A Closet-Tranny and the Afternoon That Never Ended

Living a double life has its complications, but it also has its moments of pure, unrepeatable happiness. I’ve been a closet transvestite for more than twenty years. I live in Guadalajara, in my own apartment, where I keep my special clothes tucked away in a suitcase I shove to the back of the closet before any visitor arrives. I’m forty-seven years old, five foot four, and according to what I’ve been told —and according to what I can verify in the mirror— I still have a pretty decent ass for my age. Slender build, little body fat, and a round, perky ass that stands on its own when I turn my back to the mirror, with that crease between the cheeks men like to see before they pry it open with their hands. The skin on the back end is nearly hairless without any effort, something I’m grateful for.

I’ve never had a formal partner. I’ve never lived openly as what I am. I work Monday through Friday, greet my neighbors normally, eat in restaurants without anyone looking at me oddly. But every so often, when the need becomes too specific to ignore, when the imaginary cunt I have between my legs —because that’s how I feel it, even though anatomically it isn’t— cries out to be filled, I get ready, go out, and look for what I need.

I’d been spending weeks checking profiles on one of those apps when Marcos appeared. The first thing I noticed was that his photo wasn’t cropped or taken from a weird angle to hide anything. Thirty-five years old, five foot ten, athletic build without going overboard. His profile clearly said what he wanted and what he offered: patience, discretion, experience with girls like me. And he attached a second photo that left little to the imagination: his cock erect, thick, with a shiny head and a shaft marked by a vein running up from the base. Not ridiculously long, but nicely girthy, the kind of width I knew from experience opened me well and filled me better. Good size, good shape. It was everything I asked for and more.

I wrote him without thinking too much about it. He replied within a minute.

The first conversation was cautious, as it always has to be. That’s necessary. The first messages are for verifying that the other person is real, that there’s no trap, that the intention is what it seems. Then, if there’s chemistry, the conversation moves on its own.

With Marcos, there was chemistry from the second day.

He asked about my preferences without getting vulgar right away. He listened when I explained how I like things: slowly, attentively, without rushing. I told him I like it when they put it in little by little, just the tip first, then a few centimeters at a time, taking the time to feel how my ass opens around the cock before they really start fucking me. I told him that what I value most is a man who understands that a closet transvestite has waited a long time for that moment, that it isn’t something casual but something carefully prepared and deserving of being treated accordingly. He told me he understood perfectly. And he said it in a way that made me believe him.

We talked for three days. On the third, we set the date: the following Sunday at noon, at his apartment in the Americana neighborhood. Forty minutes from my place by bus.

***

Saturday night I didn’t sleep well. Not exactly nerves; anticipation. There’s an important difference between the two. Nerves paralyze you, make you doubt, make you want to cancel. Anticipation keeps you awake, makes you check the mental list again and again with a kind of anxious pleasure, and makes you slip your fingers between your cheeks while you imagine how it’ll feel to have a stranger’s dick opening your ass the next morning.

Night list: textured condom, lubricant, wet wipes, suitable clothes for walking down the street without drawing attention but that would still leave my advantages exposed. Underwear he wouldn’t care about but I cared about putting on, because it makes me feel the way I want to feel: tiny black lace panties, small enough to ride up between my cheeks and show half of each ass cheek if I bent over.

I got up early Sunday. First, the most important thing: internal prep. I took my time emptying myself properly, no rushing. Two pear-shaped squeezes of warm water, hold it, expel it, repeat until the water came out clean. No breakfast; just water. Long shower with hot water. I shaved my legs calmly even though there was almost nothing left to shave; the skin barely needs work anymore. I ran the machine over my balls and around my ass too, leaving everything smooth, not a single hair to get in the way when his mouth —if I was lucky— came to kiss me there. I applied cream to my legs, my hips, my lower back. I put on the perfume I save for these occasions, the one that smells expensive without actually being expensive.

While I was getting ready in front of the mirror I was texting Marcos. Not empty messages like «I’m almost there,» but real messages: I told him what I was wearing, what I thought when I saw his photos, what I was going to do when I got to his door. I wrote that I wanted his cock in my mouth before he even said hello, that I wanted to suck it until I felt it get hard between my lips, that I wanted him to fuck me against the first wall we found. He replied with short, precise sentences. He didn’t exaggerate. He didn’t pretend to feel more excitement than he did. «I’m hard thinking about your ass,» he wrote, without embellishment. That calmed me more than anything else he could have said.

