The Groom Who Glowed for Me

I keep touching the inside of my wrist where the new hairs lie soft and dark, proof that the testosterone is doing its work. Tonight I’m supposed to feel like a king—my own bachelor party—but the hotel suite smells too strongly of cologne and the guys are laughing louder than usual, like we all need reminding this is celebration, not consolation. Across the room Marcus holds up two corsages meant for strippers who haven’t arrived yet, and I almost laugh at the absurdity: corsages for strippers, flowers for flesh. My best man hired two women because he still pictures me the way I was three years ago, before needles and voice drops and legal name changes, before I grew into the name Aaron. He means well. They all do. But the part of me that used to tuck and fold itself into someone else’s fantasy feels suddenly, electrically tired of pretending.

“Five minutes out,” Marcus crows, waving his phone. The other guys cheer. I force a grin and drift toward the minibar, needing something busier than my own pulse to listen to. The ice bucket rattles like dice as I scoop cubes into a glass. I keep my back to the room while I pour whiskey, counting heartbeats the way I used to count down from ten before stepping onstage at open-mic nights. I’m good at giving people what they expect. I’m better, now, at giving myself what I need. I just don’t know which skill tonight requires.

A knock lands—three crisp taps—followed by wolf whistles that make my shoulders bunch. Marcus flings the door wide, and I turn, expecting the usual sequins-and-smiles act. Instead a single figure leans in the frame: tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black mesh shirt that does nothing to hide the binder underneath, top-surgery scars like pale lightning down the pecs I can’t stop staring at. Leather pants ride low on angular hips. His hair is buzzed on the sides, long on top, slicked back so copper strands catch the light. He scans the crowd until his gaze hooks on mine and stays there, steady as a hand on the small of my back.

“You order entertainment?” His voice is textured, smoke over gravel, pitched in that delicious in-between that makes my knees stupid. “Name’s Saint.”

Marcus does a confused half-bow. “Uh, we thought—two girls?”

Saint lifts a shoulder. “Agency sent me. Said the groom requested someone who sees straight.” His eyes never leave mine. “That you, king?”

I swallow whiskey too fast, burn blooming down my throat. “Yeah,” I rasp. “That’s me.”

The room erupts into nervous laughter, guys shoving dollar bills at each other, suddenly shy under Saint’s unbotherable stare. He steps inside, boots striking the tile like punctuation marks. The door swings shut behind him. Dim table-lamps halo his cheekbones, and I see a faint dusting of glitter across the bridge of his nose—tiny galaxies wheeling every time he breathes. My tongue feels thick. I set the glass down before I drop it.

Music cues from a portable speaker: slow, bass-heavy, almost devotional. Saint moves to the center of the suite, shoulders rolling loose, hips starting a figure-eight that yanks the oxygen out of the room. He doesn’t bother with theatrics—no feather boas, no plastic props—just pure economy of motion, each muscle announcing itself under mesh and leather. The guys form a circle, but they look at me sideways, waiting for permission they never needed back when everyone thought I was merely a lesbian with good cheekbones. I lift my chin, letting them read whatever they need on my face. Tonight isn’t for explanations. It’s for exhalations.

Saint circles until he stands in front of me. Up close his eyes are hazel ringed in gold, lashes clumped dark with mascara. He smells like coconut oil and clove cigarettes, a combination that drags me back to being nineteen on a fire escape, kissing a boy who didn’t know my name was still legally Emily. I breathe him in until my lungs press against my ribs.

“Permission to touch the groom?” he asks, formal as courtship. There’s a flicker of something mischievous at the corner of his mouth.

My voice comes out scraped raw. “Please.”

He starts slow—knuckles skating down the lapel of my blazer, tracing the buttonholes, smoothing lapels that don’t need smoothing. Each pass lingers longer, until palms cup the slight swell of my chest where pecs have begun to build. I feel the moment he registers the binder under my shirt, the way his exhale stutters, not pity but recognition. His thumbs brush the elastic edge and something electric shoots straight to my dick, the one I strap on every morning like armor. I’m suddenly grateful for tight jeans that keep the silicone silhouette from jerking to full attention in front of half my wedding party.

Behind us the guys hoot, but their voices seem to arrive through water. Saint leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “They see a man getting married,” he murmurs. “I see a man becoming. Tell me which part you want celebrated.”

