Between Us, Something New

The first time I saw him, I thought, Oh. And then immediately, Don’t stare, you creep. But it was hard not to. Leo moved through the queer poetry slam like he owned the stage even when he was just walking to his seat, a quiet confidence in the set of his shoulders, the way his short, dark hair was buzzed at the sides. He wore a worn leather jacket over a band t-shirt for some punk group I didn’t know, and his voice, when he finally got up to read, was a low rasp that vibrated right through my sternum. His poem was about building a shed with his dad, all splinters and grease and the smell of pine, and something in the way he described the weight of a hammer—the rightness of it in his hand—made my throat tight.

Afterwards, at the mingling part I usually dread, I found myself hovering near the snack table as he talked to a friend. I was trying to look casual while shoving far too many pita chips into my mouth when his friend walked away and he turned, catching my eye.

“You were great,” I blurted, crumbs flying. I wanted to die.

He grinned, a lopsided thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Thanks. You perform?”

“God, no. I just… like to listen.” I wiped my mouth, a losing battle. “I’m Sam.”

“Leo.” He nodded at the chip debris. “Making a real commitment to the snack spread, I respect that.”

I laughed, a nervous, too-loud sound. “Trying to get my money’s worth.”

We talked about nothing—the terrible coffee, the overly earnest guy who’d performed a haiku about his cactus—but the whole time, my brain was screaming. He’s like you. Do you think? Look at his hands. The line of his jaw. The way he stands. It wasn’t just wishful thinking; there was a shared language in the slight hesitation before he mentioned high school, the careful way he discussed his body in the poem. A kinship in the atmosphere around him. I’d spent so long looking for someone who would see me, really see me, that the possibility of being seen by someone who also knew felt like a physical ache.

We exchanged numbers. Texts turned into late-night conversations that stretched for hours, talking about everything and nothing. Confirming our hunches about each other was a series of gentle, deliberate reveals. “My top surgery is next month,” he mentioned offhandedly one night over voice message, and the relief that flooded me was so profound I had to put my phone down for a minute. When I told him about starting testosterone two years ago, my voice shaking, he just said, “Hell yeah, brother,” and the warmth of that simple phrase spread through my chest.

The desire was there, a low hum from the start, but it was tangled with a thicket of anxiety. Dating cis guys had been a minefield of awkward explanations, pity, fetishization, or plain ignorance. Dating anyone felt like being a puzzle they had to solve, with the instructions written in a language they refused to learn. But with Leo… it was different. The attraction was sharp and clear, but the path to physical intimacy felt uncharted. We were both maps with whole continents labeled Here Be Dragons.

---

He came over to my apartment for the first time on a rainy Thursday. We’d been on a few official “dates”—coffee, a truly terrible horror movie we heckled mercilessly—but this felt weightier. My place, my space. I’d cleaned frantically, hiding my laundry pile in the oven (a terrible idea, I realized later), and lit a single, manly candle that smelled vaguely of cedar.

“Nice place,” he said, shrugging off his damp jacket. He was wearing a soft-looking grey henley that stretched across his shoulders. My mouth went dry.

“Thanks. It’s… a place where I live.” I winced internally. Smooth.

We ordered Thai food and ate on the floor, my low coffee table between us. The conversation flowed easily, but there was a new charge in the air. Our knees almost touched. His eyes kept flicking to my mouth when I talked. After we’d stacked the empty containers, the silence felt heavy, pregnant.

“So,” he said, tracing a pattern on the worn rug.

“So,” I echoed.

He looked up, his brown eyes warm and a little nervous. “Can I kiss you?”

The question was so simple, so direct, it undid me. I just nodded, unable to speak.

He moved around the table, his movements deliberate. He didn’t lunge or swoop; he just came close, cupped my jaw with one rough hand, and leaned in. His lips were chapped, and he tasted like basil and ginger. It was a slow, searching kiss, gentle at first, then deepening when I made a soft noise against his mouth. My hands came up to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle under the soft cotton. One of his hands slid to the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the short hairs there.

We kissed for a long time, there on my living room floor, until the rain picked up against the window and my back started to protest the hard floor. He pulled back, resting his forehead against mine. His breathing was uneven.

“My back’s killing me,” I whispered, the words vibrating against his lips.

“Mine too.” He smiled, a small, private thing. His eyes searched mine. “We could… relocate.”

The suggestion hung between us, thick with possibility. This was the threshold. I saw the same flicker of nervous anticipation in his gaze that was racing through my own veins. It wasn’t just a logistical move; it was a decision to cross into deeper territory, together.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We could.”

