said, listen.” He dropped over me, again flush with my body, wrapping his long fingers around my wrists. “You’re gonna need to help me, dude.”
“Dude?” We both laughed again, and the appealing blush on his face and neck told me all I needed to know.
Of course, he’d never touched a trans guy before, and I was willing to bet he hadn’t been with a cis woman either. This anatomy was alien to him, and yet, he had no particle of self-disgust or bigotry in him.
He just wanted to touch me well. And that’s what I wanted too.
Continued in Part 2
