How It Starts

How It Starts

It’s innocent at first—just two trans girls sitting way too close, sharing mirrors and brushes, pretending this is just about eyeliner techniques and not about the way our hands keep lingering on each other’s skin. You tilt my chin up, fingers brushing my jaw, and I swear I forget how to breathe.

By the time we’re negotiating our little trade—you’ll teach me how to wing my liner if I do your dishes—the tension has already shifted. The touches last a little longer, the teasing gets a little bolder. The compliments start flowing, layered between giggles and stolen glances.

"Your lips look so soft with that gloss."

"Your skin is so smooth—I could touch it all day."

And then—

It’s in that moment, breath catching, fingers hesitating over soft, shivering skin, that we both realize:

Trans girls who get flustered when you compliment them are so cute, like…

And suddenly, one of us is saying it out loud. Come here so I can feel how hard you are.

The words hang between us, thick with heat, a teasing challenge wrapped in a promise. Eyes flicker, lips part, and suddenly, we’re not pretending anymore. The playful touches become something else—gravitational, inevitable.

One moment, we’re giggling over how clumsy we are at getting each other’s tops off, fingers fumbling over straps, buttons, fabric that suddenly feels far too complicated. The next, our laughter is swallowed by gasps and soft, desperate moans, mouths crashing together in messy, lip-gloss-stained kisses.

Fingers tremble against bare skin, tracing curves we’re still learning to love, gripping hips as we grind together, slowly, achingly, lost in the heat. The world outside doesn’t exist—just us, two desperate girls making up for every moment we were denied this kind of love before.

Breathless, needy, we praise each other between gasps. You’re doing so good. You feel so good. Hands roam, nails dig into soft flesh, and for once—just this once—there is no shame, no hesitation.

Just pleasure. Just warmth. Just us.