He stood first, offering me a hand. I took it, and he pulled me up, our bodies close for a moment before we separated. The short walk to my bedroom felt monumental, the air charged with a new kind of silence. He paused in the doorway, letting me enter first, a simple gesture that felt like courtesy and consent all at once.

My bedroom was dim, lit only by the streetlight glow filtering through the blinds. The nervousness came rushing back as we stood beside my bed, the reality of what we were about to do settling over us. This wasn’t just making out. This was the frontier.

“I’m… kind of nervous,” I admitted, the words leaving me in a rush.

Leo let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh of relief. “Oh thank god, me too. I feel like I’m sixteen again, but without the awful pop music and acne.”

“My acne’s from T, so I guess I brought that with me,” I joked, my voice shaky.

He smiled, reaching for my hand. “We can just… see. No script, right? We throw out the playbook.”

“The playbook was written for other people anyway.”

“Exactly.”

He kissed me again, and this time his hands went to the hem of my shirt. He paused, a question in the hesitation. I nodded, and he pulled it over my head. The cool air hit my skin, and I fought the instinct to cross my arms over my chest. His eyes swept over me, over the scars from my surgery, the trail of hair leading down from my navel. His gaze wasn’t clinical or overly reverent; it was just… looking. Taking me in.

“You look amazing,” he said, his voice husky.

“Your turn,” I managed to say, my fingers finding the buttons of his henley.

He helped me, shrugging it off. His top surgery scars were different than mine—a little higher, a different shape—and his chest was broader, scattered with dark hair. I reached out, tentatively tracing one of the scars with my fingertips. He shivered.

“Okay?” I asked.

“More than okay.”

We toppled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and laughter as we tried to get our jeans off without breaking the kiss. He got his stuck around one ankle and had to hop on one foot, cursing, and I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. It broke the last of the tension. This wasn’t a pornographic fantasy; this was two guys trying to get naked, failing spectacularly, and finding it hilarious.

Finally, we were both in our boxer briefs, lying side by side on the sheets. The laughter faded into a soft, charged quiet. We were hard, both of us, the evidence pressing against the cotton. That familiar shape, but with a different history underneath.

“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering near my waistband.

I nodded, and he hooked his fingers in the elastic, drawing them down slowly. The cool air was a shock, and then the warmth of his gaze was another. He did the same for himself, kicking them off. We lay there, exposed, just looking.

It was profoundly different from any other first time. There was no mystery about the anatomy, no need for a guided tour. We knew the landscape, because we lived in it. The knowing created a strange, beautiful intimacy. There was no What is that? or How does this work? There was just Oh, I know that feeling.

He reached over, his calloused fingers wrapping around me. The touch was confident, knowing exactly the right pressure, the right rhythm, because it was the rhythm he’d use on himself. A groan tore from my throat.

“That’s…” I couldn’t finish.

“I know,” he whispered, and he did. He absolutely did.

But as good as that was, it was also… familiar. It was the thing we did alone in the dark. I wanted something with him, not just from him. I pushed up on my elbow.

“Wait.”

He stopped immediately. “Too much?”

“No. It’s just… I want to try something else. With you.” The idea had been forming in the back of my mind, a hazy fantasy born of late-night internet deep dives and my own private curiosity. Now, with him, it felt possible. And terrifying.

“What’s on your mind?” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His expression was open, curious.

I took a shaky breath. “Have you ever… used a strap-on? With someone else, I mean?”

His eyes darkened, interest sparking. “I’ve got one. Never had the chance to use it with a partner, though. You… want to?”

The idea of him wearing one, of that kind of penetration, sent a jolt straight through me. But it wasn’t just about that. It was about the exchange.

“I want to,” I said, the words feeling huge. “But… I kind of want to try it on, too. If that’s… I mean, we could take turns?” I felt my face flush hot. It sounded ridiculous, like we were trading toys in a sandbox.

But Leo’s grin was slow and wide, lit with genuine excitement. “Fuck yes. That’s brilliant. It’s like… a test drive. See what feels good from both sides.”

“Exactly!” The relief was dizzying. He got it. He wasn’t weirded out; he was into it.

“I don’t have mine with me,” he said.

“I, um. I have one.” The admission was mortifying. I’d bought it on a whim months ago, a secret buried in my bottom drawer beneath a pile of socks.

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you now? Well, go get it, dude. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

I scrambled out of bed, padding naked to my dresser. I unearthed the box, my face burning, and brought it back to bed. It was a simple harness, black nylon, and a basic but decent silicone cock. Leo took it from me, examining it with an appreciative nod.

“Nice weight.” He looked at me, a playful challenge in his eyes. “Who goes first?”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The thought of him wearing it, taking control, was immediately, overwhelmingly hot. But so was the thought of me wearing it, of seeing him beneath me.

