The Trans Woman Who Left Me Forever Obsessed

I’ve been working as an escort for quite a while now, and that has put me in front of all kinds of bodies. Shy men, arrogant men, some who barely dared to look at me and others who came in with a rehearsed script of what they wanted. I’ve seen it all, tried it all. That’s why it’s so hard for me to explain what happened with Bianca, because nothing in my experience had prepared me for someone like her.

I met her by way of a roundabout route. I was seeing a guy who occasionally hired me, and one night, over beer and confessions, he told me his partner did the same thing I did. He showed me a photo. It took me three weeks to work up the nerve to write to her. I don’t know what held me back, whether it was the embarrassment of crossing some strange line or the fear that a woman like that wouldn’t even bother replying.

She replied. And we made plans.

***

Bianca was Brazilian, tall, dyed blonde but with that tone that seemed natural, and she had a body that wouldn’t fit into any decent description. I’m a little over six feet tall, and she still towered half a head above me in heels. Big breasts, a narrow waist, a way of moving that filled the whole room without effort. But what truly knocked me off balance wasn’t any of that. It was her face. She was charming, the kind of woman who talks to you and makes you feel like she’s known you her entire life.

—So you’re in the business too —she said, pouring me a drink I hadn’t asked for.

—Something like that.

—Then there’s no need to pretend anything. —She sat down across from me, slowly crossed her legs—. I like that. With regular clients, one gets tired of acting.

The fact that she included me in her world, that she spoke to me as an equal, completely disarmed me.

It was funny, I thought. I’d had clients head over heels for me, men who wrote to me at four in the morning, who made up excuses just to see me again. And there I was, my hands a little sweaty, head over heels for another professional as if it were the first time I’d ever set foot in a hotel room.

***

I confess that nerves got the better of me that first night. I’ve spent years controlling the pace, knowing exactly when to slow down, when to give the other person what they’re after. With her I lost all control the moment I got close. Her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the way she spoke into my ear while unbuttoning my shirt. I couldn’t hold out nearly as long as I would’ve liked, and I was absurdly embarrassed.

—Relax —she laughed, without a trace of cruelty—. I take that as a compliment.

The encounters that came after were something else. I was calmer, more confident, and then I could really pay attention. I could stop at every detail of her, which was exactly what I needed in order to understand why I couldn’t get her out of my head.

Because Bianca had a weapon that made everything else irrelevant. Between her legs she hid something that far surpassed anything I’d ever seen in my life, thick, with a look that made my mouth water just thinking about it. And it turned out that part of her became my particular obsession.

***

Many of our dates consisted of just that. Me on my knees in front of her, giving her all the time in the world. Bianca took a long time to finish, very long, and I didn’t mind at all. On the contrary. I could spend an hour devoted to the task without lifting my head, tracing every centimeter with my tongue, lingering on the head as if it were the most valuable thing anyone had ever put before me.

—You’re going to drive me crazy —she’d say, her voice more and more broken, tangling her fingers in my hair.

When she finally came, she didn’t give off much, but I received it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And to me it was. There was nothing fake about it. For the first time in years, what I did in bed was done out of pure desire and not for money.

***

There was one night I remember with a sharpness that almost hurts. We’d arranged to meet at a hotel downtown, one of those with a view of the avenue and floor-to-ceiling windows. Bianca had gotten there before I did and opened the door wrapped in a white robe, her hair wet and not a speck of makeup on her face. She was even more beautiful like that, stripped of everything, and I stood in the doorway a second too long, staring like an idiot.

—Are you coming in, or are you planning to stare at me from the hallway? —she asked, amused.

I went in. She closed the door with her foot and shoved me against the wall before I could say anything. She kissed me slowly, unhurried, biting my lip just enough to make it clear who was in charge that night. Her hands ran over my chest beneath my shirt while I tried, unsuccessfully, to untie the knot of the robe.

—Stay still —she whispered—. We’ve got all night. Don’t waste it rushing.

And she was right. That time there was no clock. We took every minute as if it were the only one we would ever have, and precisely because of that I remember it more than all the others. Bianca had that rare ability to make time stretch, to turn a paid encounter into something that was dangerously close to a real story.

***

Although the two of us preferred the passive role —she confessed that to me one of those early-morning hours, laughing at the irony that two bottoms had found each other—, there were times when we switched roles. And that was when I discovered an entirely different dimension of her.

Her thrusts left me wrecked. Always carefully, though, with patience and plenty of lubricant, because a size like that can do real damage if it’s rushed. But once inside, the care turned into something else. It wasn’t just the size, which on its own was already enough to leave me breathless. It was how she moved her hips. As if dancing, setting the rhythm, adjusting depth and angle every moment, reading my body better than I knew it myself.

There were nights when I came without either of us touching me, just from the sway of her on top of me. I heard myself moan in a way I didn’t recognize as my own, clutching the sheets, begging her not to stop.

When did I turn into the desperate client?

***

When she got on top to ride me, she was downright imposing. That huge, gorgeous woman, absolute mistress of the situation, with all her weight and desire on me. I, who make a living controlling these scenes, could do nothing but let myself go. I handed her the control and she accepted it as if it belonged to her by right.

The most intense orgasm of my life was the one she gave me. That much is perfectly clear to me. The loudest groan I’ve ever let out came from my throat in one of those early-morning hours, and I’m still amazed that one body can give another so much pleasure all at once.

And it wasn’t just the sex. It was all of her. We talked afterward, lying down, sharing stories from the trade, laughing about weird clients, about the impossible situations that had come our way. We got to have something like a friendship, even though we both knew that word fell short and at the same time was too big for what we had.

***

I’ve been with many men. Some were very good, attentive, generous. I’ve also been with quite a few women. None of them come close to what Bianca made me feel. There’s a guy, Mateo, who I still see from time to time, and he does it so well that anyone would think you couldn’t ask for more. But after her, everything else feels lacking. It’s unfair to him, I know, and even so I can’t help it.

That’s the trap I fell into. A charming Brazilian trans woman, beautiful enough to hurt, with a scandalous body and that secret between her legs that ruined me for any other bed. I spent half my life thinking I’d tried everything, boasting that nothing surprised me anymore. And it took just one person to prove to me that I had no idea what I really liked.

Because that’s what I learned with her. That desire doesn’t understand labels or what one is supposed to want. A feminine, beautiful woman, with a weapon like hers, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever known in this world. And I say that with complete certainty after so many years and so many beds.

***

It’s been weeks since she last replied. She must have changed cities, changed numbers, changed lives. In this line of work people disappear without warning and you learn not to ask questions. But I still check my phone more times than I should, reread our last messages, remember the taste of her skin and the weight of her body on mine.

I never thought I’d end up like this, being the one who waits. The one praying for a message that probably won’t come. The woman who taught me to lose my mind took my mind with her, too, and I gladly gave it to her.

If she ever writes again, I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and run to see her. I know it, and she knows it too. Bianca was, without a shadow of a doubt, the best thing I ever tasted in my life. And I’m very much afraid she’ll keep being that even if I never see her again.