I drape the towel over my bed and lie down on it, pulling off my pants and underwear. I reach for the bottle of anal lube on the nightstand, pop it open, squeeze a little bit out on my finger, smear some of it around my asshole, then squeeze out some more and smear it all over my smallest black silicone butt plug. The plug is part of a set, an anal training kit that I’ve had for almost a year now, though I haven’t been able to graduate beyond the smallest one yet—maybe today, I’ll finally get it all the way in me.
Lying on my side, I reach blindly behind myself with the plug. I used to crane my neck around to try to watch myself insert it, but that would just make my body too tense, plus also it kinda grosses me out to see anything enter me, so now I just close my eyes and operate on feel alone. The tip of the plug is cold against my hole, causing me to flinch, and not for the first time I wonder if it might be easier to just practice with my boyfriend Levi’s cock instead. But no, it definitely wouldn’t be easier: his cock is way too big for someone as tight and inexperienced as I am.
I press my ass against the plug, trying to think sexy thoughts, trying to imagine that it’s a girl with a strap-on. Should I be watching porn while I do this? Would that make it easier? Set up my laptop, find a good lesbian video, and go to town on myself? But if anything, that would probably just overcomplicate the whole process; I don’t want to get anal lube—or worse, anal bacteria—all over my laptop.
I think that’s my biggest issue with anal: the dirtiness and potential disease of it. I don’t want anyone getting my shit on them—how disgusting and embarrassing would that be? And plus, did I mention the bacteria? Shigella, Salmonella typhii, E. coli, V. cholerae, hello? There’s literally an entire Wikipedia page on diseases that can be transmitted via the fecal-oral route. What’s worse: someone seeing and smelling my shit, or someone becoming deathly ill from accidentally ingesting it? Either way, I’m dead from embarrassment.
Or shigellosis.
The tip of the plug enters me and, yeah, it feels good, I totally get why people are into anal. It only took me a few months on spironolactone and sublingual estradiol before I started getting that warm tingly feeling in my lower belly whenever I was horny, that feeling that I need something inside me right now.
Slow, gentle, steady—don’t wanna go too fast and rupture my fucking rectum or something. Think sexy thoughts—imagine a beautiful woman is whispering softly into my ear as she takes my virginity, so tender and sweet, looking into my eyes as she brushes my hair behind my ear with her fingertips. I’m rocking my hips into it now, maybe no more than an inch going in and out of me, eyes closed, breathing heavier.
Good girl, the woman in my fantasy whispers. You’re doing so great, baby. Do you think you can take a little more?
Biting my lip now, I push the plug a little deeper into me, just a liiiittle deeper—
Too much! Too much! Too much!
Sirens going off in my head—foreign object!—too deep!—that’s not the direction things are supposed to go through that orifice!—nausea—
I carefully pull the plug out of me, heart pounding, hyperventilating, trying to calm myself, trying not to throw up. I can see all the bacteria on the plug, wriggling and writhing like millions of microscopic worms, glowing a radioactive and sickly shade of chartreuse.
So much potential for disease.
I grab the bottle of antibacterial toy cleaner from the nightstand and spray, spray, spray it all over the contaminated plug, at least ten coats of the stuff, watching as the glowing chartreuse gradually fades to a flat black and the wriggling worms slow until they are still. Then I rip a sheet of paper towel off the roll on my nightstand and wipe the lube off my hand, rip off another sheet and wipe the plug clean, rip off a third sheet and wipe up the lube between my ass cheeks. Sufficiently unstickied, I put my socks on before setting my feet off the bed and onto the floor. I gather my clothes and head to the bathroom, still mostly naked, holding my clothes in the hand that did not get anal lube all over it while carrying the plug in my other, soiled hand. I rinse the plug off under scalding hot water for ten seconds, set it on the sink, pick it up and rinse it for another ten seconds, set it back on the sink, then take it and rinse it a third time for ten more seconds.
Now to wash my hands.
With the steam from the water fogging up the mirror over the sink, I wet my hands, apply a pump of antibacterial hand soap, lather, rinse, wincing from the heat, satisfied knowing that there’s no way any bacteria could survive these temperatures combined with this soap, lathering hard, making sure to get between each of my fingers and around my wrists, rinsing off the bubbles as I sing “Happy Birthday to You” in my head twice, three times just to be sure. I turn off the water, flick my hands once, twice, three times, reach for the hand towel, then divert course at the last second for another pump of hand soap, turn the hot water back on, lather, rinse, sing “Happy Birthday” three more times, turn off the water, flick one, two, three times, but I can’t finish now after only washing my hands twice, so I turn the water back on, pump a third dollop of soap into my hands, lather, rinse while singing “Happy Birthday” an additional three times, turn off the water, flick once, twice, thrice. With my hands now a radiant and sterile pink, I finally dry them off on the hand towel.
What a fucking ordeal.
🦇🦇🦇
Sex with Levi. On my back in our bed, nude, legs up, my scant chest rendered flat by gravity, semi-erection resting at an angle over my trimmed pubes. He’s lying next to me, facing me, also nude, fully erect cock impossible to ignore, his lubed fingers caressing me between my ass cheeks, teasing my hole.
“Is that good?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I whisper. “So fucking good.”
Pleasure ripples through my lower belly; goosebumps break out on my skin. An involuntary moan escapes my throat as the tip of Levi’s finger enters me—no nail; he chews them “down to the quick,” as I’ve read in so many books. Suddenly, the thought occurs to me: What if he chews his nails too deep? What if he has some kind of open wound on his finger, something into which my rectal bacteria can enter? What if it gets him severely sick? What if he has to get his finger amputated or something? He’s a guitarist, he can’t live without a finger, that would ruin his entire life—and for what, just to finger my asshole?
“Okay,” I gasp. “Okay, okay, okay, too much, too much, too much—”
He pulls his finger out of me, the tip glowing chartreuse.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Did I hurt you?”
“I’m okay, you didn’t hurt me, it’s just—”
I notice his hand on the bed, smearing lime green on the sheet, and I gag.
“Oh fuck, are you good?” he asks me.
“You need to wash your finger before you touch anything,” I tell him.
He looks at his hand on the bed for a moment before pulling it back.
“Right, yeah, of course,” he says, standing up.
“I’ll throw the sheet in the wash.”
“Well, I mean, do you wanna continue this after I wash my hands, before taking the sheet off the bed?”
I look at the smudge on the sheet, lucent and lurid. I think about the trouble of taking the sheet off and putting on another one just to eventually take that one off and throw it in the wash, too. I look at Levi’s cock, still hard, its cyclopic gaze insistent and pleading. I’m definitely still horny. I definitely still need to cum.
I snatch a towel out of the dirty laundry basket and toss it over the glowing spot on the sheet.
“Be quick,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he says, turning and hurrying out of the bedroom.
