My phone sex with Meaghan was just the beginning.
After our first voice-to-voice encounter, I hung up feeling thirsty. I licked my lips. I could practically taste the peach-sweet droplets of her sweat. We had yet to touch physically, but our chemistry was already sizzling. Fucking her with my voice gave me an appetite for more—but she was straight, and I was anything but. I couldn’t assume she wanted anything beyond a single encounter.
She was used to dating men—both of us had gotten our fair share of late-night text messages that led to phone sex or something more. We both knew what “wyd” meant when it arrived after midnight. But this connection was different. For starters, I wasn’t a man. I was nonbinary, a transgender identity that isn’t male or female. My voice was a gritty baritone, and my square jaw and broad shoulders suggested masculine swagger.
Raised as a girl, I knew the secret codes that women used to communicate. Because of this, I could never treat her the way men did. We may not have shared a gender identity, but we were unquestionably on the same team.
I didn’t have to wait for long for Meaghan to make up her mind. After three days of exchanging emojis, she summoned me again.
There’s a huge bug in my bathroom.
It was close to midnight. My thumb hovered over my phone’s keyboard. Of course, she wasn’t in any danger. It was only an insect. But I remembered living as a girl and how hard it could be to ask for what you wanted. If Meaghan was looking for more than sympathy, I had to give her an opportunity to ask.
Are you OK? I wrote back.
Her reply was instant. Can you come over and kill it? I’m not a scaredy cat, I just freak out if something has too many legs.
I was on my way a minute later, breath frosting the inside of my windshield. Meaghan’s apartment was across town, next to the medical school campus where she was a student. I cruised past the anonymous buildings, each offering a blankly identical face to the street. She was waiting for me behind one of those doors. All I had to do was knock.
When she opened the door to let me in, she wore a black fleece bathrobe. Her wet hair, which I remembered as a crisp bob, hung down. Slicked against her temples, a few rogue curls emerged from the blunt layers. She wore no makeup or jewelry.
“It’s still there,” she said, pointing me toward the bathroom.
The bug was real, and it was enormous. I didn’t like killing things, and I hated creepy-crawlies as much as Meaghan did. But the invitation was irresistible to me. I dispatched the eight-legged intruder and flushed it, then washed my hands.
Fresh steam fogged her mirror. A swirl of body wash bubbles lingered in the bathtub drain. I glanced at Meaghan’s hair products, the soaps she used to clean her body. The intimacy of this moment caught me off guard. She was a stranger I’d met at a club and hooked up with over the phone. Our mutually fulfilled fantasy was at odds with this peek into her most private world. Seeing her this way made me want to wrap her up in a fluffy quilt and kiss her until she fell asleep.
Suddenly, I heard her behind me. Her arms wrapped around my chest, and she pressed her body against me. I felt her breasts flatten against my back while her hands slipped under my denim jacket. One finger traced the vertical line of soft fuzz on my abs. I shivered.
“You have something else you need me to do?” I asked. My eyes found hers in the mirror. I felt a jolt of attraction as though a secret force had invaded my muscles.
I turned and put my cheek to hers, drawing her close so that I could growl in her ear. Her delicate moan was one I’d heard before, and it signaled to me that she was eager for whatever might happen next.
She was stronger than I expected but easy to pick up. I carried her down the narrow hallway to her bedroom. The lights were off, but the single votive candle burning on her dresser told me that my guess had been right. She wanted this. She wanted me.
The full-length mirror on the back of her door caught our reflection. I could see us entwined, bathed in candlelight. In the dimness, we might have been a man and a woman, two women, or two genderless people. We were two bodies consuming one another.
She whispered, “I’ve never been with someone like you “I don’t know what to do.”
I parted the folds of her robe. Her skin was smooth and fresh. I traced the soft mound of her belly with the back of my hand, then kissed her there until she relaxed. She was, like me, so used to sucking in her stomach or twisting her body around to look more feminine, more appealing to a male partner. The pressure to perform like a porn actress seemed to leave her one breath at a time; soon, her fingers were cupping the back of my buzzed scalp, and her legs were splayed open. She drew my face to her clit greedily, rubbing her silky lips over my mouth and chin. As I kissed her, I told her how beautiful she was, how delicious.
Once, she tried to sit up, reaching for me, but I pushed her hands away.
“Let me touch you, too,” she said.
But I refused.
I told her, “Tonight is about you”.
I pulled her to the edge of the bed and knelt between her thighs. Looking up, I saw her head tilt back in pleasure. She was a queen—demanding, ravenous, divine. Instead of serving her partner, she reveled in receiving my full focus.
I remembered the litany of complaints that first brought us together outside the club—how the men she dated went soft, disappeared, or fucked her selfishly and left her unsatisfied. Pushing my tongue deeply into her, I felt eager to make up for all of their shortcomings.
I sweated from the effort of fucking her, grasping her so tightly at times that I am sure I left delicate bruises on her flesh. I stroked and sucked her until she was hoarse from moaning. Climax after climax, I felt the backs of her legs dimple with gooseflesh as she rode my face. Her orgasms were explosive, leaving her body in a series of gasps that I barely heard when she squeezed my head between her thighs.
We never took the time to fully undress. When she was exhausted, tired of cumming, she drew her knees to her chest and rolled over.
There was no offer of reciprocation, and I didn’t want one.
I tugged her comforter over her and tucked it around her. She was already melting into sleep. Her face was tender and sweet, fully relaxed for the first time in ages. I kissed her forehead and touched her now-dry, wild curls. She was asleep before I blew out the candle. I made sure to lock her door behind me.
I didn’t leave a note. She had my number—and when she decided what she wanted from me next, I knew I’d answer her call.
