Theater Slut

Two strangers in a four foot box of plywood. A privacy booth for previewing adult films. It's supposed to be one to a booth, but no one comes here to follow the rules. I slip in through the crack in the door left for me. One shared look in the fluorescent hallway and now we're here.

There is a subtle art to cruising that often escapes me even on my best days. Contracts written in quick glances and microgestures. A glimpse over the shoulder, a brush of pants, locks left unsecured. In seconds, strangers become lovers and then strangers again. 

An array of men shuffle around this back room of the adult bookstore. Most of them likely don't consider themselves gay or even queer. They're just drawn to dick in ways that their wives surely would never understand. Middle-aged men in slacks sneaking off before dinner. Attention-starved college boys. Men who don't share the same language but speak to each other in kisses and tug jobs. 

I don't attempt to pathologize them. The same way I don't attempt to understand why I'm drawn to these seedy meat markets. Why I, a trans woman, slides her man skin back on for stray moments of desire. Maybe the jiggle of a handle - some dude's desperate need to access me in the darkness of my booth - is enough to make me feel wanted. Maybe I'm just a freak. 

Before this moment, I'd never seen another woman walk the meandering path between the booths. To assume another's gender is a mistake I know better than to make. But when I see her—six foot plus in heels, a long brunette wig, long smooth legs protruding from a black midi-skirt—I want her to be... like me. 

Her lips are a line of scarlet when she looks at me. With her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, I feel her gaze more than I see it. Her black blouse ruffles as she turns the corner, lingering slightly. 

The booth is so small that we are touching at all times. Her foot presses to my shin as she sits on the cushioned bench. Skirt pulled up around her waist, silken panties reveal a prominent bulge. A TV shines brightly through a layer of cracked plexiglass behind me. Everything is blue and black. 

Sunglasses still on, she doesn't look directly at me as she feeds dollar bills into the machine. Moments later, the screen springs to life, rehearsed moans blaring too loudly from speakers inches from my head.

She shifts nervously as she rises to her feet. Face to face I can see the lines on her skin. The creases earned with age that signal she's fifteen to twenty years my senior. This close, I can see the smudge of her lipstick. A small spot where the red deviates from the line of her lips. I take in the spotty blend of her foundation, the costume shop smell of her wig mixed with Cherry Blossom body spray. Her large hand runs down my chest. Her nails are notably unpolished. I search for her gaze but it's fixed to the path her hand creates. 

How many times has she done this? How many times has she left the house decked out in full dress? Makeup and hair. I want to tell her that I see her. That I think she looks lovely. I want her to know that she is braver than I am most days.

But this isn't a place for talking. So I welcome her into my arms as she turns her back to me. Her ass presses to my crotch. My hand runs down her tight stomach. She leans her head back, burying my face in the synthetic strands of her hair. They scratch at my cheeks the same way my own wigs do. Cheap approximations of the femininity we both crave. 

My hand glides across her crotch. Her cock hardens beneath the thin, glossy surface of her panties. Weight presses against me as I ride the length of her shaft. I feel her gasp through my chest. I switch my grip and tug gently. It's the most impressive cock I've ever held. Stock straight with a perfectly defined head. Thick even in my bear paw of a grip. She strains against the fabric. It grows wet under my touch. 

I hold her up as she relaxes into me. She cradles the back of my head as I spring her free of her underwear. There is a romance to our pose. A debauched Greek statue comes to life. Aphrodite and Dionysus in a porn stall. Not enough fig leaves in the world to hide our sins.

Long arms make stroking her from behind easy. I'm methodical. Slow passes from base to tip. The grip tightens around her head. I wonder how she wants to be touched. Men have such violent tastes. Speed and ferocity can take the place of connection and empathy in a pinch. I've never been one for selfish pleasures. How do you touch a cock like a pussy?

My hand is slick with pre-cum before I know it. She frees herself from my grasp, and takes a seat on the bench again. Wet panties around her knees. Her cock glistens and bobs in the glow of the TV. She smiles—bashful but craving more.

I slide to my knees and wrap my hands around her base. My tongue spreads wide at the bottom of her shaft and rides up her length to her head. Her gaze is still averted. Shame? Is she ashamed of what we're doing or who we are? Or am I projecting? Maybe it’s pleasure. Maybe it’s bliss. Has anyone ever touched her the way I do? With so much understanding.

The corners of her lips hitch higher and higher as my tongue swirls. I flick at the taut skin on the underside of her head. I circle it. Achingly. Slow. My mouth fills with saliva. Lips part and it drips down her shaft. I smear it with a fist, coating her.

She gasps—loud, cutting through the movie's audio—as my head dives down and I take her to the back of my throat. Not far enough to gag. I hold her length inside of me for a moment before I rise back up, lips firmly wrapped around her. She catches her breath. Then I descend again. Up and down like some thrill-seeking carnival ride. I'm the kind of attraction you have to be dared to ride. 

I finally let her free and gasp for air. Her thighs tremble beneath my hands. Body angled into the corner, she tempers her moans. Her hands flex and twitch. 

I pick up the pace. Ever faster until I'm fucking my own throat. Spit sloshes in my mouth. I gag. I drool. I swallow to take her back as far as I can. 

Her hips buck hard against my face and my mouth suddenly tastes sweet. She lets out a shuddering sigh. No one's ever come in my mouth before. I'm unsure of what to do. I spit in a trash can in the corner. 

Her taste permeates my mouth as I watch her slowly compose herself. A magnificent smile is plastered across her face..

I linger at the door. I'm overwhelmed again by the urge to say something. To say "I see you." More importantly, I want to know so badly if she sees me too. We never exchange a word.

I slip out the door. I'm a stranger again.