Fucking Dysphoria

I stand in front of the full length mirror my Daddy has opposite his spare bedroom. He’s in his office, only a couple of feet away from me, working on something important and grown-up. Sensing me in his periphery, he twirls in his spinny chair and sees me poking at the squishier bits of my body, frowning intently at my reflection.

“Hey,” he says, stern but caring. “Stop that. You’re beautiful.”

Pouting, I ask, “Am I handsome?”

Understanding, he gets out of his chair and moves to stand behind me, putting his big hands over mine – helping me to squash down my chest. “You’re Daddy’s handsome little boy,” he murmurs, kissing my hair. “You’re so cute.”

It doesn’t make the dysphoria go away, but it helps.

Being genderfluid is weird, because sometimes I love my curves. Sometimes I wear things with plunging necklines to highlight my cleavage, or I find the tiniest skirts my local charity shops have to offer, so my butt catches people’s eyes everywhere I go.

Sometimes, though, I hate them.

On those days, it’s hard not to feel hopeless. I know that in a week, or a day, or even a few hours, I’ll swing back around to feeling femme – which means that I don’t consider HRT or top surgery as options for me. I’m even reluctant to bind, worried about harming my breast tissue, making my boobs saggier (as though saggy boobs matter – of course gravity is acting upon them, when they each weigh the same as a small melon). On my masculine-of-centre days, I hate my body, and I hate my changeable identity that leaves altering anything permanently off the table.


I only found the vocabulary for my Gender Feelings™ two or three years ago. Before then, I didn’t feel that I had permission use words like ‘dysphoria’, because I believed myself to be cis – just kinda butch, and only engaging selectively with femininity. Being autistic complicated things further – lots of autistic people struggle to perform their assigned gender, or are simply uninterested in it, because performing gender involves understanding a lot of unwritten rules and having half a clue how other people might perceive you. Plus, performing femininity in particular involves a lot of sensory inputs – tight clothing makes me itch like fuck-knows-what, and foundation and concealer make me wish I didn’t have a face at all.

When I came across a definition of the term ‘genderfluid’ after seeing someone identify as such on Tumblr, my first thought was, Wow, I wish I was genderfluid, so I didn’t have to be a girl all the time! It took me an embarrassingly long time to register that that thought alone probably indicated I was genderfluid. If you passionately hate performing your assigned gender and you’re desperately searching for reasons to opt out of it, you might not be cis.

Having a host of sensory sensitivities and a very complex relationship with food and its effects on my body, I had shrugged off the panicky discomfort and bewilderment I felt when I looked in the mirror while presenting femininely. Nobody tells you how dysphoria is supposed to feel, just that it’s bad. Lots of media seems to portray it simply as a longing to look different, but having an eating disorder meant that I couldn’t find the source of my desire to be flat-chested and without hips.

It took me maybe a year to piece together my Gender Feelings™ into a coherent identity. I tagged my selfies on Tumblr as ‘they/them’ to see how it felt; it turns out I liked it a great deal more than ‘she/her’, which felt clunky, like a pair of shoes the wrong size. I borrowed clothes from my boyfriend at the time; he was six foot something, so they all swamped me, and I found I loved the invisibility it granted my boobs, with my little arms sticking out of sleeves and fabric draped over my arse.

At some point, I came across Bex (of the Dildorks, whose work I link to a lot in my posts), who was transmasculine and who was just starting to take testosterone as I was discovering their online presence. Looking at (and crushing on) people like Bex, who were wearing shorts and didn’t have enormous bushy beards and six-packs, I realised that I’d been buying into the same narrow, cis and heterocentric, and outright damaging ideals of masculinity that I would so vocally denounce when other people were harmed by them. I insisted on my tumblr that boys were allowed to cry and wear makeup, but I wouldn’t let myself do those things – because, I suppose, I didn’t really believe I ‘counted’ as a boy. Finding role models, especially transmasculine ones, expanded my understanding of gender expression and of masculinity.

Realising that I didn’t have to look like a PhotoShopped cis dude on my masculine days was liberating.

I Googled words like “twink”, looking for boys who looked like me. I found that there were ways to express my masculinity without trying to be a clone of my boyfriend, or of Vin Diesel, or Buck Angel.

I could be me.

I kept dating straight dudes for a while.

They insisted they respected, believed in my nonbinary identity. And they insisted that they were attracted to me – sexually and romantically. And they insisted they were 100% heterosexual.

It hurt a bit.

Actually, it hurt a fuckin’ lot, but I didn’t want to admit that at the time. They still touched me like I was a girl, no matter what they said about my gender. They cupped my breasts in their hands, kissed my neck softly, held me by my waist or my hips. They caressed me.

