Wear me Home Jane Vincent

It was my third year at the national conference on sexuality research. At this point I knew to expect stimulation of the mind as opposed to the twiddly bits. However, this weekend would smash my expectations.

On the first day of the conference I spotted a young man sitting alone outside the opening plenary. I was feeling bold in my bright orange paisley vintage dress picked up at a local thrift store that afternoon.

"Hi there, lonely person. I've never seen you at one of these before."

"This is my first one. I'm Jack."

I immediately read him as gay, like 90 percent of the males under forty at the conference. Sweet, but gay.

"Hi, Jack," I said, sitting down. "So, what's your area of research?"

"I'm completing my doctorate in psychology focusing on transgender issues."

My nipples perked up. As my left leg crossed over my right, my whole body turned to him. "Really?"

"As a transman..." He went on to make very intelligent commentary on the current state of mental health services available to the transgender community. I carried on my side of the conversation, multiprocessing my fantasies.

At the student and young professional mixer I introduced him to my friends. As he walked away I leaned in and stated, "I want him."

"Sweetie, he bats for the other team."

"Actually, no. First, he mentioned his ex-girlfriend. Second, he's trans."

"Really? No...Really? No...Really? Wow. He's good."

"He's hot," I replied, deviously plotting my subtle seduction.

The way a sex research conference works is pretty similar to other academic conferences. There are two types of sessions: plenaries and paper sessions. At plenaries, a featured speaker lectures the entire conference body. At paper sessions, presentations go on in rooms throughout the hotel. Generally, four or five researchers (or research teams) present their findings in each room during the two-hour sessions. These rooms tend to be grouped by topic; for example, adolescent sexuality, sexual abuse, LGBT issues, masculinity, sexual dysfunction, and the occasional grab bag where street sex workers, commercial clitoral stimulants, and diaper fetishists are presented head-to-head.

Jack and I compared programs. We had several paper sessions mutually starred. As we sat together in a lecture on BDSM communities in contemporary Manhattan (great visual aides), we passed notes. I think I wrote, "You are hot." It was like junior high, only better, because this time I might actually score.

The flirting continued through the second day of the conference. Hands lingering on shoulders or waists as we passed in the hallways, searching each other out in plenaries and luncheons, the heat of anticipation overwhelming.

That evening, the featured event was a film festival of what is technically termed "educational porn." These are videos of the "how-to" variety (stronger erections and anal pleasure being two of the goals) as well as documentaries and films appropriate for college sexuality courses (examples include a duo on how men feel about their penises and how women feel about their breasts). A few films stood out, including a documentary on the Texas sex-toy laws, an educational drag show on the impact of drug use upon HIV-positive folk, and a well-edited collection of a dozen or so people of diverse age, race, gender, and shape masturbating to orgasm shown only from the neck up.

Drinks were carried into the viewing room from the bar and chairs were adjusted to form couches and foot supports as needed. There was the air of a slumber party.

Jack and I stretched out next to each other. As the screening went on to the wee hours, I decided to graduate our relationship to high school. I leaned in to his ear, "I want to fuck you." I delivered a swift nip to his lobe for emphasis.

He grinned at me and blushed, then quickly reformed his face to meet my challenge. He rose and took my hand. We waved goodbye to knowing winks as we exited at the back.

Jack was staying at a nearby motel for budgetary reasons, but had his own room. I was sharing a room with another student, also for budgetary reasons. The single room, despite the distance, won out as our rendezvous of choice.

"I need to make a quick stop in my room to freshen up." I led him up the elevators and down the hall. Once in my room he sat down on my bed. I straddled his lap and pulled his face up to mine. Tongues plunged hungrily, his hands firmly kneading my ass. He bent his face down into my cleavage, straining the buttons of another prize vintage dress.

I leaned back, afraid to get too carried away and "sex-ile" the roommate. I left him on the bed as I grabbed my toothbrush, a pair of panties, and my toy bag (just because I didn't expect partner action doesn't mean I didn't come prepared to get myself off six ways 'til Sunday). I dragged him off the bed into a kiss and led him out of the room.

We laughed down the street, speed-walk-racing our way to his motel.

Once inside, Jack pushed me against the door. With his hand on my breast as another raced up my thigh, our kisses became quick and sloppy. He traced the line beneath my breast, across my armpit and shoulder blade to the nape of my neck. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. I gasped.

"Now what did you say you wanted to do, little girl?" he breathed in my ear.

I looked at him with big doe eyes. "I said I want to fuck you." The hard k clacked in the back of my throat.

