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autohomoneurotic · 18 days ago

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I see a lot of roachification and loserfication that centers on intox and weight gain/slob- both beautiful expressions of the genre- but i’d like to present my own fixation in it.

Every male friendgroup has “that one guy”... that one guy who can’t get a girlfriend. That one guy who’s terminally online in a way that makes him offputting to anyone who isn’t used to it. That one guy who hates parties, doesn’t drink or indulge with his friends… That one guy who just can’t seem to grow up all the way. Who’s stuck in his adolescence or his own head.

Sometimes these guys don’t even have a friendgroup- maybe they’re just too weird, too isolated, too much of a loser to even be accepted into one. Or maybe he doesn’t even try- maybe he likes being alone, so no one’s watching all the stuff he gets up to and he can get away with all the ways he’s failed to become a ‘real man’.

You know the type- overgrown, shaggy hair that is never fully brushed through besides with his fingers, never wearing anything other than baggy cargo pants or sweats and oversized hoodies or anime t-shirts to hide his weak frame, bags under his eyes from long nights on his laptop and acne-riddled from his poor diet of shitty delivery food and energy drinks. An apartment full of comics and ecchi manga and fan posters and anime figures, never fully tidied, no matter how much or little he tries to keep it clean. He doesn’t care if it’s embarrassing, to look or live the way he does- it’s not like anyone’s going to see it anyway.

He’s not very good at being a person. Maybe before he transitioned he was never that good at being a girl. He was too awkward, not good at makeup or wearing the right clothes or liking the right things, for girls to ever be friends with him. And guys rejected him, too, on account of the fact that despite obviously being more of a boy than a girl he never really did anything, not play sports or try to socialize with them- he was always kind of just there, absorbed in his computer and the little world he maintained there. He was always a loser. And after he transitioned it just let him sink lower. His appearance deteriorated further as he started growing more stubble that he can’t be bothered to shave, he became even more of a shut-in as he entered college or the workforce and realized he’d never had a chance to, and probably never would, be one of the guys even if he tried, and his sex drive- well. That’s one of the hardest parts.

He’s not just a loser in how he presents himself or lives- he’s a loser in how deeply, uncontrollably he thinks about sex, even though he knows he’s never going to get it. He was already a freak, with plenty of intense or absurd fetishes girls shouldn’t ever have that he fixated on in the absence of company or connection- but as testosterone begins taking over his body, making him more sensitive and desperate, making him so uncontrollably horny that he can barely think of anything else, it starts to take over his life. If he’s not scrolling on the computer or his phone, he’s looking at porn and getting off, once, twice, seven times a day- not even just because he’s horny, but because he’s lonely. He has no other way to feel good. Niche fetish porn and increasingly sadistic and voyeuristic fantasies are all he has that can fill his day, and his body wants it so badly. And he knows he should be out there looking for someone who he can actually touch and feel, to be normal with- but at this point he doesn’t care. If he keeps himself in this constant cycle of pleasure and overstimulation he doesn’t need to think about anything else. He can just feel good, and forget how much of a loser he’s truly become- maybe even revel in it, how testosterone turned him into this debased, loser-y guy who can’t control himself and just becomes more and more disheveled and guy-ish in the worst, most embarrassing way- experiencing some form of teenage puberty he’d never gotten before.

He’s not happy, but he’s at peace with it and he can at least fetishize it, how lonely and weird he is. But no man is an island. He meets someone, at his shitty minimum wage job that he’s barely holding down, who for some reason takes an interest in him. Maybe this new guy thinks he seems like he just needs someone to get him out of his shell more, and show him how to have a good time. Maybe he feels like, being the only two trans guys around, he kind of has a responsibility to make sure they’re buddies. Or maybe he’s drawn to how pathetic he is, how clearly unable to integrate with other guys he is- and wants to exploit it.

This new friend starts giving him more attention, little by little. Saying hi to him when no one else around them does, asking how he is, even if he rarely gets more than a stare or a mumbled greeting in response as he doesn’t look up from his phone. Then, asking about his weekend as they work together and noticing how he never, ever has anything to say. And finally, once he keeps pushing, finding an in- maybe a shirt he wears with a band logo on it or spotting something on his phone, and he’s able to see more about how this loser works.

“Oh, you’re into them? I’ve seen a lot about them, do you like them a lot?”

And he looks at the guy like he doesn’t even comprehend that someone would want to ask him anything about himself. He’s used to being ignored, and this guy- preppy, clean-cut, friendly and personable, successful in his transition, accepted by other guys and clearly wanted by the girls they work with- certainly has no reason to give him the time of day. But he responds with something that allows for more conversation than he has before, and slowly, as he feels more like this guy might genuinely want to talk to him and isn’t playing a joke, he warms up. No, more than warms up- he starts to become attached. And he doesn’t become attached like normal guys become attached to their friends- he starts becoming obsessed. He changes all his shifts just to make sure they always work together, is crushed when he calls out, can’t stop himself from openly staring at him when he interacts with other coworkers in jealousy. He stalks him online, finding everything about him that he can and saves as many photos as he can find into sprawling folders, like he does his porn, and looks at them when he’s at home. Eventually he can’t stop himself from starting to jerk off while he looks at them, ashamed at how much better it feels than anything he’s ever done before and how compulsive it begins to feel. He knows it’s pathetic, and pervy, and gross- but how can he help it? He hasn’t had anyone pay attention to him in so long. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. If he can’t have anything else, at least he can have this.

