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Best Sex Writing of the Year, Volume 1 #ShamelessPromotion

Best Sex Writing of the Year, Volume 1Not only am I excited to help pimp out Best Sex Writing of the Year, Volume 1 from Cleis Press because it was edited by a fellow sex blogger, Jon Pressick, but also because he truly covered all ranges of sex writing. How do I know? Today's excerpt is from a trans man, and that little bit makes me want to know so much more.

I know some of y'all come here for the sexy bits - no judgment from me, I love you for it! But some of you stick around for something else, and whatever that may be, I think this book may offer even more perspectives on sex and life than you can find here on my blog. So check out the excerpt, and if you're as intrigued as I am, click on a purchase link at the bottom and get your copy.

Excerpt from “Pump Dreams” by Mitch Kellaway

As with all impulse buys, my gut feels how incomplete my life will be without this one. When it arrives in the mail, I eagerly tear open the packaging to reveal a dazzling pink box, covered in flowers. Bubbly lavender text dances over splashy magenta waves. Its glitz has an effect on me similar to picking up a carton of milk, only to notice that today it’s set to expire. I pause, put it down, then cautiously pick it up to peer closer. The picture on the website looked decidedly more badass.

Granted, once I get over my initial aversion—why do advertisers think this neon princess mess appeals to adults?—the clit pump inside is indeed my hasty purchase. Sitting in my hand, it resembles a plastic toy gun, with a limp rubber nozzle extending outward. A pressure gauge sits atop it, encasing a thin needle poised to flicker past zero. My childhood self would have spent days playing made-up undercover spy games revolving around this mysterious gadget. I dig out three small glass cylinders, each about a quarter inch wider than the last. I start with the smallest, a mere inch in girth, and hesitantly unzip my pants. Sitting alone in my living room, I’m still struck with a wave of performance anxiety; a silly grin makes its way across my face.

I don’t have a clitoris.

Or, rather, I used to have one. But since starting my gender transition a year ago, my relationship to it has become quite complex. Testosterone, though only adding a few centimeters of enhancement, has effectively rendered it a different organ to my consciousness. And finally living my true gender has changed my relationship to it radically. All of a sudden, I feel the intense need to look at it.

Not that I had ever shied away from acknowledging my nub—at least ever since I had discovered its pulsing pleasures as a teenager, hushed and feverish under my sheets. But I found little reason to search for it visually more than once, especially when I needed it most. My hands simply zoomed in to do their work, all muscle memory and flourish. My clitoris was less a place on my body than a feeling that coursed through me when I pressed that sweet spot right below the pubic bone. My third finger searched it out, the pad just the right size to cover it and jerkily eliminate the need to locate it almost as quickly as it arose.

Ten years past this frenzied peak of pubescent lust, testosterone gives me a reason to revisit the scene. Not only because I anticipate the growth that will creep in—but because I’m hit by the same heady waves of arousal I thought I’d left behind somewhere, along with my high school diploma. Other trans men warn me this will happen, but I expect it to be quite a bit less auto-erotic. I might have suspected this had I considered how alive I’ve become to my body’s wondrous capacity to grow hair. I get a thrill whenever I run my hand over my stubbly face, my downy stomach, my furry ass. But touching isn’t enough; looking at the dark curls gathering around my belly button or shoulders, I become momentarily transfixed. I have a lot of moments with myself.

I feel the same wonder when I slide down my boxers, taking advantage of an empty apartment to whip out my junk—or dig out, rather, since it decidedly lacks a dangle. My labia are fleshy obstacles: heavy, fuzzy curtains obscuring the main act. I awkwardly arch my back to peer downward, push my fingers apart as wide as possible, and take in the most raw, pink, sensitive spot on my increasingly sensitive body. Though it takes an effort to keep it exposed, the inconvenience fades into the background as I admire its protrusion, the strong one inch of space it claims as its own.

Over the past month, I’ve spent stolen moments perusing other trans men’s endowments online. Never one to buy into the cultural bigger-is-better phallus myth, I surprise myself with how intensely I want to know just how big my dicklit can grow. While testosterone will certainly keep working its magic for a while longer, the man-made tactic intrigues me. And so, after a few days’ wait and a somewhat discouraging first attempt, I find myself once more sitting in my favorite reading chair, half-naked and warily eyeing my new pump.

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Okay, y'all, you have to admit that's kind of hawt - even as we're all being educated a bit. If you need to know more, buy a copy, support sex bloggers/writers, and learn even more about sexuality that you might have thought possible. Just sayin'...

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About the author

Kayla Lords

I am an erotic author, sex blogger, podcaster, freelance writer, and an opinionated marketer. I'm also a masochistic babygirl submissive with an amazing and sadistic Daddy Dom. Welcome to my kinky corner of the internet!

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