I shiver so hard my teeth clack. “All of it,” I whisper. “Every fucking inch.”

He draws back, slow grin splitting his face. “Music to my ears.”

What happens next is choreography I didn’t know my body remembered. He spins me so my back meets his chest, one arm banding across my shoulders while the other travels south, fingers splayed over the fly of my jeans. The silicone is packed to the left; he finds it unerringly, gives a gentle squeeze that punches a groan from my throat. Over the beat I hear Marcus whoop, “Yeah, Aaron, get you some!” and for once my name in his mouth sounds right, sounds true.

Saint trails kisses along the hinge of my jaw, each press of lips a benediction. “Tell me your safe word, king.”

“Roses,” I breathe, surprising us both. It’s the flower my fiancée carried the night she proposed, petals bruised from clutching them too hard while she stumbled over forever.

“Good.” He nips my ear. “Use it if the performance stops feeling like yours.”

He turns me again, palms sliding to grip my hips, guiding me until we’re face-to-face with the crowd. I feel the heat of forty eyes, but more importantly I feel his heat at my back, chest rising and falling in time with mine. He starts unbuttoning my shirt, exposing the black binder inch by inch. The room goes hush, guys suddenly aware they’re watching something sacramental. I lift my arms so he can peel the shirt off entirely, and there I stand: scars from top surgery still pink at the edges, the faint shadow of hair swirling between pecs that finally, finally feel like mine. Cheers soften into something gentler, almost reverent. I want to cry, but I’ve cried enough in my life; instead I let Saint spin me again, let him drink in the sight the way I’m drinking him in.

He drops to his knees.

The world tilts. Leather stretches across his thighs as he settles back on his heels, looking up at me like I’m altar and offering both. He unlaces my boots, tugs them off, then socks, until I’m barefoot on hotel carpet that smells of chlorine. He kisses the top of each foot, theatrical and earnest at once. Laughter ripples through the room, but it’s warm now, affectionate. When he stands, he keeps one hand on my sternum, fingers spread wide like he’s taking my pulse through bone.

“Want to show them how you move when you’re not trying to be good?” he asks, voice pitched low enough only I hear.

I nod before my brain catches up. He steps behind me again, both hands on my waist, guiding my hips in slow rolls that match the beat. I let my head fall back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, letting my body speak in languages I only learned once testosterone taught me their grammar. The circle widens; dollar bills flutter to the carpet like confetti. Someone cranks the music louder. I catch sight of us in the window’s reflection—two trans guys grinding in a hotel suite full of cheering friends—and the image knocks the breath from my lungs. We look holy, indestructible.

Saint’s hand slips under the waistband of my jeans, bypasses the packer entirely, and cups the heat of me through briefs. I’m wet in ways that still surprise me every time, slick gathering where flesh folds behind the silicone. He growls approval, fingers painting circles that send sparks up my spine. My hips jerk forward, chasing friction. In the glass I watch my own face: mouth slack, eyes dark, joy so fierce it looks like ferocity.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he mutters against my neck. “Want to taste you so bad.”

I whimper. The sound is raw, animal. I hadn’t planned to let this go further than lap-dance territory, but my body is rewriting the script, and he’s an eager co-author. I glance at Marcus, who raises both brows in a silent you good? I answer by reaching back, threading fingers through Saint’s hair, pulling him closer.

Saint’s lips brush my ear again, his whisper a secret vibration against my skin. “Your call, king. We can stop here, give them a show. Or I can take you somewhere private, show you what my mouth can really do.” He pulls back just enough for me to see the question in his eyes, the genuine offer behind the performance. “Your night. Your rules.”

The choice, laid bare like that, sends another shiver through me. This isn’t just about desire; it’s about agency. I’ve spent so much of my life having my body’s narrative written by others—doctors, family, well-meaning friends. Here, now, with this glitter-dusted stranger seeing straight through to my core, the power is mine to wield. I hold his gaze and give a single, deliberate nod.

He smiles, a real one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Then he turns his head toward Marcus, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Give us the room for a bit? Groom’s got a private request.”

Marcus’s grin widens. He doesn’t need details; the shift in energy is explanation enough. “You heard the man!” he barks, clapping his hands. “Alright, you animals, let’s clear out! Bar’s open next door, and I’ve got a poker set calling our names.” There’s a chorus of good-natured groans and whistles, but they comply, shuffling toward the adjoining bedroom with one last round of backslaps and winks in my direction. Marcus hauls the portable speaker with him, the bass fading as the door swings shut, leaving a sudden, profound quiet in its wake.