His friend can tell how attached he’s becoming with him. He’s a little creeped out, and uncomfortable with how clearly he wants him, without any sort of understanding of how to hide it from how long he’s been alone- but at the same time he kind of likes encouraging it, to see how far he can push without him breaking down. He starts touching him lightly, moving him out of the way as he walks past with a hand on his back and feeling how he shivers and tenses up, or just looking at him as he stands outside with him on their lunchbreak while he chainsmokes and watching him shift and try to hide from his attention, like he’s scared if his friend looks at him too long he’ll figure out what’s going on in his head. And he starts teasing him. At first it was just some lighthearted ribbing, about how he should get out more, but the way he instantly gets red and nods makes him wonder what more he can get away with. He starts poking fun at how small he is- “you should try wearing something that fits you, all that does is make you look tinier, I bet I could take you so easily, man”. And how much he stares- “jeez, why don’t you take a picture? It’s creepy when you stare like that.”. How clearly pent up he is and how he needs to get laid, how much he needs a haircut or a shave so he doesn’t look so messy, how much he still has the interests of a teenage boy- anything becomes fair game because he can tell how much he likes it. Every time he just nods along and submits to the criticism with no argument, like he knows how much better his friend is than him, like he deserves it.

At some point his friend wants to hang out outside of work, not just sitting in their car after getting fast food on their break, and he asks to come over. Well, not really asks as much as tells- “I wanna see where you live, I bet it’s really something. Make sure you don’t have any chopped up bodies in your fridge.” He tells his friend that he’s never had anyone over before, and his friend says it’s all the more reason to come- he seems like he could use some guy time. He, as always, can’t say no to his only friend, and so he lets him drive him home after their shift- no time to prepare, to hide all his hentai and food trash and dirty clothes. He’s nervous as he lets him in, trying to hide some of the most embarrassing stuff before his friend can notice, but it’s not enough- his entire apartment is already a testament to how far he’s sunken into his own little world of porn and clutter and loserdom. His friend laughs when he looks around, and lets himself into his bedroom, where the bed (and everything else) is covered in books and discarded drink cans and laundry, either dirty or just never put away. His friend sits down on the bed and tells him to come here, so he does, because what else is he supposed to do? He apologizes for all the mess and his friend just smirks and says he wouldn’t have expected any better from a guy like him. He drags out his laptop and asks if there’s anything he’d wanna watch- isn’t there a new episode of that cartoon he likes? And yes, there is, so he turns it on and tries to make space on the bed for both of them to sit as they watch it.

Slowly, his friend starts getting closer- first just letting their knees touch, and then leaning back with his arm positioned behind him, and then letting their sides press together. He keeps getting more and more nervous and wound up, knowing how much he’s dreamed of this happening. And his friend notices. “Dude, are you shaking?” He tries to deny it, say he’s just cold because of the fan, but his friend doesn’t let him slip out of it and reaches out to put a hand on his thigh. “What happens if I do this?” He can’t help but spread his legs a little further and let his friend’s hand fall down between them, his heart beating faster in his chest. His friend laughs and takes his hand away, instead reaching around to give him a squeeze. “You’re so weird sometimes, man.” He says nothing and tries to focus on the laptop screen. His friend doesn’t take his arm back.

They sit like that for a long time, talking a little, about work and what they’re watching- before eventually he starts getting tired, from the heat of his friend’s body and it getting late and the soothing presence of another person being in his bed, something he’s never experienced before, and he starts sliding down against his pillow to lie down. His friend notices- “getting tired already? I thought you were used to staying up all night, looking at anime titties or whatever”- and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it, just says he wants to lie down because its more comfortable. “You can be so lazy, man,” but his friend admits that does sound like a good idea, and goes to recline next to him, propped up against the stained, flattened pillows.

His friend starts touching him again, just a little bit at first- rubbing his scawny bicep, playing with the strings on his hoodie absentmindedly, and then playing with the ends of his grown-out hair. Eventually he says, just to see what will happen- “you know, you’re kind of cute up close. How have you never gotten laid?” He looks at his friend, caught off guard, and he tries to stammer out something about not knowing or just never having gotten around to it, but his friend keeps pushing. “What, are you into some weird shit or something?” When he sees how horrified and embarrassed his facial expression is he knows he’s hit on something. “Oh my god, you totally are. I should have guessed, honestly, just look at you.” His friend's eyes rake over his body and his room. “Just look at how you live.” He turns over to lie on his side, his head propped up on his hand as he looks at him. “it’s kind of hot, how much of a loser you are.”

He goes to hide his face, ashamed of how clearly his friend is seeing through him and how he kind of agrees, putting his face down into the bed. He just says, yeah, and tries his best not to get any more turned on than he already is from how his friend is teasing him and having his obvious failure confirmed to him. His friend, seizing the opportunity, nudges him so his knee is between his legs and pulls him closer, so he’s trapped flush against his friend’s body. “I bet you wouldn’t even be able to help yourself if I told you I’d give you something, even just a little. I already know you’re obsessed with me.” His friend saying that causes him to start struggling to get free and deny it, but his friend just shoves his thigh up between his legs onto his dick and he can’t stop himself rutting against him without being able to control it. “It’s okay, it’s not like you were very good at hiding it. It’s like you’ve never had a friend before. And look at you now, I’m not even touching you and you’re already so desperate.”