He unbuttoned my dress with one hand, the other holding my wrists behind my back. He gripped my collar in his teeth and then pulled it off my left shoulder. He mirrored the action on the right. I stepped out of my dress. I stood in my black bra and panties (simple, yet sexy) and twelve-dollar Payless pumps. He stepped back and sat on the bed, his eyes devouring me.

"You are such a...woman," he said, the word circling my birthing hips and soft stomach, caressing my breasts, tangling in my long hair, and kissing my full lips.

I slowly walked over to him. Astride his lap, back arched, I unbuttoned his shirt. I traced his red welted top-surgery scars with my nails and then my mouth. I pushed him onto his back, holding my body above his thighs, pulling off his belt and opening his pants, while staring in his eyes, daring him to look down.

I reached against his white cotton briefs, not sure what I would find. I felt a small bulge. I smiled at him, "May I?"

"Please," he moaned.

His tranny cock, a clitoris engorged by two years of testosterone and the pretty lady upon his thighs, stood erect like one of those carrots I eat by the bagful. I licked it from base to tip and pulled it into my lips, rolling it against the roof of my mouth. I flicked at the head and circled the shaft rapidly.

Then I pulled a glove and some lube out of my toy bag, which was conveniently stashed at the base of the bed by my feet. It was his turn to gasp as the first drop of lube landed on his puckered asshole. I dribbled a generous glob and snapped on a black latex glove. Still sucking his tranny cock, looking at his face tossed back against the pillow, I started tickling his ass with one finger. I teased the pucker, feeling it press and release against the pad of my finger. I gently pushed in a single knuckle deep and paused. His ass pulsed around me.

"More," he pleaded. I plunged in deeper. I curved my fingers up towards his belly button, inviting his G/P-spot to come hither. I attacked his tranny cock with a vigor previously wasted on nipples and dick. He gasped and groaned and writhed.

He came.

After kissing him, I rose and went into the bathroom. While peeing, I could not believe how turned on I was. My clit and labia were swollen like ripe fruit.

As I washed my hands, Jack stepped into the bathroom with a small bundle. "Don't you dare put any clothes back on," he instructed as he gently pushed me out the door and closed it behind me.

Like an impatient child, I rummaged through my toy bag until I found my silver bullet, possibly my most versatile toy. I popped it in a condom, not sure of the body fluids about to be swung about, and sat back against the headboard.

I was in my bra and heels, knees bent, legs sprawled, panties cast off to the corner, and bullet humming on my clit when he emerged from the bathroom, stroking a significantly larger bulge beneath his tighty-whities, which were making an encore appearance.

"You dirty girl," he scolded. "Are you going to jerk off for daddy?" I nodded a little girl "uh-huh" and continued buzzing myself. "I can see you're soaking wet from across the room. Tell me how wet you are."

I pushed two fingers in my pussy and pulled them up, glistening. "Very wet," I mumbled as I sucked off my juices.

"We're going to have to do something about that. And I have just the thing." He rubbed his bulge as he approached me. "Want to see your surprise?" I nodded and gasped as he pulled out a five-inch silicone cock, slightly curved, strapped in a leather harness. He stepped out of his underwear and kneeled above me. "Do you like it?" I smiled and reached for a condom.

I peeled the condom from the wrapper and tucked it in my mouth. The tip pressed behind my teeth by my tongue, the rim outside my lips changing my expression into that of a blow-up doll. I pushed the condom down around his dick, smoothing out the air bubbles with my lips, pulling the head in to the back of my throat.

"Good girl," he praised, pulling back. "Now I want you to tell me one more time, what do you want?"

"I want you to fuck me."

The switch of pronouns pleased him. "That's what I thought."

He pushed my ankles to his shoulders, careful not to scratch his face with the heels of my pumps. He held the head of his dick at my opening, teasing me for an endless moment. I wiggled my hips, trying to swallow the tip. "Nuh uh uh," he taunted, pulling back.

As I sighed with frustration he drove his cock into me. Deep. I thrust back. We began a grinding rhythm, like a train picking up steam. I met each plunge.

He hit my G-spot with precision. My orgasm grew with a heavy sensation, like I was going to pee or explode. I imagined my goo flung about the room, coating Jack's face and luggage. I saw him trying to explain the mess, first to the hotel staff and then the luggage inspector at the airport. I would stain him. He would wear me home.

Four positions and half a dozen toys later, the sun was up and we were late for the morning plenary. In lieu of a shower I chose a pits-tits-and-twat sink bath. He didn't take the time to shave.

We arrived five minutes tardy and suitably disheveled. As the PowerPoint flashed MRI-scans and vaginal plethysmograph readings, I leaned in to Jack's neck.

"Thank you," I whispered and kissed his cheek. I was met with the salty brine of our evening's adventure. He would indeed wear me home.