The latch clicks. The muffled thump of music and the distant rise of male laughter are now the only sounds, a world away. Saint’s hand is still warm on my skin under my jeans. He doesn’t move, letting the new silence settle around us like a blanket.

“Tell me what you want, king. No audience now.”

Words tumble out breathless. “Want your mouth on me. Want you to fuck me until I forget there was ever a version of me that didn’t feel like this.”

His eyes flare, dark with hunger. “Condoms? Lube?”

“Nightstand. Fiancée’s a planner.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Smart woman.” He stands, his body a long line of leather and intent, and offers me his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. My legs feel unsteady, anticipation humming in my veins louder than any whiskey buzz. He leads me toward the bedroom area, his grip firm and sure.

He sits me on the edge of the mattress, the comforter cool through my jeans. He drops to his knees again, this time between my spread thighs. I expect urgency, but he takes his time, his movements reverent. He unbuckles my belt, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my jeans and briefs, looking up at me for one more confirmation. I nod, my breath catching. He slides them down just enough to expose the juncture where silicone meets skin. The packer straps around my hips; he unclips it with practiced ease, his fingers deft and gentle. He sets the prosthetic aside on the nightstand, handling it with a care that makes my throat tight. Cool air hits wet flesh and I gasp, my thighs falling wider of their own accord.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, the word a prayer. He uses his thumbs to spread me gently, his gaze intense and focused. “Look how ready you are for me.”

I blush furious, heat flooding my cheeks, but I don’t look away. I watch his face as he leans in. He doesn’t dive in; he starts with a soft, closed-mouth kiss right at the apex, making me jolt. Then he drags the flat of his tongue from entrance to that sensitized bud in one slow, deliberate stripe. My head falls back, a moan tearing loose from somewhere deep in my chest. He licks again, lips sealing around the swollen nerves, sucking with a rhythm that mirrors the distant, muffled bassline from the other room. My hands find his hair, short and coarse under my palms, anchoring myself as he devours me like he’s starving and I’m the first meal he’s chosen for himself in a long time.

Pleasure coils, hot and urgent, low in my belly. I rock against his face shamelessly, chasing more, always more. His tongue is relentless, clever, mapping every fold and sensitive spot until I’m trembling. When he slides one finger inside, my body clamps around him greedily. He works it deeper, curling just right, finding a spot that makes me see stars while his tongue keeps circling, pressing, fluttering. A second finger joins, stretching me, pumping slow and deep until I’m babbling—yes, fuck, there, please—the words dissolving into incoherent vowels.

My orgasm barrels down on me sudden as a summer storm, ripping through me so hard my vision whites out at the edges. I cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound, my hips bucking off the mattress, my heels drumming a frantic rhythm against his back. He doesn’t let up, licking me through every shuddering aftershock, gentling his touch only when I finally collapse back, spent and boneless.

I’m floating, adrift in a sea of sensation, when he stands. He undoes his leather pants with hands that I notice, now, have a slight tremor. His cock springs free—thick, uncut, pierced with a curved barbell that glints wet at the tip. He rolls on a condom from the nightstand drawer, slicks himself with lube, the sounds obscene and perfect in the quiet room. Then he pauses, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of my hips, searching my face. Sweat gleams on his forehead, mixing with the glitter.

“Still good?”

I answer by yanking him down by the back of his neck, kissing him hard, tasting myself—musky and sweet—on his tongue. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. He positions himself between my legs, and I hook my ankles over his hips, feeling the blunt, slick pressure of him against my entrance. He pushes in, gentle, a slow, burning stretch that steals my breath. Inch by inch, he fills me, until he’s buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against mine. We stay like that, joined completely, breathing each other’s air, our heartbeats a frantic syncopation against our ribs.

Then he moves.

