Untucked
by Justin Moritz
Content warning: sexual harassment, attempted sexual assault
Author’s note: I came up with the idea of this story several years ago when I was dealing with what I now recognize as gender dysphoria/body dysmorphia. Particularly, I was struggling with the idea that a large percentage of our society operates on defining someone based on their genitalia, regardless of how they identify. After coming out as non-binary this year and getting more confident in the type of stuff I like to write, I decided to take my original concept and make it grosser, but also sexier. Influence-wise, I hoped to combine late-in-life coming-of-age tropes with elements of the romance, body horror, and erotica subgenres. I believe that while this combination could be a tough sell to certain markets, it successfully navigates the difficult boundary between acceptance of one's body as a trans person and sexual desire/repulsion to be a genre-bending piece with strong social commentary.
By the third date, I worry I look like a prude kissing Ivan goodbye on the step of his brownstone. His fingers linger. Delicately, I bring my hand up to his mouth. He kisses each of my knuckles goodbye. His blue eyes declare: I would kiss every inch of you, if you just allowed me to bring you upstairs.
"I should get going,” I say, squeezing his hand adieu.
But his fingers do not slacken, his voice serious as he says, “Did I do something to offend you, Emma?”
Beneath the warm glow of the nearby streetlight, he appears impishly handsome, stubble covering his jawline and the coppery curls of his hair shimmering in the light. I should go, yet I remain drawn to him, saying, “You want me to stay?”
“Of course, I want a beautiful woman like you to stay,” He says, pulling my hips towards his own. I resist just enough that we aren’t quite touching.
I wish a cab would pass by at that very moment, an excuse to break free from his spell. But the street is silent. No one walking their dogs or drunkenly staggering home from the bars. It is just Ivan and me. When he kisses me, I can’t help but allow him to slide his tongue into my mouth.
Caught up in the moment, Ivan presses his body against mine in the brick entryway, the stiffness of his erection digging into my hip. I try to think of anything but how sexy he is. As his hand stops groping my breast and slips down my body, the reality of what he’s about to discover disrupts my pleasure.
“Ivan…wait…” I whisper as he slides his hand up my leg. He recoils as soon as he feels the rigidness of my penis throbbing against his palm. Red-faced, he paces across the stoop. I try to comfort him, saying, “I told you I was trans, Ivan.”
He sucks air through his teeth, spitting out venom upon exhaling, “I know you did, Emma. I just…I just assumed you had it taken care.”
“Taken care of?” I reel back, the hurt audible as I reply, “I was upfront about this, Ivan. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Not that big of a deal? How am I supposed to look past something that noticeable? It’s bigger than mine for Christ’s sake.” Ivan pushes past me, digging in his pocket for his keys. I know then that I should leave and never talk to him again, but there is the matter of my penis, no longer confined in a way that he finds palatable. He hisses, “You know how much of a turn-off a girl with a dick is?”
So, my penis becomes undeniable, snaking its way free from my underwear despite the finesse of my tuck. It slithers down my leg, curling like a viper beneath the fabric of my skirt. My penis isn’t like other penises. It’s bizarrely muscular, thick blue veins siphoning blood from my body to enable the cursed thing to move on its own volition. Before I know what’s happening, my vision blurs from the lack of blood in my brain. The wretched organ stretches beyond its perceived capabilities, a noose of veiny, corded flesh that catches Ivan around the throat. As it constricts about his throat, I desperately try to ease it back into my body, but every movement applies more pressure to his windpipe till Ivan collapses against the stoop. My mutated cock goes flaccid as I look at his body, a necktie of bruises around his throat, busted capillaries turning the whites around his eyes a bloody red.
When I arrive back at my apartment, the first thing I do is grab the pint of frost-dusted cookie dough ice cream, chipping away at it as I delete every dating app off my phone. But before I can finish the task, I find myself once again swiping and imagining a white-picket fence and two-and-a-half kids based on four photos and a shitty bio that reads I never know what to write for these things. I can’t help but be a sucker for love.