“But make sure you still wash your hands for at least twenty seconds!” I call after him.
“Always!”
I look out our bedroom window as I wait for him, watching what is hopefully the last snow of winter sprinkle itself over the backyard. The weather has been unusual lately: a few days of weird warmth, followed by a few inches of surprise snow, and then warmth again, melting all the snow—spring desperately trying to wrench control from winter even though it’s still only February.
Levi returns thirty seconds later, amazingly still hard. He gets on top of me, between my legs, thrusting his fingers into my hair and gently pushing me down on my back as he kisses me, his short reddish facial hair a little scratchy around my lips but not in an unpleasant way. His hard cock is wedged between my soft genitals and thigh, grinding against me, turning me on—I can feel the blood start to flow between my legs. Levi takes the bottle of Astroglide from the nightstand and puts a couple drops of it on my still-growing girl-dick, smearing it around, stimulating me until I’m painfully erect.
One thing they don’t tell you about transfeminine hormone replacement therapy is that, after a few years of gradual penile atrophy, it hurts to be hard. Sure, I probably should’ve been making myself hard regularly now that I’m no longer getting unconscious erections at night and random ones throughout the day, but at that point I may as well be masturbating every day, and one of the things I always hated so much about testosterone was the overwhelming libido and all-consuming need to jerk off all the time—it’s a relief to not be so horny, and it would be self-defeating to force myself into getting hard when I’m not feeling it.
I grip us loosely in my fist as Levi grinds himself against me, his thick cock completely obscuring my dainty girl-dick beneath it.
“Ohh, fuck yeah,” he breathes.
With every thrust, I let out an involuntary little moan, squeezing my fingernails into his back with my free hand. I like this sort of stimulation a lot, it feels good, much more natural than anal stuff. Does that make me less of a woman? The fact that I’d rather have my penis stimulated than be penetrated? It seems like every other trans woman I know is sointo anal, that every woman I meet loves being penetrated, so why can’t I get into it? It would be so much easier if I just had a pussy. Cis women don’t need to worry about the messiness of anal when they already have an orifice that is supposed to be sexually penetrated. Should I pursue bottom surgery? Do I want bottom surgery? It feels so good the way that Levi rubs his cock against mine, do I really want to give that up on the off-chance that the sex I have after recovery might be more fulfilling?
Levi is grinding harder and faster against me now, moaning and grunting, “Oh, baby, fuck yeah,” under his breath. This is the part where he usually prefers to take us in his hand, so I let go and he quickly replaces my loosely gripped fist with his own much tighter clench. It’s painful, but I know this means he’s almost done, so I bear with it.
Both of my hands are on his back. I can’t focus on anything but the tacky feeling of lube on my hand, and the way that lube is rubbing off onto his back. Gross, sticky texture—I would love to get up and wash my hand right now. But he’s almost finished—I can tell by the way he’s breathing, the way his skin shines with a light sheen of sweat, the way he’s thrusting with his hips while jacking us off with his fist. Despite the pain, it does feel good, and I feel myself also approaching orgasm. Maybe I’ll come first this time. Or maybe we’ll both cum together—it’s rare, but so good when that happens. What usually happens is he’ll come first, and then finish me off with his hand. Honestly, I kind of like that: after making him come first, I can just lie back and enjoy whatever he does to me, and then whenever I eventually come, I can just relax without having to worry about helping him get there.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
I look down at our frotting cocks and watch as his begins spurting pink globs of come onto my belly.
Wait, pink?!
“What the fuck?” he says, still in the process of ejaculating.
“That’s . . . an odd shade,” I say.
“Why is it pink? What the fuck? Am I coming blood?”
Oh fuck, is he cumming blood? That’s way, way, way worse that just getting semen on me, but getting another person’s blood on me—?
The back of my throat tastes sour and acidic. I want to get up and run to the bathroom and get in the shower, but I don’t want to just let his bloody ejaculate drip down my body and all over the bedsheets and the floor.
“Um, can you please clean me up?” I ask him.
“Why the fuck would I be cumming blood?” The expression on his face as he stares at the pink pool in my navel is one of horror, as if my torso were cut open and baring my guts.
I can feel a dollop of semen oozing its way down my waist towards the bed—slimy, sticky, dirty, disgusting, bad texture, need it off me now.
I look around me for anything within reach to wipe myself off with, but there is nothing that would be good to use, and if I sit up to grab another towel from the laundry basket then that will make Levi’s sanguine ejaculation drip all over me, producing an unbearable amount of gross textures and sensations, and the thought of dealing with that is worse than just lying still and dealing with the relatively small amount of tactile discomfort I’m currently experiencing, so I just lie still.
“Can you get me a towel?” I ask.
“Why the fuck would I come blood?” he mutters to himself, looking up answers on his phone.
The dollop of semen rolling down my side makes contact with the bedsheet, and at first, I’m disgusted, but then I remember that we were already going to be throwing the sheet in the wash anyway due to other messes on it, so it’s not that big a deal. The sensation of a trail of cum drying on me is not a pleasant one, however.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Seems like it’s not too uncommon to just . . . randomly happen sometimes? Or it could be something horrible and serious.”
“I imagine there’d probably be other symptoms if it were one of the horrible and serious things, though, right? I mean, are you experiencing any inflammation, or does it hurt when you pee or anything?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve got anything else going on. I feel normal, and my piss has seemed fine.”
“That’s good. Could you get me a towel?”
He glances up from his phone. “There’s one right here,” he says, and picks up the towel that had been covering the chartreuse smear and casually tosses it onto my torso.
“NO!” I cry, throwing the towel off of me and into the dirty laundry basket. On my belly now is a putrid swirl of pink and lime green—blood and cum and lube and anal bacteria. I leap up from the bed, no longer caring about the feeling of semen dripping down my body because I need to shower now, and I quickly gather a clean towel and a change of clothes and sprint to the bathroom, hyperaware of every particle of dirt on the floor that sticks to my bare feet.
🦇🦇🦇
In the bathroom, getting ready for my weekly injection. I keep all of my supplies in the box that my syringes came in: drawing needles, syringes with injecting needles, alcohol swabs, Band-Aids, and, of course, the estradiol valerate. The process is a stressful one, but I’d deal with something a hundred times more stressful for just half the results.
So, the first thing I do is wash my hands and take a disinfectant wipe from the cabinet underneath the sink and wipe down the sink countertop, then I wash my hands again to get the disinfectant stuff off of them. I pull my pants down and sit on top of the closed lid of the toilet. Next, I apply hand sanitizer before going into my box of injection supplies and removing the estrogen (still in its own box), a drawing needle, a syringe with injecting needle, two alcohol swabs, and a Band-Aid, placing all of these things on the disinfected countertop. I apply more hand sanitizer before taking the vial of estrogen from its box, then open one of the alcohol swabs and wipe down the top of the vial with it. Next, I take the syringe out of its plastic sleeve, unscrew the injecting needle from it, and place the needle carefully back into the empty plastic sleeve. Then I remove the drawing needle from its own plastic sleeve and screw it onto the syringe, take the cap off the needle, draw a few milliliters of air into the syringe, carefully poke the needle through the protective film on top of the vial of estrogen, plunge the air into the vial, then turn the vial upside-down and draw around two milliliters of hormones and oil into the syringe, making sure to plunge any bubbles back out into the vial and redraw the liquid until I am satisfied.
