A few words first.

Growing up transgender in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, I never had a fictional character I could relate to on that particular level. I didn’t even know trans people were a thing until much later.
It’s probably a bit strange that my debut novel doesn’t feature a trans guy. After all, I’m the first to say we need more representation. I even wrote a trans woman before I dared approach the whole trans guy deal. Guess it hits a bit close to home, you understand.

A few days ago, I finally felt I was ready to give it a shot, and… well. A lot more came pouring out than I was expecting.

Meet Felix, your friendly neighbourhood trans 20-year-old. And meet Mohammed (“Mo”), your narrator. I rather like them already.
This is a very first draft, unedited, of a scene between two queer youths who found each other after being thrown out of their respective homes. I’m expecting a full novel to develop out of this sooner or later. Hopefully you’ll be interested in that!

Content Warning: dysphoria, explicit sex, homelessness brief mentions of religion.

Moving up along the lines of his ribcage, I hit the hem of the binder. It was biting into his skin, more so at the sides, and I thought nothing so soft and fragile should ever be bitten into like that. A confused impression of inadequacy came over me. Felix was graceful. He was refined. Those hands were a pianist’s hands. That skin deserved bedsheet and pillowcases. Real ones. Hundred percent cotton, organic or fair trade or some shit.
The old mattress barely felt like anything between our arses and the floorboards. And me? I was rough and clumsy. I was gangly, all edges and angles.
I fumbled as I touched him, but I must have been doing something right, because right then, right as I was thinking all that, he shivered into my mouth.
“Mo . . .” he said.
I felt goosebumps and, as my body braced, the tips of my fingers — dirty fingernails and all — dipped below the hem. And yeah, it wasn’t on purpose, but at the same time, fuck. I really wanted the bloody thing off.
Felix pulled away. The kiss broke.
“You know I don’t care,” I said.
“But I care,” he said.
I nodded, “Okay,” and stroked around his hips instead. “Is that okay?”
“That’s nice.”
He was smiling again, so I kept at it. I enjoyed his fingers in my hair and his tongue in my mouth. He moaned, and repeated my name. It made my cock twitch in my pants.
“I’m really turned on right now,” he said, which caused a stronger twitch.
“Me too,” I said. I let one hand hover near his crotch. “Have you ever . . .?”
“I can never really get into it.”
“Do you want to try?”
His breath caught and he looked me in the eye. “‘Kay.”
I closed the gap. Heat seemed to emanate from him in waves, and there was definitely something in his eyes. When I slid my hand inside his jeans, it was all wet.
“I’m gross,” he said.
“Bullshit,” I said.
“‘Kay, but I stink, though,” he said.
“Bullshit,” I said.
I removed the bunched up sock he puts in there. That’s gonna need a wash, I thought. Then I started thinking about the laundromat, and Mrs Pike scrunching up her nose at us from behind the Daily Mail, which is no good. My brain went to the big machines, vibrating hard during the spin cycle. Better. I pictured Felix sitting on one of those. Kinda hot. Really hot. Okay, here we go.
My middle finger teased him down there, in the damp hair. He tensed up, breathed harder.
“Is that good?”
“Yeah, it’s good, it’s . . . I’m just concentrating.”
“On what?”
He chuckled. “You.”
I grinned, but then he frowned and said “Can’t think of myself too much, you know,” and my heart broke a little.
“You look good,” he said.
“So do you,” I said.
He looked me up and down. “You’re so hot.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but he was having none of it.
“So hot, Jesus, and you’re hard.”
“Yeah,” I said stupidly.
“I’m a bit jealous,” he said.
That set the gears in my brain in motion.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
He whined when my hand left his pants. Then I yanked down my own jeans and briefs, and he gasped and stared and mumbled “Jesus” again. I’m still not sure what Jesus has to do with any of it.
“Can I touch?” he asked.
I took his wrist and guided him to my cock, and the pianist fingers wrapped neatly around the shaft.
He squeezed too hard.
“No, you’re fine, you’re fine! Just . . . easy. Like it’s made of glass.”
He tried again. “How’s that?”
It was good. It was bloody good, let me tell you.
“Perfect. Close your eyes.”
He did, without question.
Slowly, I touched him again. Just a little, then a bit more. I shuffled closer, adjusted the position.
“Jerk me like it’s you,” I murmured.
He didn’t move for a second. Don’t push it, I told myself. No rush. No rush.
When he started, I started too.
I copied his movements, mirrored his strokes, and suddenly there was a lot more moaning. His expression transformed completely. He looked almost in shock, in awe, with his eyes still lightly closed and his body heaving into mine.
We fell into the rhythm, the call and response. Somehow it reminded me of that time I convinced him to take me to church. When the priest said “in faith we pray” and the congregation replied “we pray to you our God”. I don’t know. Maybe that’s where the whole Jesus thing comes into it.
“Oh, Jesus!” Felix called, like he could hear my thoughts.
“Jesus!” I called back, experimenting a bit.
He groaned from somewhere deep in his chest. Deeper than I’d ever heard his voice go.
“Oh, wow, do that again,” I said.
The low growl sounded again and I had to start thinking about baseball.
“I’m getting bloody close,” I said.
He jerked hard and fast. Through the haze, I did my best to match his pace, his intensity. I was seeing stars.
“Felix, I’m about to come.”
“. . . Me too.”
“I’m–” I couldn’t finish. I shot my load with a strangled cry right as he began to spasm.
“Yes!” he shouted. “Jesus, yes!”
We collapsed on each other. My forehead fell on his shoulder. His on mine.
Yes, I thought. Yes.

Published by Alistair Caradec

Indie author of queer dystopian drama The Old Love and the New. I hold a BA in film studies and a first class MLitt in creative writing. Sometimes I also hold a guitar.

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