Everybody Knows

-1- | Hot Oil Treatment

-1- Hot Oil Treatment

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I had to ask my girlfriend’s opinion before I put pen to paper.

It’s not that I’m particularly needy, or that I bow to her beliefs, or that I couldn’t remember which of our s****l experiences impacted my life most deeply. It’s more that my satisfaction is inextricably tied to hers. If my Sweet hasn’t taken pleasure in an experience, then it isn’t terribly significant to me. Even if I come forty times.

Orgasms used to be the end goal, especially when I was younger, but they’ve always been a dime a dozen for me. These days, s*x isn’t about coming. It’s about being close to the woman I love. There are a lot of s****l experiences I could write about because they were scandalous or sensational, or would make for titillating confessions, but I’d rather share something close to my heart.

When my girlfriend and I started dating, I lost friends. People near and dear to me called her a freak, a p*****t, a deviant. They couldn’t handle my romantic involvement with someone who identifies as a male-to-female transsexual. It’s a shame their fears and prejudices prevented them from discovering what an amazing girl Sweet is.

Generally speaking, I wouldn’t advocate outing a trans partner to the reading public, but I do have Sweet’s permission. She finds it empowering that I share not only our s*x but our love on my blog and in my body of work. She says my transgender fiction humanizes people like her, so she’s happy to appear in print, even if it is through the filter of my pen.

I asked Sweet which of our s****l encounters she thought I should write about in this essay, and her responses charted the entire course of our relationship so far.

First, she said, “Write about sucking my toes.”

Actually, I knew she was going to say that. We’ve been together just shy of seven years, and already we’ve become repetitive and predictable and repetitive. Did I mention repetitive?

It might seem like a small thing, but the first time I sucked Sweet’s toes was also the first time we did anything overtly s****l. s*x did not come easy for us, not in the beginning. I was incredibly attracted to her, but she rebuked my advances. Before Sweet could give herself to me, she needed to feel confident that I viewed her as a woman and an individual—that I wasn’t fetishizing her gender expression, or thinking of her as a cross-dresser. She didn’t want to provide just another lurid experience for my shocking little list.

That’s why the toe-sucking was so significant. Before that day, I’d only ever kissed Sweet once—on my balcony. She didn’t say anything at the time, but the next day she told me it made her feel “weird and uncomfortable.” I persevered, not because I wanted to force her into a s****l relationship, but because I had a suspicion she would blossom even more fully into the woman she’d always been on the inside. All she had to do was open herself to something new.

When I kissed her on the toe-sucking day, she let me do it. If I’m not mistaken, she even kissed me back. I touched her arms with just my fingertips and she shivered.

I asked, “Is this okay?” and she nodded.

She was leaning, fully dressed, against the side of her bed. I touched her thighs and listened to her breath grow shallow. I thought she’d tell me to stop, but she didn’t. I sank to the floor and unbuckled her shoes. I took off her socks.

It squicks some people when I talk about taking my girl’s toes in my mouth after she’s been walking around all day, but I love her feet. When I sucked her big toe, she gasped. It sounded like a degree of o****m every time I took a fresh toe between my lips. I looked up and her eyes were rolling back in her head, her lashes fluttering. She told me it was the first time she’d ever had an o****m fully dressed.

But I’ve told everyone that story, so I asked Sweet for another experience to write about.

“Wearing sexy stockings for you,” she said. “I felt so self-conscious, even with them under my clothes. I’m not into fetish stuff. It was hard for me to cross that line.”

I knew precisely the day she was talking about—the night, actually. We’d gone to a free k.d. lang concert as part of Toronto’s Luminato festival. Afterwards, we had to choose between a Stars performance at NXNE, or heading back to my place. As much as I love Canadian indie bands and open-air concerts, I could never resist the sparkle in my girl’s eye. Especially when I thought she might be up to something.

It was my bed she leaned against this time. She kicked off her pants to show me her secret: black stay-up stockings, the kind with lace tops. After the number of times I’d told her how much I love women in sexy lingerie and hosiery—and she’d told me she didn’t feel comfortable wearing things like that—the gesture took my breath away.

So did her legs. If you ask Sweet her favourite feature, she’ll tell you it’s her legs. They’re pale and lovely, leading up to the generous swell of her ass and curve of her belly. She’d worn ultra-tight black panties that day. When she stripped those off, I hardly knew what to say. So I didn’t say anything. I fell to my knees, and I took her in my mouth.

We don’t say “c**k,” or even “p***s,” when we talk about her body. In fact, we stay away from specific references to her genitals. Some trans women refer to that part as their “big clit,” but that term strikes Sweet as silly. I asked her once what she preferred, and she said, “I like when you refer to it as me.”

So I took her in my mouth. She was small and soft, and I could swallow her whole without gagging. Grasping the base of her shaft, I swirled my tongue around, like she and I were kissing. I sucked. At first nothing much happened. She scratched my shoulders and moaned her approval, and after a time, she grew.

I purred around her hardness, running my hands down her sheer black nylons. Her legs felt so smooth against my palms. That was my pleasure—the sucking and the smoothness. I went at her more vigorously. She told me to slow down, that I was hurting her, and I obeyed. Her erection didn’t last long. I’d frightened it, maybe, or come on too strong. It dwindled down to nothing. Sweet says it feels good when I suck her, even if she’s not hard, but after a while it begins to feel aimless.

And I didn’t think an aimless experience would be the best choice for an essay about great s*x. That’s why I asked her for one more idea. I already had one in mind, but I wanted to see if she would come up with the same instance.

