I Came Out as Trans and a Man Was Waiting for Me

Hello. Sorry for the delay; these past few weeks got more complicated than I expected. Today I’m starting to tell my story from the beginning: my coming out —or rather my escape— from the closet. I’ve received a lot of questions and I promise I’ll answer them in what’s to come, but I already had this text half-finished and wanted to share it now.

A kiss, Vera.

***

I always knew I was a woman. Always, or almost always. But not until well into my teens did I fully understand what that meant. It was only when I began hearing words around me like transvestite, transsexual, deviant, or effeminate that I could put a name to what was happening inside me, and also gauge how hard everything was going to be. Because from the start I was clear that my family would not accept it and that I would have to build my future on my own.

Luckily I was wrong, at least partly. I opened up to one of the girls in class, the one who, at my religious school, seemed the sharpest of them all, and told her what was happening to me. Instead of backing away, Noa listened to me, told me I was right, and encouraged me until she became my best friend. Not only that: she came with me to buy clothes, taught me how to put on makeup, and was my crutch on my first outings. But the best thing she gave me was the way she treated me. From the very first minute she treated me like just another girl and shared her intimacy with me just as she did with any of her friends.

With her support I dared to make my first outings dressed as a woman around the city center, and shortly after that to meet guys through a chat room. It wasn’t hard to arouse the interest of several men online. Once I ruled out the ones who only wanted a quick photo, I picked one to meet up with.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had just turned twenty and he, Diego, was twenty-four and studying law. Before seeing each other in person, we had talked for several days by message and had sent each other a few photos. We met at a café in central Valencia, and I arrived with Noa, at whose house I had gotten ready. She dropped me off on the corner, to keep an eye from afar to make sure everything went well, and I walked over to Diego’s table, whom I recognized right away.

I was wearing a red miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and a top covered by an oversized sweater that hid my lack of curves. I had put on shoes with far too much heel that I had bought with Noa the first time I was able to choose women’s footwear, and a black shoulder-length wig with various accessories my friend had lent me.

Diego stood up and, nervously, gave me two kisses on the cheek. I, trembling as much or more than he was, returned them and sat down. It took us a while to calm down and pick up the conversation again, but little by little we recovered the ease we’d had behind a screen. We talked for a good while and I almost forgot that I was trans, the looks I felt drilling into my back, the nerves. At some point everything was reduced to the normal uncertainty of a first date: whether he liked me, whether I should make the first move, whether he was going to kiss me.

I didn’t have to worry. After an hour he suggested we take a walk. He paid, took my hand as we left, and we walked along in near silence. Suddenly we entered the university campus. I asked him where he was taking me, and with a smile he asked me to trust him. We crossed a huge foyer and emerged into an inner courtyard full of trees.

“You’d never been here before?” he asked me.

I shook my head and let out a “It’s beautiful” that he seized on instantly.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said.

It wasn’t an original line, but to me, young and afraid of being left out of everything, it went straight to the core. I looked him in the eyes and took his other hand. He accepted the invitation, put his arms around my waist, drew me against his body, and kissed me.

It was beautiful. Feeling his lips, his chest against mine, letting myself be carried away by his hands. For a few seconds I forgot everything. But then the inevitable happened: my cock woke up and, hard as a rock, it outlined itself over my skirt. I stiffened and Diego pulled away.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I looked down before answering and saw the bulge betraying me through the fabric.

“I think I need to sit down,” I muttered, red as a tomato, hiding behind him from the few people passing by. We walked to the nearest bench.

“What’s wrong?” he insisted, worried.

The answer was obvious when, even seated, he saw the shape still marking my crotch. His face changed at once. He got nervous and started blurting out things like, “What are you going to do?”, “How do you hide it?” I looked at him without understanding his reaction. I was already pretty upset and his attitude wasn’t helping. When he asked me to hide it, not let anyone see it, I don’t know where I found the courage to tell him to stop, to leave.

Now it was his turn not to believe me. It took him a few seconds to understand, several more to stammer something, and a couple of minutes to repeat that he only wanted to help me, that he was sorry, and so on. I cut him off. I wasn’t naive enough not to know when it was best to cut things off cleanly, and I insisted again that he go. When he finally did and I was left alone, my erection had already gone down, but I still spent a good while crying on that bench.

