My First Time with a Trans Guy in the Parking Garage

I’d spent two weeks putting off that meeting.

First it was him who canceled, then it was me. Always something: the schedule, work, an excuse that wasn’t really an excuse but fear dressed up as busyness. Because what was waiting in that date was not an ordinary thing. It was one of those fantasies you feed in silence for years, the kind that never quite get a name spoken out loud, and then suddenly appear in front of you with a user profile and photos that keep you awake at night.

His name on the app was NikoFTM91. Mine, Cobra7. In my profile picture I was shirtless, arms crossed, wearing an expression that was trying to look confident. He didn’t show his face: only his torso and, in a second photo, what was below. The first time I saw them I stood frozen in front of the screen for a long while. A vagina on a man’s body. The contrast felt unreal to me and, at the same time, it was exactly what I’d been imagining for years without knowing how to put it into words.

We wrote to each other for weeks. At first it was the usual protocol: what are you looking for, how much experience do you have, what do you like. But as time went on, the messages got more detailed. He told me what his body was like; I told him about mine. He asked whether I didn’t mind, or whether I was attracted to him precisely because of that. I told him the truth: precisely because of that. I don’t know whether he liked that or thought it was strange. What I do know is that he kept writing to me.

That night, finally, everything lined up.

I showered more carefully than usual. I put on dark jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt from some rock band almost nobody remembers anymore, and the sneakers I always feel comfortable in. Normal clothes, clothes for not being late and not drawing attention. I grabbed my phone, my wallet, and left, closing the door slowly, as if I didn’t want anyone in the building to know where I was going.

The surprise came when the GPS showed me six minutes on foot.

Six minutes.

I’d had that guy a walk away for months and never even known it. The city does that: hides the people who might interest you around the corner while you keep looking on the same old map. I smiled a little, though I wouldn’t have known how to say exactly why.

The walk was short, but my mind worked hard. I thought about the photos on his profile, the messages from the previous weekend, the image of that slim body with no pronounced curves and something none of the people I’d been with before had had. A curiosity that had stayed in the background for so long I’d almost accepted it as impossible.

I got to the entrance ahead of time. It was an eighties building: gray facade, no doorman, mailboxes with names written by hand. He’d sent me the instructions in advance: “The door is always open. Come in, cross the inner courtyard, find the elevator at the back, and go down two floors. Turn right and keep going to the end.”

I let him know I was there.

—Okay, two minutes —he replied.

I crossed the courtyard. It smelled of damp and wet earth, that kind of inner-courtyard smell you only find in buildings with history. No one was there. The elevator was old, the kind with metal lattice doors you have to close with both hands before the mechanism starts. I went down two floors feeling the ground rise up around me.

The parking garage was small, room for about twenty cars at most. The lighting was poor: a row of fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, half of them burned out, the rest casting a cold white light that didn’t reach the corners. The sound of traffic from above came muffled, as if someone had turned the whole city’s volume down. I followed the instructions to the far right, where there was a gap between two concrete columns and the wall, hidden from the entrance.

I waited.

Waiting in those circumstances has a particular texture. It isn’t boredom, it’s tension that doesn’t know where to go. I leaned against the cold wall and felt the erection I’d had since leaving home. Without thinking too much, I ran my hand over my jeans and squeezed for a moment.

I saw a figure in the distance. Tall, slow steps. It turned toward the cars on the other side without even looking at me. I breathed out.

I touched myself again, this time more calmly. The minutes passed and impatience mixed with arousal in a way that didn’t help me think clearly. I wondered whether he had canceled again without telling me. I wondered what I would do if he had.

The second figure arrived a few minutes later. Shorter, more direct. He walked toward me without hesitation, with the stride of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. When he was a meter away, instead of speaking, he grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me.

It was a dry kiss, straight to the point. His tongue entered my mouth before I’d fully reacted. With his other hand he pulled mine away from my crotch and replaced it with his, squeezing with deliberate pressure that took my breath away.

—Come on —he said very softly.

We slipped behind the columns.

The light there was almost nonexistent. Only a vague reflection reached us from the fluorescent lights in the central aisle. I could see his face: sharp cheekbones, a neatly kept several-days’ beard, thin-framed glasses he never took off. His eyes were light, almost gray in that dimness. A square jaw. There was nothing in that face that made me think of anything other than a man, and that was precisely what made everything else so disorienting and so attractive at the same time.

His hair was short, a little messy, somewhere between brown and blond. His torso, under his T-shirt, was flat and narrow. No hips. No curves. When he moved, his shoulders defined the width of his body, nothing else.

He knelt down without saying a word.

He unbuckled my belt with the mechanical motions of someone who knows what he’s doing. He unzipped me, reached in, and took me out. The cold of the parking garage lasted exactly one second before the heat of his mouth wiped it out completely.

I had to brace my back against the column so I wouldn’t wobble.

He was good at it. Not rushed, but without pauses, with a steady pressure that came and went in a rhythm that felt calibrated. I put my hand on his head, not to direct him but because I needed to hold onto something. I closed my eyes. The echo of the cars came from far above, distant and indifferent, and down below there was only the sound of my breathing growing shorter and the wet heat of his mouth.

I brushed some hair off his forehead. He kept looking up at me from below, with that filthy calm of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing to you. I was already rock hard, throbbing between his lips, and every time he swallowed or tightened his tongue a little more, a jolt ran from my feet to my head. It wasn’t a caress: it was a delicious fucking torment, a determined suction, the kind of blowjob that empties your mind and leaves you with nothing but your body.

—You like it like this? —he murmured without letting go.

