I originally propositioned this sub for a muffdive while I was travelling to Boston for a research conference. As a trans man, female-to-male, I tend to be a more exotic partner; I’m muscled, deep-voiced, and facial-haired, but I have a pussy, to put it bluntly. So, it’s not often I find a suitable muffdiver that I feel safe with, but a few days before I arrived in Boston, my soon-to-be compatriot came rolling into my DMs. I was initially interested as he mentioned having been with a trans man before. That alone was a relief, as it meant I didn't have to explain what I am and the, uh, quirks of my anatomy. When we swapped pics, I was surprised to see that he’s damn cute. What sealed the deal that I wanted to meet him was that he’s not like the other redditors – as in, he’s not fat. In fact, super in-shape. I spoke with a few other people who turned me down or others that I didn’t feel comfortable with, but in the end I chose him. We agreed to meet at a bar for drinks and see where things go.

The fun began when it became a team effort to just walk into the bar.

The bar was on the second story of an open concrete plaza, a warm, classy venue tucked behind a seaside leasing office and perched across from a high-end seafood restaurant. However, when I first showed up, I didn’t see the stairs to the second level of the plaza. When he texted me saying that he was at the bar, I struggled to understand how he got to the second floor; I could see the second story with drinkers above me, but I saw no elevator, no ladder, no rock-climbing wall, no elaborate pulley system to get there, leading to this embarrassing text exchange:

Me: “Can I Spiderman my way up to the bar?”

Him: “There’s like a patio where I’m at”

Me: “Lmfao tell me how you got up there”

Him: “The stairs!”

It took me a few seconds of confused looking around before I found them.

I texted him back: “OH”

I skittered ashamedly up the (very large, very grand, very obvious) concrete stairs to the second story of the plaza and started looking for him, hoping he wasn’t watching my walk of shame up the stairs from afar.

We made eye contact with each other soon enough and at last, we met. I played into my stupidity of missing the stairs and got a laugh from him. Blissful restitution came, however: he said he’d been standing outside of the bar for a few minutes, unable to find the entrance.

I looked at him, then at the very clear opening in the fence lining the bar’s outdoor patrons, specifically created for people to enter the bar, then at him again.

Already, we complemented each other.

We went in and ordered drinks. Pro tip: if you don’t fancy conversation, never make an extrovert nervous then give him alcohol. A few sips of my cocktail and I was set rambling. I was absolutely floored by his eyes: a striking cool blue like ice frozen smooth over a still lake. Every time he looked at me I unconsciously pressed the gas pedal on my motor mouth a little harder. I talked about my research position, some bullshit about DNA and RNA and subarachnoid hemorrhage and the catastrophic high-mortality post-stroke sequela called delayed cerebral ischemia predicted by changes in clotting factors, platelets, and markers of inflammation such as leukocytes.

I swear, I only kept going because he was indulging me. He said he was genuinely fascinated, and I just kept diving in even as I tried to pump the brakes on myself. I was also nervous even walking into the bar; I had a presentation to give the following day which worried my nerves from the beginning, and I haven’t had a muff dive post actually manifest into a meetup.

Fortunately, it turns out the man is equally as geeky as me. We had a great conversation; we touched on the masochism of enjoying beer, photonics, gel column filtration (which I only just now remembered the name of), and the meaning of the acronym CSA: community supported agriculture, not child sexual abuse. First meetings can be awkward, but I was beyond surprised that I didn’t feel pressured to fill any impending silences.

In the end, I was fated to go home with him. Part one was the fact that he let me ramble – and listened – and encouraged. Part two was that he laughed at my jokes. Part three was that he bought the damn drink for me even after I already had my card out, flicking his card to the bartender with the precision and speed of a shot arrow. This trifecta sealed my fate and, as the barwoman closed our tab with a half-hidden smile as she accepted his card, I asked if he could drive me back to my hotel.