This is the part that scares me the most: What if I fuck something up and manage to somehow contaminate the entire vial of estrogen? What if I don’t realize that the estrogen is contaminated and then I inject it into my thigh and become severely ill, or fuck up my leg and have to get it amputated or something? What if I contaminate the estrogen but my doctor doesn’t let me get a replacement vial so I just have to go without for the next couple months?
I put the cap back over the drawing needle, unscrew the needle from the syringe and place it on the countertop, take the injecting needle from its sleeve, and screw it back onto the syringe. Next, I place my hand on my thigh, with the tops of my fingers just under my knee, and locate a point near the heel of my hand towards the middle of my thigh (this week it’s the left one), mark the point by making an indentation in my skin with my fingernail, take the second alcohol swab, and sanitize the indentation and the area around it.
Now for the part I like best.
I pull the cap off the injecting needle, take a deep breath, tense up my right leg so that my left one can remain as relaxed as possible, then exhale as I pierce the needle through the indentation in my thigh.
Ahhhhhh, fuck that feels good. I feel like I must be the only trans woman who enjoys her injection more than anal sex. It’s ironic, I know—why do I have so much trouble taking things up an orifice that organisms have been sexually enjoying for probably as long as sex and anuses have existed, yet derive pleasure from breaking my skin and creating a new hole?
I inject the estrogen into my thigh, and yes, there’s that little tickle of fear that I may be injecting directly into a vein rather than muscle and that I might die in just a few seconds, but mostly there’s just a wave of immense relief that I have finished this week’s injection and won’t have to worry about it again for seven more days.
I stick a Band-Aid over the injection site, toss the needles into the sharps container under the bathroom sink, and throw away the syringe and the rest of the garbage.
🦇🦇🦇
Awake. Dark, probably an hour or two before sunrise. Can’t tell whose bed I’m in this time; there’s not yet enough light to make out any identifying features of the figure wrapped in blankets lying next to me. Mattress directly on the floor—that narrows it down to just a handful of people. Nothing familiar out the window, though I do note that the last of the snow had melted sometime yesterday while I was . . . doing whatever I did—my memory is still kind of fuzzy. I reach out and grab my glasses and phone: 5:49 a.m. (seems about right), three comments, five likes, and two new messages on Instagram; fourteen likes, four comments, a new follower, and one new message on Twitter; several texts from four different people (including multiple from Levi yesterday that I still haven’t responded to yet); several missed calls from Levi; two new messages on Discord; three new messages on Tinder, and most exciting of all: a new Tinder match.
Not bad for just the last five or so hours.
The light from my phone screen illuminates the room just enough so that I can see Mandi sleeping beside me, and now last night’s events are all coming back to me: the alcohol, the drugs, the sex—pretty typical first date.
First thing’s first: let’s check out this new Tinder match.
Unsurprisingly, it’s a trans woman. Not that I don’t like trans women—I mean, I am one, after all—it’s just that, since transitioning, my dating pool has become like 95% trans women now. It’s way too easy to date other trans women as a trans woman, and I’m kind of bored of it; I wish I had more variety in the bodies and life experiences that showed interest in fucking me.
But a lay is a lay, so I message her. I learned a long time ago that if I don’t immediately message someone upon matching with them on Tinder, then I’ll probably never hear from them. It used to make me anxious, sending the first message—especially back when I was still dating as a guy—but now I just see it as a power move, now I no longer care if they don’t respond because I know I’m hot and anyone would be a fool to turn down my advances.
After responding to all of my various social media messages, I finally check the texts that Levi had been sending me all night:
hey where are you?
are you coming home tonight?
we can’t keep ignoring this
On and on and on, despite the fact that I told him last night that I was going on a date and might not be back until the next day. The relationship has gotten pretty difficult in the week that has passed since the atrocious bloody cum debacle; not because of the bloody ejaculate itself (which turned out to be a one-off thing, by the way; he’s totally fine and without any other symptoms), but I think that was the catalyst that pushed everything over the edge, that brought into light every unaddressed issue we’ve had throughout the two years we’ve been together.
No longer wanting to think about it, I find my dab pen and take a long pull, sending me into a coughing fit that fortunately does not wake Mandi. I wish I could sleep that hard.
Lying on my back, I stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling, the lighting still too dim for me to tell what color it is. The high concentration of THC I just inhaled is giving me mild hallucinations, making the ceiling ripple and rapidly flash green and purple with every beat of blood in my eyeballs. Trying to keep my head clear. Trying only to think about the sex last night, about the awkward initiation of the first kiss, the way we timidly touched tongues, gradually growing more and more comfortable until we were gnawing at each other’s lips and sucking each other’s tongues; about the way she slid her hand up my shirt, asking “Is this okay?”; about the way her soft, smooth, hairless torso felt against mine; about the taste of her nipple piercings, the way she moaned when I bit and tugged at them; about the way her fingernails raked my chest (the marks are still there, I can see at least that much); about the miniscule droplets of girl-cum Mandi dribbled into my mouth, much less viscous and bitter than what comes out of Levi; about the explosive orgasm she gave me with the vibrator, so intense it almost made me want to puke, losing all control over my volume and vocalizations; about the weird, lavender, tentacled thing I found wrapped up in a towel when I was doing my and Levi’s laundry earlier this week—
I jerk upright. I had let my mind wander too far, thought about things I’m trying to avoid, and now the room is much brighter than it was before—I glance up and note that the ceiling is white. Mandi stirs—it must be late enough in the morning now that my sudden movement has awakened her.
“What time is it?” she asks, her groggy voice barely above a whisper.
I check my phone and tell her, “Just a little past seven.”
“Jesus, what are you doing up so early?”
I shrug. “This is around when I normally wake up.”
“You’re insane. What are you, like, thirty years old or something?”
I snort, wrap my arms around her, pull her against me.
“You’re not going back to sleep, are you?” I whisper, my lips barely grazing her ear.
She shudders. “Give me a reason to wake up, then.”
We start making out. Our breath is disgusting because we just woke up and I’m tempted to pull away, drink some water, brush my teeth, but I don’t want to ruin the moment, I don’t want to let my mind potentially wander back to unfun realities again, so I stay in bed and continue kissing her, my hand slipping under the blanket and cupping one of her breasts.