The degradation just turns him on more and almost instinctively, like he always does when he’s even the tiniest bit horny now after so many years spent compulsively masturbating, puts his hand down his pants and starts rubbing himself off. His friend laughs at him but doesn’t stop him, just puts a hand on the back of his neck and forces his face into his shoulder. Smelling his friend’s sweat and deodorant and just the smell of boy overwhelms him and he keeps going, faster. “Tell me how much you want this. Tell me why you deserve it.” He starts speaking as much as he can between whining, about how much he wants his friend, how lonely he’s been, how no one’s ever even touched him before and how embarrassed he is about how it’s just too much, about how porn suddenly hasn’t been enough since he met him. And he says he doesn’t deserve him, that he knows he’s just a perverted stalkery loser and he’s lucky his friend even looks at him, how he’s sorry he’s so gross but it just feels so good. “You’re right, you don’t deserve it. Guys like you deserve to be alone, that’s how you all are anyway, I knew it the moment I saw you. You could never be a real man, that’s why all you do is jack off and watch fucking anime all day. But I know you need this. You’re never going to get it anywhere else, right?” He says yes, not able to keep speaking as he sinks into the feeling of his hand on his dick, like he always does. “You like me talking to you like this, don’t you? You know it’s true, and you like it. It’s like you don't even know how to help yourself.”

He really doesn’t; after spending so much time alone, without a single other person, he can’t even pretend to show restraint. He feels so disgusting and degenerate, like he’s violating his friend just by showing him he can even want sex, like if he’s so pathetic and failed so badly at being a normal man he doesn’t deserve it. But his friend lets him keep going, laughing and teasing him for how sensitive he is, and eventually he dips his hand into his boxers to feel his dick. “Jesus, you’re getting so hard from this. It sucks you’re such a virgin, T got you really big. I know plenty of guys who would be able to do a lot with that.” But you can’t, because you’re not a real man, is the implication, and feeling his friend run his fingers over him and test how he feels in his hand sends him over the edge. He starts to cry, just a little, tightening his legs around his and his friend’s hands as his friend laughs, also just a little, like he's amused by the whole thing.

His friend rolls him over so he’s laying on top of him, still shaking and with teartracks on his face. And he lets him lay there, basically ignoring him as he keeps sniffling and thanking him profusely and rubbing his cheek against his chest. He doesn’t say anything back for a long time, just watching the laptop, still playing, and checking his phone like it doesn’t even phase him how much he just rocked his world. “Jesus Christ, chill out,” he finally says. “I was just helping you out. I know you’re kind of an incel but you don’t need to be so lame, man.” He tries his best to calm down and stop crying, like a guy losing his virginity on prom night- except he’s in his twenties, and never went to prom because no one would look twice at him, and this was just his friend taking pity on him, or playing with him to see what would happen. He knows it doesn’t mean anything…

Not right away, but over the next month or two- this becomes their routine. His friend riles him up all day, testing him and teasing him, and then drives him home and jerks him off or makes him go down on him (to teach him how to do it, since he won’t learn it anywhere else) or just lets him hump his leg while they watch movies together, making fun of him for how he never gets less desperate, never gains any stamina or self control. It makes him feel pathetic, every time, knowing his friend is probably still out hooking up with other people and he just sits around waiting for him, never being invited out because his friend doesn't want to be seen with him even if he enjoys his company privately, that he’s still weird looking and awkward and obviously inexperienced, and that all this is is his friend letting him blow off steam so that he hopefully will stop being so fucking weird… but that sense of being so embarrassing only makes him want it more. Eventually it turns into a sort of bargaining game- “your room is a fucking waste site, if you pick up a little I’ll let you give me head,” or, “put on a clean shirt for once and you can use my hand to jerk off while I watch TV, you smell too sweaty for me to focus”. He never actually asks him to do anything too productive- just enough to remind him of how inadequate he is and use it against him. And then, eventually, supplementing his directives with reinforcement, ruffling his hair and saying "attaboy" or "good job, see, that wasn't so hard, was it"?

Over time he can’t imagine his life any other way- being a cooler, stronger guy’s experiment, someone who indulges him in his weird niche interests even as he makes fun of him for them, reveling in the ways his pathetic, lonely, geeky existence make him so different from his friend. How his friend allows him to be perversely obsessed with him, smelling his shirts and boxers and begging him not to leave even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it, knows he’s so much lower than him. And even if it’s embarrassing- even if he feels so small and humiliated, even more than he did before- he’ll never be able to let it go. Because it’s much more fun to be a failed man, a creep, a virgin or a perv when there’s someone there to see it but who won’t ask him to change. He becomes a pathetic little pet loser, and he loves every second of it.

#can you tell the roachification art changed my brain chemistry permanently #and how badly i want to be someones loser boyfriend U____U #aap #autoandrophilia #ftm #ftm t4t #original fiction #loserfication #virgin kink #roachification #loser humiliation #short story #transfag #ftm nsft #boyfailure

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autohomoneurotic · 2 months ago

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scout's honor

ao3 link

“Just let me, Virgil, I’ll be the boy,” Sloane mumbles, almost as if she isn’t fully aware that she’s saying it, and you feel yourself get impossibly sore between your legs as that buzzes in your ear.

You don’t even fully think it before it comes out of your mouth, “can we both be boys?”

Hands grab your wrists and yank them down, holding them to your sides. You try to fight it, to be able to hide away from this situation you just created, but her grip is too tight. You can’t do anything but look right at Sloane, at her ski-slope nose and strangely soft expression that you’ve never seen her wear before. Her short hair is fanning out around her temples as she leans over you.

