I declared I was a lesbian for the first time when I was 19 years old. At the time, sexual fluidity didn’t seem like an option, so I had to pick a side. Lesbianism felt like the most realistic way forward: after all, I was about 95% into women, non-binary people, and trans folks. The lingering 5% of my sexuality that included cis guys could be easily ignored. Or so I thought.
Six years later, things changed. A new guy, Ross*, joined my team at work. He was suspiciously well-groomed, didn’t listen to Joe Rogan, and was on good terms with his ex-girlfriend. In short, he was the antithesis of everything the internet had led me to believe about cis-heterosexual men in their mid-20s. We also just really got along. Soon, I found myself lingering behind at the office so we could walk to the station together, and thinking about him out of hours. Months came and went, and the tension between us became thicker and thicker. I imagined what kissing him would feel like — would his lips be as soft as a woman’s? To my surprise, I even had a sex dream about him. I began to wonder, did he feel the same?
Things came to a head, as they so often do, at a colleague’s leaving drinks. Alone on a club dancefloor, while the rest of our party ordered at the bar, Ross and I swayed in time to the music. We held each other’s gaze, waiting for the other person to blink — or at the very least, do something.
I caved first. Stepping forward, I inched my face closer to his and planted a single, lingering kiss on his neck. I cast my eyes to the floor, embarrassed, thinking I’d overstepped, until his hand grasped my chin and pulled my mouth towards his. The months of questioning and self-doubt dissipated — he felt the same.
I can’t say how long we stood, bodies intertwined, on the corner of that dancefloor, but I knew I needed to feel every part of him against me. Eventually we got a taxi back to his, and as soon as we got in the door, he pressed me up against the wall, kissing me deeply. He pushed himself against me and breathed in my scent. With each second, he seemed to move even closer than humanly possible — like he was not just trying to get nearer to my body, but under my skin. I could feel his excitement mounting as his big, calloused hands started tracing the lines of my body, getting more frantic by the second, pulling my top down and taking my nipple between his lips. His bulge was squeezed against my thigh, his breath becoming more and more urgent — it was time to upgrade from heavy petting to the real thing. “Show me your bedroom?” I whispered.
Taking me by the hand, he guided me upstairs and through the bedroom door, before lifting me up in one fluid motion and carrying me to the bed, dropping me on to his duvet. He started unbuttoning his jeans — but I knew I should test just how eager he was. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I slowly spread my thighs before reaching forward and clasping my hand around the back of his neck, pulling his head under my skirt. If he wanted to be the first cis guy to sleep with me in seven years, he had to earn the privilege. He duly rose to the challenge, slowly circling his tongue around the fleshy skin at the top of my thighs until I was shimmying my drenched thong off and begging him to bury his tongue inside me.
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By this point, he was grunting, his breath was strained — and he clearly couldn’t wait any longer. Flipping me over, he eased himself inside me, grabbing on to my shoulders as he slid himself up against my tailbone. With each thrust, his movements became quicker and quicker, as he built himself into a frenzy, eager to claim his orgasm as soon as possible.
Being with a cis, straight man again after all that time was a shock. The sensation felt different: his grip was firmer, shoulders wider, and, most of all, he seemed… hungrier. Like he’d been starved, and wanted to devour me alive. Clasping both my arms above my head as he slowly entered me, there was a tension between how much I wanted him, the pleasure of his touch, and the knowledge that he was strong enough to crush me under his palm. I hadn’t felt so small, or delicate, in a long time.
As excitingly rough as Ross could be, he was also sweet. The next morning, I woke up to his arms wrapped around me, cocooning me in his warmth. I settled into his embrace with a smile, closing my eyes against the morning daylight. This wasn’t all of me — but it was a part of me that Ross made me feel comfortable enough to explore. And I’m glad I did.
*Name has been changed
Megan Wallace (they/them) is Cosmopolitan UK’s Former Sex and Relationships Editor covering sexual pleasure, sex toys, LGBTQIA+ identity, dating and romance. They have covered sexuality and relationships for over five years and are the founder of the PULP zine, which publishes essays on culture and sex. In their spare time, they can be found exploring the London kink scene and planning dates on Feeld.
