Hard Dreams
Final part of the trans, gay erotica series “Feel Like a Man”
We talked for hours before the thunder died away and the gentle showers made sleep inevitable. His interest in me seemed authentic. But it wasn’t until he absent-mindedly groped my chest that his interest fell to my more obvious peculiarities.
“Sorry, is that-?”
I interrupted him by holding his hand to me and pecking his chin.
“I kind of don’t mind it. Not sure why.”
“Your chest looks like mine though, don’t you think?”
I backed up and sent him an incredulous look. “You think your chest looks like mine?” I touched his torso with the back of my hand, wondering what it might feel like to touch my chest and feel planes of firm, thick skin laid over grooves of bone.
“What? That’s not weird,” he said.
“It’s a little weird. Look at me!” I pinched some of the flesh on my upper breast in a persecutorial manner.
“Well, look at me!” He pinch a small bit of skin between his middle finger and thumb and winced. I raised my eyebrow at this pitiful defense.
“I still think I need the binder,” I said.
“Fine,” Simon rolled further onto me and rested his head on my chest. “But I don’t see it.”
A flash of light broke through the clouds and a moment later, thunder broke through the sounds of rainfall.
But I was listening to his breath. Deep and languorous, I realized my own breath had slowed to meet his. I wasn’t used to breaths that allowed me to relax my chest and ribs. The feeling of being a person correctly was native to Simon’s body in a way it simply wasn’t to mine.
Finally, I said: “Do you think that’s something you’re supposed to say?”
“You realize I’m gay, right?” Simon whispered. “I’ve dealt with enough shallow lip-service to know I shouldn’t pass it off to someone else.
“I guess that makes sense.”
When I opened my eyes again, it was the dead of night, and a low, half-moon was sending waves of pulsing light into the room. Simon’s back was flat against my chest. I pulled him to me fiercely: I could do that now.
My torso was broad and hard — I could tell because it was slightly larger then Simon’s — and there was something else that was decidedly different from my waking body.
I pulled Simon tighter, then slipped away again.
The hard surface of the bar was beneath me when I noticed Simon shifting.
Suddenly, I gasped and my eyes shot open to the scene of the high, dark ceiling, and wide open spaces of the empty bar. My new muscles tensed in my shoulders and back.
Simon’s mouth on my cock was perfect: made for me. My skin was unbearably tight, like I was straining against it to feel his mouth more.
I looked down at him. He wasn’t embarrassed by my staring: I hoped I would be able to remember every maddening detail, not just of his technique, but his poise.
His hair spilling over my thighs was in the way of my view of his lips, so I got up on my elbows and pulled it back into a fist. I must have pulled too hard, because he whined, sending vibrations into my sensitive head.
A spasm gripped my abdomen at the feeling, and I almost sprawled back out over the bar, but I renewed my harsh grip on his hair and watched him reverently.
I watched the dimples in his cheeks deepen as he hollowed them from the inside. Every surface of his mouth was soft yet agonizingly tight. I wanted to yank his hair closer and explore the sensation of his throat, but knew I had to let him lead.
As though I’d suggested it aloud, he took his hands from the base of my cock and slid his lips all the way down to take every inch of me into him.
He slid off the bar and sat on a stool, so I stood up. Simon’s fingers dug into my hips, pulling me closer. When his head pulled back, his tongue would slip out of his mouth, as if trying to taste me longer.
I couldn’t take this — whether or not it was like anything real, it felt like it might kill me. I accidentally thrusted into his throat. I felt bad instantly, but his eyes fluttered closed and moan hummed against my cock.
Simon took my hands and placed them into his hair — thank god. I pushed into his throat, gripping his hair hard enough to keep him still.
My chest coiled forward as I fell into a fast, shallow rhythm, and his grip on my ass encouraged the movement.
The view of his body as I craned over him was incredible. His ass being pressed against the stool as he leaned forward made the curve rounder and fuller. His dick looked painfully hard — the harder I thrusted, the wetter he got.
