Born Again

Her labia looks like the Virgin Mary. Her lips bunch near her clit like rounded arms extending outward. As my sinner’s tongue parts them like so, those lips turn downward, the lord’s mother extending Christ’s love. My lover’s clit swells, peeking further from her hood – cloaked and heavenly. 

I haven’t stepped foot in a church in over two decades, but I find myself kneeling before this altar regularly. 

The good Catholic girl makes a throne upon her pillows. I, the trans harlot, have slithered my way between her thighs. My arms coil around her soft flesh, red nails digging in like fangs. Tongue flicking lazily, back and forth, tracing the contours of Mary’s face. I try to taste every nerve ending.

Low rumbles of a moan roll slowly through the reverent silence. The sound of distant thunder on a sunny day. The pad of my fingertip descends languidly along her opening, testing her wetness. I take her clit into my mouth as I glide through her slickness.

A drizzle of whines shower me as she melts into my gentle pressure. She wants my finger inside of her. Always craves some part of me. Fingers. Tongue. Cock. Fuck me. 

She crowns me a tease when I deny her unspoken demands. But you cannot rush. Holy things must be handled with care. 

My penis strains against my panties like an intrusive thought. An unwelcome reminder that I am still but flesh and blood. An assembly of mismatched parts. 

I thrust her legs toward her chest. Pull her down to the center of the bed. My mouth descends on her pussy in a fervor. Tongue wetting the whole of her vulva. Her lips in my mouth again and again. A fleshy pop when I pull away. 

“I’m ready whenever you are,” she alerts me, her voice between a breath and a purr. 

I lift my head to see her face. Moonlight cuts through the blinds and adorns her smile in black and light stripes.

The breeze of the fan chills my mouth. Saliva and her wetness adorn my muzzle from nose to chin. I picture myself as a lioness, feasting on the spoils of the hunt. For I eat from her body which has been given up for me. 

She rises to upright before me. Her shoulder-length hair is tousled and blue, pillowing around her face. There’s a haze in her eyes, sated yet still craving. She is soft and has a kindness that has shaped her features. That school girl innocence that clings to her no matter how many times we fuck. After six years, there are still glimpses of that young woman who was scandalized by invites to spend the night. I’m hardly the same person she met all those years ago.

I can’t see what she sees when she looks at me. She runs her hands through my chest hair, this absent-minded thing that is so natural and comfortable to her but leaves me aching. She whispers that I’m cute, but I don’t feel it. My beauty isn’t flesh. Our connection isn’t aesthetic. When she gasps in the darkness, she does not come for the man the world sees me as. This hulking thing, so inherently masculine that one can’t fathom the woman who lies inside. My lover’s pleasure is kinetic. I am instinct. Shrouded behind her closed lids, I am a tongue, lips, two fingers. I am a vibrator and I am a kiss. When she gasps, when she moans, I am abstract force. A thoughtful presence crafted just for her. It’s all I want to be. Free of the constraints of the form I was given.

My middle finger enters her. Slow at first, alert to any resistance. Then it slides down the depth of her. Easy as saying I love you. A sigh billows up from her. Smoke from a candle. A wish granted.

My eyes flutter closed. My head crackles with static as my finger is sheathed. Her flesh against my knuckles. There is so much comfort in the grip of her pussy. The way her body contours to my movement. Her wetness coating my digit – sending a jolt down my spine to the lightning rod in my crotch. My fingertip rides the cord running across her ceiling. Short curling strokes, followed by a long, diving plunge. 

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Dive.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Dive. 

She wriggles around, her body flinching and shuttering the longer I work. My mouth around her clit once more, I mumble instructions. 

One click. A buzzing whir of life. 

I dodge out of the way as her vibrator quickly replaces my tongue. 

Her eyebrows scrunch tightly as her mouth inches open – falling open to a silent gape. My penis grows hard and slick, pinned to the bed. I rock my hips along the mattress as my finger strokes again and again. The powerful pulse of the bullet sends shockwaves through my hand. 

I grind harder and harder into the bed. Thrusting in time with my finger. I focus on the head of my phallus. Rubbing little circles on the underside of the tip. Imagining my clit. I want to be touched the way I touch her. 

My wrist starts to cramp. My lover can’t tell yet – her voice has dropped to a low, droning chant, urging me not to stop. In a fluid, practiced motion, I slide my lower body off the edge of our bed. My long arm stretches, relieving the pressure on my wrist, allowing a greater range of motion. Her wetness drips down my palm. My finger focuses on that spot inside her while her vibrator works away – mere inches from each other, like I’m reaching for it through her flesh. Like Adam reaching out to God. 

We’re splayed out, our bodies angled and lounging, lost in the bliss of creation. We work our clits together. Each enraptured in a fervent ecstasy. Our bed looks like the Sistine Chapel as we come. 

In that moment before the hum recedes from our bodies, bathed in the fog of orgasm, I can be anything. I am Adam. I am Eve. I am the serpent and the unseen spirit. 

Maybe I can finally be Clarissa. 

For I am the essence of pleasure.