Sex and intimacy on demand.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Find the place okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Come upstairs. This way.”
It’s always funny, the first moment a hook-up crosses the threshold into my bedroom, the way he looks around, takes in the place — the flags and posters, the LEGO I have on display, my computer set-up, my calendar. We all do it when we enter someone’s space, make a measure of them based on the evidence provided.
I sit back on the bed, lean back on my hands.
He kicks off his shoes, maybe drops his jacket, but before he undresses further he sits on the edge of the bed beside me, leans his body into mine. I like that pressure, the weight of someone else on the mattress, the warmth of his chest, his thigh against mine.
The first kiss, I don’t necessarily like — I don’t like kissing much, and most men are bad at it. I guide his head down to kiss my neck, or lean in and graze my teeth over the side of his, nip his ear, cup his cock through his trousers and squeeze.
He pulls away to strip out of the rest of his clothes, and I slowly move back on the bed, tugging off my shirt, wriggling out of my boxers. I watch him as the clothes come off, watch the way his belly drops from under the hem of shirt as it’s pulled off over his head, thick, soft.
Unless he’s thinner, of course. There’s less attraction on my part, then — less interest.
I lie back, spread my legs wider, and he normally drops onto the bed on his knees, comes to try to kiss me again. I grip his cock and he puts his fingers against mine, slides slower, slips them into my cunt, already wet.
“Fuck,” he groans, and I laugh as I grip him tighter, raising my eyebrows at him and leaning back.
“Want it?”
“Yes.”
I flip us over, wrap my lips around his cock and bob my head down. He hovers his hand over my hair, nervous, and I grip his wrist and pull it closer by the wrist, card his fingers in my hair.
I bob my head again, feeling the weight of his cock on my tongue, feel my throat tighten as the head slides forward, and he whimpers, gripping my hair between his fingers. After a while, I pull back, slide my fingers over his thighs.
“Want to fuck me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
Sometimes I grab for a condom — normally, I make him get it.
When I straddle his thighs, I don’t normally like to drop down all the way — I like to lower down just slightly, feel the head of his cock pop inside, clench down right around the head. I like to enjoy it — like to enjoy the look on his face, mouth ajar, eyes wide, his hands settling on my hips and his head tipping back — before I relax my thighs and fuck myself down on his cock.
It’s a good position, lets me rock down on his cock as he thrusts up and into me, and I can see his face, see the way his eyes keep fluttering shut, the way he arches up off the bed with his head pressing back into the pillows. I like the thickness of his cock in me at this angle, like the heat of his thighs, the grip of his hands.
Some men grip me by the hips and just move me, rock me in place without moving their own body much — they move me like a toy, fuck me like one, and it makes my whole body throb and tingle with heat, my own cock hard and twitching.
After a while, he flips me over, nudges me down on my knees and elbows on the bed, and I moan into my arms as he spreads my cheeks apart and lines his cock up with my cunt again, feeds it inside me with one sudden movement and a loud smack of his hips against mine. Like this, every thrust of his cock is right against the underside of mine, and I choke out my noises, grab and scrabble at the sheets as he takes advantage of the position and thrusts into me hard, fast, brutal.
He puts his palm between my shoulders and shoves me down further, grips my hip with his other hand and moves me into the perfect position for him, and I clench and tighten around his prick whenever he pulls back, hearing him groan as I tighten.
Sometimes I come just like that — sometimes I pull my wand over and position it underneath me, let him fuck me into the mattress as it vibrates against my cock and sends me over the edge, clenching desperately around him, wailing into the sheets.
Sometimes, he comes then, my orgasm dragging him over the edge — sometimes he keeps fucking me and I’m left breathing heavy and overstimulated until he comes, shuddering, sweating underneath him.
We’re both breathing heavily as he pulls back, pulls off the condom, ties it off and drops it in the bin, and he normally asks for a towel or some tissues to wipe himself off — a lot of cis guys aren’t used to fucking a trans dude, or fucking someone with a pussy in general. They’re not prepared for how wet everything gets.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, fuck… Yeah.”
I put on a shirt, wait for him to get dressed. Sometimes, he dresses slowly, chats to me as he does, lingers. Sometimes they’re more emotional than I care for, want to connect, which would be fine, if they were interesting, which a lot of them aren’t.
Some of them, we click. We exchange numbers. Maybe we hook up again — maybe we go out for drinks.
Maybe we don’t.
“Have a good day,” I tell him, or a good night, and I open the bedroom door, hear him walk down the stairs. I wait for the sound of the door clicking shut before I go back to whatever I was doing.
He goes back to his life, and I go back to mine.
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