Exploring By Feel

I couldn’t hold back anymore. I needed to know what Emily was hiding.

My hands grasp the heavy sweater and pull it up and in a flash it’s discarded, tossed to one side. The shirts beneath it have dried by now but they still stick to my skin a little as I pull them away before fumbling with the belt of my jeans and shimmying it over my hips.

I’m not looking at the mirror. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and I know that it’s embarrassment and I don’t know if it’s from her or from me but I know that looking into the mirror will make it worse, no matter how much I know that I’ll need to eventually pull that trigger.

But I don’t need to look in the mirror to see the tight sports bra covering her breasts and the ordinary plain white panties covering everything else that matters. Both of which do very little to hide the fullness of her curves from my wandering attention.

I need to just do this. I need to just go. Like pulling off a band aid in one quick thrust I close my eyes and work by memory, trying to ignore how the slightest brush against the skin beneath those scant strips of clothing sparks off a burning fire in my belly and leaves behind trails of it across the surface of me.

And then I’m naked, fully naked. Then Emily is naked and she’s standing in the open air and I can feel it on my skin, the kiss of it cool and enticing as I hold fast and try to open my eyes only to fail entirely.

I can’t shake the feeling that looking is a kind of intrusion. It’s indecent. I feel like I ought to get her permission or something, like I’m peeking behind the curtain and I didn’t earn it and god I don’t have the right.

It’s all jumbled up in my head, the rush of everything that I’ve felt all goddamn day since I switched into this body coming to a head as I realize that there is no such thing as having to get permission from her for this, because I already have it.

Emily is me. For the first time I realize that. She’s not some separate person from me with her own distinct history, she’s just the feminine colored version of my own past. She’s me were I swapped at birth, were one little line of code in the moment of conception a little different.

But all she is all of me. And all I am is her. And that means… that means I can touch her.

With my eyes still closed my hands find my body. Hesitant and hesitating I caress my skin, pressing into it lightly just below my belly button. My hands are right over the part where I feel it strongest, that sensation that is a little like warm and fluttering butterflies. All nerves and nervous energy and excitement and need as I push in, pressing into it and feeling the heat resonate back onto me.

I feel her. She feels so much. I am soft and supple and sweet and I am warmth and delightful need. I am energy releasing out in a long slow squeeze as a smile lights on my lips and my hands start to wander a little more.

My fingers tease out little circles on my skin, pressing just hard enough to make themselves known and make sure that they cannot be ignored. One moving out towards my hips while the other slips up to the hard crest of my ribs. A shuddering breath alighting on my lips as it aches its way forward and I feel it catch on the edge of me.

I focus and I let out that long slow breath. From behind my heavy lids my eyes flicker and shudder in the darkness and my attention refocuses on my body, on the dualistic sensation of touch.

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