“You,” I breathed. “You first.”

The process of him putting it on was awkward and intimate and incredibly erotic. He sat on the edge of the bed, figuring out the straps, his brow furrowed in concentration. I just watched, my mouth gone dry again, as he threaded his legs through, his movements practical and focused. He pulled the straps tight over his hips, his jaw setting with a small, determined click as he secured the buckles. He looked down at himself, adjusting the angle of the prosthetic, his fingers brushing against the silicone with a thoughtful touch. When he finally stood up to check the fit, his posture changed—shoulders back, a new awareness in the way he held his hips. He looked at me, and his eyes were dark with intent, but also with a flicker of vulnerability he quickly masked.

“How do I look?”

He looked powerful. He looked hot as hell. The harness sat low on his hips, emphasizing the cut of them, the trail of hair. The prosthetic was a part of him in this moment, an extension of his intent.

“Incredible,” I said, my voice rough.

He crawled back onto the bed, hovering over me. The tip of the silicone pressed against my inner thigh, a cool, foreign pressure. My body clenched with a mix of fear and wild anticipation.

“We need lube,” he said, practical even now.

“Right. Bedside drawer.”

He fetched it, slicking his fingers generously before applying it to the toy, then to me, his touch careful and thorough. The preparation was clinical and deeply tender. When he was done, he looked into my eyes.

“Tell me to stop anytime. For any reason.”

“I will.”

He positioned himself, the head nudging against me. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, relaxing the muscles that wanted to tense. He pushed forward, slowly, an inch, then two. The stretch was intense, unfamiliar. It didn’t feel like anything I’d experienced before—it was pressure, fullness, but without the specific nerve connections of a natal phallus. The sensation was… indirect. But watching his face, the concentration and desire there, feeling his hips press against mine, the weight of his body—that was everything.

“Okay?” he gritted out, holding himself still, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort.

I nodded, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Yeah. Keep going. Please.”

He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm. I focused on the parts that felt good: the friction, the deep pressure, the way his sweat-damp skin slid against mine, the scratch of his chest hair. I reached between us, taking myself in hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. His eyes locked on my hand, and he groaned, his rhythm stuttering for a second before he found it again.

“Fuck, that’s hot. You feel so good.”

His pace increased, his movements becoming less measured, more urgent. The bedsprings creaked a protest. The slap of skin, the wet sounds, his ragged breaths filled the room. It was awkward and messy and real. I could see the harness straps digging into his skin, a reminder of the apparatus, but it didn’t matter. In this moment, he was inside me, and I was with him, completely.

“I’m close,” I gasped, my hand moving faster.

“Come for me,” he growled, and that was all it took. Pleasure ripped through me, white-hot and shocking in its intensity. I cried out, my body arching, clenching around the toy inside me. He watched me fall apart, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then he followed, a rough shout torn from his throat as he shuddered through his own release, his whole body going rigid above me before collapsing.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breathing harsh in my ear. Then he carefully pulled out and rolled to the side, starting to unfasten the harness. His fingers fumbled with the buckles, slick with sweat. The silence was comfortable, saturated with endorphins.

“So,” he said after a while, dropping the harness on the floor with a soft thud. He wiped a hand over his face. “That was…”

“Yeah,” I agreed, a stupid, happy smile on my face. My body felt liquid and used.

He turned his head to look at me. “Your turn.”

My stomach flipped. The afterglow was still humming in my veins, but a new kind of nervousness took root. I’d wanted this, fantasized about it, but the reality of being the one wearing it, of being inside him… that was a different kind of vulnerability.

“You sure?” I asked.

“More than sure. I want to feel you.” He pushed himself up, moving with a slight, satisfied wince. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed up on his hands and knees. The sight of him like that, back arched, waiting—it stole the air from my lungs. “I might need… a little more prep, though.”

Right. Of course. This wasn’t just a simple swap. Our bodies had different needs, different maps.

“Do you want to…?” I gestured vaguely.

“You can,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression was open, trusting. “If you want.”

I took the lube again, my hands trembling slightly. This was new territory for me in practice, though I’d read plenty. I was gentle, careful, watching the tension in his shoulders melt under my touch. His quiet moans were the most encouraging sound I’d ever heard. I took my time, learning the feel of him, until he was pushing back against my fingers, his breathing deep and relaxed.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Okay, I’m ready.”

I picked up the harness. Putting it on was a surreal experience. The weight of the silicone between my legs was strange, but also… right. It felt like claiming a part of myself I’d only ever imagined. I adjusted the straps, tightening them until it felt secure, a part of me. I looked down at myself. The visual was powerful, a silhouette I recognized from my deepest desires.