We make each other cum, grab breakfast, and she reluctantly drives me to the train station.
🦇🦇🦇
“Where were you last night?” Levi asks me, his voice low and cold. He’s sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, staring straight ahead at nothing.
“I told you,” I say, sitting down next to him, “I was on a date last night.”
“With who?”
“Mandi, that girl I’ve been talking to on Tinder?”
“You talk to so many people on Tinder, how am I supposed to keep up with them all?”
“Well, you don’t have to keep up with them, they’re my dates.”
“Okay but anyone that you date is going to become a part of my life, so yeah, I kinda wanna know who you’re fucking.”
“They don’t all have to be a part of your life, though? Dating separately is perfectly within the boundaries of our polyamorous relationship.”
“‘Our polyamorous relationship,’ oh that’s rich—you’re the only one who’s actually getting to practice polyamory; do you know how many dates with other people I’ve been on since we became partners?”
“And what am I supposed to do about that? Tell the people I’m talking to, ‘Hey, sorry, I’m not allowed to go on any dates until my boyfriend gets one, but you can come over and have a threesome with us if you want’?”
“It would be nice.”
“Literally everyone I’m dating other than you is trans, and the strong majority of them are T-for-T! Like, sorry, but it’s really important to me that I have these intimate relationships with other trans people.”
“‘Intimate relationships’? Liss, you’re just fucking these people, that’s it! These ‘relationships’ you’re forming with other trans people are shallow and centered entirely around sex!”
“That’s not true; how can you just say that?”
“Okay then tell me literally anything about Mandi.”
“What?”
“Tell me what’s so great about this person! What’s so great about them that you were willing to go so far out of your way just to fuck them as soon as you met them?”
I hunch over, looking down at my fingernails, unsure of where to direct my gaze. When Levi starts raising his voice like he is now, my own voice tends to shrink in response, and my whole body clenches up. “I don’t know how to answer a question like that. I enjoy talking to her a lot, we have some things in common”—
“Like what, being trans? What do you even talk about?”
Studying my fingernails, checking for imperfections while trying to process this question and figure out how to answer it. “I, well, I mean, that’s a thing we talk about, sure”—
“Okay, and what else? What makes this person so goddamn interesting?”
I try to keep my fingernails filed perfectly even and round, but imperfections tend to arise as they grow back out over the days. I notice a corner of the nail on the third finger of my right hand is ever-so-slightly jagged—an imperceptible imperfection to most, but it wholly consumes my attention as I begin rubbing my thumb against it, desperately willing it down as if my thumb were a nail file.
“Well?” Levi demands.
“Um, well, I dunno, we like a lot of the same musical artists—”
“Okay, so? You and I like a lot of the same bands, too, is that it?”
I’m practically whispering now: “Well, you dislike and heavily criticize a lot of the stuff I show you that’s not, like, super heavy or whatever—but that’s okay, I mean, we don’t have to like all the same music—”
“Oh, so a shared taste in music isn’t important, then? Okay, so then what is important about this person?”
Frantically rubbing my thumb against my fingernail. If anything, it feels like the jag is growing, metastasizing, devouring everything until it becomes my entire world. Nothing exists outside of the sensation of this flaw against my thumb. Concentrating, trying to find the right words to make this conversation end, but the snag is bigger than my entire nail at this point—how could I have missed such an enormous imperfection earlier? I need to get my nail file, to fix this, to make it all perfect and rounded and even—
“Hello? Are you listening to me?”
Flat, even, and without emotion: “I am listening to you and processing what you are saying to me. The question is vague and I do not know how to answer it because I do not reduce people and my relationships with them to a handful of traits and similarities.”
“So, you don’t have an answer, then? This person is hot and trans and they called you ‘pretty’ so now they get to fuck you, is that it?”
Rubbing, rubbing, rubbing—
“Will you even look at me?”
I tear my glazed gaze away from my nail and meet his teary eyes.
“I don’t want you to talk to Mandi anymore.”
“What?” I say, whispering again, my voice no longer steady and without affectation. “But…why? I like her a lot, I don’t want to just ghost her.”
“That’s the problem, Liss: You’ve been talking to this person for, what, a week? And how much money did you spend on a train ticket just to go hook up with them? I mean, Jesus Christ, this person couldn’t even come drive to you to meet you for coffee or whatever, they have you pay like forty bucks to go to them just to fuck? That’s fucking shitty.”
“It’s my money; what do you care? I had a good time! It’s not like I’m replacing you; you’re my primary partner and I love you.”
“Ugh, ‘primary,’ I hate that term—it implies that everyone else is secondary.”
“Well, aren’t they? You’re the partner I live with, you’re the one I moved across the country with, you’re the one I’ve built a life with. You’re the most important person in my life, everybody else is second to you, don’t you see that? I’m not trying to replace you, I’m not looking for someone else to immediately move in with, I’m just making friends and having fun.”
“Do you have any friends that you don’t have sex with?”
“Of course I do! What are you talking about?”
“Well then why don’t you ever talk to them or try to make plans with them? You’re constantly on your phone, flirting and planning dates with all these people who only wanna fuck you. None of these people actually care about you, Liss; literally all they want is to fuck you.”
“How can you say that? You don’t know these people; how can you just say that they don’t care for or value me at all outside of sex? I thought you told me that you liked the idea of having casual sex with friends.”
“Sure, but not with all of my friends.”
“What difference does it make?”
“You have an unhealthy relationship with sex, Liss, and it worries me,” he says, his voice suddenly calm.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know you have BPD. You know that you’re quick to attach yourself to new people, especially when you have sex with them right after meeting them. All those feel-good love chemicals really mess up your head, Liss, and they make you plow through all the red flags and bring in people who inevitably end up hurting you and fucking up your life, and then I have to pick up the pieces and make everything better again.”
“I . . . what? Like who?”
“Like Hailey, or Ari, or Sam—all these fucking retards you were so in love with, who you let fuck up your life, while I had to watch helplessly and listen to you constantly complain about them every fucking day”—
I’m trembling now from clenching my body so tightly. My neck, shoulders, and back are burning, begging to be loosened, but I worry that I will lose my composure if I relax my body.
“I get it, Liss,” he continues.
“What do you mean?”
“Sex is like an escape for you. You use it to avoid whatever problems you’re having in your life, whether it’s a job you hate, or troubles in any of your relationships, or whatever. It’s not any different from how your dad uses alcohol, or how your sister uses heroin; you’re just repeating the same cycles that you learned from your family.”
Is that true? Am I really no better than my father or my sister? But it’s not like I’m neglecting any children or anything, it’s not like I can’t hold a job and pay rent or bills, it’s not like I’m stealing to support my habit. Is this really the same thing?
Am I really this broken?