It’s difficult to explain this to cis people, especially straight ones. There’s just a very different vibe when someone thinks you’re a girl. Even if you’re having rough, kinky sex – the places people touch you are different. The language they use is different. The aftercare they give you is different.

Even when straight dudes are excellent at interacting with my front hole, they call it my ‘pussy’. They do deliciously evil things to my nipples, but I’m distracted when they compliment my ‘tits’. I know that when they call me a slut, whilst I like it, they mean a girl slut. There’s something in the way they say it. I spend the whole interaction a little sad, a little distant, feeling disconnected from myself and from my partner.

Sex with people who know I’m not a girl is just better. It’s not nauseating, and it doesn’t leave me feeling miserable, confused, hurt and unseen, and it’s so good because I’m actually in my body, enjoying everything that’s being done to it.

My Daddy slides his hand down the boxers I’m wearing, pulling me closer with the arm that’s around my neck. His fingers brush the thing a medical professional would label my ‘clitoris’.

“Look how hard your little cock is,” he teases me, as I squirm against him. “Does Daddy choking you turn you on, little one?”

I nod against his arm, whimpering. “I – um, I don’t think I want, um, PIV today.”

“That’s okay.” My Daddy’s hand comes out of my boxers, and he pushes his wet fingers into my willing mouth. “You have a vibrator, and you have other holes Daddy can use.”

I watch myself sucking on his fingers in the long mirror in front of us. My scrawny, pale legs are shaking a little from the strangling. My curvy body is dwarfed by my Daddy’s, but I’m focused on my face.

I look like a twink.

I look boyish.

And I look fuckin’ hot.

Smut Saturdays #1 – I’ll Drive You Home

Very very vaguely based on real-life events or fantasies of mine, Smut Saturdays will feature a monthly piece of erotica written by yours truly, for your wanking enjoyment. The characters are intentionally nondescript so that you can project your own fantasies onto them (and because I’m a lazy writer). If you have any suggestions or requests, let me know on Twitter, @KinkyAutistic!

Christine felt like the date had gone okay-ish. She’d giggled too much, exposing her wonky teeth, and she’d spilt a small amount of her orange juice with vodka on her cream-coloured top – but Johnny was still smiling warmly at her, and she still felt the weight of his hand on her thigh under the table, so all hope was probably not lost.
“It’s getting late…” she sighed, prodding one of the ice cubes in her glass with the end of her straw. “I should head back to my place.”
Johnny nodded, pushing his emptied glass (he’d had a mocktail, having driven into the city) to the centre of the table, so it sat by Christine’s. “Yeah, I have work tomorrow,” he said, and Christine met his gaze again. “How far out do you live?”
“It’s only half an hour by bus.” They’d discussed the merits of maintaining a car versus using public transit earlier in the evening. Johnny had gently teased her about her inability to drive, but had conceded that her ability to drink on their date was enviable. “I’ve had a really lovely time this evening.”
Johnny, whose left eyebrow had arched up when Christine had said “half an hour”, pulled his car keys from his pocket. “I could give you a lift, if you like.” He jangled them enticingly.
Christine knew that getting into the cars of boys from Tinder was ill-advised at best, but she also knew that Johnny lived in the same neck of the woods as she did, that the wait at the bus stop would be rainy and miserable, and that she’d spent the whole evening judging Johnny’s character and hadn’t gotten any bad vibes from him as of yet.
“If you’re sure…”
Another jangle. “C’mon, gorgeous. I’ll drive you home.”

Christine also knew that inviting boys from Tinder into one’s home for “coffee” is ill-advised, but Johnny had kissed her lips and then her neck in his car, and she could only think about creating a situation wherein he could kiss body parts further south.
“Do – do you – wanna come in?” she stammered, awkward and blushing. She knew that he knew that she was inviting him indoors for sex.
Johnny’s face split into a smile, and he unclipped his seatbelt. “If I’m welcome,” he said. Christine could only nod, and watch his perfectly-shaped ass as it exited the car. He moved around to her side of the car and opened the passenger door. “Lead the way.”

