The Trans Guy at the Bar Changed All My Rules

Rodrigo had been widowed eight months earlier. His wife’s death had come out of nowhere, without warning, like a slammed door in the middle of the night. It hit him hard on every front: his mood, his routine, the very meaning of things. At fifty-two, he found himself rethinking everything he had taken for granted until then—his values, the way he lived, even the way he spent Sundays.

Only a few weeks earlier he had started going out on Saturday nights. The house felt like it was closing in on him and he needed air, voices, people. The problem was that he felt completely out of his depth. Reggaeton and hip swivels were not his scene. He felt like a wax figure escaped from a museum, a man from another decade planted in the middle of a party he didn’t understand.

Leaning on the bar of a downtown club, he settled for watching the girls, most of them very young, moving their hips as if they had a motor inside them.

“I think that’s what they call perreo,” the man sharing the bar beside him remarked.

The guy was a few years younger than him, maybe thirty-nine, and introduced himself without beating around the bush.

“My name’s Damián. Looks like tonight’s not our night either. We’re going home empty-handed. It gets harder to pick up when you’re older.”

“Everything gets harder when you’re older,” Rodrigo replied, and they both burst out laughing. “I’m Rodrigo. Nice to meet you. At least we’ve cleared our heads a bit, even if we’re not getting our hands on anything.”

Damián was an attractive man. He wore a suit, had his hair slicked back, and sported a short beard, neatly trimmed. He had a deep voice and a calm way of looking people in the eye that made you want to stay.

They struck up an easy conversation, the kind that flows on its own. Going out alone at night had that downside: there was no one to comment on what you were seeing. They left that bar and tried others in the area, taking turns buying drinks, laughing at their own clumsiness on the dance floor.

By the time they’d gotten close enough, with the alcohol loosening their tongues, Damián dropped a confession on him.

“Haven’t you noticed I’m a trans guy?”

“Honestly, no,” Rodrigo said, looking at him without alarm. “You look very masculine. Anyway, that doesn’t matter to me. From now on, we’re two hunting buddies.”

“Well, I’m gay too. I go out looking for a good stud.”

“But if you changed sex, it’s because you were into women, right?” Rodrigo asked, genuinely intrigued.

“I was a boy trapped in a woman’s body. I wanted to change gender so I could be what I am today and enjoy sex with men, as a man myself.”

“The surgeons must have done a good job on you. Some people are lucky!”

“I changed gender, not sex. I’ve got a cunt, and right now it’s soaking wet from how horny you make me. If you want, it’s open and eager,” he told him with a sly smile.

***

Rodrigo fell silent for a moment, caught in a small dilemma. There were two options: go home alone and masturbate, as he’d been doing since his wife died, or go with Damián, who was a man, yes, but a man with a wet, ready sex waiting between his legs. A cunt is a cunt, no matter who it belongs to, he thought. Far from putting him off, the idea began to heat up his crotch.

With Damián he’d be getting more than sex: he’d be gaining a friend to go out for drinks with, and, in the bargain, a mouth, a juicy cunt, and a tight ass where he could unload everything he’d been building up for months. He had nothing to complain about.

“I don’t have the full operation,” Damián explained. “That way I’ve got access to a whole bunch of straight guys who would never sleep with a man with a dick. If I had a penis, my audience would be cut in half. We can be friends with benefits, no need to overcomplicate it.”

Rodrigo nodded. He gave him a once-over from head to toe, looking for any trace of the woman Damián had left behind, something to latch onto and fully ignite his desire, and replied:

“I accept the deal, Damián. Let’s go to your place—I want to see what this is all about.”

They went to get Damián’s car. It was a blue convertible, a two-seater that gleamed under the streetlights as if it had just rolled out of the dealership.

“For a spin in this thing, I’d let you fuck me from behind,” Rodrigo joked, and they both laughed as they pulled away.

***

Once in the apartment, Damián put on a Chet Baker record, that slow, raspy trumpet filling the living room with an odd calm. They poured two drinks and talked about love, sex, and the twists and turns of life. Rodrigo could feel his heart racing, a mix of nerves and curiosity he hadn’t felt in years.

At one point, Damián moved closer and started licking his ear. He ran his tongue over the lobe, nibbled the cartilage, slid the tip along the inside of the shell until it sent a shiver down the back of Rodrigo’s neck.

