REDACTED stayed over this weekend because his frat’s candidate retreat was cancelled and he’s going to a hackathon next weekend. He has never pleasured me so well as he did Saturday night. He came three times, once in my mouth, and he asked me what I did to make him so aroused. He fucked me in the morning. We laughed before and after.
REDACTED said I was making him cry when we were at the train station before he left. He said he wouldn’t cry because he was a boy. He looked and sounded like he might. When he left to board the train, I went to the bathroom and cried.
I explained to REDACTED today that when he leaves, I feel like I have just woken up and started my day, because being with him is being one person, and being without him is being another person. Neither person is better than the other, but I miss being with him when I have been without him. He says that when I make him cry (which I did once on accident this weekend) it is because he is so happy. If I could let myself fully believe how lucky I am to have him, I would probably cry all the time over it.
When I am with him, I feel as if I should always be with him if he could permit me to always be with him. Sometimes, though, when we’d be in groups of his friends, I felt like he felt I was not me but simply a female and inferior for being one.
REDACTED introduced me to his new friends, and I sat in on their study session before REDACTED and I left to eat. Some of REDACTED’s friends ignored my presence, which I’m sure was nothing personal. REDACTED tells me that many of his friends don’t know how to talk to females and are afraid to try.
One night we went out with his frat brothers, six of them I think, and not one of them said anything to me for the whole three hours. One arrived later than the others (Victor was his name). He shook hands with his friends, introduced himself to those he did not know, and ignored me. I felt like I must be an accessory or maybe a ghost.
REDACTED stayed over last night. I feel closer to him than ever before; he knows me and cares for me and confides in me. He is my best friend and the only person I trust with my body.
I wonder if I have always loved REDACTED or if I have always wanted to love REDACTED and only somewhere in our time together accomplished love. I wonder if the REDACTED I love is the real REDACTED. I wonder if the Ivis REDACTED loves is me or anything even close to me.
It’s taken me a long time to believe it, to write about it, to believe that I can exist as not female outside of the inkling I’ve held.
I can’t think of telling my parents. I can’t even imagine telling REDACTED. He loves how feminine I can be. He loves me.
Winter is a long avoidance. The windows in my dorm are drafty enough for a freezing breeze to snake across my arms when I’m seated at my desk.
I don’t remember any dreams I had before he woke up before four. I looked at him, the low light from the second and top windows illuminating his eyes, and he looked at me. He kissed me then and again and held my body and whispered to me that I was his. He had a surprising energy level for so early, and I had to be determined to stay silent as he moved his lips and fingers over and in me.
One of my professors talks about how we feel like objects, especially in relationships. He says on some level, we want to be acknowledged as valuable objects, beautiful objects, useful objects. Yet we still want to be respected as people with hearts and minds and autonomy.
Last night I dreamt that I shaved half my hair off then put the razor down and regretted making my scalp so cold.
I don’t know how to tell REDACTED I am not female.
I asked him once, early in the summer, if he would still want me if I were non-binary. He said no.
I felt motion sick on the bus, must have been from neglecting lunch. When I arrived at the station, REDACTED was waiting outside. He hugged me when he saw me. I remember walking outside and being blinded by the sun, so I moved into the shade of the building awning where benches are lined. REDACTED sat on the farthest one.
I woke up again around six, and REDACTED was awake too. Presumably he had been awake longer than I had. Before I was fully conscious, his lips were ready for mine. His mouth was wet as if he’d been salivating. I was too tired to fully engage, but I felt wanted. I had hoped I might wake up next to him one day, and I’d done it now more than once in a night. He said later than morning, when we were walking to breakfast, that he had woken up next to me and felt completely unable to resist the beautiful woman beside him. I look like a mess when I sleep, but maybe he thinks he looks like a mess when he sleeps while I know he is beautiful.
We fell asleep in his bed, and I kept waking up so I could have the feeling of waking up beside him.
He said he needed a shower, and I asked if I could join him. We spent the whole morning in his dorm. He tried for a bit to fuck me before I finally told him to lie down. I mounted him and had him inside me in a second, which surprised him. Riding him felt good, like I had discovered how to masturbate with his dick inside me. He felt good, too, and came twice before he meant to (with different condoms, of course). He could tell I was disappointed, but I was also proud I could make him climax without sucking his dick.
I paid for breakfast, and then we walked back to his dorm so I could get my things. REDACTED’s roommate was still there, but he left to get breakfast while I was zipping up my bag. REDACTED was looking at his homework again, but he left it when I kissed his earlobe. We responded to each other without resistance, feeling time was constraint enough. He fucked me when I asked him to, and then I sat up, and he lied back, and I fucked him.
Before the jazz performance last night, I had to pee, but the line for the women’s bathroom was over twenty people long, and I didn’t want to miss the start of the show, so I went to the men’s bathroom instead. I received some strange looks, and I was aware that I didn’t really belong, but I also didn’t feel entirely wrong. As I was leaving, I saw another female-presenting person in line for the men’s room. I felt less out-of-line.
I think a lot about who I present myself to be through my clothing, makeup, word choice, and especially my writing. I wonder if I am ever honest with others or with myself. I wonder who I am behind expression or if I am no one without expression.
Before we had sex, he kept telling me how much he wanted me. He told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world. He went on about how lucky he was to have me. He really sounded genuine.
On the train ride back, I expected to be facing the direction the train traveled since I had faced backward on the way there.