“What about the time with the oil?” she asked, and I laughed because that’s exactly what I had in mind. “That was huge, for me. It was the first time I felt totally naked with you. There was nowhere to hide. Just us, skin on skin.”

I don’t remember whose idea it was to buy a shower curtain and a three-litre bottle of vegetable oil. In my memory, it was a mutual decision that bloomed in the space between our brains. In reality, it was probably my idea. I’m certainly the one who carried a plastic jug of oil home on the subway.

I also don’t remember watching Sweet undress that day. It was only after the fact that I realized the trepidation she must have felt as she stripped in my bedroom. We’d had “i*********e” before (her word, and about as sexy as the s*x), but she’d never taken off her top. She was and is very self-conscious about her breasts, which she considers “fake.” True, she packs her bra with water-filled spheres, but that doesn’t make the flesh underneath any less real. My chest is nearly flat too. So what? We humans, we come in all shapes and sizes.

But Sweet isn’t comfortable with her shapes—with the lacks and the excesses—which makes it all the more moving that she stripped bare and laid herself down on a dollar store shower curtain and let me pour vegetable oil all over her body.

Everywhere.

I straddled her, naked on naked, and pushed pools of oil across her belly, up her chest, down her arms. Her skin shone as I poured more oil into her nest of pubic hair. She watched as I dragged the slick stuff down her thighs, which were already the softest I’d ever touched. My p***y craved the same sensation, and I lowered myself down.

Sweet laughed and asked, “What’s with you getting off on my thigh?”

“I just like it,” I said, playing coy. “Feels good, rubbing against it. Especially with all this oil.”

My hands were slick, but my body wasn’t—not just yet—and Sweet grabbed my arm to steady me while I grabbed her between the legs. She arched slightly, and whimpered, and I hoped that was a good whimper because I liked having her in my fist. The vein on the underside of her shaft pulsed against my palm. She grew hard before my eyes.

It wasn’t every day my sweetheart maintained an erection, whether it was in my hand, in my mouth, in my p***y. They usually took a lot of work to arouse, and then faded fast. She hardly ever ejaculated with me, but she likes to remind me that coming and ejaculating are not the same thing. They can happen in conjunction, but she often has one without the other. She often has multiple.

The rarity of a firm, strong erection drove me to writhe harder against her thigh, and tug harder on her shaft. I used both hands to fondle everything I could touch. The oil eased my path, though my p***y was wet enough for the oil to be overkill. It felt good, swirling in circles around my girlfriend’s thigh, but it wasn’t getting me there. I think that’s what made Sweet pull me down on top of her.

By the time my skin met hers, our oil had warmed to her temperature. I’d poured so much on her. There was more than enough to make me slippery all over.

We kissed like that, me on top, she underneath. Her hands explored my plains and terrains, sneaking between us to pinch my n*****s. There was something freeing about feeling so glossy that I might fall off of her. At the same time, even with slick hands, I knew she’d never let me fall.

I stroked her engorged shaft the whole time we kissed, and as it grew huge in my hand, I thought maybe I could take it inside me. Penetrative s*x wasn’t always a roaring success with us, but it could be this time. I knew it could. So I arched away from her perfect mouth and I straddled her wide hips and I lowered my body down until I’d taken her glistening part in mine.

She’d never filled me quite like that before. I don’t think she’d ever been so hard—certainly not in the time we’d known each other. As I rode her, pressing my clit flush to her wiry pubic hair, my hands slipped and slid against her little breasts. She tried to grasp my n*****s, but they got away from her every time.

How could I not have realized, as I looked down at her slick body, that this was a turning point? Being naked together with the curtains open and sunlight sparkling against our oiled bodies, she felt utterly exposed. I didn’t know that until later, until she told me in words.

In that moment, her body said nothing of trepidations, of fears, of insecurities. I f****d her, and I wasn’t dainty about it. I scoured my clit against her pelvis. I got myself so close my p***y hugged her tight, milking her body, demanding that she come.

She grabbed my wrist and brought my hand to my cunt, pressing my fingers against my clit. Sweet liked to watch, but she was bashful about requests. Instead, she took hold of my hand and placed it where she wanted it to be. I rubbed my clit while she stared, transfixed, at the place where we joined together.

Sweet never made much noise in bed, but me? I’m loud. I’m rough. I rode her hard and smacked her tiny t**s and hollered as I came. She whimpered and said, “Oh God!” but that was it. Her throat clicked and she took a sharp breath in. Her belly fluttered, sending curves of flesh rippling like a pond.

I wish I could have seen her erupt with c*m. It’s rare that I can put her over the edge and watch those thick white ropes explode from her body. As I write this, Sweet hasn’t ejaculated in over three months—and, trust me, we’ve tried to get her there.

We’ve come a long way together, my girl and I. That first night when we kissed on my balcony, she left feeling awkward and uncomfortable. In time, she let me in, started trusting me, and she realized that I see her as a woman. Not a fetish object or a man in a dress. That’s not who she is. Even naked and slathered in vegetable oil, I see a woman where others wouldn’t.

There’s a song by Bjork that I’d heard a hundred times before listening closely enough to realize it described us perfectly:

I see who you are behind the skin and the muscle.

When we’re in love, we hear our relationships in every song, but that one particularly left a mark on me. Every time I listen to it, I think about warm oil and writhing limbs. And I think about the woman I love, who learned to use her body, who gave it as a gift to me.