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It has been years since I’ve gotten a proper massage from a professional—not since prior to transitioning. In that time, I’ve more than filled out. Still, wanting to make sure there’ll be no confusion, I arrive to my appointment in a black cotton wrap dress that shows off ample cleavage. My check-in goes smoothly enough, but sitting in the waiting room, my hands start to get clammy thinking of what could happen I’m on the massage table. Underneath my dress, it’s more than clear that I am a trans woman. Trying to shift my mind from my anxiety, I drift into fantasizing about who you might be, what your hands might feel like, how your voice might sound. I don’t mean to make the encounter sexual in my head, but it’s hard to imagine being naked in a room with a stranger without my mind going there. I think about how vulnerable I’ll be laying there, subject to whatever you want once the door closes. I find myself squirming at the thought of your hands on my tits, or sliding between my thighs. I suddenly realize that, though my hands have relaxed, I’m stiffening between those thighs. At that very moment, I hear my name called and my attention snaps to you standing in the doorway, waiting to take me back to a room. I stand up, making sure to hold my purse in front of my crotch, straighten the hem of my dress, and follow you back.
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