Putty in my Hands

He let me make love to her for the first time. A transgendered lover does not do this easily; let you into the extremely private space that is their orgasm.  It’s hard to explain even to myself what it feels like to have sex with a person who is so giving and so loyal in the bedroom but never quite opens up; never quite gives you queues.  Sure, the penis does its job. It gets hard. It blows its load. But somehow the person just always seems slightly detached from the process. All I could ever do is trust that when he vacantly told me that sex was fulfilling to him that he meant that it wasn’t my fault. I could always tell that something wasn’t quite right. You know, there was never that “putty in my hands” kind of moment. Well, not until last night, anyways.

I tried something new. I did not make love to him as a man. I did not do all the things a man loves to be done to him; all those little things, as a woman, that you do instinctually when loving a man. Touching his face, nibbling on his lip, there’s a roughness to it.  A firmness that suggests you’re tough enough to handle penetration: an invitation for him to enter you.  These are all the things I did not do. 

Instead, I changed it up. I made love to her. I imagined in my mind that I was making love to a woman. No I didn’t, that is a lie. I didn’t imagine she was a woman. I saw a woman before me and I rocked her world. I kissed and teased and licked. I flirted with breasts and played with clit. That’s right, pecs became breasts and penis became clit. Her body shuddered beneath mine. There was no roughness or firmness. Just gentleness. A gentleness that suggests safety and loyalty. A calming tease that doesn’t suggest penetration at all.  Her penis entered my vagina, yes, but somehow it felt as though I was penetrating her. In that steaming moment I became the penetrator and she became the penetrated and she was putty my hands.