“This can’t happen again, Emma,” I mumble, then create a Google search for extra sturdy chastity belts.
The world I stumble upon is one that both fascinates and frightens me. Evangelical purity culture overlaps with painful, pleasure-inducing BDSM. Searching for the perfect device, I ponder the benefit of leather or steel, of padlocks or combination dials. But by deciding to cage my penis, I am acknowledging its undeniability. The dysphoria is nauseating.
I refine my search for belts specifically for trans women. The results are much narrower, but eventually I come across a website covered in pink frills and boutique graphic design that draws my eye to an assortment of gender affirming BDSM toys. Their signature chastity belt is a piece of art made of curved steel that both tucks and shapes the penis, creating a look reminiscent of a woman’s external sex organs. But I freeze when I look at the price tag. $900 for the thing that would solve my problems. Almost the price of a month’s rent. A rent that I already struggle to pay.
Settling for a cheap leather substitute, the image of Ivan’s corpse is seared into my eyelids each time I blink away tears. I pay $20 for rush shipping as I shovel the melted ice cream down my throat.
When I’m good and sick, I pull down my underwear in front of the mirror, recreating the moment in high school where I realized my penis wasn’t like everyone else’s. Carefully, I fold my anatomy backwards, squeezing my thighs shut to create a silhouette that is smooth and recognizably female. But then I part my legs, my penis appearing massive as it falls back into place. Then I repeat the process. Concealing my wretched anatomy between my legs, letting it fall, and with each repetition, it becomes until it’s touching the floor, snaking around my body as I sob. Just the sight of it is enough to cause me to vomit onto the floor.
It’s impossible to style a chastity belt. What was once form-fitting and pleasing to the eye suddenly appears bulgy, the device concealed beneath my skirts bulky like a soiled diaper. Even the loudest pattern can’t hide the fact that beneath my clothing is a device of medieval proportions. My phone dings, a groan escaping my lips as my friends ponder what bar we’ll be drinking and dancing in till the early hours. I type quickly before anyone has a chance to protest: It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s dark and crowded. I slip on a loose black dress that won’t draw the eye and order a Lyft.
As soon as the driver stops outside the club, a line of spiky haired Jersey Shore wannabees greet me with catcalls and wolf-whistles. The bouncer motions me into the club with a beckoning wave like he’s backing in a truck full of fresh meat.
Inside, I’m comforted by the darkness. The flashing lights concealing patrons in momentary blackness, leaving one’s dance partner to focus on the sway of their hips not the bulk concealed beneath their cocktail dress. I’m greeted by my friends with a vodka tonic shoved into my hand.
Sobriety smothered beneath the weight of well liquor, I ask, “Shall we dance, ladies?”
But my cis friends are hypnotized by handsome men with open tabs. There is no suitor asking what I’m drinking. As a kid, I was a sissie without a leg who was chosen last for kickball. As an adult, the heterosexual male clocks me as the unideal mate, my femininity not quite to their taste. But two drinks are enough to give me the confidence to dance alone.
I love the anonymity of dance floors. The undulating, grinding bodies not quite separate. An arm belongs to no one, a swaying pair of hips part of the collective. Bad remix after remix blasts from the overhead speakers, so when a familiar song comes on, everybody belts out the words, wild as we dance beneath the flashing lights.
Then I see a pair of hazel eyes and a strong jawline that makes me bite my lip. A total Fuck Me, Daddy staring right back at me. He walks towards me with a shoulder thrown out, the crowd parting at the sight of his tatted beefcake arms. He wraps his arm around me and commands, “Dance with me, baby.”
I agree, but I do so with caution, hyperaware of the distance between us. But the way his big hands seem to support every vertebra of my spine as they run down my body is dangerous when mixed with alcohol. I let him pull me close against my better judgement.
The music smothers any chance of him hearing me as I say, “Let’s take things slow.”
