Recently, I hooked up with a guy who I thought was incredibly attractive. We had been talking for a bit—sending flirtatious texts, dipping into spicy territory, and setting the tone for something that felt electric. It wasn’t just surface-level flirting; there was chemistry, rhythm, and a sense of anticipation that made it feel like we were on the same wavelength before we even met in person. We both expressed our likes and preferences in bed—open communication that felt refreshing and mature. It really seemed like we were sexually compatible. I found a time that worked for both of us, and on the day we planned to meet, he messaged me. I responded, confirming our plans, and we ironed out the practical stuff: who was picking up condoms and lube. I was in the middle of moving, and couldn’t remember where I packed my stash. Typical me—organized chaos.
Everything was lining up, and he offered to stop on his way to grab what we needed. I appreciated the initiative. And here’s your reminder: friends, always use protection, even if you’re on PrEP. PrEP is powerful, but it’s not a magical bubble. There are so many other things to be mindful of—STIs, bacterial infections, and emotional safety. Protection isn’t just physical—it’s a mindset.
I started doing my makeup because I wanted to feel confident, sexy, a little mysterious, and 100% myself. Makeup is more than vanity—it’s a ritual. For me, it’s a form of armor and self-expression, a way of saying, “This is me, on my terms.” As I was blending eyeshadow and choosing my favorite lip color, we kept texting, teasing each other with reminders of what we’d do once we were together. It built anticipation in a way that was almost cinematic. I told Alexa to play my favorite spicy playlist. Don’t worry—I’ll share it. It’s a moody little gem that deserves more love. I turned the lights red because, let’s be honest, everything feels more sensual under colored lighting. The warm flush of excitement rushed through me like dye being pushed through veins for an MRI scan. It was everywhere—tingling, blooming, and intense. That kind of adrenaline that dances between nerves and desire.
He arrived. I opened the door and did a double take. He was significantly taller than I imagined. Maybe 6’3” wasn’t an exaggeration after all. (To all the short kings out there—stop lying about your height. Just hop in my pocket and we’ll go on a wild little adventure. I love you, I do, but come on.) Height insecurity is one of those things deeply baked into masculinity. It’s a symptom of toxic masculinity—the belief that taller equals better, manlier, more desirable. I’ve asked many of my male friends about this, and it’s clear how much pressure they feel to meet arbitrary standards. But let’s not pretend women escape these expectations either. I’m a trans woman, and I’ve spent years navigating the suffocating expectation to be soft, delicate, passive, ornamental. The pressure to be “proper” is exhausting—and it follows us everywhere.
Back to the moment. Internally, I laughed, quoting a classic line from Bridesmaids: “I’m gonna climb him like a tree.” It was playful but also true. He asked how I was, and I replied in a soft, almost timid voice—something in me instantly responding to our size difference. I’m 5’4”, and apparently, I’m “petite”—or so people say. I think it’s just their polite way of making me feel dainty, but who knows? I noticed his arms immediately—my personal kryptonite. His chest, too. It all blurred quickly into kissing, undressing, and slipping into a rhythm that felt effortless. I went down on him—pro bono gawk gawk. Normally, a guy has to earn that, but I was feeling generous. Maybe too generous.
It felt good—not just for him, but for me too. His hand gripped the back of my head, fingers in my hair, and he took control. I was into it. That’s where I thrive—in the power exchange, the back and forth, the teasing of dominance and submission. The scene felt right. You can guess what happened next. I was on the bed, legs spread open like a Mormon’s Bible on a sinful Sunday. He did just enough foreplay to get the vibe going. Akon’s voice drifted from the speaker: “I wanna fuck you (fuck you), you already know.” Honestly, the timing was perfect. I was vibing.
The kissing was magnetic. I forgot how to be anxious. He put on the condom and we started. He was hitting it just right. I was shocked by how quickly I asked him to go harder—that’s rare for me. But then… he stopped. It had been under a minute. He whispered that he had to slow down or he was going to cum. I blinked, confused. Okay… I played it cool. We kissed some more. Then it happened again. And again. Like six times.
At that point, I wanted it to be over. He got soft again, almost immediately. He asked me to help him get it up again, and I obliged. But my brain was screaming: two seconds ago you were about to explode, and now… nothing? We tried again. Same cycle. He’d start, stop, start, stop, and all the while he ignored my very clear directions about what I needed to orgasm. It was like I didn’t exist in the room as a person. Just a vessel. He changed positions like he was doing a bad TikTok dance trend, each one taking us further from any mutual pleasure. When he finally came, he collapsed on top of me—heavy, smothering, and completely oblivious to my body underneath his.
I muttered, “So, it’s all about your pleasure as a man, huh? What about mine?” He mumbled apologies while getting dressed. I lay there, still and stunned. This man spoke like a pornstar but played like a confused rookie at a minor league game in a stadium with broken lights and a mascot no one recognizes.
He left. Still apologizing. I couldn’t even answer. The door closed. I sat there, numb. I felt like a fleshlite. Used. Him emptied. Dismissed.