I leaned down to feel how his body might be different. I pressed a finger between his cheeks and ran it gently against the dry skin over his entrance. The sound that left his mouth was desperate and high-pitched, and he swallowed hard, causing me to pull back and plunge into him more deeply.
His hips tipped forward. When the intensity of the new sensation died down, I continued exploring the line under him, trying to rub against his perineum again.
But when I found it, he pulled his mouth off me completely and groaned loudly. I stroked his hair gently, concerned, but he just pushed back onto my hand.
Shocked, I realized there was a wet, soft canal that I could sink my finger inside of. The skin inside him was soaked.
I touched his face, amazed at his body’s secrets, and he nuzzled his cheek into my hand while grinding back into my middle finger. I leaned down to kiss him, and the new taste on his tongue made the throbbing between my legs worse.
I pulled him onto his feet and sat on the stool behind him, then turned us around so he could hold the edge of the bar.
He did the rest himself — he bent over, steadying himself, and applied his wet hole to the aching head of my cock.
I was powerless. It didn’t matter what body I was in, or what body Simon occupied. His would always leave mine writhing and begging. Pulling hard at his hips, gasping desperately at his skin.
I guided him as gently as I could, but he needed no help lowering himself onto my lap. He gasped when he finally took me all in. I tried to soothe him, petting his hair with one hand and reaching around to stroke his dick with the other. He sighed gratefully.
He kept his hips close to mine and simply gyrated around me in torturous circles. His body throbbed around me: his walls constricted over me without his guidance. His hole seemed to suck on me with the same vigor as his mouth had. Simon wanted to give my body everything it yearned for, but he wasn’t alone in that.
I used my free hand to search for the entrances to his inguinal canals, and gently massaged the opening with my pinky. His back arched as he groaned and he pressed his upper back into my chest. His head rolled against my shoulder as I slid my finger further inside him. He started pulling his hips up and dropping back onto me.
He was overwhelmed with the sensations — something I could now understand. I couldn’t help smiling at the artless pounding against my thighs.
I kissed his neck and I adjusted him in my lap so he could lean his cheek against the tabletop. I pulled out for a moment to stand up, and he whined desperately, pressing back toward me. I kissed the small of his back and then stood up straight and pressed him firmly into the cold surface.
I thrusted back into him as slowly as I could, inserting my finger back into his gland and rubbing gently.
The weightless pressure on my cock, the animal movement, both of and within my body —
Would I ever feel this again — feel Simon’s warmth gripping and sliding against me — would I ever be able to pound into him like this again if I woke up…
Simon’s eyes closed and he moved only to accommodate my hard thrusts into him. His moaning was now constant, and the sound broke often into cries of pleasure that occurred in time to the full twitching of his body.
His voice never took words, but I was able to obey his every request nonetheless. In response to his hand reaching down behind him, I withdrew my drenched hand from his dick and pressed it into his ass. He cried out and pushed back against the table.
I leaned over to press my chest into his back, inadvertently biting his skin. Three parts of me were fucking him in three of his holes — I coaxed him to turn his head, and I slid my tongue into his mouth to make it four. He sucked on my tongue as I rocked into him as hard as I could with my whole body.
His hand went to his dick, so I sharply snapped my hips and his fingers curled and went to my thick thighs. I wanted to fuck him so well that he’d never want for touch again. I pinpointed a pillowy area deep inside him and scraped against it as hard as he could.
I could feel Simon’s trembling in my chest and stomach, and as if responding to his command, my own body surged closer to the edge. Simon reached for the back of my neck, pulling my chest against him once again and kissing my chin and jaw.
“Need a cold shower?” The amusement in Simon’s voice was warm and kind, but I needed a calming breath to soothe my embarrassment. I found that my head was resting just beneath his sternum and his was propped up on a folded pillow against the wall. I wondered if he had tried to escape but couldn’t because he was pinned down by me.
