crotchless 07: VIRGINAL (NSFW)

Diesel reminds me of the first boy who opened up my hole in high school.

I have been wondering lately why his charmless awkwardness, the kind I would normally roll my eyes at in random men, was endearingly fascinating, like watching a failed Frankenstein on a slab, croaking through the faintest sliver of rebirth. His awkward limbs pegged down harder by the unsynchronized sway of his elongated, trunk-shaped hips, his slender arms drilled with even more stiffness as they fall between his wooden thighs.

I begin to make fun of him one afternoon after I find him taking pictures of the birds in the electrical wire outside the store.

“Hey, slender man,” I strut in his direction. He scrambles with his camera, raven-black blazing like hot coal in his hands, as he fails to register, again, my oh-so-omnipresence. The camera almost skitters onto the ground before he catches it with his left hand, his index finger accidentally pressing the button and flashing in my direction as the lens take pictures of my smirking face. I hope he will print those photos later and let them ferment his lust for me.

I just have the inkling he would masturbate over them or whatever. “Hey, Miss,” he replies, still not finding the bravado to stare directly at me, and I leave him there, under the blazing sun. The birds soon twitter away, probably distressed on behalf of him, or perhaps simply embarrassed to be associated with the spectacle.

He always has his camera with him. In fact, the only time I didn’t find him blanketing it with his boxy leather jacket was when he was eating breakfast with the old couple. It’s always nestled in his arms. Something fresh out of its shell, bird-frail, tucked and warmed in his bony ribcage. It spreads its black wings silver when he click-click-clicks on its button, taking photos of saturated cityscapes, random street signs, graffiti, sometimes even the trash cans loitering around, and, probably the most surprising of all, random portraits of people he would confidently scout.

He would trot to them, his loose pants coiling around his limbs, and speak to them like he hasn’t yet done to me: eye contact, chin raised, a lopsided smile, and then I just see him pulling the camera up to his shoulders, taking a shot of these random strangers on a sunny afternoon. The city’s greatest landmarks have always been people who have the misfortune of being photogenic.

Where was he finding that unruly confidence with these people, and with me, he’s a smithereens of himself? Blabbing ooh-ooh-gah-gah sounds and blushing like an idiot. Until I had enough of the surveillance, of watching him be his bubbly self with other people. I corner him one night after I hear his footsteps trudge the stairs. He doesn’t say anything, just holds his camera, and I count the seconds, focusing on the rivulets of hair on his knuckles, disgusted at their wild curls. Silence engulfs us. He still doesn’t look at me, just gives a shy smile while caressing his camera, and I leave.

The first guy who fucked me was also obssessed with his camera the way a child would be with a toy. Short-lived.

I didn’t know how old he was. Probably older? I hoped he was only 17, thinking about it now. Just found him once at a badly designed chat website for homosexuals, and he messaged hi alongside a picture of his muscled body, flexing his incredible biceps, and any teenager would swoon at this superficial showcase, never mind the substance, as long as he’s eye candy. He was probably in college. I lied about my age when we were chatting, said I was a 20-something college dropout, and he asked if I was a tranny. I quickly sent him a thumbs-up, and then he asked if he could take pictures of me, and that was the greatest form of flattery for a transgirl at the height of coalescing boy-features in puberty, with no full understanding yet of her feminine sexuality.

He nursed it like a baby, he lactated to the power of its lens, finally absconding from his passiveness into the role of a gaze. He would pull out the black shiny object from its bulky sheath, and point it in my direction, like a beak ready to peck its meal, and in his stern voice, would command, Part your legs for me. What naivety did I possess to think that a boy with a camera means he will love you immortally? I had early-onset delusions that I would be like Rose in Titanic, nakedly imprinted to the gaze as he would ravish me with the aperture. Any boy who would tell you that he wants to take a picture of you when you’re sixteen is God, and it’s foolish to reject such a proposal because it is the favor of being seen. I wore the underwear he stole from his ex-girlfriends, posed to the camera with the crusty wig he asked me to buy, and the red lipstick oversaturated on my face.