“Is that what you want?”

first attempt at ahe/'forcemasc' (not all that forced at all lol) writing... it was supposed to be mostly porn but became mostly sweet. perhaps in the future i will actually write real porn again... le sigh

(i refer to characters with she/her pronouns for a lot of this because i plan on this being a running series following their transitions and i think it's hot to transition to he/him just for the sex portions, sorry if that is not your thing don't like don't read or whatever)

---

You and Sloane have always been close. She simply appeared, it seemed like, in your neighborhood when you were seven. You can’t remember a time when Sloane wasn’t your best friend.

You had been wary at first. Sloane was loud. She was a little obnoxious, and she had no sense of personal space. She made jokes that shocked even the crudest of your friends, ones that when you were younger had been much too mature for her age. You realize now that at the time she probably hadn’t even understood half of what she said. Once you had gotten over the friction at the beginning, though, you began to get along swimmingly. Yes, Sloane is loud, but she has always spoken up for you. She’s invasive, but it forces you to open up. And you’re shy, but it reminds her to pull back. Your reluctance to try new things forces her to think twice. You, as your mother says, keep her out of trouble, and she pushes you out of your comfort zone. In the end, it just works.

There is also the fact that as the only two girls among your friends, you became a sort of matched set. Both of you are slouching, lanky, and stubbornly plain, with choppy home-grown haircuts (yours shaggy, hers daringly short) and hand-me-down clothes that hung off of you as if you were racks (yours from your friends, and hers from her brother). Neither of you wore a lick of makeup, but you both wore the boys’ uniform at school. You can’t, and sort of refuse to put too fine a point on it- but the resemblance between the type of girl you both are is clear. It’s hard being like that, sometimes. Together, it’s easier.

It isn’t a passionate friendship, after all these years. You often run out of things to talk about, or get sick of eachother, even as you refuse to leave eachother alone. But no one knows as much about you as Sloane. No one understands Sloane’s many idiosyncrasies the way you do. You know her least favorite things, down to her socks. She knows exactly where your family hides their Christmas gifts. You know eachothers’ family computer passwords. You do everything together, talk about everything together, learn everything together. That’s how it has been ever since you can remember. Every class, secret and first time is shared. So of course that would be how this started.

Today is Sloane’s day. That is to say, it’s the day that you go to her house instead of her to yours. You both have a free period at the end of each Monday, which is one of the only times you’re apart; she always chooses to go home, while you stay and read until the bus comes. But after that, you’re together again, walking the four houses down to knock on the other’s door.

As you let yourself in through the back, you can hear the tinny sound of gunfire coming from her room at the end of the hall. “I’m back,” you say as you set down your bag and take off your shoes, which is what you always say when you see her again. It’s never ‘I’m here’, because that is a given. You are always going to be right back, with Sloane. “Having a good game?”

“I’m always having a good game.” She doesn’t bother to look up as she keeps playing. “How was study hall?”

You start to take off your uniform as you answer, unbuttoning your polo and picking a longsleeve out from where you left it on her bed the last time you were here, pulling it over your head. “Mrs. Baxter asked me why I’m always in detention.”

“Hah!” Sloane shakes her head. “That’s what you get for being such a tryhard.”

“Sorry I can’t get a ride home from my mom,” you shoot back, unzipping your trousers and slipping on a pair of Sloane’s bleach-stained sweats before coming to sit down next to her. “It’s just more convenient to wait.”

“You could always get a ride home with me,” she reminds you, moving over a bit to give you room.

It’s true; you could. But it’s always been an unspoken thing that you don’t come around Sloane’s mother. There is rarely a moment where Sloane isn’t actively fighting with, isn’t about to fight with, or hasn’t just finished fighting with her. It’s better to stay out of the way. You don’t say this, because you don’t need to. You just nod, picking up a stray blanket to ball up in your arms and lay your chin on. That’s something you both love and hate about Sloane’s bed; it’s always covered in too much shit. In some cases this means being poked by a pen or finding errant food wrappers, but on the flipside, there are many soft things to hold. You watch as she keeps playing and you begin chewing absentmindedly on the tips of your hair.

Sloane side-eyes you. “Stop doing that shit, it’s awful.” Her hand comes up to lightly backhand you on the cheek. “You need a haircut.” She is always telling you this.

“Leave me alone.” You know it’s gross, but it’s a hard habit to kick and you don't like how much she gets on your case about it. “Be grateful I don’t mention all the weird shit you do.”

“Virgil, one day-” and here she begins her common refrain- “you’re going to go to the doctor and they’re going to tell you that you have a giant ball of hair in your stomach and they’re going to have to operate, and then you’re going to cry to me, ‘oh, Sloane, I should have listened to you!’, and I’m going to laugh at you, and say, ‘I told you so, Virgil, but you were too busy being autistic to listen’. And then how will you feel?”

Her shaming works, and you stop biting your hair and being autistic, pushing the blanket off of your lap. “Just give me a controller.”

You aren’t very good at video games. It’s one of the things you don’t like about yourself very much- you refuse to play them around the guys, because you don’t like being made fun of and it makes you feel profoundly uncomfortable for them to see you fail so spectacularly at them, to be so incompetent. Sloane is the only person who gets to see you play, and that’s only because she will completely ignore you if you don’t join in while she’s doing it. She puts the second controller in your hand, the one she used to use when she’d play with her brother (she’s upgraded to his since he’s moved out) and restarts the game in the multiplayer mode.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I did this weekend?” This past Sunday was one of the first in a long time that you haven't hung out. You have been waiting for it to come up.