I kissed his chest and pushed myself up into a seat, beginning the arduous process of standing up. “I need a toilet.”
“Then you make some very suggestive pissing sounds,” he said, looking up from his phone and smiling, ever-proud of his sense of humor. I smirked, then hid my genuine smile behind my shoulder as I headed into the bathroom.
Through the small window, I could see that the rain had almost let up completely. I’d guess it was around noon.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth with Simon’s off-brand toothbrush and my finger, I drifted unthinkingly to the shower, only remembering when I was rinsing off soapsuds that I had nothing clean to wear.
I stepped out and stood in the mirror while I let my body air dry.
My breasts really weren’t that big. I lifted one arm and felt for the pectoral muscle beneath, as I’d done thousands of times before. But this time, I didn’t pinch the flesh angrily, struggling to pull and hide it from view.
Top-surgery. It’s a thing. I think I could do. Provided I worked overtime and saved more stringently than I was used to.
Sixteen hours ago, the thought was aspirational. One day, I’d have the balls to cut my tits off.
Maybe, I’d even have balls by that point. Heh.
Now… well, I was still basking in the afterglow of two (and a half) mind-blowing orgasms, so it might not be the time to make any kind of decisive judgement. But knowing that there was a person who saw my chest the way I wish I could… it changed things. Probably.
Out in the main room of the studio, Simon was making coffee in boxers. He looked back at me when he heard me: I had sauntered out naked with an awkwardness that I hoped would look adorkably flirtatious. He looked me up and down, a playful pout on his lips and said, “you locked the door.”
“Aw, I’m so sorry.” He laughed, turned back to what he was doing, before sending a genuinely shy glance back at me.
“I put some clothes out. No — uh — no pressure though.”
“Your house, your rules,” I said. I wasn’t sure how serious my flirting was, but I hoped Simon might determine that for me. He looked back at me with wide eyes, only to gasp as he spilled hot coffee on the back of his hand. I rushed over and turned on the cold water in the kitchen sink and pulled his hand under the faucet. He bit his lip, smiling even as I inspected his hand in concern. “Maybe you’d better get dressed.”
“Your rules suck,” I scoffed, and pulled him down for a kiss. His face sank down into mine, and his hand cupped my neck.
I guessed he didn’t do casual kisses. Even while holding his pinkening hand under water and standing around in his boxers, his mouth moved against mine passionately.
His hand moved to my back pulled me close to his torso, and the sudden feeling of his chest on mine pulled an unexpected sound from my throat. A kind of pulling sensation took over my eyes too, and hot tears were suddenly spilling between out cheeks.
He pulled away and studied me with concern. I did the same to him.
What was he looking for there?
“I — I don’t know why I — Sorry…” I gasped as my voice broke. “The fuck?” I whispered.
You’ve heard how people talk about sex, right? There are certain actions associated with sex that some people just agree are wrong somehow.
Sure, I hadn’t started crying during sex, thankfully. But crying the morning after, especially with a younger co-worker with whom I had little prior connection to — probably wasn’t great either. I took a step back, and started looking for my clothes on the floor.
He grabbed me gently by the wrist and held my shoulders.
“What is it? What happened?” His voice was soft and kind, but nothing in that moment could convince me he felt anything less then pitiable disgust for me.
I wiped my eyes quickly with the back of my hand and plastered on a smile.
“That was weird,” I could feel the tears continuing to fall, but if I could escape in the next minute, maybe I wouldn’t have to quit my job before Monday morning.
I turned again; he let my wrist go but kept pace with me, trying to keep our eye-contact consistent.
“You’re not leaving?” The questioning inflection made his voice sound almost pleading. “Did I do something?”
Fuck.
Leaving now would be shitty, wouldn’t it?
I cared about this man, obviously. It didn’t matter if I was embarrassed, or at least it shouldn’t.
