Sex in C Major

If he'd said that, and Sir had been sitting right there in the bus station with him, maybe he'd have dragged Stefan into the toilets anyway. Called him a lying bitch. Said he'd been stringing Sir along, and Sir wasn't going to stand for that.

"You owe me," he'd say, and when Stefan argued, he'd clamp a hand over Stefan's mouth, and squeeze until it hurt.

Stefan squeezed his free hand around his mouth, imagining the grip. Sir would have rough hands. He'd tell Stefan to pull down his own jeans and underwear. It'd be cold, and then Sir would spit in his hand, and Stefan would try and beg him not to do it. Only he'd not be able to speak, and Sir would shove him up against the wall. He'd use his own weight to pin Stefan to the tiles and open Stefan's legs. He'd be breathing on Stefan's face, and-

Stefan's breath staggered, and he bit his lip until it hurt.

Because it would all hurt. He'd never been fucked before. Sir would thrust in hard, right to the root, and it would split Stefan open and hurt, hurt like nothing he'd ever felt. He'd go limp between Sir's hand around his jaw and Sir's cock in his arse, and he'd just hang there and sob as he was fucked, like a plaything, like a doll, like a slave. And it would last forever, and Sir would fuck hard, in long, brutal strokes, and he'd bite Stefan's ear and grunt out his rhythm there, so Stefan was crushed by his weight, ripped apart, destroyed-

The pressure burst. Stefan came hard, his fingers digging bruises into his face. His breathing staggered. The tiles above swayed out of vision, and shimmered slowly back in.

The next breath raked through his lungs. He gasped for stale air. His hands were damp.

Then he closed his eyes again.

Oh, God.

He'd just...just been rejected, because he was trans, and his response had been to go into the toilets and imagine the guy raping him? And he'd gotten off to it?

The tears returned, hot and stinging.

"Freak," he breathed. "Freak, freak, freak."

Then he wiped off his hands, zipped himself up, and tried to stop shaking.

Drink.

He needed a drink.

****

Stefan had a love-hate relationship with gay bars.

The love side? He could go after guys and not get beaten up.

The hate side? He could go after guys and get called straight.

But he wasn't up for pulling that night, and avoided the clubs in favour of the bars and pubs instead. He just wanted to drink. He wanted to get absolutely hammered, and forget both what he'd just done, and what he kept doing over and over again.

God, why couldn't he just be fucking normal?

"I want a bottle of vodka," he said when the barman came to him. "I don't care how many glasses you have to put it into, just a whole bottle, neat."

The barman gave him a funny look, but shrugged when Stefan dropped a couple of twenties on the wood.

"Just don't cause shit," the barman said, and began to measure out shots.

"Sure."

It was busy-Friday night, Christmas on the approach, Stefan wasn't overly surprised and after polishing off the first six shots, he turned to watch the other patrons. Mostly clusters of friends, femme gays, obviously on their pre-drinking session before heading off to the nightclubs. A couple were groping near the toilets, obviously intent on using them in a few minutes. The bouncer was removing a lesbian couple having a drunken argument about someone's sister.

And Stefan felt so apart from it all.

In his baggy jeans and hoodie, he felt like he'd wandered into the wrong place. He wasn't one of them. He was into guys, but he would never be guy enough to count as gay. The odd woman occasionally showed interest, but it felt like lying because he wasn't a woman. He didn't fit. And the bars were filled with femme guys, guys who'd be horrified at his fantasies, think he was sick and twisted...

Bitterly, he reached out and started to down the next set of shots. What was the bloody point? He was sick in the head, twice over, and nobody in their right mind would sleep with him. Maybe callmeSir was right; maybe Stefan should get therapy. It couldn't be normal, wanting what he did.

But then, Stefan was wary of therapists. They'd all tried, when he was a kid, to turn him cis again. Called him confused and messed up and going through a difficult patch. One had even said he was probably repressing some sexual abuse, because happy childhoods didn't create kids like him. Why bother going to a therapist again now? They'd only make him feel worse, and it probably wouldn't even solve the problem.