***

That first experience made me much more careful. After that I had a couple of dates that, though they didn’t end quite so badly, led nowhere. Until I met Andrés. I met him in the chat too, but he was very different from the others, who were university students between nineteen and twenty-five. Andrés was thirty-nine and worked in a warehouse. He was many years older than me and, I thought, came from a world opposite to mine. If I was young and came from a comfortable family, with money, education, and a conservative, deeply religious temperament, he was the opposite: a self-made man, a blue-collar worker who had barely finished the basics and had started earning a living at sixteen. That raised a lot of doubts in me, but he wore them down with patience until he convinced me to meet him.

I remember every date with him clearly. As on the other occasions, I had Noa’s help getting ready, but this time I left the house on my own. It was April and the heat was starting, so I chose a short pink polo shirt that left my navel bare and hid my lack of breasts, and a pleated miniskirt. I looked very sexy. I went in with some fear to the bar he had suggested, a dim cocktail place that was almost empty in the afternoon. I found him in a booth, smoking, and he only stood up to give me two kisses and a long look from head to toe.

At first, nothing he said managed to ease my discomfort, and after a somewhat tense conversation I thought about leaving. Luckily I didn’t. He, who must have noticed how I was feeling, apologized for his awkwardness and confessed that he was very uncomfortable too: that I was very young, that it was the first time he’d been with a trans girl, and that, on top of that, I was very pretty. I accepted his apologies and, on an impulse I still can’t explain, I stroked his hand. Less than half an hour had passed since I arrived and with that gesture we had already broken the ice.

Andrés dared to go further. He caught my hand, played with my fingers, and a few seconds later slid his palm over my bare thigh. I was surprised by how forward he was, especially after what he’d said, but it was a welcome change. I let him do it for a few seconds and he took my silent permission to caress my neck with his other hand and kiss me hungrily. I returned every step. I even invited him, guiding his hand, to slip under my skirt. On my first date that had been the point where everything went wrong; this time he stroked my thigh without hesitation, the smooth fabric of my underwear, and the hardness showing beneath. He didn’t pull his fingers away: he pressed over the thong, feeling every inch of my hard cock, following the outline with his fingertip until he found the wet tip. A gasp escaped my mouth against his and he smiled without stopping kissing me, with the confidence of someone who knows he already has me in his hands.

With a gesture he invited me to sit on top of him and I accepted. I immediately felt his firm bulge pressing against my thighs, and I began to move my hips softly, rubbing my trans girl cunt against the swollen cock outlined in his pants. I had never done anything like that before, but the movements came out of me on their own, from within. He kept running his hands over my thighs beneath my skirt while I hugged and kissed him nonstop. He slipped a hand behind me, slid his fingers under the elastic of my thong, and found my bare ass, and from there he moved down to brush my little hole with the pad of a finger. I jolted and bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan out loud. He took advantage of the movement to settle me better over his bulge and press harder, until I felt the entire shape of his cock marking itself against the crack of my ass, with only two layers of fabric between us. Suddenly there was enormous complicity between us and we barely separated except to sip our drinks or say something stupid.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. I was glad to have my back to the door, because when we pulled apart more customers had come in and my hard cock was brazenly lifting the fabric, with a dark stain of pre-cum peeking at the tip. Something Andrés loved. He slipped his hand under my skirt one last time, squeezed me over the soaked thong, and brought the finger to his mouth to suck it, staring straight at me.

“What do you want to do?” I asked him, wishing he’d take me to his place, make me his, fuck me right there if necessary.

He smiled, stroked the back of my neck, kissed my throat, and looked at me again.

“I want us to order another drink calmly, kiss each other again, and say goodbye in a little while wanting to do it again,” he said, confidently.

I made a move to argue, but he silenced me by placing a finger on my lips.

“I know what you’d like, and I would too, but I want to take it slowly, enjoy every step. Okay?”

I nodded, disarmed, and let him go order two more drinks.

***

After that date, which ended the same way but without going any further, came another, and then another. The three were similar, but, as he had predicted, everything improved as we got to know each other. Each meeting was a little better than the last: more trust, less fear. And I, of course, fell in love. Maybe we had nothing in common, maybe the age difference was huge, but he made me feel loved, understood, and very much a woman. It would have been perfect if it had gone on like that, getting to know each other without rushing, but then something happened that rushed everything forward.