The daddy’s hand tightens around my inner thigh, pushing up my skirt as he holds me firm. I try to playfully push him away, but the higher his hand climbs, the more desperate I become. The chastity belt feels tighter the more we drunkenly struggle. I’m disgusted with myself, my body unable to differentiate his forcefulness from consensual masculine domination. Genuine discomfort indistinguishable from fantastical bliss.
My penis goes rigid as his fingers skim the leather chastity belt, his eyebrows rising with curiosity. The belt digs into my waist, the seams aching as my body no longer obeys my will. I try to push the man away, to shout over the sound of the speakers, to create a scene that will draw me into the safety of a group of pissed-off women ready to beat down another creep hunting the dance floor. Before he has a chance to grope what lies beneath the belt, I feel the sudden absence of it around my waist, the sound of leather being shredded audible even against the music.
The creep stumbles backwards. Shock registering on his face as blood gushes from his eviscerated fingers. He screams, “You cut me.”
I bolt from the dance floor, retreating to the sanctity of the dark hallway of the club’s restrooms as blood spills down my leg. A line snakes out of the women’s, ladies applying lipstick and wiping away mascara tears without putting down their drinks. Any other woman would simply ask for a tampon or a pad, the shared urgency of unexpected leakage being enough to bypass the queue. But the women stare at me, clocking me much too fast and turning their backs to whisper even as blood drips down my leg.
Dysphoric nausea wells in my belly as I rush into one of the empty stalls in the men’s room, which smells of vomit and sex. I hike my skirt up and sit down on the toilet seat, some man’s piss soaking into my thighs.
What lies between my legs isn’t a penis, it’s a monstrosity. A weapon whose only purpose is to maim and ruin. But I suppose that is what a penis is in the first place. I take my phallus between my forefinger and thumb to pull it free from my blood-slicked thighs. A jolt of pain stops me. Blood isn’t the only thing holding the organ stationary. Along the underside of the organ protrudes a half dozen chitinous spines like the quills covering a porcupine’s back.
The more I fret, the more blood spills onto the floor. My thigh aches as I push into the tender skin, forcing one of the sharp barbs free from the meat of my leg. I can’t help but to sob as I look at this new feature of my anatomy in the dim light. “Oh fuck, oh god.”
The more agitated I become, the further the spines extend. I take a deep breath in, then try to force one back into my body; however, the barb is sharp to touch, unwilling to retreat beneath the skin. Looking at my unique adaptations, I am reminded of how an animal when frightened will do anything in its power to defend itself, expressing violent and desperate manners of self-defense. As disturbed as I am, I can recognize that this transformation is a defense mechanism itself. My penis may be something I wish I could be rid of, but while I’m stuck with it, it itself is a way for deterring men whose allyship only goes as far as the bedroom. The thought relaxes me, the row of spines retreating into my body.
I pull my dress down, throwing the stall door open as I wipe the smeared mascara from my eyes. But in the process, I run smack dab into a body that doesn’t budge. The shock of it cracks my composition, the tears spilling down my cheeks as I look up a face that is much too pretty to be seeing me crying. The man’s chiseled features immediately soften as he sees the mess of my face, stuttering out, “I’m so sorry, miss.”
He reaches out to touch my shoulder on instinct. While his touch his tender, his hand immediately retreats upon realizing that he’s touching a stranger. I push by him as he shouts, “Are you sure you’re okay, miss?”
I stop in the doorway, unable to stammer out a response, yet unable to leave. Again, he speaks, his voice so soft and level that I am comforted by the calmness of it, “That creep out there started screaming that some girl cut him, but if he made you cry, that’ll be the least of his worries…because, because I’ll make him learn what his fucking teeth taste like.”
I sniffle, turning back to him and saying, “You’re sweet for a stranger in a disgusting club bathroom. But I should run before the police are called.”
“They’re already here. They sent me to check the bathroom before my shift is over.”
“Fuck.”
“There’s another exit,” he murmurs, “I could show you.”