“Tell me.”

Sloane grins. “Guess.”

“I’m not going to guess. Tell me.”

“You’re gonna want to look at me for this one.” You hide your character in a corner so it won’t die, and turn to look. She glances at you, still grinning, before turning back to the TV screen. Her side profile gleams in the shifting patches of blue light.

“You’ll love this. You know Eric Friedman?”

You pull a face. “ Eric, who everyone says touched his cousin?”

“It wasn’t his cousin, it was his cousin’s friend who everyone CALLS his cousin. And yes.”

“Oh, okay. Well, what about Eric who touched his cousin’s friend, then.”

“So…” Sloane draws out the ‘o’ as she hops from platform to platform… “When we saw eachother at that bonfire…” She trails off.

You can’t stop yourself from smacking her on the arm. “Sloane!”

“Hey, what’s your problem?”

“That’s disgusting!”

“How is that disgusting?” She lets go of the controller with one hand to smack you back, much harder and many more times than you did to her. “It was only, like, one kiss.” You know this probably isn’t true, but you would rather not hear about that right now, so you let it slide.

“It’s just disgusting, I don’t know. It just is.”

“People kiss, it’s fine.”

“What if you get mono?”

“Does it seem like I have mono?”

“... What if he tells people?”

“Who’s going to believe Eric Friedman? He touched his cousin.”

You laugh at that, but only a little. You remain unconvinced. “I just think that was a dumb thing to do, still.” Sloane has been known to make bad decisions similar to this; there was your friend Andrew, for example.

“Oh, please. Like you’ve never kissed anyone before that you regret.”

You elect to say nothing to that.

“Come on, just tell me one.”

“Don’t you think I would tell you if I did?” You think this is a sufficient answer, but clearly Sloane does not agree.

“Okay, just tell me one you don’t regret, then, even.”

You say nothing again.

“Oh my god!” Sloane’s voice raises, and you shush her, knowing how her mother gets when she’s too loud. “Sorry. But seriously, actually, no one? Never?”

“Again: don’t you think you would have heard about it if I had?”

“Oh my god.” Sloane pauses the game for once, and turns to you. “How have I never realized this?”

“Probably because it’s really not that big of a deal.” You start playing with your hair again, trying your best to keep it out of your mouth and failing. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

From her face, you can tell that you cannot. “I mean, don’t you want to?”

You shrug. “Not really. I mean, maybe if it was the right person, but I really don't care. It will happen eventually.”

Sloane is being uncharacteristically quiet, just looking at you with a faint smile on her lips, like she’s sizing you up. It’s unnerving for her to look so deep in thought- because Sloane doesn’t actually think. She plots.

“Stop making up stupid plans in your head. I would never trust anyone you tried to set me up with and you know it.” You tap her controller to unpause, pick up yours and start playing again to attempt to distract her. She joins you to make sure you don’t die.

“I’m not thinking about boys,” Sloane says, again elongating the ‘o’, “You at least need to practice first. You’re too old to do it without practice.”

“What are you even saying right now?”

“Oh, you know…” She scoots closer to you, until your thighs are almost touching. “It’s always better to try new things with a friend. We’re friends, aren’t we, Virgil?”

You scoff and shake your head. “Fuck off, we aren’t living in a lesbian porn.”

“Come on, don’t you want to be ready for your first kiss?”

“I feel like practicing negates the entire point of it being the first, to be honest.”

You can see out of the corner of your eye as Sloane shrugs and tilts her head back and forth in a sort of ‘you got me there’ motion, even as her mouth spreads into a wicked grin. It’s almost guilty, except for that it isn’t at all.

“I guess,” she says, “but wouldn’t you rather know what you’re doing, when you’re with a boy?” Her thin fingers knock her joysticks around as she talks. You sneak a glance at her sideways for just a moment, just to check her body language and how serious she’s being.

Sloane likes to play with you like this. Usually it’s in public, sidling up close to you and saying some non sequitur in the middle of you talking like, hmm, you smell good, as she picks up a lock of your hair, or, wow, Virgil, you’re so warm, as she pulls you closer to her on the cold metal benches in the park, laughing when you push her away and tell her to fuck off. She lights your cigarettes on the ends of hers when you ask for a lighter, which she insists on calling ‘buttfucking’. She jokingly wolf whistles at you when you get out of the car, pretending to not understand the problem as you brush her off and tell her to shut up. You never know how much she’s doing it to blow off steam, and how much she’s just trying to annoy you- or alternatively, how much she’s just trying to get the guys’ attention.

She’s waiting for you to answer, clearly. You choose to make her wait, silently focusing on the game and trying your best not to chew your lip too much as you think of what to say. She does not like this and begins to whine, as she is wont to do when she isn’t getting her way.

“Come on, Virgil, don’t make it weird.” She bumps you with her shoulder as she continues to play. Sloane has the almost supernatural power to win at video games with professional finesse at the same time as she annoys you. “I’m really not asking that much, it’s supposed to be fun.”

“I’m not making it weird.” You bump her back in a more irritated way and continue to plunge your guy into the next wave of enemies. “Why are you so obsessed with this all of a sudden, you’re the one being weird.”

Sloane charges ahead on the screen, and begins taking out enemies with her characteristic ease. Now, she’s the one who’s quiet.

“... It would be my first time too, you know.” Her voice is so convincingly innocent and timid that if you didn’t know her, you would have believed it.

