Sharing

She's in my space. I can smell her perfume. I can see every last inch of her flawless skin up close and goddamn she looks unreal.

"I don't want to shower alone," Rachel pouts, "You're not going to make me, are you?"

Her fingers come up to play on the straps of my dress and she slides them under, running the backs of them across my skin.

"Are you?" she asks me again.

I can't help it. I shake my head.

How can I possibly say no to her?

I shiver as she touches me, as she awakens the fire which has been simmering since I was left unsatisfied. That fire that makes me fear every single touch but not hers, because somehow I know that she may not respect my limits but she doesn't represent nearly the threat that others do.

Simply put. Rachel isn't a man. She doesn't have the tool to scare me quite as much as they do.

I don't know why the distinction exists for me, but it does. I know that sex means different things to different people and hell there was even a whole very public debate at what point about where exactly the line of 'sexual relations' really lies.

But at the same time this really isn't about that.

It's about cock.

Yes, I'd sucked cock. Yes I'd stroked it with my hands. I'd had someone fuck my tits and I've been all different kinds of naked with all different kinds of people.

And yes by some definitions I had definitely had a cock inside of me, but in my mouth isn't quite the same as between my legs.

I've never been fucked by a cock and I know that if I get in the shower with Rachel tonight that she's going to fuck me, I knew that from firsthand experience. But a part of me couldn't put that in the same category as taking a cock.

And I think that probably came down to what I used to be.

I was a man. I don't know that I am anymore, but I used to be one. I used to be a man with the body of a man and the urges and the needs and the pleasures of one.

Not just a man but an incredibly insecure one. A man who constantly questioned his own masculinity. One who was always searching, even after he'd long given up the fight, for some way to justify and prove that he was a man.

The thought of taking a cock was, to that man, absolutely beyond the pale. It was unforgivable. It was terrifying.

And though I couldn't say that I felt the same revulsion now that he did then, I also couldn't say that I felt it was easy.

There was an initimidation in it that didn't go away just because I was a woman now. And that same hesitation frankly didn't exist when it came to her, when it came to Rachel.

Yes, I know what we were going to do was undoubtedly sex. By some accounts it meant that I was no longer a virgin, but that was an argument of degrees and personal definitions.

There is no one thing that defines a virgin, not really. It's a definition that every person makes for themselves and it's different for every last person because frankly if being a virgin for a guy meant getting to fuck a pussy, then every gay man was eternally virginal. And if for a woman it meant taking a cock inside of you, then it meant that every lesbian was a virgin as well.

So everyone gets to decide that for themselves. Everyone gets to set that line. I do. Emily does.

And I know what she thinks.

I let Rachel kiss me and I kiss her back and I let her slip the straps of my dress off my shoulders and tease her fingers over my skin and I shiver at her touch, knowing that she's not going to leave me unsatisfied.

Knowing that she's going to make me cum tonight, with her fingers and her lips and her tongue.

And knowing that when I come out the other side, in the end, I'll still be a virgin.

Because that's how I define it and that's how Emily defines it. And Rachel can be good, better than good she can be great.

But she can never take that virginity from me.

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