Why does it calm me when someone doesn’t exaggerate? Maybe because when you’ve spent years looking, you learn to recognize when something is real and when it’s theater to get what they want.

I left home at 11:20. The bus took longer than usual because of Sunday traffic, and I stared out the window without really seeing what was outside. Forty minutes that could feel eternal or short, depending on your mood. Seated in the back, legs crossed, I felt the lace of my panties rubbing every time the bus hit a bump, and I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t close my eyes and sigh out loud.

That Sunday they felt short.

When I got off half a block from Marcos’s building, my heart was pounding with a force I hadn’t felt in days. It wasn’t fear. It was exactly the opposite.

***

I pressed the building intercom once. His voice came through immediately:

—Come up, it’s open.

The elevator took forever. Third floor. I walked down the hallway and knocked on his door with my knuckles.

He opened it himself. Really tall, just like in the photos. Wearing dark shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Under the shorts, the bulge was clearly visible: not rock hard, but heavy, thick, hanging off to one side of his thigh. The same calm face from the photos, without the forced urgency men sometimes have when they’ve been alone too long. He looked me up and down once, without hiding it, and smiled.

—Glad you came on time —he said.

But then his expression shifted slightly.

—Listen, something came up: my roommate just texted me. He left early to take his mom to the doctor, said it would take about three hours. But that was an hour and a bit ago. We have time, though maybe not as much as we thought.

I looked at my watch. It was 12:15.

—How much time do you think we have? —I asked.

—An hour and a half. Two if we’re lucky.

More than enough, if we do it right.

It wasn’t the original plan, but it was enough. I’d devoted too much time to this meeting to give it up over a minor setback.

I took out what I’d brought in my bag: the condom, the lubricant. I put them on the little hallway table naturally, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, because for me it was. He looked at them and nodded without saying anything.

And he took me by the waist.

Not roughly. Firmly. There’s a huge difference between the two, and Marcos knew it. He pulled me toward him, ran his hands along my hips, and when he reached my ass he paused there a moment, appreciating what he had in his hands, before continuing. He squeezed my cheeks, one in each hand, and brought his body close until I could feel the bulge in his shorts against my belly. It was no longer soft. It was hot, hard, throbbing through the fabric.

—Before anything else —I told him, and I knelt down without waiting for an answer.

I pulled his shorts down with both hands to his knees. His cock sprang out, already rock hard, as thick as in the photo, with a purple head and a drop of fluid peeking from the tip. I ran my tongue underneath it, from the balls to the tip, slowly, feeling the heat of his skin against my lips. I licked the glans in circles, sucking at the salty bead, then took the whole thing into my mouth in one motion until the tip touched the back of my throat.

Marcos let out a low groan and put a hand on the back of my neck, not to force me, just to guide me. I started sucking him calmly, sliding him all the way down and pulling him almost completely out, leaving the tip between my lips before swallowing him again. I licked the vein underneath with my tongue every time I came up. I grabbed his balls with my right hand, squeezing them gently, feeling them heavy and full, and with my left I held the base of his cock to jerk him off while I sucked him.

—Just like that... just like that, baby —he murmured, looking down at me with half-lidded eyes.

I sucked his cock for several minutes. I left strings of saliva hanging from the tip to my chin. I shoved it down my throat until tears filled my eyes and the skin of his balls brushed my chin, and I stayed there for a few seconds holding it in, feeling it pulse inside my mouth, before pulling it out and breathing deeply. I licked his balls one by one, sucking them, while continuing to stroke his cock against my face.

—Get up —he said in a hoarse voice—. I’m not done yet.

I leaned against the back of the sofa. He lowered my jeans slowly, with both hands, without rushing, as if we had all the time in the world even though we didn’t. He took his time touching me, running his thumbs over my lower back, getting where he wanted to get gradually. He slid my lace panties down to my thighs and paused to look at my ass, pressing his palms to my cheeks and spreading them to see my hole. He crouched behind me and suddenly I felt his hot tongue against my anus.

