The Masturbational

I have a secret life that exists in the sterile quiet of hotel rooms. Once or twice a month, I meet a married woman there. She has a specific fetish, one that centers on my body as a trans man, and it’s a need I am more than happy to fulfill. We don't touch, we don't kiss. The agreement is unspoken but absolute. We lie on separate crisp white sheets, and for an hour, the only sounds are our breathing and the slick, rhythmic noises of our own hands on our own bodies. I watch her, and she watches me, her eyes locked on my chest and the firm lines of my body. It's a shared, intense intimacy that's completely detached, a purely voyeuristic and exhibitionistic release that satisfies a craving in both of us that our regular lives can't touch. Then we get dressed, say a quiet goodbye, and disappear back into our separate worlds until the next time.