All at once, the tears flow, a poorly maintained dam finally collapsing after years of erosion. I fall into Levi’s arms, my body wracked with sobs. I hate crying in front of people, but estrogen has made it nearly impossible to deny my emotions when they sweep over me. Before hormone therapy, I pretty much was only ever able to cry if I were all alone and watching a really sad anime or something; now, I can make the tears come by just sitting and concentrating on sad thoughts, like my personal flaws.
“I’m so sorry!” I wail, Levi holding me tight. “I’m so sorry I’m fucking up our relationship! I want to do better, I don’t want to keep being like this, I’m so sorry!”
“Shhhhhh, sweetie,” he says, brushing my hair with his fingers. “It’s okay, baby.”
“No, it’s not! I’m a fucking sex addict and I keep ruining all the good things in my life!”
“Shhhh, no, baby, shhhhh.”
I weep into his chest for some time while he strokes my head and my back, doing his best to soothe me; he’s always been good at calming me down.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers once I’ve stopped sobbing. “I took it too far and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make you cry. I know I get too angry, and I should never use that to hurt you.”
I feel so confused now. He’s sorry? But wasn’t I the one who fucked up? Does this mean I’m okay to keep going on dates and hookups?
Does this mean I can keep talking to Mandi?
“I’m sorry, too,” I say, still resting my face on his chest, my arms wrapped around his torso. “You’re right, I should be more careful about who I let into my life. I have a bad track record, I know that.”
“Everything you put me through with Ari,” he begins, then stops and just shakes his head.
“I know, and I’m so sorry for that.”
“That girl was so fucked up, and I knew that from the start, but you were completely blinded because she gave you drugs and sex and called you ‘pretty.’ Remember how in love with her you were? And remember how you felt when she eventually grew bored of you and replaced you with like four other trans women and stopped inviting you to her parties?”
“I remember.”
“I don’t know what happened to her after we moved out of Indiana, but I’m sure she’s nowhere good if she’s still throwing parties and doing molly and fucking a bunch of random people every weekend all these years later.”
I nod against his chest, his shirt damp from my tears.
“Do you want to just be monogamous?” I ask hesitantly.
“No,” he answers, shaking his head. “It’s important and healthy for both of us to have partners outside of each other. We can’t expect to have every single one of our needs met by the other; that’s just not how that works. Like, for me, it would be important to date someone with a vagina that I can penetrate. I’m very bisexual, you know? I like having bothin my life.”
THUMP! from the basement door
I sit upright, heart pounding.
“Was that—?”
“Yeah.”
The thing I’d been trying not to think about.
THUMP! THUMP!
“It’s gotten bigger, you know,” Levi says.
“How much?” I ask.
He shrugs. “About the size of a cat.”
It could fit in the palm of my hand when I first found it just a few days ago.
“What do you think we should do about it?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay home with me to help figure this out.”
I nod. “Of course.”
🦇🦇🦇
Hiding in the bathroom, texting Mandi—this is the only place I can safely text people while Levi is home, otherwise he’ll peek and pry and find out that I’m still talking to her. Things have been really tense, with Levi wanting me to spend more and more time with him, getting upset whenever I’m on my phone despite the fact that he’s either doomscrolling through Instagram or fruitlessly swiping on Tinder while we’re getting high on the couch together every night.
have u ever been to a play party before? she’s asking me.
No but I’ve always wanted to, I reply.
theyre a lot of fun! im hosting one on the 29th, u wanna come?
Oh I’d love to “come” ;3
LMAO that was unintentional but cool, lemme add u to the groupchat for it 🙂
Now I just need to figure out how I’m going to get there without Levi knowing about it. Oh well, I’ll figure it out when the time comes.
Sudden rapid-fire knocks at the door make me jump.
“Are you almost done in there?” Levi asks. “It’s your turn to feed it.”
I flush the toilet so that it doesn’t seem like I was just sitting in here doing nothing, wash my hands, head to the kitchen to grab a mouse from the freezer.
🦇🦇🦇
On a date with Vivian, my most recent Tinder match. We had gotten some drinks at the bar near my house and are now sitting in her car in the corner of an empty playground parking lot, trees before and beside us, visible only to the twilight-darkened playground equipment behind us. I would’ve preferred to bring her back to my place, but Levi is there right now and I know he wouldn’t approve, let alone let us fuck in the bed I share with him. At least it’s another weirdly warm evening so we’re not freezing in her car.
She lights a joint, hits it, passes it to me, giggling all the while. She’s been giggling more or less since we met a couple hours ago—I tend to have that effect on other trans women. It’s still weird to me, being an apparently attractive woman now, after so many years of having been an awkward “boy” who struggled to get dates. No one ever taught me how to behave when you’re attractive and desirable, no one ever taught me how to “vet” people who show interest in me; I’ve always just taken what I could get, and now it seems that I can get a lot more, which has been a pretty big point of contention in my relationship with Levi.
But whatever—I hit the joint and pass it back to Vivian, coughing, feeling that pleasantly familiar sensation of phasing out of existence. She just keeps staring at me and giggling, looking like she wants to say something.
“Yes?” I ask.
She laughs, shakes her head, coughs, shakes her head some more, giggles, all the while withholding the joint from me. I watch the tip of it smolder, THC wasting away; I want to keep smoking, I want to keep phasing out.
“You’re really pretty,” she finally says, blushing, passing me the joint.
“So I’ve heard.” I take a long pull from the joint, pause for a moment to chase it with some oxygen, then top off my lungs with more weed. I was a classically trained singer in high school, so my lung capacity is phenomenal. After exhaling, I start to cough—a lot. In a weird way, I kind of enjoy coughing while smoking: the burn in my throat and lungs, the stimulation of parts that don’t normally feel much, the sensation of something entering somewhere that it shouldn’t.
“You okay?” Vivian asks.
“Hell yeah,” I respond once my coughing fit subsides. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the headrest, the THC mixing with the alcohol in my system, making the world spin around me. I love getting crossfaded, it’s like putting my brain on a rollercoaster. “Doin’ awesome.”
There is an awkward silence. Vivian is not very good at making conversation. The majority of what she’s had to say since we met up has been, “You’re really pretty.” It’s a little weird.
I listen to her inhale, exhale, cough, and I open my eyes to take the joint from her, surprised to see her face hovering inches from mine, her mouth spread wide in a goofy infatuated grin.
“What, do you wanna make out or something?” I ask.
Her eyes widen and her mouth opens but she clearly doesn’t know how to respond. I pull the joint out of her hand, take one last hit from it, place it carefully in a cupholder, then grab the collar of her shirt and pull her against me. I’m not really that into her, but I very much enjoy feeling desired, knowing that I have this power over another person—I can do or say just about anything, and she’ll probably still wanna suck me off.
Her mouth is dry and doesn’t taste particularly good, and she’s using way too much tongue, and her teeth keep bumping against mine, but at this point I’m pretty zoned-out from the alcohol and weed, and all I’m really thinking about it how into me she is, how this must be a significant moment for her to be making out with someone as hot as I am.