You shake your head. “Such complete bullshit, literally what were we just talking about.”

She can’t contain her cackle, and you push her until she almost falls over, which she doesn’t seem fazed by in the slightest.

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

She leans her head onto your shoulder and begins to rub her cheek on you as she coos, “you’re so smart, Virgil, you have me all figured out…”

“Sloane, stop.”

“You know me so well…”

“Cut it out.”

“It’s like we’re meant for eachother…”

“Okay, seriously, fuck off.” The level ends as you get wasted by the alien horde, your impaled character facedown on the floor. You toss the controller to the side and turn to try to fix her with your best withering look. She remains unmoved, fixing her face into a pout when you don’t budge.

“You’re so mean to me all the time.”

You scoff and take your legs up to your chest as you move up the bed to lean against her pillows. They’re firm against your back in their flannel cases. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Sloane clambers up to kneel in front of you. “Why can’t you just say yes?” She holds her fingers up in a pinching position. “Just a tiny little one, just so you can see what it’s like…” You shake your head and turn it away from her to show just how unimpressed you are and hide behind a sheet of your hair. She is embarrassing you, and you don’t want her to have the satisfaction of knowing, although you’re sure she does.

Faster than you can understand it is the pull on your chin, and you are suddenly much too close to Sloane’s face. You can see each and every freckle on her nose, and her eyes are so bright they almost glow.

You can feel her breath, warm in your mouth, between your lips where she’s holding them open ever so slightly. “Hey. We’re friends, right?”

You still can’t tell if she’s joking. You go hot, and then cold, and then hot again, and all you can say is, “yes,” and it comes out slightly muffled due to the grip she has on your cheeks.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, we’re friends,” you breathe out, and her eyes immediately crinkle up as she smiles. You expect her to let go, but instead, her hand simply moves up to hold your jaw and she twines her fingers into your hair.

“And what else are friends for, but to help eachother out?”

It’s really starting to seem like she isn’t joking, from the look in her eyes. This is not what friends do, you feel you should say. This isn’t how we are, you want to tell her. But it doesn’t really matter to you in this moment, not when you can feel the heat of her hand sliding up the side of your thigh. As much as you’re confused about it, since it’s Sloane- you’re suddenly so turned on you can barely move. Even if she’s teasing, it’s hard to say no.

“Fine, yes, sure, go ahead then.” What’s the worst that could happen? It’s only Sloane, after all.

She pushes your legs down and she crawls between them, putting her hands on your shoulders as she lays you back and leans down to kiss not your lips, but your neck. She starts slowly, gingerly, up and down your throat. This was only supposed to be one kiss, you think frantically, and you start to half-heartedly push her away.

You don’t even fully think it before it comes out of your mouth, “can we both be boys?”

She instantly pulls back, sitting up to look at you with owlish eyes. You go ice cold. Immediately, you regret saying it. You feel that pool of shame you hold in your chest so close, so tight, begin to run over, and you cover your face with your hands.

“Sorry. That was stupid. Don’t listen to me, I don’t know why I said that, I know you were joking, I was just joking, I-”

“No, no-”

“No, seriously, it’s-”

“Is that what you want?” Her voice is unusually gentle.

“Um.” You’re about to have a heart attack, you’re so scared. You think you might fall through the floor, you’re so mortified. But you can never lie to Sloane. “Yes, kind of, a little.” You bite your lip and look past her face at the ceiling, feeling your throat tighten. You are suddenly very, very afraid of yourself. “A lot,” you get out, and your voice breaks. You can’t stop the tears that start to well up in your eyes.

“Oh, Virgil.” Sloane lets go of your arms and puts her own around you as you start to cry, folding herself so your face is in the crook of her neck as she helps you sit up. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She smoothes her hand up and down your back. “You don’t need to cry, it’s okay…”

You shake your head as you feel the collar of her shirt start to get wet. You’re trembling as you grab your arms around her, hugging her closer and trying to take deep breaths. It doesn’t feel okay. You are suddenly so small and so scared and you can’t move from exactly this spot or you might disappear.

“No, it is, I promise.” Sloane begins to rock you back and forth just a little with her hand cradling the back of your head to keep you close, allowing you to get some of the worst of it out, staying quiet except for occasionally softly repeating, I know, I know…

But what could she know, really? You don’t even say that to yourself. You try really, really hard, every single day, not to think about how much you want that- even now, you can’t even say it in your head- because it makes you so ashamed. Sometimes when it’s really strong, late at night when no one is awake, you think you might die from how much you want it. Why did she have to say that to you? Why couldn’t she have said anything else?

Once you’ve calmed down, sniffling just a little every few moments as opposed to the heaving sobs you were letting out, she lets you take her head off her chest to look at her. Your hair in your mouth and your eyes completely red and tear-tracks down your cheeks, you know you must look ridiculous. You wipe your eyes with your sleeve, unsure of how to recover after she’s just seen you break down over something so crazy. You ruined it. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. It was just supposed to be a kiss.

She’s silent for a while as she pets your hair. She plays with the ends; they’re still wet.

“I want that, too, you know.” She says it so quietly you can barely hear her. The bottom of your stomach falls right out.

“You do?”

Sloane nods. She seems to be getting up the courage to say something, and starts, “I…” but she trails off. Now it’s her turn to look away, looking anywhere but at you as she fidgets with her comforter before she takes a deep breath and lets it out as if she’s psyching herself up. “I really wish that a lot, actually.”

