I woke up, this morning. This morning I wake up. One part of my body wakes up, in the living room of my sibling. The other part of muscles are ghosts. Some fragments of articulation are just pain bouncing through the flesh, which is empty and blank. The feelings are a quiet grumpiness and a high-pitched of horniness of a teenage boy. I have not even started my T journey yet. Not the best conditions to be in a good mood. My phone alarm woke me up at 6 am. I wonder why. I am on holiday. The children will soon wake me up and play around my sleepy eyes. I try to have a regular writing practice here. I am off, I have fewer daily activities, I mean work and social life. I am easing into the family routine, which is an unknown world.

When I woke up this morning. Did I wake up?. This morning, when I woke up. Am I dreaming? It was hard to know which feeling was stronger in my body, the intense pain or the horny feeling in all my body parts. I want to feel you up. The pain, my chronic pain is wandering all around and inside my body, playing a game of guess where? My wandering hands are seeking your skin. My horniness is high and getting higher jumping from 1 to 10 in seconds like a scale of numbers describing pain in the hospital. Craving pain medication as much as craving your skin. I saw you 6 days ago, in England. Our bodies were hungry for lust. Our silly teenage minds are hungrier than our bodies can handle. Hard, but too hard. Too quick. Too much. Too full. But we want more. We think we can take it. I am hard. I miss you. I want to slap your face. I want control. I want to pin you to my bed. I want to control you. I want you to feel that I am strong. I want to see bruises of rainbow colours appear on your thighs. I want your body to be unable to move. I want to bite you. I want to hit you, slap you, beat you up and see your eyes shining with pleasure. I want to eat you. I want to devour you. I want to hear you moan. I want you. I want to feel your skin. I want you, for hours. I want you, timeless. I want to pull your hair again and again, just before you get a headache. I want your body to be still, and to be inside you. I want to FUCK you and be FUCKED by you, hard, harder, harder and harder. Everything around us will fall asleep.

The sounds of the traffic and drunken teenagers singing songs I know nothing about will be erased from our memories. I want the pain to disappear, or at least the pleasure to be over it. To play other games with my mind. To be on top. To be your Top. To be on top of you. To be on the top of my pain. You are my favourite sub. At least I control you over everything in my insides. Everything has stopped. We breathe. I am hard for you. And slower and slower and slower, we are FUCKING again. Repeat. I want to hear your voice. Repeat: FUCK ME, to please you. Repeat. Get hard for me! Repeat it!. I please you!. Repeat. I want to play with your body and discover new rules, new sensations, new reactions. I want to tease you, on repeat. I want to shave your hair and have more bruises on our knees to feel more gender euphoria. I want to share it with you. I want to be with you, just with you.

You can be anyone. Anyone I can be. Anyone who wants to be fucked by anyone. For, you, for her, for him, for them, I want to moan. I want you to hear it. No, I want you to listen to it. I want you to remember the exact sound of my moaning. Do not remember my name, just remember the sound of me coming. Yes you, just you, only you. It is an act of generosity to give me the pleasure I need for my body to be in control of the decision made for it. Not other people’s control over my body. My body can feel. My body can be. I will send you pictures of my naked body parts, my skin, my chest, my thighs, my tattoos. I take pictures. To be hot for pictures, to be hot on pictures, will take me many tries. It is hard game, trying to be sexy and masc, the more my gender expression changed or became less fem or more masc, the rules of the game changed. The start remains the same: asking consent to send a hot picture. You said: YES. The game was on. We both pushed the boundaries as far as we could. More or less clothing. Different body parts. Different angles. Trying to play around your arousal and body temperature. I played it before, several times, with people I did not give a fuck about or people that I loved deeply, and the in-betweens.

We did not see each other for months; it was not a situation of choice. The source of attraction and play became more exploratory. One day you texted me that what you missed the most sexually was my moaning. I decided to record myself masturbating. I sent you the recording. I did not listen to it. I think it will make me more self-conscious and just kill my sex life. You sent me a picture of you wearing headphones and listening to my moan. My blood was on fire with excitement. I send you a video of me masturbating. You filmed yourself masturbating but the video was so heavy you never sent it to me, but you were turned on, hard as a cold heavy metal pole.

Years later, I have this sex-texting dialogue again, with someone new. A similar one about moaning. Nowadays, with my combination of medication, laziness or just wanting to come hard several times, I use my vibrator instead of my hands. I have recorded myself. The sound of the vibrator is so loud that the magic of the breaking voice, the breathing and the closeness of it, just disappear in the electronic sound of the high speed. It feels good and powerful to give to my body more space and perspectives in pleasure to grow against the increase of the pain, to fight back, resist or maintain.

Let’s just see each other. FUCK and moan LOUDLY until we feel heavy asleep in the hole of our desire.