I keep having this dream about running into a guy I used to fuck in high school at a (gone too soon, never actually existed) childhood friend’s funeral. I make it through the service but I’m around the back with a cigarette as soon as it’s over, pissy and uncomfortable being surrounded by people who knew me at the earliest, most vulnerable part of my transition. This guy’s included—knew me in a way that none of the other attendees did, in fact. Seeing him again was practically a sense memory trigger for the feeling of hands around my throat.
He finds me out back, apparently to get his own fix. I scowl and almost leave him to it, but I decide that I’m not the little boy he knew before and he can’t make me scurry off by projecting his masculinity all over the place anymore. Once he gets over the surprise (that I’m here, that I’m not leaving) he settles against the wall and lights up. He speaks first.
“I didn’t realize you knew her so well.”
I don’t want to answer, or to talk to this asshole at all, really, so I grunt something about family friends. He hums.
“Weird to see you back at all, though. It’s been what, five years? Six? Pretty much everybody thought you were gone for good.”
I don’t answer at all, this time. I know that tone—his favorite, cruel and cocky, the one that used to make me shiver and avert my eyes. He just sounds like a podunk townie loser now.
The fact I don’t engage gets his attention. It used to be so much easier to get under my skin and he misses that power, misses being able to fuck me because I’d take the cruelty like I deserved it. He tries again:
“You know, you haven’t changed a bit.”
He’s saying it to be harsh—it’s not true and we both know it. My hair is darker; my chest flatter, voice deeper, shoulders broader, jaw stubbled and set. Shit, I fill out my suit better than he does. I can’t help but bark out a sharp laugh.
“And you have? Grow the fuck up, man. I don’t take my pants off for any random loser that talks down to me anymore.”
Finally, I’ve actually pissed him off. He doesn’t even put out his cig before shoving me into the wall by the shoulder. His breath stinks of tobacco. I can feel it on my neck when he leans in and says—
“I bet you’d strip right now if I told you to. I remember what you’re like. Weak girly bitches never change.”
It feels so, so good to prove him wrong. It feels even better to grab him by the arm and flip us so his face is pressed hard into the old brick. His cig is still smoking in his free hand. He hisses when I press the arm behind his back closer to his spine, but freezes completely when he feels my bulge pressed to the cleft of his ass. It’s just a packer, but he doesn’t need to know that. I sneer.
“I’ve actually been into weak girly bitches lately,” I say conversationally. “Shit, man—you’re kind of getting me hard.”
He puts his cigarette out on my thigh. It burns right through my cheap suit and I swear, letting up on his arm just enough for him to get away. He pushes me back a few steps, looking as mean as ever but more surprised than I’ve ever seen him. I get a few seconds to wonder what he might do before, yeah, he’s bringing his fists up in a fighting stance. I mirror him. This is years overdue.
A few minutes later, he’s facedown in the dirt, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a shiner, and my nose is bleeding everywhere. Neither of us will ever be able to wear these suits again. It doesn’t matter. I fucking won. I grab him by the hair to pull his head back, just far enough so I can whisper in his ear.
“Maybe we should fuck like this, hm? Make up for all those years you thought it wasn’t real gay sex. Give you something other than my teenage tits to jerk off to.”
He whimpers. I freeze. After a second a giant, mean smile creeps across my face.
“Oh my god, you like this, don’t you?” I sneer. “Enjoying the first time a real man overpowered you? I should have known. I always knew you were weak.”
He tries to get out a curse, maybe a slur, but I beat him to it, picking my weight up just enough to roughly roll him onto his back. Sure enough, when my hips settle against his, I can feel the stiff line of his cock press up against my cunt. He’s so, so hard. He’s gotten bigger, I think.
I grin and rock our hips together. A moan slips from his mouth and his face goes redder, eyebrows still knit like there’s any way he’s gonna win this fight. I take a second to pin his wrists with my knees.
“You want these pants off?” I coo, running my finger down the seam of his slacks. “You miss my cunt, bitch? You think you deserve to fuck me in the dirt behind a fucking church?”
“No,” he grits out. It’s the first word he’s said since I pinned him, and I’m curious, so I wait for him to add.
“I do—I do fucking want to, though.”
Now there’s a surprise. I blink down at him—his red face, his split lip, his dark eyes refusing to look at me—and I realize that the years haven’t done him so badly. He looks good with a little extra weight, a little less hair, a broader body. My dick twitches.
“Yeah?” I breathe. “Beg for it.”
I don’t even have to ask twice. He swallows hard, his lips parting, and breathes, “Please. God, fuck, please just let me fuck you. I swear to god I won’t say shit about you being a girl. I know that’s not true. I was an asshole then and I’m a fucking asshole now, okay, I just—Please. You look so fucking good. Please.”
I won’t lie, it’s compelling. Between the adrenaline and the nic buzz and the feeling of finally getting to assert who I actually am to one of the losers in this shitty town, I decide it’s good enough.
I barely get our belts undone and zippers down before I’m fitting his unwrapped dick against the cleft of my cunt. I’m wetter than I thought I would be—must have been the fight. He tenses up when his raw cockhead nudges my entrance.
“Not gonna knock me up, Jesus. You’re fucking a man, remember?” The gritty details of my hysterectomy don’t matter here. I shove my hips forward and seat him to the hilt inside me in one sure motion.
I ride him like that, blood staining his nice white shirt as the force makes droplets fall from my still-bleeding nose. As much as I hated him the first time around, the sex was good, and some things never change. The stretch is just on the right side of too much, and he groans my name—the right one—when he cums inside me, the warmth spreading between my hips and giving me exactly what I need to follow him. His weak moans as my cunt milks his softening dick almost make me want to go again, but someone’s going to come looking for us sooner rather than later. I let his soft cock, slick with both of us, slip out of me as I sit down hard in the grass beside him.
I take him in one more time. Wet dick hanging out of his pants, chest heaving, dried blood crusted to the side of his face. Suit covered in dirt and dust.
He used to pick up and leave me like this. Legs open, cunt throbbing and used, barely with breath back in my lungs before I heard the front door slam.
I decide I’m better than that.
“Want a cigarette?”