I shuddered all over. Marcos was eating my ass with the calm of a man who has time, pushing his tongue against the hole, circling it, wetting me thoroughly. He licked from my perineum all the way up, long and slow, with his whole tongue, then pressed the tip dead center, applying pressure until I felt myself open a little. I gripped the sofa back with both hands and arched my back, offering him more. Every movement was deliberate. There was nothing random in what he did.

—What an ass you have —he said under his breath, without stopping licking—. It’s fucking amazing.

He slid in a finger wet with saliva. Then two. He moved them inside patiently, bending them to touch me where he needed to touch me, while keeping his tongue circling around me. I was already dripping in front, with my cock —small, forgotten— hanging hard between my legs, spattering the insides of my thighs with thin threads of clear fluid.

I put on the lubricant while he put on the condom. He watched me do it without saying anything, and in his silence there was no impatience, but something more like respect. I squirted a generous amount on my fingers and worked it deep inside, coating my ass from within, then spread another squeeze over his sheathed cock, massaging it from base to tip so it would be thoroughly lubricated.

Then came what I’d been waiting for for days.

He stood behind me and pressed the head of his cock to my hole. He started slowly, just as I’d asked. First a little, letting me adjust. I felt the thick head push and the ring give way, felt my ass open around the glans until the tip went in all the way and he stopped there, waiting. I let out a long, held-back moan and pushed my hips back, asking for more. Then more. He slid it in little by little, centimeter by centimeter, while stroking my lower back with open palms. Then all of it. When I had him completely inside, I closed my eyes and stayed still for a moment, just feeling the weight of it, the width filling me where no one had reached me for months, before I started moving.

—Move whenever you want —he said—. I’ll follow you.

I started, pushing back against him, rubbing my ass against his belly to feel him buried deep. Marcos held my hips and followed my lead, letting me set the pace. Then he took control. He began moving forward, pulling almost halfway out and driving all the way back in, with firm, even thrusts that made me moan every time the base hit my cheeks. The sound of skin against skin filled the hallway. My cheek was pressed against the sofa back, my mouth open, and I kept repeating under my breath, «like that, like that, keep going, don’t stop».

Marcos knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t hurry. He asked once, very softly, if I was okay, and when I told him yes he kept going. His hands never left my hips except to run one along my back, up my neck, and grab my hair firmly without hurting me. His rhythm was steady and generous, without that tendency some men have to speed up too soon thinking that’s what a woman wants.

That’s not what a woman wants.

He made me change positions without pulling out all the way: he lifted one leg and rested it on the sofa arm to fuck me from the side, one hand on my cheek spreading it open and the other on my waist. From that angle he went deeper, and every thrust tore a sharper moan from me. I asked him to slam it in all the way, not to let up, and he obeyed. His cock came in and out shining with lubricant, and I could see out of the corner of my eye how his belly slammed against my ass again and again.

Then he laid me on my back on the sofa, bent my legs until my ankles rested on his shoulders, and fucked me again while looking me in the face. He drove it in all at once and I screamed, gripping the back of the sofa with both hands. He started fucking me like that, deep, with long thrusts, watching the pleasure crumple my face every time he bottomed out. He spit on my own cock, which had stayed hard against my belly, and started jerking me off with his free hand to the same rhythm he was using to fuck me from behind. I could feel the cum rising and I held it back because I didn’t want to come before he did.

For a while, which could have been twenty minutes or five, nothing else existed. Not the shared apartment, not the clock, not the forty minutes on the bus. Only this: his cock buried me to the throat from below, the thump-thump of his balls against my ass, his hand milking my cock, and his face over mine breathing on me.

***

We’d been at it a good while when his phone rang on the living room table. He ignored it the first time without stopping. The second time, the screen clearly showed the name from where I was: Sebastián.

He exhaled through his nose.

—One second —he said.

He slid out of me slowly, and I felt the immediate emptiness of my ass closing over nothing. He answered the call with his back to me, in a low voice, his cock still stiff and pointing at the ceiling under the glossy condom. I caught fragments: «I know, yeah... how long?... ah... really?... okay.» He hung up and turned to me with an expression that needed no explanation.