My phone is vibrating—probably Levi—and I take Vivian’s hand and put it over my breast. She’s rubbing her thumb over my nipple through my shirt and I feel myself getting heated.
“Come here,” I say, pulling her towards me until she gets the hint and climbs over the center console and straddles me in the passenger seat. I yank the lever to make the seat recline so we can be a bit more comfortable. She presses her pelvis against mine and I can feel how hard and eager she is—I’m like halfway there, but it’s enough to dry-hump, at least.
We’re grinding against each other, my phone conspicuously vibrating in my pocket all the while, until Vivian finally stops and says, “I think someone’s trying to call you.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and see that, yes, Levi has been calling me repeatedly, as well as texting me. I catch a glimpse of one of his texts—it’s getting bigger—before turning my phone off.
“Sorry about that.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, nothing to worry about.”
I slip my phone back into my pocket, then grab her hips and squeeze our bodies together. My eyes closed, I’m spinning as she rocks against me, trying to focus only on the friction between my legs, between our bodies.
“You’re so beautiful.”
I grind harder against her, trying desperately to shut everything out. I know I’m hot; I don’t need Vivian to tell me that all the fucking time. I know we have some weird fucking thing in the basement; I don’t need Levi to constantly text and call me about it—what the fuck am I supposed to do about that, anyway?
“Oh, fuck, Liss . . .”
We’re panting; perspiration breaks out on my chest. She pulls my shirt up and sucks on my nipple, electricity crackling between my breast and my genitals. Sitting here in a public parking lot with my tits exposed really does it for me. I lift my ass off the seat to grind my girl-dick even harder against hers, desperate to cum. I need to cum—I can’t remember the last time Levi got me there, and it’s been a few days since I got to fuck Mandi. Mandi’s bed was nice, but something about fucking in a car in a public parking lot is exciting, especially being so close to home, knowing that Levi would be pissed to hear about me hooking up on a first date again.
Vivian removes her lips from my tit and trails kisses up my chest to my neck, nibbling on my collarbone along the way. She starts breathing in my ear and I gasp, digging my fingernails into her denim-clad hips, humping her furiously. I’m almost reminded of the sex I had with cis women before I transitioned, and part of me wishes that I could just put myself inside of her . . . but I don’t really have sex that way anymore, do I? Everyone just wants to top me now, which I suppose will probably be okay once I’m actually able to start taking things inside of me.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhhhh fuck!”
Vivian suddenly seizes up as a little orgasmic squeal escapes her throat—I can feel her throbbing through her pants against me. Once again, I have made my partner cum first—I should get a fucking reward or something (no pun intended).
No longer distracted by sexual stimulation, I’m suddenly aware of friction burns on my genitals. It’s not the worst I’ve ever experienced—the skin doesn’t feel broken, at least—but it’s definitely uncomfortable.
Vivian slides to the floor on her knees in front of me. She grabs the waistband of my pants like she’s going to unbutton them, then looks up at me and asks, “Is this okay?”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging, “if that’s something you really wanna do.”
I always feel a little awkward when someone pulls my pants down and my half-erect girl-dick flops out and smacks against my lower belly. It’s a little red from dry-humping, but yeah, the skin is fortunately still intact, so it doesn’t hurt when she shoves it into her mouth. Her tongue feels amazing, if a little overstimulating, and it’s not long before I’m fully hard. It’s one thing to have my tits out in a public place, but my genitals, too? The potential danger—both physically and legally—of being in such a vulnerable position is so hot, the exhibitionist in me is practically creaming herself already.
I grab the joint from the cupholder and relight it, take another hit, try to think of some fantasy that’ll help me cum faster, try to ignore the disgusting slurping noises Vivian is making between my legs, try to ignore the sensation of someone’s dirty saliva all over me. This is why I like dry-humping in my clothes so much: I don’t have to worry about uncomfortable sticky slimy feelings on me (aside from when I cum, of course, but that’s a problem for post-orgasm Liss). I don’t mind getting head—I mean, it does feel good—it’s just that it’s a lot of sensations all at once between lips and tongue and teeth, and finishing in someone’s mouth can be really unpleasant if they continue stimulating the head during orgasm. It’s definitely better than trying to put things up my ass, at least.
I’m imagining a scenario in which we get caught doing what we’re doing. Some hot lady cop comes up to the car, peeks in the window, is so appalled by what she sees that she opens the door and points her gun at us, ordering us to step out of the car. But when Vivian takes her mouth off of me and the cop sees that I’m a woman with a penis, she suddenly becomes intrigued. Still keeping her gun aimed at me, she begins taking off her pants, talking about how she’s always wanted to try girl-dick. Somehow, she manages to handcuff my wrists to . . . something in the car, I’m not sure what, I don’t really know how this part of the scene would work, but my hands are restrained above my head in some way. She straddles me, inserts myself into her, the gun’s muzzle pressed against my temple the whole time. I don’t know why this is the fantasy I’m dreaming up—I despise cops, I’d never wanna fuck one, and why am I thinking about vaginal sex? Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be penetrated now?
Vivian is still slurping away between my legs, blue undercut bobbing up and down. I glance out the windows to make sure there’s no one out there, take another hit from the joint, close my eyes, try to dream up something else that’ll make me cum and get this over with.
🦇🦇🦇
Somehow, I’m having sex with Levi again. The series of events that led me here is fuzzy in my mind, even though it only happened over the past five or so hours. We had another argument about my dating and hookups after I came home from Mandi’s again. It wasn’t all that different from any other argument we’ve ever had on the subject, except this time it went on for much longer than usual—I remember it being around 8pm when I returned from the train station, and now I think it’s somewhere between 1 and 2am. I remember breaking up with him—or trying to, at least. I remember him crying a lot, and then suddenly being angry and raising his voice at me, and then crying again. The emotional bombardment was so overwhelming that I started to dissociate, and that’s where my memory gets fuzzy. I normally go to bed around 11:30, and I vaguely remember trying to end the conversation a little after midnight because I was beginning to fall asleep; I remember pulling the blanket over me, rolling over to face the wall, and then suddenly he was ripping the blanket off of me, yanking the pillow out from under my head and throwing it to the floor, grabbing me and turning me so I was facing his wide, enraged, bloodshot and tear-soaked eyes; I remember weaving in and out of consciousness as he continued his tirade about how terribly I treat those who care for me, about how selfish and neglectful and avoidant I am, about how manipulative and emotionally abusive I am, about how I’m only going to hurt anyone and everyone I supposedly care for, about how much I’d be fucking up his life by leaving him. At a certain point, I felt so awful for the pain I was causing him that I completely broke down sobbing, begging him to take me back and give me another chance to fix myself, promising to do better and stop being so reckless with my body and heart. Then he started kissing me. Half-conscious and crying, I kissed him back, wanting to make things right. Then he put his hands all over me, groping my thighs, my hips, my breasts, until without warning he was on top of me and pulling down my pajama pants.
