The Woman I Always Hid Inside Me

I came to this page by accident, looking for something else, like almost everyone does. But when I started reading the stories, I stayed a little longer than I had planned. There was something about the anonymity that called to me in a way I couldn’t explain right away. That feeling that you can tell what you are without anyone looking you in the eye the next day, without anyone changing the tone of their voice when they see you walk through the door.

So I decided to tell.

I’ve been married for many years. I have children, a house, a job that keeps me busy Monday through Friday. From the outside I am exactly what is expected of someone my age and with my history: a family man, predictable, with no visible complications. For decades I believed that was what I was inside, too. I repeated it to myself with enough conviction to almost convince myself.

The problem with repeating something to yourself for too long is that, eventually, reality decides to interrupt you.

I don’t remember a precise moment when it all began. It was more of a slow accumulation. Thoughts that appeared and disappeared without a trace, images that crossed my mind at the least expected times: at work, in the car, before falling asleep. For years I ignored them. I filed them away in that mental drawer we all have and prefer not to open because we don’t really know what we’ll find inside.

But drawers fill up.

The first time I did it, it wasn’t with much premeditation. My wife had gone away with her mother for the weekend and I was alone in the house for the first time in a long while. I was tidying the bedroom when I found a set of lingerie she had bought months earlier and never worn. Black lace, very fine, a fabric that almost weighs nothing. I held it for a moment in my hands. I felt the soft texture, the delicate edges, the weight that wasn’t weight.

Then I’m not quite sure what happened. All I know is that a little while later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with it on, and my cock was hard, pressed tight against the lace, making a bulge in the black fabric that I couldn’t ignore.

What I felt in that moment wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t shame, though that came later too. It was something else first. Something close to relief, as if a tension I had been carrying without realizing it for years had suddenly let go. I stood there, looking at myself. I recognized my face, my shoulders, my hands. But something in the reflection felt more honest than any other image I’d seen of myself in a very long time.

I ran my hand over the fabric, feeling the lace scrape against the tip of my cock through the panties. A low moan escaped me, one I didn’t recognize as my own. I pulled the panties halfway down my thighs, leaving my cock out, swollen and leaking pre-cum at the tip. I spat into my hand and started stroking myself slowly in front of the mirror, watching my nipples hard under the lace bra, watching my flushed face, my mouth slightly open. With my other hand I touched my ass for the first time on purpose, sliding a finger between my cheeks, pressing at my hole without going all the way in, just testing. I came within a few minutes, a thick stream of semen splashing onto the marble sink and making my knees buckle. I stayed there panting, my load dripping from my hand.

I kept looking at myself for a long while after cleaning everything up. When I finally took off the clothes and put them back where they belonged, I went on with the day as if nothing had happened. But something had changed. I still didn’t know what to call it.

***

Over time I built my own space. I bought things online discreetly: lace sets in sizes that fit me, stockings, a few bolder pieces. I kept everything at the bottom of a suitcase no one used, tucked into the closet of a room we almost never opened. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. It was the only place where I didn’t have to be what was expected of me.

I started exploring in other ways too. I bought a small dildo first, then one a little bigger. I learned to use them patiently and without hurry, paying attention to what I felt. The first time I took one all the way in, on all fours on the bed, my ass well lubricated and my lace stockings on, I almost came without touching my cock. I pushed the rubber cock in slowly, feeling my hole forced open, feeling one ring of muscle after another give way until I had the whole thing inside me. Then I started moving it, first in circles, then with long thrusts, pulling it almost all the way out and driving it back in with one hard push. Every time the tip hit some deep place inside, forward, a girlish moan escaped me that I had never heard myself make before. I stroked myself with my other hand while I fucked myself, and when I came, it came out in long spurts, white and thick, staining the sheets beneath me. I stayed there with the rubber cock still inside, feeling the throb of my ass tightening around it.

There’s something about that experience that isn’t easy to describe exactly: a mix of vulnerability and surrender that I found, surprisingly, very natural. As if my body already knew something my mind took months to process.

I shaved whenever I could. Not always, not completely, but enough to feel the difference. The skin of my ass smooth, my balls shaved, my pubic hair smoothed away around the base of my cock. The softness in places we usually ignore. There are ways of inhabiting your body that no one teaches you and no one explicitly forbids either; they’re simply never mentioned. As if they didn’t exist for the person you’re supposed to be.

On weekends when I was alone I took advantage of every moment. I dressed, I looked at myself, I moved differently. I slipped two saliva-slick fingers into my ass while cooking, apron on over the lingerie, or sat in the desk chair with the dildo pressed against the seat, slowly impaling myself until it was all the way in, and stayed like that, barely moving my hips, feeling my hole stretch and yield. There was no performance in it. It was more like letting go of something I normally held up with effort. That little woman living inside, quiet, waiting for her turn, could finally breathe a little.

I didn’t tell anyone. To whom? My lifelong friends, who get together to watch football and talk about work and their kids’ vacations? My wife, who has known me for twenty years and has an image of me built with so much patience? There was no way to open that conversation without breaking something I also didn’t want to break. Not now. I don’t know if ever.

So I kept it. I still keep it. But keeping something is not the same as not feeling it.

***

The fantasy that returns most often, the one that shows up whenever I let myself invite it in, has a fairly clear shape even though the details change from day to day.