—He says the doctor saw him faster than expected. He’ll be here in ten minutes.

Ten minutes.

There was a silent moment between the two of us where we both calculated the same thing at once. He tried; I tried. I got on all fours on the sofa and asked him to put it back in, to finish inside, not to let up. Marcos shoved it back in and started fucking me harder than before, gripping my hips and yanking me back against his cock with force. But the pressure of knowing footsteps could sound in the hallway at any moment changed something in the air. The body hears those things even when the mind wants to ignore them. I had my head turned toward the door, waiting for the intercom, and he sped up but couldn’t find the rhythm. We finished hurriedly, neither of us getting where we wanted to get, and when the building intercom sounded I was already in the bathroom gathering my things.

I fixed myself in the small bathroom mirror. I wiped between my cheeks with a wet wipe, pulled my panties back up while my skin was still hot and sensitive inside, and composed myself. I came out into the hallway just as Sebastián was opening the apartment door with his keys. He was young, with the face of someone who hadn’t slept well. He looked at me with casual curiosity.

—Hi —he said.

—Hi —I replied.

And I went down the stairs without waiting for the elevator.

On the street, the noon sun was too bright for the mood I was in. So close. I went home with that particular taste of things that started well and didn’t quite finish, my ass still stretched, feeling the empty space his cock had left when he pulled it out without cumming inside. Half satisfaction and total frustration, mixed in equal parts.

That’s why I don’t like shared apartments. There is always, always, someone who comes back earlier than they said.

***

The next day I tried not to dwell on it. I checked the pending messages in the app and replied to one that had been there for days, a man who had insisted several times. He wasn’t my ideal type —his photos weren’t as clear as Marcos’s and his messages had that impatient energy that doesn’t convince me— but I thought maybe the real-life encounter would be different. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes you get pleasantly surprised.

I was completely wrong.

He didn’t have Marcos’s patience. He didn’t have his way of taking his time. I got to his place still hoping to make up for the day before, and without barely saying hello he shoved me against the hallway wall with a force I hadn’t asked for. He yanked my pants down to my knees, unzipped himself, pulled out his cock —thin, dry, not a drop of lubricant on it— and put it against my ass. He tried to shove into me at once, without lubricant, without preparation, in one motion. I tensed immediately, my anus closed by instinct, and the tip slid up instead. That wasn’t what we’d discussed. That wasn’t what I’d told him I liked.

—Stop —I said—. Slowly. And put on lubricant, please.

—This is how I am —he replied, as if that were explanation enough, and pushed again against the dry hole.

It wasn’t.

There are men who confuse intensity with brutality. Intensity is built between two people reading each other, adjusting the rhythm, paying attention. Brutality comes alone, one-sided, and adds nothing for anyone. I told him again that this wasn’t what I’d asked for. He didn’t change. I left after fifteen minutes, more frustrated than the day before, with the sense that I’d wasted time and hope on someone who was never going to listen.

That afternoon I went straight home and didn’t answer any more of his messages.

***

It’s been several weeks since those two encounters. I’m still on the app. I still check profiles with the patience I learned over the years: I rule out those without a real photo, those who exaggerate in the description, those who reply too quickly with too much enthusiasm. Filtering takes time but it’s worth it. A single good experience justifies months of searching.

Marcos wrote to me two days after the interruption. He apologized about his roommate. I told him he didn’t need to apologize, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, that these things happen when someone lives with others. I asked him whether at any point he had the apartment to himself, without a roommate, without visitors, without intercoms ringing at the wrong moment.

He told me yes. That his roommate sometimes goes to visit his parents for the weekend. That he’d let me know when that happened.

That was a month ago. I’m still waiting for that message.

In the meantime, I keep looking. I don’t ask for much: a man who knows what he’s doing, who has the patience to build the moment, who isn’t in a rush to get to the end before the other person is ready to get there. A man who understands that for someone like me, who has spent years keeping all this inside, every encounter carries a weight he may not fully be able to calculate. Who treats it accordingly.

It’s not that much to ask. It only takes the right man, the right moment and, above all, an apartment to himself.