The first thought I have when I wake up isn't about coffee or the alarm. It's the low, insistent thrum between my legs. A phantom ache that has become the most real part of my day. I am already hard, or as hard as I get on estrogen, which is a different kind of ache—a fullness, a pressure that demands attention.
My hand is already there, moving under the blankets before my eyes are fully open. It is a routine as practiced as brushing my teeth. A quick, perfunctory session to take the edge off, to silence the noise so I can function. I come with a shudder, not of pleasure, but of release. Like popping a pimple. The pressure is gone, but the root is still there.
I get up, shower, and try to go about my day. I work from home, which is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I do not have to pretend to be interested in office small talk while my brain is screaming at me to find a bathroom. On the other hand, I am alone. All day. With my computer, my phone, and an endless supply of fuel.
My browser history is a testament to my sickness. It is not just porn; it is a research project in depravity. I have playlists downloaded for every mood. The "soft and romantic" folder for when I am feeling dysphoric and need to see a woman like me being desired. The "rough and degrading" folder for when I hate myself and want to be punished for it. The "public humiliation" folder for the days I feel like a freak. I cycle through them like channels, always looking for the one that will finally hit the spot, the one that will make the hunger go away for good. It never does.
The hunger is a living thing. It sits in my gut, whispering to me. It tells me that the presentation I am supposed to be writing can wait. It tells me that the groceries do not need to be bought. It tells me that the only thing that matters is the next hit, the next orgasm, the next fleeting moment of validation I can extract from a stranger on a screen or from my own desperate touch.
By noon, I am back at it. This time it is not a quick pop. This is a session. I have my toys laid out. The glass dildo that is too cold at first, the silicone one that feels like real skin, the bullet vibrator that I press against my taint until my eyes cross. I am watching a video, some muscle-bound jock with a face like a Greek god fucking a trans girl who looks eerily like me. I am not her, but I am pretending to be her. I am imagining his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, his body claiming mine. I come hard, my back arching, a cry caught in my throat. For about thirty seconds, I feel bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.
And then the shame crashes down. It is a tidal wave of self-loathing. I look at the mess around me—the lube, the toys, the cum-stained towel—and I feel disgusted. Not with the act, but with myself. With my inability to control it. I am not a woman having a healthy sexual experience. I am an addict chasing a fix. I clean up, my movements stiff and automatic. I tell myself this is the last time. This is the day I get it under control.
The hunger is quiet for a while. I manage to get some work done. I answer a few emails. I even make myself a decent lunch. But it is always there, simmering beneath the surface. A pot of water waiting to boil.
The evening is the worst. The darkness outside mirrors the darkness inside. The loneliness is a physical presence in the room. It is in these moments that the hunger gets its voice. It tells me that I am unlovable, that the only reason anyone would ever want me is for this, for the sex, for the performance. It tells me to get on the apps, to find someone, anyone, who will make me feel wanted for an hour.
I open Grindr. I scroll through the faces. The "discreet" married men, the "curious" college boys, the chasers who want me to be their dirty little secret. I hate them, but I crave their attention. I match with a guy who looks decent enough. He sends me a dick pic. It is a nice one, I guess. He asks if I want to come over.
I am putting on my shoes before I even think about it. The hunger is in control now. I am just a passenger in my own body. I drive to his apartment, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The sex is exactly what you would expect. It is awkward, impersonal, and over in fifteen minutes. He does not ask my name. He does not offer me a glass of water. He just rolls over and starts snoring.
I lie there in the dark, the smell of his cheap cologne and our sweat filling my nostrils. I feel more alone than I did before I left my house. The hunger is sated, but the emptiness is bigger than ever. I sneak out, my shame wrapped around me like a coat.
I get home and I do the only thing I know how to do to make it stop. I take a long, hot shower and I touch myself again. Not for pleasure this time. Not for release. I do it to wash him off, to reclaim my body as my own, even if it is just for a few stolen moments. I cry while I come, silent tears mixing with the water running down my face.