I wasn’t surprised when weeks later, a magazine would clatter its way onto our front porch. I would immediately grab the paper cutter, slice the belly of the envelope open, and on the front page was this glorious body of a woman with her dick splattered onto the glossy print. With trembling fingers, I would flip to the next pages, and there it was, my photos he took. The lacy brassiere biting into the skin of my ribcage, the stockings garter snapped midway as my legs were raised to the ceiling, with a rehearsed ecstatic expression on my face.

He knew my angles, knew how to photoshop my skin without overwhitening it, and was able to make the slutty lipstick very editorial and indicting. I biked my way into his house, the magazine wrung in my hands, and knocked on his door. He pulled me inside his house, as though I were a burglar, and angrily asked, “What are you doing here? You know I can’t be seen hanging around you, right?”

I didn’t answer his questions. I looked around his pristine life. The basketball championship trophies winking in the living room. The cheeky smiles of his childhood photos, wrapped by his parents in boring Ralph Lauren polo shirts like they’re a family of tennis players. Beach photos with his sister, who graduated neuroscience at Harvard. There was something delectable in knowing that the perfect boy was a freak.

“Has someone seen you come in here?”

I walked towards him and slapped the magazine to his chest. He stumbled back, grappling with the ripped pages of the photos he took of me. I slapped his chest until he plopped onto their living room sofa.

“The fuck? What are you doing?”

I unbuttoned my shirt aggressively, ripping off the last stubborn button with a yank, and pulled down the hem of my shorts down to my ankles. I saw the crotch print against his boxers, forming into a pyramid, watching all of me, taking it in, like a camera in a purview of his subject. I spat on my palms, snuck it inside his boxers, and felt his penis grow doubly, the bump of its veins pressing against my fingers, oiling it up and down as he moaned my name.

I looked at the photos crumpled on his chest, my red lips smirking, doll-like eyes life-mimicking, and I just had to become that person. I spat on the head of his dick, swirled my tongue around it sloppily, saliva brimming down to its length, and opened my legs like a scissor ready to cut, positioning its tip to my dry hole. I bit into his shoulders when I lowered down myself, the spinchter clamping around with spasming pain on its mushroom head as I forced myself lower and lower, feeling the scrap of pain, the snap of something, of my flesh tunring inside out, a petal being plucked out, until his balls were slapping against my ass cheeks.

I moaned his name and whispered into his ear with the knowledge that he would like i: “Make me your slut. Fuck me hard.”

And he did, slamming me down onto the carpeted living room floor, thrusting his hips, scouring my entrails, panting and pausing sometimes to catch his breath, my hips wound tight around him as my head bumped against the legs of the coffee table. The glass vase trembled atop it, falling onto the floor, shards tinkling like music, and before I knew it, he was asking if I was okay, wiping the blood from my forehead. But I clawed at his face, plummeting him down to a kiss, saying, “Fuck and cum inside me.”

And the blood mingled to our gums, to our teeth, his hips thrusting harder, pumping disjointedly, my inside suturing with a stabbing pain, until I was looking at his eyes, posing into its lens, and he was closing them, click, click, spasming, whispering that I am such a good girl, groaning, a wet viscous trickle between my thighs, the squealch of my hole as he pumped out his dick and spat out the remaining cum onto my stomach, panting at my nape, repeating again that I am a good girl.

I pushed him away against me, wore my underwear, and noticed the smear of blood on the carpet floor. I smirked as I step on it to rub the stain deeper. He was looking at me with his pupils dilated, his dick still throbbing underneath his underwear. I noticed the missing button on my shirt and wiped the blood on my thighs before slipping into my shorts.

He said, “That was fun.” I didn’t speak. I grabbed the ripped magazine page and sauntered onto the streets, my insides hurt.