I didn’t answer. I only nodded, jaw clenched.

—Then hang on.

And he kept going. He took me deep into his mouth, pulled back just enough to lick the tip, then sank down again. His saliva shone on his lips whenever he lifted his face for a second to breathe. I could feel his tongue tracing the base of my cock, the frenulum, the head; the way he slipped a bit of tongue under the glans before sucking hard again. I had my fingers dug into the column and my other hand on the back of his neck, feeling the tremor of his breathing under my palm.

But he stopped before I got anywhere.

—Time —he murmured, getting to his feet.

He unbuttoned his pants. He pulled them down along with his underwear to his thighs and turned toward the wall, placing his open palms on the concrete. His back was narrow, smooth. His hips were only slightly wider than his shoulders. And between his legs, there it was—what in the photos had seemed unreal and now, in that basement darkness, was the most concrete thing in the world.

The lips were dark and full. Even in that poor light you could see the wetness.

I took the condom from my back pocket. He nodded without fully turning around. I put it on, moved closer, and found the entrance first with my fingers, to orient myself, then with my hips.

The first centimeter went in slowly. He exhaled, a low sound that bounced between the concrete columns. I pushed a little farther. The pressure was intense, completely unlike anything I’d known before. A heat that clenched from every angle without distinction.

—Keep going —he said.

I slid the tip of my cock carefully between his lips, parting them with the pressure of the glans until I found the wet, hot opening. When I went all the way in, the inner ring embraced me with such a tight force that I had to stop for a second. It wasn’t like being inside a pussy: it was tighter, more vertical, more enveloping in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. He let out a short gasp and dug his hands harder into the wall.

I started moving. I found the rhythm by feel. He arched his back to adjust the angle, and the effect was immediate: the grip changed and I had to bite my lip not to make a sound.

—Like that, fuck —he said, almost through clenched teeth.

I went in and out in short thrusts, each slam driving my balls against his thighs. The friction of the condom didn’t take anything away: the pressure was still brutal, the heat kept rising through my belly, and the way he opened to take me in made me lose control with every stroke. He squeezed his ass, contracted around my cock, and each contraction sent an electric surge up my spine.

—Come on, we don’t have much time —he told me, with no real urgency in his voice, just a practical warning.

I sped up. I drove in harder and he braced himself better against the wall to take each thrust of my hips. He wasn’t screaming, but the sounds he made were unmistakable: short, contained, with his teeth nearly clenched. I didn’t speak either. There was nothing to say. There was only movement, pressure, and the dull sound of two bodies in a dark basement.

I grabbed his waist with both hands and started fucking him harder, going all the way in again and again. Every time I pulled out, the wet lips closed around the tip as if they didn’t want to let me go; every time I pushed back in, I felt the heat cling to the latex and then to my whole body. He spread his legs wider and pushed his ass back, seeking more depth, and I gave it to him. The smack of my hips against his ass echoed softly through the concrete. The smell of sweat and sex began to fill the space between the columns.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I lifted his chin a little with two fingers and saw the face he was making: half-closed eyes, parted lips, broken breathing. He had the expression of someone holding on right at the edge. I slipped my tongue into his mouth when he kissed me again, and that kiss was wetter, rougher, almost a fight. I tasted our mixed saliva and felt the impact of his tongue against mine as I kept moving inside him.

He slid one hand between our bodies and grabbed my cock over the condom, stroking me at the same time I was pounding into him. The combination was unbearable. My moans came out hoarse, short, out of control. He squeezed me with wrist and palm, up and down to the rhythm of my hips, and every time he pressed the head I felt my whole body begging to be emptied.

I didn’t expect this.

He brought his forehead to mine. There we stayed for a moment, breathing the same air, before he let out a longer sound and clamped his thighs together hard. A shiver ran up his back from bottom to top. Then he went still for a few seconds, eyes closed and lips pressed tight.

He tensed all at once. The vagina clenched around me with a soaking-wet force, expelling a spasm that threw me off rhythm for half a second. His legs trembled. I kept moving, because I couldn’t stop, because the sensation of being trapped in that tight embrace while he came drove me completely insane. A rough groan came out of him, almost a growl, and I pressed harder against his ass, thrusting until I felt the end of the penetration again and again.

He pulled out, bent down, and took off the condom with quick, precise hands. He wrapped his fingers around me and started moving. I grabbed the edge of the column. It didn’t take long.

He leaned down and caught with his mouth what had spilled out. A gesture so direct it left me completely speechless.

He pulled his pants back up. Buttoned them. I did the same, more slowly, my legs still a little weak.

—Good —was the only thing he said.

And he left the way he’d come, without looking back, with the same calm stride as before.

***

It took me a couple of minutes to be able to move. Not because I was exhausted: my legs were fine, my head too. It was more that I needed a moment for everything to settle back into place before going out into the street and returning to the world as usual.

The elevator took a while to come down. I went up with the lattice doors trembling around me and emerged into the courtyard, which still smelled the same as before, of damp earth and old building. In the entrance I stopped for a moment in front of the mailbox without reading a single name.

The air outside was cool. There was a streetlamp flickering on the corner and someone walking a dog in the distance. Everything exactly the same as when I came in. Me, not quite.

I started walking home. Six minutes back, just like on the way there. Somewhere between the entrance and my street, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

“Again whenever you want.”

I didn’t answer right away. I put the phone away and kept walking, hands in my jeans pockets and a smile I hadn’t planned to have.

It had taken me two weeks to get to that basement. The way back took six minutes. But the fantasy I’d been feeding in silence for years—that one was over. And it had been better than I’d imagined.