Page 88 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“I, uh . . . I’m trans,” he whispers. Not what he meant to say, but it’s—unfortunately—pertinent information. Normally he couldn’t be bothered to out himself, to “warn” the guy, but he doesn’t want to set an expectation that might lead to him getting hurt if it isn’t met. He’d already taken the time to formulate an escape plan if one was needed, noting that the door would unlock from the inside with a simple turn of the handle, grateful that the bathrooms are right next to the entrance, that there seemed to be plenty of security and witnesses in the club.

“Okay?” The man stares down at him, his confusion obvious. It’s never not funny to Eli how cis people never have to consider that something that should be as exciting and fun as sex is a potentially dangerous act for trans people.

“That’s not a problem, right?” Eli asks.

“Only if it is for you,” the stranger tells him, running his hand along Eli’s cheek; it’s such a tender expression, juxtaposed with the heavy thudding in his chest.

“So, it’s okay that I have a vagina?”

“As long as you’ve got a hole for me to stick my cock in.” The man grabs his dick through his jumpsuit, showing off the length. “Then I’m good.”

Romantic, Eli thinks, wetting his lips, his hands on the jumpsuit, ready to do what he’s been aching to do for months now.

But he can’t.

The stranger stands above him, his hands worming their way into Eli’s hair, almost as if he’s pleading with Eli silently to finally grant him the release they’re both chasing.

“I . . .” Eli begins to say, his words lost.

“You okay?” the guy asks.

“No, yeah . . .” Eli says, nodding. “Actually, no. I’m not.”

The jolt of adrenaline that brought him to the bathroom in the first place is long gone, now replaced with a terrible cocktail made of embarrassment and self-loathing.

He wants this.

He wants to do this. He wants to taste this man, to hear the whispered curses because even if Eli wasn’t confident in any of his abilities as they relate to the bedroom, he knows he can give a damn fine blowjob.

He wants that power, to hold this man in the palm of his hand as he takes in each and every inch of what a stranger he didn’t know twenty minutes ago has to offer him.

But he can’t.

And the pee on the toilet seat he accidentally sat on certainly isn’t improving his mood. But he can’t recall ever feeling worse about himself. He and Peter aren’t a couple; it doesn’t matter. The relationship that he shares with Peter isn’t real, they aren’t dating.

And yet he still feels like an asshole for doing this. Like he’s somehow cheating.

How fucked is that? Eli asks himself, unable to keep a scoff from slipping out. “I’m sorry, dude . . . I can’t do this.”

“Oh, well . . . That’s okay.”

Eli feels an immediate relief that the man doesn’t act like he’s owed something.

“You can, uh . . . you can pull your jumpsuit back up now,” he says, averting his eyes from the thick sprout of pubes still visible.

“Right, right.” The man does exactly that, doing his best to adjust his erection.

“I’m sorry,” Eli says.

“It’s okay.

“There’s just this guy, and I . . .” Eli doesn’t understand why the words slip out the way they do. It’s not like this complete stranger cares about whatever it is that he’s battling.

“Oh, like a boyfriend?” the man asks, zipping the jumpsuit up finally, not that it makes his erection any less obvious.

“You don’t have to listen to me,” Eli says, shaking his head at the pure absurdity of the situation. “You can go or whatever.”

“No, it’s okay,” he tells Eli. “Besides, I, uh . . . kinda have to wait for this to go down.”