We chatted all the way into my room. Still, with the click of the door shutting, I felt a thrill of anticipation and was eager to get started.

I was in the middle of saying something inane but as I finished my sentence, I looked back at him over my shoulder. I let heat burn into my gaze as I locked eyes with him. I had been burning for something, anything, for a while. I am deeply tactile and fueled by physical touch yet chronically starved for it; and I was glittering with new-sparked attraction, both to his body and his personality; and of course, I still felt the light flush of whiskey in my face. I shrugged off my overshirt to reveal the sleeveless shirt underneath and peered over my now-exposed shoulder, angling myself in just the way to showed off my tricep and rear delt. I turned the fuck-me eyes up to eleven, indicating for him to come closer.

He took a step forward and I took a breath.

Then his next step veered ninety degrees to his left. He disappeared into the bathroom. “Dude, I have to pee so badly…”

Signal: missed. It took a second for my brain to process and reboot after that. It felt like missing a step on the stairs, expecting something solid below you then only air meets the bottom of your foot. A laugh burst out of me and I remember play-yelling at him in the bathroom.

But that was the only stumbling block, and looking back, it was absolutely hilarious and I’m glad it happened. I’m very used to mechanical, robotic sex with little conversation and the barest hint of chemistry. Injecting that ounce of humanity made me feel so comfortable and, somehow, turned me on more.

Long story short, we got on the bed and he gave me a long, slow workup, exactly as I asked for. Teasing and foreplay are by far my favorite parts of sex and, when he finally got down between my legs, I remember clawing the sheets and swearing when he’d barely touched me.

Then he got to it. I’ve never received head like that in my life. Stroke victims are my research lab’s primary focus, and some of my patients need to come see him -- this man gave me more brain than I knew what to do with. My back arched like a cathedral ceiling and I whined God’s name. I didn’t reach the Second Coming, but Jesus Christ, the first was more than enough.

I was originally in it for no reciprocation as I’m a little nervous about hookups. But I felt safe, especially as he took great pains to make sure I knew this would be whatever I wanted to be, and I decided I wanted to go all the way that night. I practically had to beg him to fuck me, especially since I changed my mind about no reciprocation. He really wanted to make sure I didn’t feel coerced or pressured. Full respect to everyone else who stays firm on no reciprocation, nor should anyone reading this ever expect that no-recip will turn into yes-recip as a reward for getting someone off, but I made this decision while sober and clearheaded – and it turned out to be a great decision.

God and Christ, this man put in work once he was in me. He had my knees up by my ears and he used my hipbones as handlebars. (I didn’t even know my hipbones were sensitive. Holy shit.) I actually had to tap out of doggystyle because he was too big, which I’ve never felt before, and he had to go slow for quite a while before I fully adjusted. It was an honor being able to get him off after the stellar oral I received – and the noises he made as he came are still ringing beautifully in my left ear.

At some point, I remember him saying, “You’re out of my league,” while looking down at me. He sounded almost in disbelief. That stuck with me. I was surprised to hear it; I thought he was miles out of mine. If you’re reading this, man, trust me: you gave me enough jack-off material to fantasize about for a while.

And all the while, the sex just felt natural. He responded when I asked him to slow down or stop, checked in with me, and was beyond respectful. He was funny all the while, too. Maybe I've just been having bad sex, but actually having chemistry with someone while fucking was astounding. In truth, my flight home to the West Coast was a little bittersweet.

Huge shoutout to Massachusetts for spawning this man, giving me my first oral orgasm, and hosting a gorgeous city. I passed through downtown Boston and loved it, especially the diversity. I went on a hike at Deer Island and explored Winthrop and Revere, with their adorable coastal homes and just enough run-down industrial decay, that chipped-concrete and peeled-paint aesthetic, to appeal to my unique taste. My diver dumped on Boston for being a generic-looking city but I, honestly, have no complaints. Maybe one day, the stars will align and I can come back for round two.