Each thrust is deliberate, deep, dragging the barbell across sensitive internal nerves with every withdrawal, sending cascades of sparks through my belly. I meet him stroke for stroke, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, feeling the texture of his binder through the mesh shirt. The rough mesh abrades my bare nipples, each rub a sharp, delicious shock. The room fills with the slap of skin, our mingled grunts, the headboard knocking a staccato rhythm against the wall. I feel another orgasm building, slower this time, a molten pool gathering heat low in my core.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, his voice ragged with strain. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

I obey without thought, my hand sliding between our sweat-slick bodies, fingers finding the slick, swollen flesh above where we’re joined. I circle myself, the added stimulation a direct line to the gathering storm. The sight of him over me—glitter clinging to his cheekbones, his scars glowing like silver trails under the cheap hotel lamplight, his expression fierce with concentration—undoes me completely. I come with a shout, my inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He follows seconds later, his control shattering, burying his face in the curve of my neck, growling my name—Aaron—like a prayer, like a curse, like a blessing.

We stay tangled, a mess of limbs and cooling sweat, while our breathing slowly steadies. The world outside the window—the city lights, the hum of traffic—seeps back into my awareness. Eventually, he slips out, ties off the condom, and drops it in the trash bin by the desk. The absence of him feels profound. I sit up, retrieving the packer from the nightstand. Strapping it back on feels almost shy, a vulnerable re-dressing after he’s seen and worshipped every hidden part of me. He watches from where he’s pulling his leather pants back up, his expression soft, unguarded.

“Getting married tomorrow,” he says, not quite a question as he fastens his buckle.

“Yeah.” My voice is hoarse. I reach out, smoothing a stray, sweat-damp copper strand from his forehead. “To someone who sees me like you do.”

He smiles, a little crooked, a little weary. “Then tonight was celebration, not goodbye.” He pulls his mesh shirt back on, the movement wincing slightly as it catches on a shoulder.

“You okay?” I ask, pulling my own briefs and jeans up.

“Old injury,” he says, rolling the shoulder. “Bone-deep reminder not to take a dive off a stage again. Part of the job’s hazards, back when I was trying to be the flashiest damn showgirl in the city.” He says it casually, but there’s a story there, a past life hinted at in the set of his jaw.

“Is that why you do this now? This, specifically?” I gesture between us, not sure how to define what just happened.

He finishes dressing and looks at me, his hazel eyes clear. “I do it because for guys like us, a moment of being truly seen—not as a fetish, not as a tragedy, but as a fucking masterpiece—can be the thing that gets you through the next year. I didn’t have that. My ‘bachelor party’ was my dad getting drunk and asking if I was sure I wasn’t just a butch lesbian.” He shrugs, a defensive gesture that makes him seem younger. “So I try to be that moment for others. Even if it’s just for an hour in a hotel room.”

The confession lands softly, a small crack in his enigmatic armor. He’s not a fantasy; he’s a man with scars, a bad shoulder, and a history that fuels his present. It makes him more real, more precious.

I stand, buttoning my shirt over my binder. Before he leaves, he pulls a Sharpie from his back pocket, takes my arm, and scrawls a phone number on my forearm in quick, looping digits.

“If you ever need reminding how fucking radiant you are,” he says, capping the pen, “call. No strings. Just a reminder.”

I trace the digits with my thumb, my heart feeling too large for my chest. I walk him to the suite door. When I open it, the guys spill out from the adjoining room in a wave of noise and cigar smoke. Their applause is thunderous, genuine. Marcus claps my shoulder, his eyes shining with a pride that has nothing to do with debauchery and everything to do with witnessing a friend come fully into himself.

“Hell of a show, man,” he says, squeezing. “You good?”

“Better than good,” I say, and I mean it.

As Saint steps into the hallway, he tips an imaginary hat in my direction, a ghost of his earlier performance smile on his lips. He disappears around the corner, humming a few bars of the song we’d moved to, the sound fading into the hum of the hotel.

I close the door, press my back against the cool wood, and let out a long, shuddering breath. My gaze finds my reflection in the dark window across the suite. Hair wild, lips swollen, shirt hanging open to reveal the edge of my binder. For a moment, I see the ghosts—the girl I was told to be, the in-between stranger, the man I hoped I could become. Then they dissolve, leaving only the man I am. Joy, raw and unadorned, stares back at me from the glass. It’s in the set of my shoulders, the ease in my own skin, the quiet, unshakable knowledge that I am home within myself.

A laugh bubbles up from deep in my chest—loud, free, unafraid of the sound of my own becoming. It fills the empty suite, a celebration that needs no audience, a promise to myself that echoes into the quiet night.