“This and a lot more is what I’m going to do to your dick in a little while,” he whispered. “You won’t notice the difference.”

“The beard is the only thing that puts me off a little,” Rodrigo admitted. “Wouldn’t you ever think about shaving it off?”

“Without the beard I’d look like the girl I’ve been running from for years. I’d lose what I am. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. And down below I’m shaved, so you’ll be able to taste me without having to spit out hairs every two seconds. You won’t have any excuse to get distracted.”

They stripped off in no time. At first, the sight of a bearded man with a cunt threw Rodrigo. He was more used to the idea of a trans girl with a dick, not this.

“That’s because of the society we live in,” Damián said, amused. “No one sees trans guys with vaginas. That’s why your brain has trouble fitting it together.”

“You’re right,” Rodrigo admitted. “They say it’s easier to split an atom than a prejudice. Well, tonight I’m going to split one, and I’m going to make love to you like no one ever has.”

They shared a long, deep kiss, the kind that wipes out any doubt.

***

They got into a sixty-nine with Damián on top. He licked Rodrigo’s shaft from bottom to top, sucked on the head until it was redder than usual, took the whole thing in his mouth with a technique that betrayed experience. Rodrigo moaned without being able to help it.

Meanwhile, wrapped around Damián’s firm thighs, he buried his face in that soaking sex, licked with devotion, gathered up every drop before swallowing it. He didn’t forget the ass: he ran his tongue around the rim of the anus, over the slit hidden by those hard cheeks, and felt Damián shudder every time he did it.

He realized right away that ass was no virgin, not by a long shot. Damián had been enjoyed through all three holes, and that night Rodrigo intended to try them all.

After a good while of eating each other out, they moved into missionary. Rodrigo drove into him in two thrusts. He hadn’t felt that in months—the wet, tight heat closing around his cock—and for a second he closed his eyes and let go.

He mixed it with licks at Damián’s nipples, moved up to his neck, bit the skin of his shoulder, went back to his mouth. He never stayed still. Every few minutes they changed position: on all fours, on their sides, Damián sitting on top facing him and then facing away.

In that last position, Damián finally came with a hoarse cry that seemed to bounce off the walls, soaking Rodrigo’s thighs and balls. He caught his breath for a moment before speaking.

“I’ve tasted your mouth, I’ve tasted your cunt, and now I want to taste the last thing,” Rodrigo said. “I’ve never stuck it up anyone’s ass before. But since you’re not a virgin there, I’m turned on as hell to find out what it feels like.”

“It’s a deal, baby,” Damián replied. “Break me however you want and come inside if you feel like it. It turns me on to feel you there, hard, opening me up.”

***

Damián got on all fours and waited eagerly for his stud to penetrate him. He wanted to feel every inch of that hot, hard flesh making its way inside. Rodrigo knelt behind him, brought the tip to the hole, and started pushing, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until he was all the way in.

At first he fucked that ass at a slow pace, almost carefully, and little by little he built up the rhythm until it became a savage pounding. The bed creaked, the two of them’ breathing filled the room, sweat began to shine on Damián’s back.

Rodrigo loved having his partner sit on him from behind, so he suggested it. They’d done it before, but with him entering from the front; now he was going in through the back door. He leaned back on the sofa in the living room and Damián settled into a squat on top of him, feet braced on his thighs, lowering himself little by little onto his man’s cock.

Rodrigo held him by the waist, helping him up and down, and with his right hand he stroked his sex to bring him to a second orgasm at the same time he finished. But there was still more: he planned to enjoy it for at least another twenty minutes before letting it all go.

How tightly he slid in through that tunnel! He had to be rock-hard, because at the slightest hesitation it was impossible to keep going. Rodrigo licked his sweat-soaked back, and Damián kept repeating the same thing between gasps.

“I’m coming, baby. Rub me with your fingers, hard, and fuck me hard from behind. This is heaven, fuck!”

And at last the climax came for both of them at once. Rodrigo snorted with every thrust, emptying himself completely inside him, and Damián moaned with his eyes rolled back, shaken by a brutal orgasm, the kind you can count on one hand.

Afterward they crawled to the bed, curled up spooning, and fell asleep without saying anything else. There was no need.

Rodrigo and Damián reached a good understanding. Real friendship and good sex, which sometimes is all you need to feel alive again.