“I need a fucking drink.”
“I think I have an answer to that problem too,” the stranger says, beckoning me to follow.
We retreat to a hole-in-the-wall where the lights are dim and the glasses are dirty, but the drinks are cheap. When I sit at the bar, all I can mutter is, “A couple shots of vodka”
The bartender lays out three shot glasses, sloshing liquor over the bar mat as he overfills them. I down them without worrying about the liquor dripping down my wrists. All I want is to reach a point where I’ll forget what happened.
“What’s your name?” I ask before I throw back the final shot.
“Looks like you won’t remember it anyway.”
“Looks like you don’t know how to be memorable,” I reply, smiling so my joke isn’t lost to him.
“Billy,” He says, taking a swig of a beer.
“Really?” I shouldn’t laugh, but I do.
“What? Never met a grown man named Billy?”
“Never met one so handsome. I’m Emma.” And with that his hand reaches across the bar, fingers gently circling about my wrist to lift it from the counter. I stare up at him, my heart fluttering with the question: is this fate, or is the booze just turning this stranger into a dream boat?
“You just put your hand in someone else’s beer.” Billy lets go off my hand as a blush warms my cheeks. I turn away, trying to hide this embarrassing admission of my attraction by tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. But beer still dripping down my hand, he bridges the space between us to push the strand out of my line of sight.
Now I can see him unfettered. His eyes the amber color of honey, his voice just as slick and sweet. His touch is tender, his expression curious, leaning in ever so slightly to ask me more and more about myself. It’s that sort of instant connection that I always thought was just something that happened in movies. The longer we talk, the more I can feel the bartender’s eyes on us, neither of us nervous enough to wave a hand for another drink.
“Think he’s getting ready to kick us out?” Billy says, his thumb tracing loops around my knuckles.
A line now snakes out from the bar’s front door, bodies squeezing closer and closer to us as the bouncer waves them in.
“Guess I was paying too much attention to you to notice it got busy,” I say.
“Talking to a beautiful woman like you really makes this shitty bar less shitty, but it’s getting late,” Billy says, his hand lingering atop mine.
“I don’t want to say goodbye.”
“Maybe we don’t have to?” A sheepish grin on his face, his eyes say only one thing: what about my place?
“There’s something you should know about me first—” I protest, the uncomfortable truth resting between my thighs.
“—Nothing you could say would make me change my mind about wanting to spend more time with you.” Billy says, throwing down a couple tens as he tries to shepherd me to the door.
Billy leads me through the crowd with his shoulder parting the bodies around us, his mannerisms gentle as he guides me onto the sidewalk. His kindness is arousing, his company exactly what I needed, but I know I should do anything to stop this before it begins. I picture him as dead as Ivan, his body bleeding like the creep’s in the club, but I let him hold my hand and lead me into the night anyway.
His apartment is impressive, not a wall without a painting nor a cushion without a throw blanket in sight. But I avoid soft surfaces, tiptoeing from corner to corner as Billy pops open a bottle of wine. I guess what I’m looking for are red flags, but considering how well-decorated his apartment is, my bet is Billy knows that you shouldn’t include such noisy displays.
I wish I knew how to bring up my transness, but there’s never a right way to go about it. A text message creates a buffer that can serve as a wall behind which one’s opponent can hide and slug vitriol. A reveal over dinner can leave you with the bill as your lover slips out the bathroom window. But to present one’s most precious secrets aloud in the moments before a hot, sweaty tryst, that’s like pinning a sign to your chest that reads MURDER ME.
“I spent too much money on that couch to have my guests stand on their feet,” Billy says as he gives me glass of wine before flopping onto the sofa.
I stare at his slumped form, my eyes unable to glance away from the inch or so of hairy belly peeking out from beneath his too tight shirt. Finally, I sit down a foot or so away from him, just close enough not to raise concern.
“You weren’t this quiet at the bar,” Billy mumbles, looking away after a long, silent beat, “Is everything okay?”
