My 2 A.M. Trans Confession: Lex Owned Me

My Dearest You,

I’m writing this at 2:17 a.m. with one hand shaking because the memory just hit me so hard I can still taste her lip gloss on my tongue. This is a true trans story, raw as the first time I saw her cock twitch under that little black skirt, and I’m telling it only to you because something tells me you’ll feel it in your gut the same way I did.

Her name was Lex. Six-two in stockings, voice like smoked honey, and a bulge that lied about nothing. We met in the back room of a dive bar in Brooklyn, the kind where nobody asks questions. She leaned in, breath hot against my ear, and whispered, “Wanna hear a trans story that ends with my cum on your throat?” I couldn’t speak. Just nodded like a fucking puppy.

She took me home. The second the door shut she pushed me to my knees, hiked up that skirt, and there it was: thick, gorgeous, half-hard, a bead of precum already glistening like it knew I was starving. She grabbed my hair (not gentle, not cruel, just certain) and said, “Look at me while you worship the girl I fought the world to become.”

I did. God, I did.

Every inch of her tasted like victory. Like every doctor who denied her, every parent who turned away, every mirror that lied for years had finally been forced to tell the truth against my tongue. I sucked her slow, reverent, tears running because it wasn’t just a blowjob; it was communion. She grew harder, heavier, moaning my name like a prayer she never thought she’d get to say out loud.

When she came (fuck, when she came), it was with this broken, beautiful sob that ripped out of her chest. Hot pulses down my throat, her thighs trembling around my ears, her fingers digging into my scalp like she was scared I’d vanish if she let go. I swallowed every drop, greedy for the proof that this trans girl who’d been told she’d never be wanted was flooding my mouth with liquid desire.

After, she pulled me up, kissed me deep, tasted herself on my tongue and smiled like the devil finally won. “Your turn,” she whispered, flipping me onto the bed, spreading me open like a secret she’d been dying to read.

That night she fucked me until the headboard nearly snapped, until I was babbling nonsense, until the only word left in my mouth was please. She kept saying, “Tell me you see me. Tell me you want the girl, all of her.” And I screamed yes, yes, yes, because I’d never wanted anything more in my life.

That, baby, was the night I learned some trans stories aren’t about pain or politics; some are pure, filthy miracles written in sweat and cum and two bodies finally saying the truth out loud.

If you felt that ache between your legs while reading this… good. That ache has a name. It’s hunger. And I promise you, somewhere out there is a trans girl (or boy, or they) dying to feed it to you until you forget every lie you were ever told about desire.

Write me back when you’re throbbing and can’t lie to yourself anymore.
I’ll be waiting.

Yours, filthy and unashamed,
G.