Take Me There

by Tristan Taormino

  “On the bed?” he repeats, hovering, not sitting down yet.

  “Oh, the bed’s way more comfortable than that hard desk chair. Have a seat.” I notice that he flushes a little at the word “hard,” and I smirk. He’s extrasensory when he’s turned on, responsive to the tiniest of stimuli—a single word, a light touch. He sits down, and I join him, just a little too close for comfort.

  When our hips touch, he jolts a little, and my heart begins to race despite myself. Something about this feels so real; suddenly, it feels like now or never, like I could make the wrong move and he could bolt. I swallow my fear. Slip a hand onto his thigh and another under his chin. Turn his face to meet mine.

  “I felt how you moved just then, honey. You like sitting next to me, don’t you?”

  He doesn’t speak. Just shakes his head up and down very slightly, a barely perceptible nod, a lot of blushing and blinking his eyes. “No, baby. Keep looking at me.” I hold his gaze. His eyes on mine are wide. Wild. He gulps, a movement that I feel because my fingers are tracing the muscles of his mouth and neck.

  “Sitting here with me makes you feel good, doesn’t it?” A nod, again. I feel him let a breath go. Feel his throat open up and expand to push air out and suck it back in again. “That’s right, honey, breathe. Relax.” I reach up and stroke his hair, and he leans his face into my neck, makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan. He shivers just a little in my arms.

  “I really want you to feel good, peach. That’s why I invited you up here.”

  I have a thing for these boys. The ones who are sure of themselves at one moment, but awkward, nervous the next. I like extremes, opposites, contradictions. I like a boy supercool but painfully uncertain. Bold, then timid, then bold again. I like him unsure and breathless. Wet and hard, blood simmering, breathing heavy. Eyes and hands and mouth and cock all over me. But only how I want it. Only when I say so.

  He becomes bolder as the night goes on, asks for more, timid but surefooted. I’ve gotten him out of the worn plaid shirt. His binder is the one thing that never comes off, and he’s still in his jeans. I’ve convinced him to unhook my bra and coaxed him on top of me, Like this, honey. My skirt is hiked up around my hips. He’s pumping instinctively, getting a rhythm going on top of me, and I swear, I swear I can feel his cock. Even though he’s not packing, even though there are layers of denim and cotton and lace between us, I feel his cock like I would feel any boy’s cock. It is there, it is real, and it is hard, grinding through his jeans, through my lingerie right down into my cunt. I feel so fucked, so good, and he is not even touching my naked body, just rubbing up against me through clothes and kissing me like his life depends on it, moving his hands all over whatever bare skin he can get to. He moans, over and over again, into my mouth, my neck, my tits. He pulls his mouth away from me suddenly, and I have to keep myself from whimpering at the loss. “What do you want, angel?” I say.

  “I…” He giggles then, buries his face into my neck. “I…I want to be doing my homework.”

  Brat. He’s only saying it to get a rise out of me, I know, but it works.

  “Oh, really? You really want to do your homework?” I hiss that into his ear, bite his neck hard, and he shrieks. “You wanna be doing your homework when you’re lying on top of me, and my bra’s unhooked, and I can tell how much you want it from the way you’re moving your hips? You wanna be doing your homework right now?” I thrust my hips up at “right now” so they hit his cock just right. He moans again. He’s breathing that heavy way he does, the way he gets sub-verbal and breathy when he really goes under; becomes nothing but his hard cock and hungry mouth, big eyes and smooth hands. But I’m not letting him sink there so quick. I pull his hair and he yowls.

  “You really want to do your homework right now?”

  “Uhhh… Well, I mean, I mean”—I pull his hair again—“OW! I mean, I guess your brother won’t be back for a while. I guess I can’t do the Social Studies project with him till he gets back. I guess it’s okay that I’m in your room with you, right?”

  “Yeah, sweetie, he won’t be back for a really long time. Now, why don’t you slip your hands up under my skirt?”