I imagine someone like me, but not the same. Someone who has already walked the path I still don’t know how to follow. A trans woman, or someone very feminine, with that calm certainty that comes from having chosen who you are without asking permission or waiting for anyone’s approval. It doesn’t matter so much how we end up together in that room. What matters is what happens after.

The two of us wearing lace. Light fabric, almost no weight, something that feels good on the skin and at the same time says something about who we are in that moment. Without either of us having to play a role we didn’t choose. Without either of us having to explain ourselves to the other.

I imagine her voice, low, unhurried, telling me in my ear that I’m beautiful, that she loves my little ass, that she’s dying to fuck me. Her hands moving over my back with calm, sliding down over my hips, reaching under my lace panties to knead my cheeks. One of her hands finds my cock over the fabric and squeezes it gently, laughing softly when she feels how hard I am. There’s a way of touching that isn’t taking but finding. I imagine she understands things that don’t need to be said out loud because she’s been carrying them for a long time too.

We kiss with tongue, deep, biting each other’s lips. In that kiss there’s something I can’t quite finish describing in my fantasy: it isn’t the kiss of quick desire, it’s the kiss of recognition. Of seeing in someone else something in yourself that is still learning how to name itself. Something that feels heavier in the mouth in a different way.

I imagine her pushing me down to my knees on the floor, pulling her panties down, taking out her hard cock over the elastic. I suck her slowly, first the tip, licking the drop that gathers on the head, then taking her all the way into my mouth until I can feel her in my throat. She grabs my hair, sets the rhythm, fucks my mouth without haste but without letting me go. I moan with my mouth full, swallowing saliva, feeling her balls slap against my chin. When she pulls her cock out of my mouth, there’s a string of spit stretching from my lips to her dick. She looks at me smiling and tells me now it’s my turn.

She takes me to the bed and lays me face down, with my lace stockings still on and my panties pushed aside. She spreads my cheeks with both hands and eats my hole, her hot tongue going in and out, wetting me completely. I bury my face in the pillow so I won’t scream. Then she drives two fingers into me, moving them inside, hitting some deep place that makes me see stars. When I finally feel the tip of her cock pressed against my hole, I push back myself, eager, and she slides into me in one long thrust, all the way to the hilt.

She fucks me slowly at first, holding me by the waist, letting me feel every centimeter. Then she goes harder, pounding me with sharp thrusts that make skin slap against skin. My cock is straining in my panties, dripping onto the sheets, and I just barely hold it, because I know if I touch myself too much I’ll come right away. She lies down on top of me, presses her mouth to my ear and tells me I’m her little bitch, that she loves my cunt, that she’s going to fill me up completely. I nod into the pillow, moaning like a slut, moving my ass back so she can drive it in even deeper.

We turn over and I get on top. I impale myself on her cock and start bouncing, lace hanging from my hips, my nipples hard under the fabric. She looks up at me from below, strokes my thighs, grabs my cock and jerks me off at the same pace. I come first, spilling semen over her belly, clenching her cock with my whole ass. She can’t hold back and comes inside me with a long moan, filling me like she promised she would. I stay sitting on top of her, her cock still inside me, feeling her load run down my thighs when I finally stand up.

We suck each other off, touch each other, bite each other slowly again, without hurry, licking the cum from each other’s skin. Two bodies that understand each other in a language neither of them learned anywhere.

I also imagine walking with her afterward, going out into the garden, feeling the outside air with my ass still dripping her semen beneath my panties. Nothing dramatic. Just that silence after having been, if only for a while, what you are when no one is watching.

***

Sometimes I wonder what people would say if they knew. Not just my wife, but anyone. The Saturday friends, my coworkers, the guy who’s cut my hair for fifteen years. I don’t think any of them suspect. I do a good job of playing the ordinary man, and I’ll probably keep doing it for a long time.

But there are nights when that weighs on me. Not the secret itself, but the distance between what you show and what you are. That distance doesn’t disappear just because you decide to ignore it. It stays there, quiet, waiting for you to pay attention to it sometime.

I’ve read things about this. About men in similar situations who discover, late, aspects of themselves that don’t quite fit the life they built. About the difference between identity and desire, between what one feels and what one chooses to do with it. I don’t have clear answers. I don’t think I’ll have them soon, and at this point I don’t know if I need them to keep going.

What I do have is the certainty that what I feel is real. It isn’t a passing confusion or a middle-aged whim or something that can be solved by ignoring it long enough. It’s something that was there before I named it, and that will still be there after. That no longer gives me the same anguish it used to. It mostly makes me curious.

***

I ended up writing all this because I wanted to know whether there are others. Men with lives similar to mine, with houses and families and steady jobs, who also have that suitcase at the bottom of the closet. Who also spend some moments alone with a dildo buried deep in their ass, feeling more themselves than they do the rest of the time. Who also look at themselves in the mirror with their panties wet with pre-cum and recognize something no one else can see.

Who also have that fantasy, or one like it. That desire to find someone who doesn’t need you to explain yourself, who simply understands because they also know what it is to carry something that still doesn’t quite have a name. Someone who fucks you to the hilt and tells you in your ear what you are.

If you exist, if you’re reading this and you recognize something in what I’ve written, I’d like to know. Even if it’s only so I can stop feeling like this is mine alone.