I am a gay man, not a straight woman, no matter what parts my body has, no matter how hard it is for my family to understand. I'm luckier than many in my position. My family may not understand, but they are only confused, not hateful.
And I have Zach, who knows who and what I am, who sees the real me.
Note: This story is included in the author’s anthology, Whetting the Appetite.
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I settled into the passenger seat of Zach's truck and scrubbed at my face. I know I haven't started the medicals yet, but when I'm tired my face itches like a two-day beard and nothing stops the sensation for me but a razor.
Zach noticed. "Don't shave right away," he begged. "It's hot." How could I not love this man?
I smirked at him. "You just want my face on your balls."
"Damn straight," he agreed, grinning, and playfully gunned the motor to let me know how much of a hurry he was in.
My cock was throbbing in agreement. Zach reached over and settled his hand between my thighs, cupping the balls he couldn't feel but had never doubted were there. I enjoyed his touch for a moment, then pushed his hand away. "Two hands on the wheel, mister," I scolded.
"Yessir," he said, mock-cowed, and we laughed. "Let's go home."
We barely made it through the door before we were attacking each other, all but tearing off each other's clothes (T-shirts are oddly difficult to tear if they haven't been damaged to begin with) and pushing each other toward the bedroom.
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