I take a deep breath, fingers crossed that I won’t regret this as I say, “You seem like a really nice guy, and I would love to go to bed with you. Hell, I’d love to go to bed with you, then take you to breakfast. But the thing is…well, I’m not exactly like the average girl you bring home from the bar. If I unzip my dress, it’s not going to fall to the floor and reveal all smooth curves. Billy, I’m trans.”
“I mean I didn’t want to assume, but I had my suspicions,” Billy says, reaching out to cradle my chin in the palm of his hand. “I enjoy you for you, Emma. Whatever you’re scared of me seeing, it isn’t going to make me change my mind about that.”
I want to protest that he’s speaking too soon, but he’s looking at me with those honey-slick eyes. I’m a fly drawn in by the sweetness, trapped beneath the syrupy weight of his presence as he presses his lips against mine. I kiss him back hard, as if the ferocity of it will force the memory of my confession from his mind. But then he’s on top me, his thighs pressing up against mine, his hand groping at my breast as his mouth explores the perfumed skin of my neck. Everything is happening too fast, but before I can ease him off, I hear the tearing of fabric.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the dress,” Billy apologizes, inspecting the impromptu slit running up the length of my dress.
But the tear is the least of my problems, the barbed protrusions of my penis carefully concealed by the crossing of my legs. He isn’t going to hurt you, Emma. There is no need for this reaction. I take a few deep breaths, the most dangerous parts of my anatomy easing back into my body as I motion for him to come back and kiss me.
Everything Billy does is right, his body responding to mine in just the right ways. Hands move slowly down my spine, flirting with the prospect of my legs. Kissing me with just the right amount of tongue. I undo the button of his jeans, his face showing no sign of embarrassment as I look upon his erect penis. Billy pushes up my skirt, gently kissing around the curve of my knee, his lips inching their way up my thigh.
The closer he gets to my penis, the more in my head I become. I picture the beige couch we sit upon stained with blood; his moans replaced by the sound of desperate screaming. Billy eases up, looking up from beneath my skirt. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No…it’s just that I’ve had men be disgusted by my penis. They promise me I’m a beautiful woman, but as soon as they discover it, they seem to change their mind. They look at it like it’s monstrous.”
Billy peels back my skirt, his eyebrows raising in an exaggerated manner, but quickly fall back to a neutral expression. We both laugh at this as he says, “Looks like a penis to me. A sizeable one, but that’s never stopped me before.”
Billy kisses me, then disappears beneath my skirt. I flinch as he touches it, the organ growing more and more noticeable as his fingertips ease it into his mouth. I watch as he slips off his boxers, clearly enjoying pleasing me as he masturbates. When I close my eyes, succumbing to the bliss of Billy’s actions, all I can picture is Ivan dead on his stoop, the daddy and his bleeding fingers screaming.
Billy suddenly reels back, my eyes fluttering open to see my penis curling up the length of his arm. Before I can say anything, Billy relaxes himself, easing his arm free, but continuing to embrace my anatomy as he takes it both hands. He falls back onto the couch, his muscular legs pulling me on top of him. He kisses me before he whispers in my ear, “I want you to fuck me, Emma.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, love,” I mutter as he grabs for a bottle of lube hidden in the coffee table drawer.
“Give it to me. I can take it.”
So, I do what he says, and his moans are a choir proclaiming again and again: you are not your anatomy.
About the Author
Justin Moritz (They/He) is a non-binary writer of queer horror, ranging from grotesque camp to societal filth. Raised on true crime and horror movies from way too young of an age, their work tends to explore the terror of living as a queer person in modern times, while adding a speculative twist. Currently based in Austin, Texas where they're pursuing an MFA in Screenwriting at the University of Texas at Austin, they hope to help expand the types of queer representation seen in horror via prose, screenwriting, and academic writing. You can follow them on Twitter at @jeepers_justin.
© Untucked by Justin Moritz. 2022. All rights reserved.