Even if he went down to the bar tonight and laughed about how his first bisexual experience had ended in tears with his friends, an event that struck me as patently absurd as I imagined it, that wouldn’t justify leaving him like this.
I stood still and allowed him to touch my shoulders and connect his gaze to mine.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I — I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your — ” and that was it. I broke down and sobbed. He pulled me close. I wrapped my arms around his waist and clutched at him, and he held me tighter in response. He buried his face into me shoulder and brushed my hair back. We stood there for some time.
We were sitting on an old love seat drinking coffee when we noticed the rain had stopped. We were playing this bizarre game born out of the severe dimensions of the couch; our feet were plastered sole to sole and we each tried to push the other into a corner in a struggle for dominance.
I finally relented when he almost re-burned the same hand from earlier, and he now, generously, allowed me to keep me legs up as long as he could keep his feet in my lap.
I grabbed a culinary magazine off his small coffee table and turned through the ripped pages and squinted to read his little notes.
“You cook?”
“Mhm.” He looked up from his phone. “I got accepted into CIA years ago, but I never ended up going.”
“Would you reapply?” I took another sip of coffee, wondering if I would be able to notice some nuance to the flavor that only an aspiring chef could manage. Nothing. “I could use some help broadening my palate.”
He turned back to his phone and shrugged. “It might be nice to have someone to cook for.”
Simon didn’t smile when he said that, as I expected he might. He was being sincere: I wondered if he was lonely too.
“Who are you talking to?” I asked, noticing him quirk his head in reaction to something he was looking at on his phone.
“What?” he said loudly. “Oh, I’m — shopping.” The clipped tone of his answer and the color leaving his face had me curious.
“Shopping for…?”
He gulped, looked off to the side, and tossed me the phone.
Oh, my god.
The website was a lurid pink and the swirly font was nearly illegible. I noticed the design bureaucratically before turning my attention to the “small to midsized” strap-on collection, arranged in price from low-to-high.
I looked up at Simon, his obvious smile covered by a throw pillow that stopped just beneath his burning cheeks —
— Then back down at the dildos—
— Before tossing the phone back, causing Simon to erupt into peals of laughter.
“I wanted to get you a gift!” he said when his laughter died down.
“Are you sure it’s not a gift for you?” He starting laughing again, this time hysterically, and I joined him.
We calmed down and started looking through the site together. I noticed many of the ‘strap-ons’ weren’t just for sex: some were specifically called ‘packers.’
“Do you think you can deal with having a boyfriend who needs a packer?”
“You wouldn’t need a packer. What do you mean ‘deal with’?”
I sighed and laid back, putting my legs into his lap. “I don’t know. Won’t your friends think it’s weird? I mean, if you tell them,-”
“I’m gonna stop you right there.” His tone was light and playful, but the look on his face told me I was about to get a serious talking-to. “I’ve been out for one year. That’s it. And I’m 25. I’d been a DL gay man for, like, six years. And I might have stayed in the closet if it wasn’t becoming clear that I was hurting my lovers. If I hadn’t realized what I huge dick I was being, I’d probably be languishing in self-hatred right now.”
He stopped for a moment, staring down at his hands. I wondered if he might cry too, but instead his eyes merely went glassy and still. He blinked hard when I touched his shoulder and continued:
“I’m done giving a fuck what people think of the men I love. Or-” he suddenly interrupted himself with a vague look of panic. “You know. Have a crush on.”
I kissed him and pushed him back on the couch so we could lie down.
The gentle shuffling of the foliage in the wind outside soothed me into a sort of waking nap. Conscious of the warmth and breath of the beautiful man I was holding, but still to the point that I couldn’t even think.
When he stirred slightly, I realized I still had something to say. “I’ve never been a boyfriend before.”
“Me neither,” Simon whispered.
“I think I’d like to give it a try.”
He squeezed me and kissed my hair, and I could feel his lips break into a small smile.
“Me too,” he said.