Now I’m looking out the window, watching as snow blankets the backyard. It’s difficult to see well because I’m not wearing my glasses and I’ve wept mascara into my eyes, but I can at least make out thousands of tiny stellar blurs falling by our neighbor’s porchlight, I can at least tell that the scenery is whitening at an alarming rate. The lubricated, latex-sheathed head of Levi’s erection is working its way into me. I think it feels good, but it’s hard to tell when my body keeps trying to fall asleep. Do the words blanket and blank come from the same root? It makes sense to me that blankwould come from the French blanc for “white,” but I’m not sure how that would work for blanket, so maybe not.
“Hey.”
I divert my gaze from the window to my boyfriend. His expression is so soft now, his eyes so gentle, his lips curved in that half-smile I fell in love with two years ago.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, my voice gone after so much crying. Tears are still dripping down my cheeks. I rock my hips in time with Levi, trying to force more of him into me, hoping that this act will prove how much I love and still want to be with him. “I’m so sorry; I love you so much.”
“Shhhh, baby, it’s okay, I love you, too.” He pulls out, pushes back in, pulls out, pushes in, unable to fit more than the head in me. I think it feels good, though there is pain, as well as distant nausea, but I’m far too exhausted to fully register those bodily feelings right now.
I wish I were high. Obviously, I wasn’t going to smoke any weed while Levi and I were fighting, since that tends to just make me dissociate even more than usual, and I already struggle enough with knowing what to say during those conversations, but right now I wish I could be a bit more dissociated. At the very least, some weed might make me enjoy these sensations more—or maybe it would just put me to sleep.
Either would be fine.
As Levi carefully penetrates me, I ponder similar feelings: needles in my thigh, smoke in my lungs, foreign objects entering where they were not meant to—why do I like these sensations, but have such difficulty taking things up my ass? Aren’t I supposed to be a woman now? Aren’t women supposed to enjoy being penetrated? I mean, I guess not all women are the same, most cis women probably aren’t as into anal as they are into vaginal, some cis women don’t like being penetrated at all, and there are definitely cis lesbians out there who prefer to top with a strap-on. Would I rather just top? Can I still call myself a woman if I would rather fuck people with my girl-dick than get fucked in my ass? Even if I did make a return to topping, I would never want to fuck someone’s ass—too disgusting, too much potential for disease, etc. So, what, I only like genital stimulation, and I would only prefer to put it inside someone’s vagina? That makes me feel like such a straight man, like what kind of trans woman am I?
“Everything okay, baby?” Levi asks as he shoves half his cock into me.
“I’ve been keeping things from you,” I blurt out.
He stops, pulls out of me with a weird sensation that makes me worry I just shit the bed for a moment, the upper half of his cock glowing a radioactive lime green. “What do you mean?”
Gasping, glad to be empty, I realize I was barely breathing the whole time he was inside of me. I sit up, uncomfortably aware of the sliminess between my ass cheeks. Inspecting the sheets below me, I’m relieved to see that I did not literally shit the bed, thank God.
Metaphorically, however . . .
🦇🦇🦇
Lying on my back in one of the bedrooms of the Airbnb that Mandi rented for her play party. She tied my wrists to the bedposts with some rope and is now kneeling over me and holding a sterilized knife against my exposed torso. Vivian is poking another needle into my thigh—we’re up to six now, three in each thigh. It’s wholly unsurprising to me that two horny trans women I met on Tinder happen to know each other, too—in my experience, most trans people in the same age group and area tend to exist in a loose polycule. We’re all naked; Mandi and Vivian are at half-mast, but my girl-dick is as hard as it’s ever been, fully erect just from the nicks and stabs they’ve been giving me. I can hear Levi fucking a transmasc named Finn in another room. Good for him; I’m glad he’s finally getting the pussy he’s been yearning for, though part of me feels jealous for some reason that I refuse to examine.
In a last-ditch effort to save the relationship, I told Levi about the play party and invited him along to it after asking Mandi if it’d be alright. Fortunately, I’d been smart enough not to mention our relationship issues with Mandi or Vivian, so everyone here is assuming that we’re a happy couple who’ve been healthily practicing polyamory with no problems whatsoever. It was kind of weird bringing Levi and realizing that he’s the only cis person here—smoke in my lungs, needles in my thighs—but no one seemed all that bothered; I guess they trust me enough to trust whomever I would bring.
I drank some kratom about an hour ago and have been smoking weed throughout the day, so I’m numb to the wounds that Mandi and Vivian are inflicting upon me. Well, not entirely numb, I can still feel some distant euphoria, but I’m pretty disconnected from any discomfort—I can barely even feel the droplets of blood trickling down my sides from where Mandi nicked my belly. It feels like I’m floating above my body, like my consciousness is inside a balloon that is tethered to my head; every sensation I’m experiencing right now may as well be happening to someone else. I know that I would definitely be more uncomfortable if I weren’t so high, which is part of the reason why I wanted to drink kratom for this, but also I really have a thing for being “too high to consent” and having someone “take advantage” of me in my “vulnerable state,” so it works out.
The balloon of my consciousness drifts upward, through the ceiling, until I’m high enough to see inside every room of the house through the roof: Mandi, Vivian, and me in one room; Levi and Finn in another; two others named Jayce and Poppy doing some impact play stuff in a third room (I had matched with Poppy on Tinder months ago, but nothing ever panned out from that). I can even see snow falling outside. Above me, I can see the previous days’ events: the arguments with Levi, the hookups with Mandi and Vivian, the mishap that occurred when I went to feed the thing in the basement one last time before leaving for the party. I didn’t tell Levi about the mishap; I didn’t want him freaking out and then making us stay home from the party—what would he be able to do, anyway? I feel perfectly fine.
I observe in a detached way as Vivian adds another needle to my thigh, as Mandi slices another nick in my belly. It stings a little when Mandi wipes my wounds with an alcohol swab, but it’s not that bad. I’ve never done anything like this before and I can’t stress enough how fucking hot it is. The sounds of Levi fucking somebody else don’t even bother me that much, and why should they? We’re polyamorous, after all.
“Whoa, are you okay?” Mandi asks.
“Huh?” I fall from the balloon and return to my body. “I feel fine; why do you ask?”
“Your stomach just spasmed a little. Should we untie you?”
“No, no, no, I feel totally okay, please don’t stop doing what you’re—”
My stomach lurches and I see a lump rise near my bellybutton for a moment before disappearing.
“What the fuck?” Vivian exclaims.
“I’m gonna go ahead and untie you,” Mandi says, starting on my right hand.