  He’s only a year younger than me, but in some lights, at some moments, he really does look teenaged. Doe-eyed, scared like a deer in the headlights, but wild like a deer, too. Shy and cocksure at the same time, just like he told me he was when we met. “What kind of boy do you like to be?” I’d asked. And he looked right at me and blinked those big, dreamy eyes. That’s how we started. One of my hands at the nape of his neck, holding him there with me, coaxing it out of him. “Cocksure,” he said. “But kinda shy.”

  He has a good mouth, this boy. He is good with his words, even when he’s bratty, and he is good with his lips, and this is what I tell him as I slide in and out, murmur, “Good, good, you’re so good, smart-mouthed faggot, sweet-talker, cocksucker, pretty boy…” He devours my fingers, sucks almost my whole fist down to the back of his throat, does the same with my cock after I hastily fasten the harness on over my lingerie.

  I am so close to undone from this. The very look of his mouth on me, his hand wrapped around the base of my cock, those hot, fast gagging noises he makes when he takes me all the way to the back of his throat. My hand is fisted in his hair, pushing him just a little, but he doesn’t need much force. He is the kind of boy who can take it, all of it. When he looks up at me from his knees, spits on his hand and lubes up my cock with his fingers, I murmur, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you, gorgeous?” And he grins at me with pride, and this once shy, scared boy? He starts to talk.

  He spins a story that is just a little over-the-top, but no less effective, stroking me all the while—about an older cousin and a vacation in New York City and a porn theater, walking in and seeing all the men jerking off.

  “And I saw this guy, and he was so hot, and my cousin nudged me and told me to go over to him, and I totally sucked his dick and…”

  “Did he suck yours?”

  “No, he just rubbed his foot up against my crotch—he couldn’t really reach me…”

  “Has anyone, ever?”

  And he replies sheepishly, his cheeks flushed, “No.”

  “Well, then. I’d love to be the first.”

  He all but leaps up from the floor. Shucks his jeans and socks, grabs his other cock and the harness from his bag, pulls them on over his briefs. When he approaches me, breathing hard, his rigid dick curving up from his body, I grab him and kiss him. I want my mouth all over him at this moment, wish for just a second that I had two mouths the way I have two hands and two feet. Instead I settle for kissing him again. Kneeling down, guiding his hand to his cock, taking his fingers and cock together into my mouth.

  His cock is absolutely something to be sure of. I love him inside me, and I love his hands all over my body, and I am no less in control when his cock is in my mouth, no less in control when he is touching me.

  He’s slipped my panties off my hips, and he’s on top of me again, his hips battering into mine. I could almost come from this, I’m so wet, so far gone from everything, his mouth on my cock, mine on his, the sweet tender teenage way he keeps asking things like, “Like this? Touch you like this? Like we were doing before, or different?” I thrust my hips up to meet his.

  “Do you feel how wet I am for you?”

  “Yes,” he moans, and nods.

  “I want you inside me. Have you done that before, honey?”

  He whimpers back, “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Oh, please.”

  I reach down and guide the head of his cock between my lips, and he thrusts to meet me, fills my cunt in one long stroke. “Just slide it in, yes, that’s it, like that, yes, yes,” and I lose my words for a minute; I mean, I know I am saying words, but I don’t know what they are, yes or good or boy or God or fuck. I am lost in the feeling of his cock in me, his breathing harder and hotter and his hips moving faster, mine moving up to mee
t his, to take as much of him inside me as I can. I love the look of him completely shattered above me, absorbed in every movement of his cock, my body the only place he wants to be. “Are you going to come inside me?” I ask, and he nods yes.

  “Tell me when, honey,” and the only words he can manage through his moaning are, “Now, now,” and I rise up with him, feel my cunt spasm around his cock before I even realize it’s happening for me, too. “Oh, fuck, I want to do that again,” I laugh, and he laughs above me, thrusts himself into me again, and again. His cock is the kind that stays hard inside me, and he keeps fucking me for a long, long time.

  I am no less in control when he is fucking me, his fingers deep in my cunt or sucked back right to the edge of my gag reflex, his cock pumping inside of me slow and hard and dreamy. I am at my most powerful when I am open to him, and he, he is at his best inside me, the best boy.

