I had 80 matches in my area, on Tinder. That’s bisexual Tinder by the way. I’m open to anyone who wants me. I match with lots of cis guys, but those aren’t real matches. Cis guys just swipe yes on every girl and then if any girls swipe yes on them, they go back and cull the unfuckables. So I match with heaps of guys who realise I’m a tranny and straight away unmatch me. Thank gods, honestly. Cis girls pick more judiciously, so I love it when we match, but they’re always femmes and they never message first. Fuck that. I don’t wake up every morning and take 200mg of spiro and 3mg of estradiol not to be pursued. The only ones I ever message first are big cis daddies with beards, and I only do that because the mutual objectification is easy and I know they will immediately call me their little slut, and they love to tell me what they’re gonna do to me, and I know that when I message them about my never-yet-fucked arsehole they are squeezing their cocks in their heavy fists, and when they abruptly quit messaging after the first few frantic minutes, I know I will never have to meet up with them, and at the end of the day, sometimes I just need to know that somebody, somewhere, is thinking about me when they cum.
Queers though – and I mean actual queers, not the might as well be straight LGBTQIA+ clean and shiny faux homos that wouldn’t be caught dead in bed with a girl like me – are obviously the cream of the crop. When I match with another doll, I find her Insta and scroll through it from start to finish. Some girls start Instas at the beginning of their transition, but if you scroll back on other girls, they’ve kept all the photos from their boymoding life. I could never, to be honest, but I’m also kind of jealous that they can. Like, how come they aren’t ashamed? Anyway, I love matching with the girls. It’s always a revelation. Not only do I have sisters hidden all about an 80km radius of my bed, they might also want to commit incest with me. But that never happens because, like I said, I never message first.
The real hotties are the trans mascs, and the non-binary people. They always message first, and they normally want to know me before they fuck me. Which is gorgeous, because even though I’m thirsty all of the time, and I am categorically a slut, I can’t really get there with an actual person unless I can fall in love with them a little bit first. At the moment, that actual person was James.
I’d been messaging James on Tinder, and then Insta for the last fortnight. He was polyamorous, like me, and a total hottie, plus he was t4t like the girls in that Torrey Peters story. He had lots of pics of him shirtless, at the beach and at cute queer parties with his friends. I liked the hair that covered his soft belly and flat chest, and his PhD and receding hairline pinged hard on my daddy radar. It’s so cheesy, but honestly, I really liked his smile. He smiled in all his photos, and he had one of those really bright gorgeous ones, all cheeks and shiny half-closed eyes. All of his messages were super sweet. He told me I was beautiful, and asked me all about my life, like actual proper conversation.
He asked me out on a date first – which I love – and suggested we go to the beach – which I don’t love. Even before I started getting laser I was basically a vampire so the beach is like my number one hostile environment, and then I didn’t really have any money to go out for food so I made some excuse about that, and in the end James just invited me over to his, which suited me perfectly.
James met me at the door of his little colonial flat with that gorgeous smile and a posy of white lilies.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he instantly apologised. ‘I have no idea what flowers mean, are these okay? I hope they’re okay! Did you have any trouble finding me?’
I laughed and blushed. I love getting flowers, and honestly, I feel like white flowers have something to do with death, but that was okay, I tried to dress up in like a sexy soft goth look, so it was on theme, and I loved that he got them for me anyway.
We sat at James’ kitchen table with his flatmate, Charlie. Charlie put on Orville Peck and James rolled his eyes.
‘Charlie loves sad cowboys.’
Was I allowed to laugh at Charlie? Charlie shrugged. ‘It is what it is.’
I cleared my throat. ‘I used to watch Brokeback Mountain once a year, at least, before I came out – to like, get all my crying done.’
Charlie grinned. ‘It’s easier to cry now though, right? On estrogen?’
James flicked on the jug and gestured at a stack of herbal teas.
I asked for peppermint because I was worried James would think I had bad breath, despite my freshly brushed teeth, the litres of water I had already drunk that morning, and the two breath mints I had sucked away to nothing on the bus ride over.
Charlie leaned forward. ‘It’s just that I’m pretty sure T has blocked up my tear ducts.’
James mmmmed his agreement.
‘I used to cry A LOT, but not since T,’ Charlie continued.
I thought about it. ‘I noticed a difference. Even before I started HRT though. As soon as I realised, oh shit, I’m a woman, I started crying over everything. But I don’t know, maybe I already had low testosterone?’
This was kind of a half-truth, because I know I used to have pretty high testosterone. My-body-will-probably-never-recover-from-it high testosterone.
Charlie nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
I took one sip of peppermint tea and immediately burnt my mouth. I swallowed, blinking away tears, and asked James if he wanted to give me a tour of the house.
In James’ room, I closed the door behind us and climbed onto his bed. He had the collected diaries of Lou Sullivan on his side table. I picked the book up.
‘I haven’t read this yet, but everyone says it’s amazing, right?’ I laid back against his pillows and flipped open the paperback.
‘I love Lou Sullivan so much.’ James beamed. ‘It’s probably my favourite book.’ He sat on the bed beside me.
I turned to him and bit my lip. ‘Sorry if this is weird to ask, but does going on T make you, like, really horny?’
James chuckled. ‘Um yeah, for me it definitely did, but then again I was kind of a horny teenager anyway.’
James moved closer. ‘Do you want to—’
I leaned in, cutting him off.
James kissed me and I dropped Lou Sullivan onto the bed beside us.
Orville Peck played in the next room. It was muffled by the wall – the way music sounds when you’re little and the adults have stayed up to drink.
I remembered the dark varnish on the frame of my parent’s bed. It must have been something cheap, pine with a veneer or a really dark polyurethane coating or something. Whatever was affordable in the early nineties. In the summer, my folks would put a mosquito net over the bed and leave the French doors open.
I wrapped my legs around James and wondered if he could feel my small hard girl dick against his belly through my panties, stockings and skirt.
There was a party at my parent’s house that night. My dad had piled a stack of offcut branches and dry tī kōuka leaves in the backyard, and my mum had set it alight. A couple of aunties and uncles – not real aunties and uncles – had come out from the city to our house in the country. Also, my dad had my older brother, Hamish, for the weekend, which was really exciting. It was my first time meeting him, and when it got dark, my folks put the two of us down to sleep, together in their bed.
James slipped his hand between the bottom of my crop top and belly. He stopped there and met my eyes. I smiled yes. He slipped my top off and my breath came short and quick.
Hamish told me what to do, and I did it. It was too hot, with the duvet tented over our little bodies.
I sat up and James unhooked my bra. I tugged at his t-shirt, and he pulled it off. James kissed down my neck and I dropped back onto the bed.
I was only little, four or five I think, but I knew it was an initiation. After that, it was a game we played when Hamish stayed with us. But I only really remember what we did the first time.
James sucked on my small titties. I gasped and squirmed underneath him. He kissed down my belly and pushed up my short skirt.
James looked up from my waist, serious and hungry. ‘Do you want this?’ He tucked his middle and forefinger under the waistband of my stockings and panties.
I nodded; my breath came short. ‘Yes please.’