I Think I Can't Get Enough

A little bit more of my dignity. A little bit more of my reservation. A little bit more of my masculinity, which seems to be dying by the moment.

A passing thought triggers a cascade in my brain as synapses fire and I register a connection. Exposure as a woman and being a man in my heart, or at least in my head a few days ago.

The two things do exist in the same sphere of influence, they are colored by the same brush.

Gradually I am coming to terms with the fact that I am enjoying being a woman, but some core part of me still has to contend with the fact that I spent decades being a man. Decades and decades in a body that I knew and a life that I learned and I understand that has changed now, objectively, even if it is oddly bizzare and hard to comprehend.

There are little pieces that I keep on forgetting are different now. There are a thousand little ways that it's hard to adjust.

But paramount among all of these is the way my mind works when it's not thinking of itself. Though my conscious state might know and believe that I am, in fact, a woman now, my **** mind still sees the world through a singularly masculine lens.

So in a moment like this, real or imagined, where I am stretched far past the limits of what I would have done in my masculine body, I can't help but feel like exposure more than just amplifies things. It makes it inescapable and undeniable.

I am a woman, it says to me because all of the people watching only see me that way. I am a woman, because that is what my body is and more than that, that is what my heart cries out for. I am a woman, because I want to be.

And a woman who wants to be more than just a woman, who wants to celebrate her femininity. And I'm not going to say that sex or exposure or any of the rest of it is a necessary precurser to any kind of revelation. I'm sure given enough time I could have found a million little ways to celebrate my newfound femininity without giving or taking any pleasure. Sex isn't necessary.

But fuck it's nice.

It's nice to feel wanted and to feel desired and to feel their hands on me, pressing my legs apart while their lips leave wet marks on my breasts. To feel them shifting, almost silently agreeing who will take what place and which responsibility as one of them slides up my body and the other slides down and I glance up, eyes wide, as I catch Blake above me unbuckling his belt and it makes sense that he'd be the one to seek pleasure. It makes sense that Jake would be the one to give it instead.

I feel them take their places as Blake shoves down his jeans and his cock comes bobbing out in front of my eyes. I feel Jake sliding between my thighs and curling his hands around them to taste me, to kiss the inner part of me, to slowly slide up to between me.

And maybe it's just because I've never had it really happen that I can't imagine what it would feel like to be fucked, even in my dreams. Or maybe it's just that I want to feel something I know will get me off.

So many times people have got me off.

So many times I've gotten them off.

What's one more fantasy, with a whole host of silent watchers?

As Blake grins and presses his cock against my lips. As Jake presses down to push his lips against my sex. As I sigh to part for them, to accept this greedy moment.

Where I am a woman and that much is undeniable. Where my fantasy can lead to more as I relax and tighten and give and take all at the same time.

Where I feel it build until the pressing moment of reality makes me ache to snap back to it, but I can hold on just a little bit more.

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