“That you were a boy?” You can hardly say it, but you force yourself to. You can feel yourself start to shake just from daring to say it out loud.

“Yes.” As always she is much braver than you, and she seems to be getting more comfortable the more she talks. “And, um… you, too, sometimes.”

“You wish I was a boy?” She nods.

“... Oh.” You’re not sure what to say to that.

After a beat, you start to laugh- first only a little and then more and more. You laugh at how dramatic and awkward you’re both being. You laugh at the absurdity of this entire conversation. You laugh at how scared you are, and how suddenly it doesn’t seem so serious at all. Sloane looks scandalized, and that makes you laugh more, and then she starts laughing, too. You both sit, her arms around your waist and you sitting in her lap, giggling quietly as you can hear the bathroom fan running in the room over. When you finally quiet down, you're both smiling at eachother, taking in eachothers’ faces like you’ve only just met.

Sloane speaks first, after what feels like a long time. “Virgil?” She tucks some of your hair behind your ear. You feel your heart start to beat faster again.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re really handsome.” She moves her hand underneath your collar to where the strap of your tank top is- one of the compression ones you stole from the athletics store, that you insist on wearing instead of the bras your mother has tried to get you to wear for years- and starts to play with it. Her fingers are cold against your skin, making you shiver slightly. “I think you’d make a really good boy.”

“Um. Thank you.” You look down at where her fuzzy, freckled arm disappears into the hem of her sleeve for a while as your head spins before thinking to add- hardly believing such a thing is coming out of your mouth- “And, you too, it’s- I mean, you’d probably be better at it than me, to be honest.”

Sloane shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we’d both be good at it.” Her eyes flick to yours again. “Maybe just in different ways.”

“Different how?”

She hums, seeming to turn your question over in her head a few times. “Well, I know I’d be stronger than you.” As if to prove her point, she shifts her palm onto the middle of your chest and lightly pushes you back onto the bed. “But I also know you’d be better at helping people, being a good guy, making people feel safe with you.” She moves to lean over you again. “And when we were together, even though I’d still be the one who’s allowed to boss you around…” Her fingers are in your hair again now, pulling your head back ever so slightly as she dips down, her lips brushing your throat again… “I’d always be trying to impress you, because you’re the coolest guy I know.” She kisses you- right where your Adam’s apple would be, you realize. Every word she says makes it harder not to move your hips up into hers, even if there’s nothing there to put together.

“Is that how you’d want it to be? With us being boys like that?” She knows what talking like this is doing to you, she has to, there’s no way she doesn’t.

“I want that a lot,” you say.

Sloane smiles. Brushes her fingers up and down your arm. “You know I’d do anything for you, buddy.”

It’s what all your friends, the guys, call eachother, something they always leave you two out of. You guess she’s noticed it, too.

“Will you kiss me, now?”

“I was getting to it.”

It feels like Sloane is trying to eat you alive, just a little. His teeth clack against yours at first. It isn’t gentle, like you’d maybe imagined your first kiss being. The hands on your body aren’t either. His hands, much larger than yours, as you’ve noticed with envy before, creep under your shirt to lift up your tank top. They’re cold, and you shiver again as he touches your bare stomach. At first, as he runs his hand over the hair there, you feel embarrassed- you’ve always gotten flack from your mom and your classmates in the locker room for neglecting to shave and wax what you could only call your happy trail, as far as you’re able to have one of those. You squirm a little and try to tug it back down so he can’t feel it.

As if he’s reading your mind, Sloane pulls away and sits upright so he can force it back up. “Why are you doing that, stop.” You struggle a bit more but he was right, he is stronger than you, and he manages to lift it until he can see pretty much everything. His hand comes down again and he runs a line with his thumb down from your navel to the top of your sweatpants, following the line of hair there. “I look at you here every single time you’re changing next to me.” His voice is very heavy. “Did you know that?”

“No.” Your muscles twitch under his finger as he continues to stroke your stomach. He is getting dangerously close to putting his hand down your pants.

“Well, I do.” His eyes don’t leave the spot.

“My mom says I need to get rid of it…”

Sloane shakes his head, placing his hand to where it’s spanning over half of your stomach. “Don’t. I like it this way.” He makes eye contact with you again, saying it plainly: “It makes you look like a boy.”

“Sloane…” Keep talking, is what you want to say, but you’re too embarrassed at how much you like hearing it.

He ducks to kiss you right where the trail of hair leads into your waistband. You wiggle around a bit from how sensitive the area is, but he holds you still as he keeps kissing you all over your hips. “You’re so, so handsome, Virgil,” he mumbles into your stomach. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, I’ve thought about it for so long, you have no idea,”

“You can keep going, I’m really, um, well, it feels-” You’re too embarrassed to say what you mean, which is that you are really, really turned on. You want him to touch you- if you had a different body, you’d be unbearably hard right now. The thought makes you metaphorically harder.

As you consider that concept Sloane finally dips his hand under your waistband, forcing you to spread your legs further. He only puts his hand on you over your boxers for a second, seemingly to test to see how you’ll react, but you can’t stop from pushing yourself right into him. He looks up at you and smiles at what must be an extremely desperate expression on your face and flattens his fingers so you can grind up against them, using his other hand to push some hair off of your shoulder. “Look at you, getting your first handjob,” he says, “you can’t help yourself, it’s like you’re just another horny teenage boy, is that how you feel?”