Somehow, Christine entirely avoided making the stuttered excuse about “putting the kettle on” that she had been dreading. As soon as the pair were over the threshold, his hands were at her waist, under her jacket, and she was tilting her head to welcome his tongue deeper into her mouth. Boldly, she slipped her hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and he growled in approval, pulling her closer, bringing her body flush against his.
She pulled away only when a hazy thought about neck-kissing crossed her mind, and she stood on tiptoes to press her lips against his throat. Johnny let out a barely-audible murmur, and his hands skated – tentatively, as though giving Christine time to object – up her sides, closer together, until he was cupping both her breasts through two layers of fabric. She’d worn a black bra under her cream top very deliberately, and clearly it had got his attention – as she kissed up his neck, towards his earlobe, he squeezed gently with both hands. She sighed, her breath warming his ear, and he shuddered pleasantly.
“Are you cold?” she teased, breathing against his ear again.
Another shudder, and he said, “Actually, I’m too warm.” And he reached behind his head, grabbed the neck of his T-shirt, and yanked it over his head.
“I feel like ‘hot’ might be more accurate.” Her eyes drank in every inch of his bare skin, his raised nipples, his dark, curled chest hair. “Very… hot.”
He pulled her closer again, hands firm on her waist, and their lips met, clumsily, hungrily. Christine started to unbutton her shirt, thinking only of more of her skin against more of his. His tongue brushed hers as her shirt fell to the floor alongside his.
“Christine,” Johnny gasped, in one of the rare moments where their lips weren’t magnetically joined together. “Do you wanna…” and he kissed her neck, “take this to your bedroom?”
She looked into his eyes, alight with desire, and briefly wondered if she should keep him waiting.
The urgent ache of desire in her cunt wouldn’t let her, of course, and she replied only by kissing him again, pulling him by his beltloops towards the stairs. He followed her up, and she was sure she could feel his eyes on her arse. When they reached the landing, she turned around to ask him to excuse the mess, and before she could speak, he caught her face with two gentle hands and kissed her again.
Giggling, she pulled back. “We’re still not at my bedroom yet.” She reached blindly for the door handle behind her. “But we are close.”
“Not close enough,” Johnny purred, kissing her again.
They shuffled backwards in tandem, faces locked together, until Christine felt the fluffy throw she kept on her bed brush against her leg. At that point, she drew back, looked Johnny in the eye, and sat on the edge of her bed. Then she reached up, and, without breaking eye contact – by some miracle – she undid his belt, exposing his trousers’ top button.
The corner of Johnny’s mouth was pulled into a sly smile. “What do you intend to do down there, Missy?” he asked teasingly.
“What would you like me to do?” she rejoined coyly, tracing the circular outline of his button with one finger.
A sincerity stole over his face. “Anything you like,” he said softly. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Her heart warmed by this, and the rest of her still warmed by the passionate kissing and groping, she undid his button, unzipped his jeans and unleashed the outline of his hard cock, pressing through his underwear. Then, mouth all but watering, she tugged the waistband of his underwear down too, so that his erection was in front of her face, separated from her lips only by the space between them.
She hadn’t thought very hard about what she’d expected of his dick. It was definitely longer and thicker than she might have guessed, hooded with foreskin, outlined with the same thick, dark hair that grew on his chest. Christine sighed with desire.
“Um…” Johnny started. “I feel a bit… self-conscious. You still have your bra on, and I’m…”
“We can fix that,” Christine said quickly, standing up to shimmy out of her skirt. She let it fall to the floor, unclipped her bra, and sat back on her bed, in only a black thong. “Better?”
Before Johnny gave an answer, Christine engulfed the head of his cock with her soft, wet mouth. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, placing a gentle hand on the back of her head. “Th-that’s good…”
She giggled as she opened her mouth a little wider, leaning in, his shaft sliding along her tongue. Gently sucking, she wrapped one small hand around the base of his dick and squeezed softly, listening keenly for noises of appreciation.
Christine’s blowjob technique was based on enthusiasm, so when she got bored of bobbing back and forth, she took his shaft out of her mouth and instead ducked down to meet his balls with her tongue. Hungrily, she licked at them, unphased by the hair – she was a great deal more concerned with eliciting those delicious noises, those “Fuck”s and “Yes”s that Johnny was letting past his lips with building frequency and volume. Her hand slid up and down his shaft, faster and more firmly than her mouth had, and his hand gripped her hair, tugging pleasantly.
“Christine, if you keep – I’m gonna –”
“Do,” she murmured, returning her attention to the head. Her lips teased the precum-soaked skin as she said, “Cum for me, Johnny, I want to taste it.”
She wrapped her lips back around the head of his dick, tongue moving up and down along his frenulum, and she could feel his legs start to tremble. Keeping her pace steady, a hand cupped gently around his balls, she moaned with need, and he grabbed her hair with his other hand, too.
She felt and tasted his cum, his cock twitching against her tongue as he came. It spurted, warm and thick, into her mouth, and she kept stock-still, reluctant to overwhelm him, until the final drops pumped out and he pulled away.
“Oh god… oh my god.” Sighing, Johnny threw himself onto the bed beside Christine. “That was… oh, god.”
Christine giggled. “Worth the price of the fuel to drive me home?”
“God, yes.” Johnny reached for her thong. “How can I make this evening worth your bus fare?”