Trans

I dialed the number he gave me on the road without knowing his name. In two hours he’d be at my door, and I’d already put on the blonde wig and my highest heels.

For four days the little paper with his number burned in my pocket. Every night I remembered that wetness dripping out, and I knew I was going to call.

I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye on the stairs for weeks. The afternoon I came home and found her on my sofa, I learned desire doesn’t care about labels.

I closed my eyes, stuck my ass up, and waited to hear his voice. I didn’t want lingerie or flirting—just to be naked and ready for him to keep his promise.

I looked in the mirror, bit my lip, and knew that photo would have consequences. It didn’t take three minutes for the key to turn in my lock.

There are mornings when I wake up wet, my nipples hard, with one fixed thought. Another of my heat weeks has begun and no one at home suspects what I’m hiding.

She stepped onto the stage in a red dress and with an impossible voice. She had no idea that singing that well was the trap her producer would use to cage her forever.

Drunk and heartbroken after losing my job, I said yes to her flirting. “Just five minutes in the bathroom,” she promised. I had no idea how far she meant to go.

Widowed, out of date, and alone, Rodrigo just wanted to blow off steam on a Saturday night. He never expected the stranger at the bar to offer him something he’d never considered.

She laughed at my jokes, touched my arm, and I thought I had her in the bag. I never imagined she’d be the one taking control that night in the hotel room.

The Rio girl sat between them like the night belonged to her. “Soft or the kind that break things?” she asked. Neither of them knew what was still waiting to be discovered.

“And you don’t mind that she’s got a cock?” her cousin asked before introducing her to me. I said I wanted to get to know her first. That same night I ended up on my knees at her feet.

I practiced in front of the mirror for weeks. The night I packed the dress into my backpack, I knew there was no turning back: this time it would be real.

We’d been meeting for six years to do the same thing: tell each other things and touch ourselves shamelessly. That night Camila promised a surprise and opened the adjoining room door.

I walked into the suite expecting a frightened woman. I never imagined what was hiding under that long skirt, or how eagerly she meant to show me.

Andrés was fifty-three and his marriage was broken when she brushed his hand with her red nails and whispered in his ear not to fear exploring.

I’d spent months fantasizing about being with a trans girl. That night, in the passenger seat, she whispered in my ear that she’d noticed the way I was looking at her.

There was a locked door next to Barbara’s room. I opened it out of curiosity, not knowing that by that same afternoon I’d end up tied down inside.

I bought black stockings with my heart in my throat, knowing that once I locked my apartment door I’d become the woman I’d been imagining all day.

After midnight I put on the red heels, opened the gate with the remote, and went out for a walk. I only wanted to feel seen. I didn’t expect someone to stop.