“Yes, yeah,” is all you can think to say, him putting a name to it turning you on more. “Thank you, I’m sorry, it just feels really good-”

“Don’t apologize, it’s supposed to feel good.” He’s found exactly the right spot from how you’ve been moving, and as he begins focusing on it you feel yourself losing control of your hips. “Let yourself feel good. You’re being such a good boy, you deserve it.”

You definitely do feel good. So good, in fact, that you aren’t sure you’re going to last much longer, especially if he keeps calling you that. “Sloane- if you keep going, I think I’m gonna, um-”

This does not appear to discourage him, and apparently hearing his name only eggs him on further. “So fast?” He teases you, not stopping but slowing down slightly, which just makes you start grinding into his hand faster. “You really are like a horny teenage boy, if you’re finishing so quickly,” he speeds up again, leaning down to talk into your ear and kiss you in between. “You’re so cute, Virgil,” and a kiss, “you’re such a boy,” kiss, “and so good,” another kiss, “I want to be like that together, we can do it whenever you want, you can-”

As much as you want him to keep going, you’re already finishing. It feels so strong and so lovely, so much better than when you do it yourself, and you keep riding his palm through it until you’re too sensitive to keep his hand on you. He takes it away once you start going to grab it and lies down next to you.

It’s over. You feel the moment fading- the fantasy wanes, as strong as it was and as sad as you are to see it go, and you’re both just girls again.

You want to be close to her, still, so you roll over and bury your head in her chest as you wrap your arms around her. Your legs tangle together and the only sound is Sloane’s hands rustling through your long hair.

“How was that? Pretty okay?” Shes sounds very pleased with herself. She clearly already knows the answer and just wants to hear it.

You flick her on the arm. “Don’t get a big head about it, it was my first time.”

“Sure, right.” She lays off for now, electing just to hold you and allow you to go through the tingly feeling that is currently still running up and down the insides of your legs.

Slowly, timidly, you reach for her hand. She gives it to you easily and you lace your fingers together. She pulls it to her lips, kissing the back of it, looking dreamily at you over the tops of your joined knuckles.

“You said, um, you’ve wanted that for awhile?” You’re bad at talking like this, having serious conversations- but you want to know.

“Wanted what, to have sex with you?”

“No, like, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“The other thing.”

Which other thing?”

“Sloane!” You push her shoulder with both of your hands. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“I’m not, I swear I’m not.” She really does seem not to know. “What thing do you mean?”

She’s really twisting your arm, here. “Like…” You stop as the words refuse to come. “Wanting, like,” you try again, “to be, um.”

“A boy?” Sloane finishes for you. You nod. “Hm…” She extricates herself from you so she can lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. You do the same.

“I guess I always have.” She’s talking to the posters on her ceiling. “I just knew. My mom wanted another boy before I was born. When I was a kid, I never understood why she didn’t see she got one, before I really understood who I was supposed to be. And when I realized, I got really mad. Like,” and she laughs a little, “I got so pissed. I was so angry all the time about it for years.” She pauses for a second, her mood becoming sober again. “But after a while I kind of just accepted it. And knew that I couldn’t help it, so I just… moved on. But, yeah, I always knew.” Sloane turns her head to look at you, meeting your eyes where you’re already looking back at her. “How about you?”

You ignore the question. “So this whole time, as long as we’ve known eachother, you felt like that?”

“I guess, when you put it that way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You’re aware that you’re being petulant, but you can’t help it.

“Um, excuse me, why didn’t you tell me?” She’s got you there. You huff a little, crossing your arms and turning away from her. “No, wait, come back!” She grabs your shoulder and pulls you to lie on your back as you were. “I’m just saying, you can’t be mad at me when you didn’t tell me either. Also, you know,” She lets go of you and lies back down, “it’s kind of…”

“Embarrassing,” you finish for her. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“I was going to say private. Is it embarrassing, for you?”

You scoff, like it’s a ridiculous question, before realizing she’s serious. “I mean, yeah.”

“Why?” You give her a look, and she sits up. “No, seriously, why is it embarrassing? Is it so terrible?”

“It’s not terrible. It’s just…” You search for the words; how do you say it without sounding incredibly depressing? “It can’t happen, so it makes me feel a little crazy. I don’t know, it’s just stupid.”

“I mean, if it can’t happen, then what do you call what we just did?” She goes to hold your hand again, rubbing her thumb over yours. “Did that feel like we were girls, then?”

You think about that. No, it really didn’t. Being with Sloane definitely felt like being with a boy, and you didn’t know much about it, but you really didn’t feel like you were the girl, either… But, “it’s still not the same.”

“Does it really need to be?”

Sloane swings her legs to sit over the top of you, putting her hands on either side of your hips.

“Isn’t it enough to just feel like that together? There’s no point in thinking about all the things that can’t happen. Isn’t seeing eachother that way enough?” She laces your fingers together and squeezes. “You’re thinking too much about it, Virgil. It doesn’t need to be so complicated. We can be boys, when we’re together. No one else needs to know.”

Her voice in your ear sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment you think you might cry again, but you force yourself not to, and instead you use all your strength to roll her over. Now, for the first time, you’re the one on top of her.

“No one needs to know,” you repeat, making sure she understands you’re serious.

“No one, I promise.” She wrestles her arm out of your grip and holds up three fingers.

“Scout’s honor.”

#autoandrophilia #autohomoeroticism #forcemasc #autoandrophile #ahe #aap #original fiction #short story #ftm t4t #t4t #ftm #transfag #forced masculinization #ftm nsft

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