  After, he asks if he can curl up in my lap. He’s that specific, he doesn’t say “lie” or “sit,” he says, “curl up,” and it is this specificity that I adore about him, one of the things that drew me to him in the first place. He is so good with his words, this one, so good with his words and his cock and so good in my lap. “Yes,” I say, touching the dark curls that frame his pale face. He blinks his big, dark eyes, and the curls of his eyelashes flutter. I open my arms and he leans his head into the crook of my neck, murmurs, “Mmm. Thank you.” I pull my softest blanket around the two of us, the big fluffy maroon one; cocoon him in it. He wraps his arms around me, and he says it again: “Thank you. I just wanted to be sure of you.”

  NOW, VOYAGER

  Rahne Alexander

  All anyone seemed to be able to talk about at work was the Christmas cruise, this big annual event where the bigwigs rented a party boat and invited all their favorite clients to get three sheets to the wind while they sailed around the bay in a lazy circle. It was hard to believe that any of these people knew the first thing about having fun, but they were all full of hysterical reminiscences of cruises past.

  My department was going out of their way to remind me about it, because they still all felt so guilty for having forgotten to invite me to last year’s party. Mindy, the office manager, told me I was gonna love it and then danced, mouthing the words open bar while my boss stomped past. The same VP who brought me flowers on administrative assistant’s day left his cruise photo album at my desk next to the business magazines on display, presumably for visiting dignitaries.

  “So are you gonna break down and go? Is Jonas going?” Wendy asked. She was a copywriter who had gone to my same college. We hadn’t known each other well at the time, but she was one of a very few people who knew me while I was still getting by as male. She took my transition in stride and that turned our acquaintance into friendship.

  “I don’t know. You know me; I just don’t like being that far away from home without my own transportation.” Wendy was already going to be up in the city; she was going to tear herself away from big family holiday plans for the night.

  “Dude, I’m not gonna have any fun unless you’re there. You should ask Jonas. He’ll totally drive.”

  Jonas was sort of an impish teddy bear whose grin never seemed to fade. He had the curliest blond hair that I’d ever seen. I’d only known him a year or so, and I had no idea what he did for the company. He was one of the few geeks in town who seemed to prefer not to talk about work in his off hours.

  He had shown up on my radar a few weeks before when he chatted me up at the coffee shop where I went to chew on pencils in solitude. He distracted me with lilting conversation for a couple of hours. He learned that I’d never eaten sushi and offered to treat me to Sushi Boat. Two nights later he invited me to happy hour after work with some of the engineers. A habit began to form—I’d bus to work, drive with Jonas to happy hour, bus home, repeat. Sometimes he’d drop me off at home after, but since he lived more than half an hour in the opposite direction, I always felt like it was an imposition.

  I punched in his extension and waited for the outgoing message. He almost never answered the office phone. “I don’t like interruptions,” he’d say. “They’re very disruptive.” I got his voice mail and said, “Hey, Jonas it’s me, and I was wondering if you were planning on going to this cruise thing this weekend. They’re laying it on thick over here. I was thinking, well, if you get this just let me know if you’re going and if you’re going maybe we could go up together?” I hung up. Wendy grinned. “You just asked Jonas out on a boat cruise,” she sang. My phone rang back, and of course it was Jonas. I waved her away.

  “I haven’t been on the Holiday Booze Cruise in yeeeeears!” Jonas said. He was excited to go with me. We made a little plan: I’d change into my cruise clothes at work and then head to the city.

  I hung up feeling queasy. I had asked him out on a date. We had been dating. I wondered if I were prone to seasickness. I’d never really been on a boat. We were going on a date on a boat with our whole company. I had no idea what to wear.

  In those days, if I wasn’t wearing a tent, I was in turtlenecks and pleated slacks. For such a special occasion I really only had one outfit, in mondo velveteen: a tight, floor-length black skirt and a maroon cowl-neck top.

  We drove up the coast, stopping off at his house to pick up his pipe and smoking jacket. His beat-up two-seater had a great sound system and CD changer stocked with Wall of Voodoo, Nick Cave and Front 242. We smoked and bitched about work. He told me jokes. He asked me if I’d ever heard the one about MacPhee the carpenter, which he told in faux brogue.