I don’t know what’s going on—I mean, I do know what’s going on, I just don’t want to think about it. I float back up, trying to remove myself from the nausea, from the embarrassment, watching Mandi untie my right hand while Vivian just stands there doing nothing, watching Levi frantically fuck Finn, watching Jayce and Poppy hold each other in aftercare, drifting upward until I’m back in the basement with a taste like slimy seawater in my mouth, dropping the thawing mouse from my cold-numbed palm, stumbling back up the stairs with a hand on my aching stomach, trying to maintain my composure.
I float up and up, reliving all of February’s events: the arguments, the hookups, the drugs, the feedings. Have I been in the wrong this whole time? Was I not doing enough to reassure Levi whenever I’d go on dates? I’m not sure what I could’ve done differently, save refrain from dating others altogether. Would I be just as jealous and insecure if he were the one having a bunch of hookups while I stayed home? Maybe; probably.
There is a distant churning in my stomach. I look down and observe in detached indifference as a lavender tentacle erupts from my mouth and wraps itself around Mandi’s wrists before she can finish untying me. Mandi screams; Vivian screams; Levi cums. More tentacles flow from my mouth and I’m thankful that I don’t feel any of it—vomiting has always been a particular phobia of mine. Vivian tries to flee the room but a tentacle grabs her by the waist and yanks her back in. Levi pulls the condom off and tosses it to the floor, cum still dripping from his deflating dick, and heads to our room with Finn to investigate—unsurprisingly, they, too, are bound by tentacles upon entering the room. Jayce and Poppy are a bit smarter, a bit more cautious: Upon hearing screams, they head to the kitchen, grab the two largest knives they can find, sneak down the hallway, but before they can reach the door to the room, a pair of tentacles bursts out and snatches them. Poppy immediately drops their knife, but Jayce actually manages to slice a pretty deep gash into the tentacle around their waist, spilling a glowing chartreuse sludge from the wound—this, however, does not impede the tentacle in any meaningful way.
All seven of us are in the room now. Many more tentacles slither out of my mouth before I’m finally empty and gasping. I can’t count how many tentacles there are—even with my bird’s-eye view, it’s impossible to keep track of them with the way they’re constantly squirming and wriggling and twisting over and under and around each other, a lavender sea of ever-shifting eldritch knots. The other party attendees are held in the air by five tentacles each—one for the waist, four for the limbs—while I remain on the bed untouched, my wrists still tied to the posts, though the right one has been somewhat loosened. I watch in horror as more rise from the writhing pile, reach for the others, and viciously force themselves into every available orifice—mouths, nostrils, ears, assholes, urethras, vaginas, even bellybuttons. The sounds of muffled shrieks and wet leathery slithering fill the air; blood leaks from every violated hole, dripping down faces and legs and tentacles; eyes either bulge in terror or keep themselves tightly closed, spilling tears either way. More tentacles stretch towards me and I scream and squirm, tugging helplessly at my restraints. I try kicking at one of the tentacles but it just grabs my leg and holds it still with an immense strength. Accepting my fate and expecting my rape, I’m glad to be up here, removed from it all, barely able to feel anything—I can only hope that my death will be quick and painless. What will happen when I die? Will the tether connecting my consciousness to my body snap, allowing my consciousness to float ever upward, reliving every moment of my life in reverse-chronology up to my birth?
To my surprise, the tentacles avoid the naturally occurring orifices between my legs and instead go for the needles that are still sticking out of my thighs, pulling them out with an unexpected delicacy before somehow squirming their way into the seven pinpricks, stretching the holes without breaking the skin. Additional tentacles reach the nicks on my torso, working their way into those wounds, as well—they bulge under my skin like varicose veins ready to burst. This feels . . . fucking awesome, honestly; it’s the penetrative sex I’ve always wanted to have, all my nerves prickling and stinging, tickling and singing, stimulation beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined. I realize I’m laughing out loud at the sheer sensation, drowning out the muffled whimpers of my dying peers. My girl-dick is amazingly still hard, if not even harder than before, close to the size it had been before I started hormones.
From the writhing mass of tentacles emerges a nucleus where the dozens of appendages meet: a jiggling, indigo globe about as big as a German Shepherd. It creeps towards me, slithering over its tentacles and up my legs, hot and moist and slippery in a way that would definitely trigger my tactile sensitivities if I weren’t so high. As it nears my genitals, it lifts itself up to reveal an opening lined in lavender lips. Just as I realize what is about to happen, it engulfs my girl-dick, taking every stiff inch inside of its wet maw, igniting my head with snapshot flashbacks of pre-transition sexual experiences with cis women. It’s been over five years since my dick was inside anything other than a mouth, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy the feeling—so much better than frotting, so much better than fellatio, so much better than trying to stick things up my ass. I find myself thrusting in and out of the unearthly cephalopod, dormant instincts kicking in like it was only yesterday that I was fucking girls in my college dorm. God, this feels so fucking GOOD.
The others slowly cease their wiggling and whimpering as their lives are raped from them: first Vivian, then Poppy, Finn, Mandi, Jayce—only Levi appears to still be alive, watching in wide-eyed horror as I fuck the creature that is fucking him. I couldn’t care less; this feels so good, so right—the sex I’d been having for the past five years is nothingcompared to this.
My orgasm approaches. I don’t even need to escape into fantasy to get myself there; the pot will boil over on its own. The monstrosity tries to keep up with me, burrowing its tentacles even deeper into my wounds and Levi’s orifices, but I’m totally outfucking it—this is the most sexual fun I’ve had in years and there’s no way I’m letting this thing dominate me. The tension can no longer be held: With the release of a thousand shattering windows, my climax arrives, fluids pulsing out of me with frantic force. There are few sensations that can match cumming while high on kratom and weed in an estrogen-dominant body.
An abject and animalistic screeching like a chorus of bobcats rises from the mass of tentacles. Appendages thrash about wildly, eviscerating the bodies they were penetrating, blood and bits of flesh and gore spraying all over the room—Levi is definitely dead now. The tentacles shrivel and shrink, slackening and slowing until they stop moving altogether. The nucleus deflates and desaturates until it becomes little more than a weird gray condom on my girl-dick. From up here, the haphazard array of thin, unmoving tentacles resembles a grindcore band’s logo.
It occurs to me that today is Leap Day, a day that otherwise doesn’t exist, a last-minute addition to a calendar that cannot perfectly measure the Earth’s revolution around the Sun—smoke in my lungs, needles in my thighs. January and February should’ve been added to the end of the calendar rather than the beginning, in my opinion; it makes more sense for the occasional extra day to be tacked-on at the end of the year rather than arbitrarily added to the second month. Plus, that would’ve kept September, October, November, and December as the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth respective months, which only makes sense etymologically, although I do understand the thematic reasoning behind putting January first.
The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, and the snow begins to melt.