I had long since decided to come out of the closet and tell my family who I really was. I knew it would be hard for them: with how religious and traditional they were, if a gay son would have seemed unthinkable to them, a trans daughter was outside anything they could have imagined. Even so, I felt I had to take the step, and I hoped that with time and conversation they would come to understand it. I also counted on my older sisters to help soften the blow. That was the theory. But one night I understood that things were not going to go the way I wanted.

It was during dinner. My mother and my sisters had gone shopping and, excited, they were showing the men of the house everything they had bought. My father and brothers endured the explanations patiently, and I watched them enviously. Everything was fine until my older sister’s face changed.

“You’re not going to believe what happened to us!” she blurted out.

We looked at her expectantly and she shot back:

“In one of the stores there were two transvestites dressed as women in the fitting room next door.”

My other sister added that “it would have been funny if it weren’t so shameful to see those guys pretending to be girls.” And that opened the floodgates. My brothers began making disparaging comments about anything that sounded trans. My little brother even said he didn’t understand how they let “people like that” in, and my mother finished it off with the sentence that broke me in two:

“Don’t worry, I already told the manager that as long as they accept that kind of people, we won’t be coming back. Let’s see who spends more there.”

I don’t know how I got through the rest of dinner without crying. Every minute, the stone in my stomach grew heavier and stole my breath. What I did know, once I was locked in my room and crying nonstop, was that I could no longer stay in that house.

When I felt composed enough and knew what I was going to do, I called Andrés and, through tears, asked him to take me in. If he tried to talk me out of it, I didn’t notice: I answered every one of his doubts until I convinced him the decision was irreversible and that there was no other way out. I felt enormous relief when he agreed. Without imagining everything that would entail, I set about writing letters to my family and to Noa. To my own family I left a sliver of hope: a door back, if one day they accepted me as I was.

That task took up an almost sleepless night that, fortunately, left me no room to think coldly. When the sun came up I was ready to go and leave my whole life behind. I packed some mementos and the few clothes I owned into my usual backpack. I had breakfast like any ordinary day, took the bag, said goodbye to everyone, and left with my brothers, turning as usual toward Noa’s place. But I didn’t go straight there: I waited for her to go out alone to leave the letter in her mailbox. The last thing I did before taking the bus was stop by the bank and empty my account. I didn’t have much, but I hoped it would be enough.

I crossed the city from end to end on a journey that separated me from absolutely everything. My family, my friends, my things were left so far behind it felt as if I were leaving Valencia for Timbuktu. Suddenly I was in a neighborhood I didn’t know, surrounded by completely anonymous people. The feeling sharpened when I reached Andrés’s building.

I rang the bell, a voice let me in, and I went up in an old, slow elevator. Under the doormat, as he had told me, I found a key. Andrés left at five in the morning and came back at five thirty in the afternoon, so I found myself alone. The block was one of those tall, old apartment buildings on the outskirts, built with as little taste and as little expense as possible, and inside the impression was confirmed. I came from a huge apartment, with even a service area, and suddenly I was in fifty square meters with two bedrooms and a tiny balcony from which you could only see more identical buildings, lots of laundry hanging out, and a distant glimpse of the sea.

I changed clothes, put on makeup, and inspected every corner. That was when I began to understand what I had really done, how much my life had changed. From being a middle-class boy who studied, I had become a trans woman with just enough and nothing more, dependent on a man I barely knew, with only one friend far away. After that I would never dress any other way again, but I had given up a great deal. And I knew that, to survive, I had to keep Andrés as happy as I could.

So I spent the day cleaning and preparing dinner with what I found and my utter lack of experience in the kitchen. When his time came near, I waited for him at the door with a beer in my hand, swallowing my urge to cry, and threw myself into his arms to kiss him. I wanted to be the perfect woman. When he tried to ask me how I was, I sidestepped him with evasive answers while I guided him toward the sofa. He put up a little resistance when he noticed my hands playing with his fly, but what I found told me I was on the right track.

“No need to…” he began, while I grabbed his hardness and freed it from his pants.

I shushed him and pulled his boxer briefs down to his thighs. His cock sprang free, hard, thick, with a purple head and a fat vein running along the shaft. I stared at it for a second, gauging its size with my hand, feeling the weight, the heat, the pulse under the skin. Tenderly I stroked it a couple of times from top to bottom, pulling the foreskin back to reveal the glans properly, and sat him on the sofa with his legs open.