  One day, Jonas said, he went down to the pub where he met an old man named MacPhee who was terribly drunk and looking quite glum. He asked MacPhee, “What’s got you down, old timer?” MacPhee replied, “Do you see this bar? I built this bar with my own two hands. I went into the woods, cut down the tree, cut it into boards. I planed and polished the wood, and I’ve been drinking at this beautiful bar for forty years! But do they call me MacPhee the woodsman? Do they call me MacPhee the carpenter?”

  MacPhee continued to list his accomplishments. This was Jonas’s favorite joke, and he reveled in the embellishment.

  “That wall?” MacPhee continued. “I built that wall! I carried each of those stones from the quarry. I mixed the mortar, and by hand I built that wall. But do they call me MacPhee the stone mason? No, they do not!” MacPhee exclaimed, as he drained another pint. “But fuck one goat…!”

  While he joked, I worried. I hadn’t exactly had a conversation about my being transsexual yet. I didn’t know how to work it into conversation with the people I met post-transition. I hated the way that coming out always seemed to trump any other conversation. I didn’t feel like I needed to be in the closet about it—in most cases, I preferred people to take me at face value and draw their own conclusions. In those early years of my transition, I had successfully avoided situations that seemed to require that I confirm my gender and thus skirted the need to learn how to do so with any sort of grace. Jonas joked and puffed his pipe, I smoked cigarettes and laughed, and before we knew it we were on the boat.

  It was pretty much exactly what I expected: puffy men in company-logo polo shirts clutching bottles of Corona Light and tensely-coiffed women dancing to the nostalgia cover band. It took forever to find Wendy, whose date was already drunk. The four of us decided to head to the upper deck, where we could maybe escape that still-beating Heart of Rock and Roll. We found deck chairs and settled in for a bit. Jonas packed his pipe and pushed it toward me. “A little of the homegrown?” he smiled, and initially I declined. Mostly, I didn’t like feeling both sleepy and paranoid in public. Wendy and her date hit it, and Jonas warned me that I didn’t know what I was missing, so I had a small puff. Some polo shirts found their way to our deck, and Jonas suggested that we find higher ground. Wendy and her date agreed to meet us up top after drink refills, but that was the last we saw of them for the evening.

  The Golden Gate Bridge loomed over us like a Spielberg set piece, glowing bright
ly in the chilly night air as the yacht cruised underneath. Ever the Southern Californian, it hadn’t occurred to me to bring—or own—a coat or a wrap to match my outfit. I was shivering. He took off his jacket and put it over my shoulders; he pressed into me from behind, pinning me between his considerable warmth and the cold deck rail.

  He nuzzled into me. His breath felt amazing against my neck and I melted between him and the railing for a moment. Then I caught myself; I didn’t want to be his tranny surprise anecdote. I wished I didn’t have to tell him. I wished one last-ditch wish to magically change on the spot. I wanted to not feel like I was lying to him when, in fact, I was finally living true to my gender.

  He slipped a hand around my waist and up my top; he brushed his fingers against my boobs, then massaged a little bit. He kept kissing my neck, my cheek. He turned so he could kiss my lips and my mouth. I felt my girdle stretch uncomfortably and he kissed harder. His tongue flickered against mine. He bit my lip softly as he pulled back from the kiss. Clearly, I had to stop this.

  “I’m really dizzy,” I said, because I was. I teetered on my heels and groped for the railing. He swooped in and before I knew it I was airborne; he lifted me across the deck and placed me on a deck chair. I asked for a water and he scooted off to the bar, telling me to stay put. I wasn’t going anywhere; stars and birds were still circling around my head.

  None of this made sense to me. How could he know I was transsexual and find me desirable? Was it possible for him to not have figured it out? Was it possible that such details were irrelevant to him? I stared at the receding Golden Gate and wondered if I was going to be able to get off the boat before my formfitting outfit outed me to my entire company.

  Jonas returned with water for me. He sat next to me and puffed his pipe and sipped his cider and told jokes. I felt sober again by the time we docked and we took our time descending the stairs. When we finally disembarked, the parking lot was nearly empty. We saw no one we recognized. We held hands from the dock to the car.