I crawl into bed, exhausted and empty. The hunger is quiet now, sleeping off its feast. But I know it will be back in the morning. It always is. I close my eyes and pray for a dreamless sleep. I know I will not get one.
My hand is already there, moving under the blankets before my eyes are fully open. It is a routine as practiced as brushing my teeth. A quick, perfunctory session to take the edge off, to silence the noise so I can function. I come with a shudder, not of pleasure, but of release. Like popping a pimple. The pressure is gone, but the root is still there.
I get up, shower, and try to go about my day. I work from home, which is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I do not have to pretend to be interested in office small talk while my brain is screaming at me to find a bathroom. On the other hand, I am alone. All day. With my computer, my phone, and an endless supply of fuel.
My browser history is a testament to my sickness. It is not just porn; it is a research project in depravity. I have playlists downloaded for every mood. The "soft and romantic" folder for when I am feeling dysphoric and need to see a woman like me being desired. The "rough and degrading" folder for when I hate myself and want to be punished for it. The "public humiliation" folder for the days I feel like a freak. I cycle through them like channels, always looking for the one that will finally hit the spot, the one that will make the hunger go away for good. It never does.
The hunger is a living thing. It sits in my gut, whispering to me. It tells me that the presentation I am supposed to be writing can wait. It tells me that the groceries do not need to be bought. It tells me that the only thing that matters is the next hit, the next orgasm, the next fleeting moment of validation I can extract from a stranger on a screen or from my own desperate touch.
By noon, I am back at it. This time it is not a quick pop. This is a session. I have my toys laid out. The glass dildo that is too cold at first, the silicone one that feels like real skin, the bullet vibrator that I press against my taint until my eyes cross. I am watching a video, some muscle-bound jock with a face like a Greek god fucking a trans girl who looks eerily like me. I am not her, but I am pretending to be her. I am imagining his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, his body claiming mine. I come hard, my back arching, a cry caught in my throat. For about thirty seconds, I feel bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.
And then the shame crashes down. It is a tidal wave of self-loathing. I look at the mess around me—the lube, the toys, the cum-stained towel—and I feel disgusted. Not with the act, but with myself. With my inability to control it. I am not a woman having a healthy sexual experience. I am an addict chasing a fix. I clean up, my movements stiff and automatic. I tell myself this is the last time. This is the day I get it under control.
The hunger is quiet for a while. I manage to get some work done. I answer a few emails. I even make myself a decent lunch. But it is always there, simmering beneath the surface. A pot of water waiting to boil.
The evening is the worst. The darkness outside mirrors the darkness inside. The loneliness is a physical presence in the room. It is in these moments that the hunger gets its voice. It tells me that I am unlovable, that the only reason anyone would ever want me is for this, for the sex, for the performance. It tells me to get on the apps, to find someone, anyone, who will make me feel wanted for an hour.
I open Grindr. I scroll through the faces. The "discreet" married men, the "curious" college boys, the chasers who want me to be their dirty little secret. I hate them, but I crave their attention. I match with a guy who looks decent enough. He sends me a dick pic. It is a nice one, I guess. He asks if I want to come over.
I am putting on my shoes before I even think about it. The hunger is in control now. I am just a passenger in my own body. I drive to his apartment, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The sex is exactly what you would expect. It is awkward, impersonal, and over in fifteen minutes. He does not ask my name. He does not offer me a glass of water. He just rolls over and starts snoring.
I lie there in the dark, the smell of his cheap cologne and our sweat filling my nostrils. I feel more alone than I did before I left my house. The hunger is sated, but the emptiness is bigger than ever. I sneak out, my shame wrapped around me like a coat.
I get home and I do the only thing I know how to do to make it stop. I take a long, hot shower and I touch myself again. Not for pleasure this time. Not for release. I do it to wash him off, to reclaim my body as my own, even if it is just for a few stolen moments. I cry while I come, silent tears mixing with the water running down my face.
I crawl into bed, exhausted and empty. The hunger is quiet now, sleeping off its feast. But I know it will be back in the morning. It always is. I close my eyes and pray for a dreamless sleep. I know I will not get one.
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Swipey
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