And in true fleshlite fashion, I washed up. Because hygiene is still a thing—even after you’ve been emotionally deflated. I sat on the couch and went back to doing schoolwork like nothing had happened. It’s almost funny. Like my brain put the whole thing in a box labeled “Another One” and filed it away under “Men Who Don’t Care.”
I started spiraling a bit. Why do so many men not give a damn about their partner’s pleasure? Why is it so rare to feel like someone genuinely wants to connect with you—not just use you? Then it hit me. This isn’t a one-off situation. This is a systemic issue. A patriarchy issue. The hierarchy that keeps men at the top has created a culture where male pleasure is the default, the goal, the finish line. Everything else? Optional.
A paper published in 2022 by Merrimac Moran at University of New Hampshire confirms “Our patriarchal society has constantly been focusing on men’s pleasure and sexual desires but fails to recognize women’s sexual desires, especially non-binary or trans folks. Our society oversexualizes women for capitalist gain which is fueled by the male gaze.” Not only do men have the privilege of being dominant everywhere and it being socially allowable but if a man doesn’t perform to this standard they are less masculine. Now more than ever with the “alpha types” do we as women find extreme disdain that it is a man’s world and these men think they are so high up on the food chain that their partner’s needs are not important. As women we can all relate to this feeling. We consume media like the handmaid’s tale where women are seen as “birthers” and subhuman.
Men valuing their needs goes back to childhood when this behavior becomes norm because “boys will be boys”.Allowing them to just act in ways which are always excusable, especially white men. Men live in a world that provides unfettered access to control and dominance as not only seen by the gender pay gap but in fields women find it hard to break through as seen in the military and trades like construction. In 2016 women could finally serve in combat roles. It is absurd that something like this took so long and with the overturning of Roe v Wade we find ourselves as a society and collective of women where no woman is safe from the dominance of a man and that we must conform to the needs of a man.
It’s 2025. And honestly? Fuck that system.
I felt this internal roar, deep and guttural, something animalistic. Like my body wanted to scream. Did that really just happen? Again? It wasn’t even the worst experience I’ve had—but that’s the problem. I’m used to it. I’m used to being someone’s fantasy but never their focus. I’ve been googling “living fleshlite syndrome” and spiraling down a rabbit hole of hot takes and think pieces. Living fleshlite syndrome is not a real thing but it often feels like it is.
I started reading about how different religions perceive sex. Some faiths only see it as a tool for procreation. That’s wild to me. I can’t get pregnant—for reasons that should be obvious—but I’m still expected to perform heteronormative sex rituals to make sky daddy happy? Please.
One article led me to the horrific realities of female genital mutilation—how religious or cultural control over women’s pleasure goes so far that it literally mutilates them. On the flip side, Islam, when practiced outside of patriarchal interpretation, actually encourages mutual pleasure in marriage. That surprised me. Buddhism views sex as kama—earthly pleasure—to be approached with mindfulness. It doesn’t shame sex. Hinduism sees sex as legitimate within marriage, mostly for procreation, but still acknowledges it as a dharmic duty. There are endless beliefs across the world. Sex is as spiritual as it is physical. But one theme repeats: control. Control over who gets pleasure, who deserves it, and who exists just to provide it. When I envision sex, I see a mutual connection. Maybe it’s two people. Maybe more. I’ve been to an orgy once. Focused on one person. That was enough for me. It was about connection, not chaos.
I still don’t have answers. But I know this: so many women—especially trans women—feel exactly like I do. We’re expected to be beautiful, giving, submissive. We bend ourselves in every direction trying to meet expectations, and in the end, we’re often discarded when men get what they want. This is the real damage of patriarchy. It doesn’t just hurt women—it confines men too. It turns sex into conquest instead of connection. Performance instead of presence. I love good sex. And as someone who does virtual sex work—especially kink—I’ve learned so much about myself. Kink has taught me what I like, what I need, and where my boundaries are. It’s given me confidence and community. Most people never explore kink because it challenges the “normal” script. But there’s something deeply intimate about being tied up, blindfolded, spanked, or teased. It’s not just physical—it’s psychological. It demands trust.
So yeah—after all that, the guy blocked me. Not surprised. As a trans woman, men often want to experience me, but never claim me. I wrote about this before—Always a Fetish, Never a Girlfriend. Trans misogyny is real. It isolates us, dehumanizes us, and also harms cis women by reinforcing narrow definitions of desirability and value. I’ve had amazing sexual experiences—I don’t want this to sound hopeless. But I’ve also had men like “Toxic,” as my roommate and I called him. He’d remove my makeup without asking, even when I told him not to. I feel safe with it on (makeup). It’s not just paint—it’s part of who I am. It’s me, carefully built.
So now I turn it to you. I want to invite you into the conversation. How has sex been for you? Have you ever felt like an object for a man’s pleasure, I have. Or a giver without receiving? Or maybe you’ve had transformative, euphoric sexual connections that reminded you that you’re more than your body—that you’re seen?
At the end of the day, fuck the patriarchy. We have our hitachi.
Source: Moran, M. (2022). The orgasm gap: What role does the patriarchy play in the … University of New Hampshire . https://scholars.unh.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1057&context=comm-entary