I moved behind him, kneeling on the bed. I ran my hands over the curve of his back, down his sides, to his hips. He was solid, real. I could feel the heat coming off his skin. I leaned forward, bracing one hand beside his shoulder, and guided myself with the other, the silicone slick with lube, pressing against him. He was tight, and I went painfully slow, letting him adjust to the intrusion. His breath hitched, a sharp intake, then evened out into a long, controlled exhale. I saw his knuckles whiten where he gripped the sheets.

“Good,” he murmured, the word strained but sure. “You can move.”

I set a slow, deep rhythm. The sensation for me was wildly different than what he’d experienced. I couldn’t feel the tightness, the heat, not directly. But I could feel the pressure at the base of the toy, the solid thud of my hips meeting his ass with each thrust, a percussive feedback that traveled up my spine. And I could see him: the flex and release of the muscles in his back, the sweat beading along his shoulders. I could hear him: every punched-out gasp, every low groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. I could feel the tremors that ran through him under my palms.

That’s where the pleasure lived for me—not in a phantom sensation, but in the totality of the act. In the power of the movement, in his choked-off gasps, in the way he pushed back to meet me, in the sheer giving of it. I was inside him, and he was taking me, and we had built this moment together from scraps and courage.

“Harder,” he grunted, and I obeyed, my thrusts becoming more forceful, less controlled. The sounds were obscene and beautiful—the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, our mingled breathing. I leaned over him, my chest against his sweat-slick back, my mouth near his ear.

“You feel so good,” I rasped, the words coming unbidden. “Taking me so well.”

He moaned, long and low. One of his hands snaked between his legs, and I could see the frantic motion of his wrist as he stroked himself. The sight, the sheer desperation of it, tipped me over an edge I didn’t know I was approaching. It wasn’t a physical orgasm—that wasn’t how this worked—but a cresting wave of emotional and psychological climax, built from the visual of his surrender, the auditory proof of his pleasure, the tactile hammer of my own hips against his body. A feeling of rightness, of completeness, so intense it was almost painful.

“Leo,” I gasped, my rhythm faltering, becoming shallow and urgent.

“I’m there, I’m there,” he chanted, his voice breaking, and his body tightened around the toy, shuddering violently as he came, his release spattering the sheets beneath him with a series of hot pulses I could feel through the mattress. I held myself deep inside him as he rode it out, my own body trembling with the effort and the overwhelming rush of connection, until my arms gave out and I slumped over him, spent.

When his tremors subsided, I carefully pulled out and fumbled with the harness straps, my fingers clumsy. Once free, I collapsed beside him, both of us spent and slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison.

We lay in a heap for a long time. The room smelled of sex and cedar and rain. Finally, he started to laugh, a soft, breathless sound.

“What?” I asked, smiling already.

“We’re a mess.” He gestured vaguely at the damp sheets, at us. “An amazing, fantastic mess.” He turned his head to look at me, his eyes bright. “Holy shit, Sam.”

A giddy laugh bubbled out of me. “I know. I know.”

“We figured it out,” he said, wonder in his voice. He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. Our hands were the same size, rough in the same ways. “You know… for next time…”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking. The toy is great. But… what if we got a double-ended one? Or those briefs with the O-ring pockets? So we could both… you know. Feel more.”

The idea sent a fresh thrill through my exhausted body. “A simultaneous engineering project.”

“Exactly.” He squeezed my hand. “We’re building something here.”

Later, we cleaned up. It was a mundane, sticky process. We used a damp washcloth, passing it between us with tired smiles, wiping away the evidence of our experiment. I balled up the sheets and tossed them in the corner, putting on fresh ones that smelled of laundry detergent. The ordinary acts felt like part of the ritual, grounding the extraordinary thing that had just happened.

Back in bed, under the covers this time, he pulled me against his chest. My back fit against his front, his arm heavy and secure around my waist. His breath stirred the hair at the back of my neck.

“This okay?” he murmured.

“Perfect.”

It was. It was more than okay. The sex had been exploratory, funny, awkward, and earth-shattering. But this—the quiet after, the solid warmth of him at my back—this was the revelation. We hadn’t just figured out what worked for bodies like ours. We’d found a new space, built just for us, where every fumble was part of the dance, and every laugh was a promise.

As I drifted towards sleep, I thought of his poem, the hammer in his hand. This felt like that. A tool we were learning to use together. The right weight. The right fit. The satisfying thud of something built to last. Between us, we were building something new. And I couldn’t wait to see what it became.