Word vomit, no…actual vomit; a sucky spring love story

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Editor’s Note: The below is considered explicit content to many people. We have always stood by our stance of sex positivity in all facets and we normalize human sexuality within our organization. And let’s face it, we’ve all had interesting sexual experiences and you don’t want to feel alone in that, do you? Anyways…enjoy!

Long before I learned that sucking dick was an easier way to gain validation than actually being nice, I was deluded by manga into thinking the easiest way to seduce a man was to be the kind of pink girl flowers would spontaneously appear next to. This was problematic in that, as a trans person, I found myself rarely in these romantic medias, but the few I had encountered always instilled the idea that if i was cute enough, some random man would eventually hit me with a “this is confusing but I’m horny, so, you’re fine!” and we would fall in love immediately.

As spring approaches, I am reminded of these blooming days, where I didn’t even know what an antibiotic was: the days where my heart was pure, my thrussy unused, and I had singular fixations rather than trying to convince myself that Armie Hammer’s kinks were normal.

Because I didn’t start transitioning until late high school, my experiences with dating were zero, my ideas of affection were limited to baking cookies for a boy on my high school’s baseball team who made fun of me for being fat. I hadn’t really come into myself yet (or any of the myriad eating disorders that kept me ready to bottom at a moment’s notice), so my transition into college only had failed attempts at losing my virginity during the summer. On my first day of college, which was plagued with anxiety (and mild heatstroke from wearing layers)

I had met him.

…A bland, unimpressive, average, mediocre, Caucasian man with brown hair. Literally the kind you couldn’t pick out of a police lineup. The only thing he did was sit in front of me and ask me stupid questions until I was forced into a group with him and had to exchange numbers. We began talking (mostly at 4am), which lead me into delusion.

“Is he in love with me? Is this love? Are we in love? Should I begin googling how to do anal?”

Normal things! The semesters carried on like this, and because we were in the same major I saw him pretty often. Upon asking him a series of questions regarding what kinds of girls he liked best, I began my Taylor Mommsen inspired transformation, shifting slowly from a pink stripe sweater, black haired chipmunk femmeboy into a bleach blonde, thigh high wearing Tumblr girl trudging across campus in Jeffrey Campbell shoes that cost more than my textbooks.

After some time of not really interacting with him and setting aside affections to smoke weed and go to second locations with wooks, during one such evening of seeking validation, I had come across him on Tinder and we MATCHED! Confirming he was ready to have a strange, horny interaction with me, which is what Tinder is exclusively for. 

I blew off my plans with my roommates to go to the house of a man who had ignored me for nearly a year, consuming a McChicken before we confirmed our plans. Every detail had to be perfect, down to my Nastygal leather skirt (remember when they weren’t bankrupt?) and the way I parted my grown out fringe, which I was only convinced to cut because I heard white men with tattoos liked girls who looked like Zooey Deschanel (but would also do anal). Was I ready to conquer my 180lb past, and throat dick like the racoon eyed whore I (and my roommate’s brother) had convinced myself I was?

The McChicken I ate earlier would say no. After about ONE HOUR of having my face mounted in ways only conceivable by people who spent TOO MUCH time on PornHub, the coughing, and gagging, and sputtering were no longer catching me off guard. I was used to it at this point, and my objective of making him cum and therefore love me would not be deterred by such trivial concepts like a “gag reflex”. 

Until I spewed all over him, anyways. White sticky bile and what appeared to be an undigested chunk of shredded lettuce. A goat like noise escaped my mouth as I stared in horror at the white mass of stomach acid, my literal attempts to digest him like a spider leaving me stunned. But not quite as stunned as I was with his response.

“Use it.”

And like, what was I? A prude? Of course I was going to TRY. I wasn’t here to play games, I was here to make someone fall in love with me with minimal effort — so use it I did, until the smell hit my nose and right when I was about to stop he finally came. This was it? This was what I had romanticized in my head? A man who can only cum after being puked on? I weighed my options briefly in my head. I could stay and not cum as well, or I could leave and tell everything to my roommates and my group chat.

I made my decision, opening my aptly titled ‘Whorepostles’ chat and commanded him to drive me home, and during the conveniently short distance drive, he taught me an important phrase I would use throughout life: “Once is an instance, twice is a hobby.” A different person might’ve ruminated on why he told me that, but I was busy fighting for my life in a 6 person chat with people asking why I spammed messages about puking on a dick on their lovely Christian Sunday morning. I would later go on to throw up on him at least six more times, one of which 20 minutes before I had to be at work, and he never did love me, like, ever. 

I wonder if it was the McChicken lettuce.

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