There is something to be said about the ways in which two genderqueerdos move around and against each other and navigate sex that I have not seen anywhere else and gets me right in the feels each time.
On my trip to Minneapolis, I had the good fortune of meeting such a creature. Her aesthetic was striking to me and I didn’t know nor did I really care what direction s/he was going but I knew it was one I wanted to join her on. I will be alternating between “he” and “she” for this lovely human’s pronouns, as requested.
When we were texting prior to meeting up, s/he warned me that his house was messy and full of punks so I shouldn’t be expecting “classy”. I replied that I was currently in the Mall of America wearing a Tom of Finland tank top carrying a very explicit “fisting” bag so I’d fit right in. A few hours later I showed up to his place and we chatted for a while before crawling into her bed; me snuggling up under the covers because even though I was fully clothed, I was already cold.
We talked and flirted, our hands randomly entwining, fingers skimming across collarbones, bellies, arch of a hip, a scruffy jaw. We talked about where we had come from and where we were going and how we ended up in that city, sentences broken up by moans and gasps and mouths on each other’s faces. Eventually the stripping started, teasing and talking continuing. We negotiated how we were feeling about our bodies that day and what parts we’d rather the other focus on. Talked about what words we like in relation to our bits and how gender is sometimes hard to verbalize because there simply aren’t the words that feel right and how that’s okay sometimes but other times, especially during sex, the words that can be “close enough” are miles away and break the moment and make you feel shitty.
My teeth found their way across her throat, shoulders, and neck. Her lips found mine, mine found his chest. Her reactions had the sort of intensity that make you want to keep going and doing whatever you can to keep this gorgeous person there with you, back arched, lips parted, lipstick perfect despite everything that had passed.
I tell her that s/he’s really quite pretty and s/he giggles, hiding her face and grabbing a fistful of my hair.
His body is pulsing now with the intensity of what is happening and we take a break and discuss our relationship with orgasms and how it isn’t the point of partnered sex for us, how we sometimes have a hard time explaining our gender feelings even to ourselves, let alone a sex partner. About how vulnerable it is to expose yourself in this way to a stranger as a person who exists in a world that does not have words for what you are. About the dangers of femmeness as people frequently read as male and how our aesthetic is crafted carefully and purposefully to be a kind of femme that is both identifiable and also not a safety risk for us. We talked some Kate Bornstein and the importance of proper representation of people like us in media (ugh, the new Stonewall movie!). We kissed and it felt raw, intense.
The breaks between the sex and the talking feel natural, and we just as naturally shift back into the sex as I showed her what muffing and as we discussed scar tissue and areas that lack sensitivity. S/he wasn’t into it but was glad that s/he had tried it out. S/he pulled me back up to him and our fingers resumed tracing the other’s body as s/he asked what names I like because s/he wanted to call me Daddy and thought it was extra hot to call someone younger and faggier “Daddy”.
My hands found their way up to her face and s/he nodded at me to indicate he was ready to keep going. I slapped her and she moaned. I slapped her harder. Again. S/he asked for more and I made him beg to get it.
We are navigating the other’s “maybe”s with grace, checking in and reminding the other how much fun we’re having and how we won’t be disappointed if something doesn’t happen because we want the other to be comfortable, to have fun, to feel safe. How we want the other to feel good and connected, present.
Her smile as s/he grabbed the edge of the bed tightly and arched his back kills me and I tell her so.
S/he thanked me for being dominant and explained to me quickly how s/he’s a switch but submission is a more intimate thing for her because of how it intersects with his mental health.
I tell her about the Sex Talk Tuesday I had moderated that day on trauma and kink and about my path from asexual to today, about how I first came to appreciate being dominant. Her nails scratched me as s/he reached out and grabbed my chin gently, holding my gaze for a few long seconds. S/he quietly says how good it is to hear that I’ve made it this far from my asexual identity because it gives her hope that s/he can get to a similar place with her body. Even now, remembering that bit affects me more than I know how to articulate. We talk immersion therapy and kiss and take a moment to sit with the heavier air now in the room, squeezing each other tight.
S/he tells me that s/he isn’t sure if s/he’ll cum but that s/he’s loving what we’re doing. I remind her that this is okay, that I would love to help make her cum if s/he wants that but that I’m more than okay if s/he’d rather not or is unable to. I ask him if there’s anything that s/he would like at this point and s/he shyly asks if s/he can touch me. I consent enthusiastically and grab my bag of gloves (and we gush over our mutual love for obsessive organization), lying back down.
S/he touches me slowly, the look on his face almost serene and very focused. S/he slides her thumb inside me and twists it in this way that feels novel and I ask her to kiss me. We work me up to three fingers; my hand playing my cock, her alternating between sucking my nipples and kissing me and we both giggle as I’m getting close to cumming. I let him know how close I am and her voice turns rough and demanding as s/he tells me to do it, to cum for her, and that’s all it takes to push me over the edge.
After I can move again, s/he asks if s/he can kiss my mound and I nod, telling him how much I appreciate being asked that, since s/he know I don’t enjoy mouths on my vagina. I didn’t tell her how much I loved her not questioning my distaste for receiving oral and simply moved on without any fuss. I didn’t tell him that the respect with which s/he touched my body – or didn’t touch it – filled a part of me that I didn’t realize was lacking.
S/he start talking about how much s/he wished I could fuck her and how bad s/he wants my dick in her, starting a very detailed fantasy. I push him onto his stomach and grind and thrust my hips into hers, slapping and punching and biting him on her back and shoulders and butt as s/he thanks me and begs for more and tell me how much s/he likes the feel of my big cock stretching her out. It doesn’t matter to either of us that there is nothing actually going inside of her, the movement of our bodies and the fantasy itself is enough for us both to be moaning and turned on.
S/he asked if I would be okay blowing her before I leave and I eagerly move to taste him. S/he languidly thrust into my mouth, maintaining eye contact and whispering about what a good little cocksucker I am and I thank her for letting me worship him. Her hand makes its way back to my hair and her thrusts start getting more forceful and s/he becomes more verbally dominant, telling me to take Daddy’s cock deep into my mouth.
S/he finishes by jerking herself off and holding my head in place so I am licking her taint as s/he demands that I tell him how bad I want her cum. Her orgasm shakes her and s/he eventually curls in on himself in a tight ball and I ask if s/he wants to be touched or needs a minute, handing her a glass of water. He pulls me in so we are touching and she breathes deep, body still shaking. Eventually he straightens out and I lie down in front of her, the two of us facing each other.
I call him beautiful and she call me powerful and we lie tangled in each other and thank the other and attempt to find the words to express how much we hadn’t realized that we needed this kind of connection to another person. We tell the other how much we valued their openness and trust and the fact that we didn’t really need to explain our beings to the other in order to feel like we could be okay engaging in sex – even though we had talked about these things, it wasn’t in the way we would with people without a similar gender identity.
“This was really intense” one of us says, the other agreeing. We lie quietly for a few moments, enjoying the peace and drinking in the site of the other until I break the mood by checking the time. Somehow I’ve stayed for seven hours and the sun is starting to come up and we laugh, searching for clothes so she can get me back to the air bnb I was staying at (and checking out of mere hours later). We look at each other, both feeling content and a bit melancholy, expressing mutual gratitude that we had managed to share this experience.