“Seriously, there’s no need,” he repeated when I knelt in front of him.

“Of course there’s a need,” I replied with a smile. “I’m grateful, I want to show it, and besides, I’m in the mood. I want to suck your cock, Andrés. I want to do it properly.”

I smiled at him and kept stroking him while looking into his eyes. He was a good size, similar to mine but thicker, and already beginning to leak a transparent drop at the tip that I found irresistible. With my free hand I slipped under my skirt and checked that I was hard too, with my thong soaked and stretched by my own erection. I pulled it down a little so my cock would be free under the pleated fabric and got ready to start.

I stuck out my tongue and licked the drop of pre-cum, tasting its salt for the first time. I felt his hot skin under my tongue, smooth and throbbing. I ran the tip of my tongue along his entire length, from the head to the base, and from there went lower still to suck his balls, first one and then the other, taking them whole into my mouth one by one while I kept stroking his cock with my hand. Andrés let out a hoarse growl and spread his legs wider to give me room. I slowly came back up, leaving a trail of saliva over the entire length, until I rested my lips on the tip and gave it a wet kiss. I did it the way I imagined it would be best, and I think I got it right. With a soft moan, Andrés rested his hands on my head.

I took that as a sign: I opened my mouth wide, wrapped my lips tightly around my teeth, and began to go down slowly, savoring every centimeter, feeling him enter me while I grew hotter and hotter. At first just the head, moving my tongue around the glans, nosing at the frenulum, sucking hard as if I were drawing out the juice. Then half the cock, hollowing out my cheeks so the friction would be stronger. He let out gasps that ran up my back like an electric current. I don’t know if at any point I doubted whether I’d like it, but by then I had it absolutely clear that I loved it, that I had been born to have a cock in my mouth.

When I got to the bottom, with the head of his cock hitting the back of my throat and gag reflexes threatening to come, frustrated at not being able to take more, I came back up and set a rhythm. In and out, a little more each time, saliva running down my chin and dripping onto my thighs. I grabbed my own cock with my free hand and started jerking off at the same rhythm I was sucking him, syncing every descent with a pull of my fist. His cock filled my mouth completely, thick, hard, throbbing against my palate, and every time I pulled it out a thread of saliva escaped and linked it to my lips. I slid it back in right away, deeper, forcing my throat until my nose brushed the hair of his pubic mound. He accompanied me with his hands, guiding me, setting the tempo, holding my wig carefully so he wouldn’t rip it off.

“Fuck, baby… like that, yes… you suck it so well…” he panted, voice broken, looking down at me with half-closed eyes. “Swallow it whole, princess, swallow my whole cock.”

I obeyed without taking my eyes off him. I let him fuck my mouth at his pace, push his hips against my face, shove his cock down my throat even if my eyes watered. Every time he pulled it all the way out I took the chance to breathe through my nose, suck one of his balls, lick his shaft from top to bottom, and bury it again until my throat was forced open. His moans grew more intense and my own hand moved faster and faster between my legs, squeezing my cock, running my thumb over the slippery, pre-cum-slick head. I don’t know how long it lasted, but to me it felt too short. I would have gone on forever, on my knees at his feet, with his cock tearing my mouth apart, feeling like the happiest whore in the world.

Then Andrés gripped my head more firmly with both hands and changed the rhythm. He started really fucking my mouth, in and out faster and deeper and faster, without giving me any respite. I relaxed my throat and let him do it, my eyes tearing up, spit sliding down to my flat breasts, my own cock leaking under my skirt. I knew he was close. The speed increased, he came in and out faster and faster, grunting with each thrust, and suddenly his hands drove me all the way down, to the very bottom, my nose flattened against his belly. His cock swelled even more between my lips, pulsed hard, and my throat filled with hot, thick jets of semen. One, two, three, four heavy spurts that barely gave me time to swallow. I tasted the salty, dense liquid sliding down toward my stomach, and more of it overflowing from the corners of my mouth down to my chin.

When he finally let go of me and pulled his cock out, still half hard, a thread of cum mixed with saliva hung from my lip. I caught it with my finger and brought it back to my mouth without breaking eye contact with him, savoring it to the last drop. Then I gave the tip of his cock one last wet kiss, sucking the little drops that were still left, cleaning it with my tongue. A feeling of fullness, of achievement, washed over me, the certainty that I had just become not only a woman, but his woman.