Welcome back to our Anonymous Sex Diaries series where queer and trans people from around the world let us into a seven day snippet of their sex, love and dating lives.

Day 1

You’re sitting on the bed, your auburn hair in a messy ponytail. I wrap a blanket around you, and kiss your cheek. You sip your ginger/turmeric/peach tea, and I light the fir/pine/cilantro candle I bought you. There are many holy trinities. I want tonight to be special. As I was making us latkes earlier for Hanukkah, you got a bit melancholy and cynical talking about this week of rekindling our love and sex life. You expressed feeling pressured by the time constraint, by how busy our lives are, but recognized these feelings were influenced by PMSing and a stressful work day as a social worker. Your job is your other relationship, we joke. You want to connect, but you’re not doing the best with your mental health. Maybe this is just what we need.

We’ve been dating for two and half years, and moved in together about eight months ago. We’re both trying to avoid the lesbian bed death trope, hoping to be remembered in history as lovers, not ‘really good friends.’ You are a sexy nonbinary dyke extraordinaire with a low libido due to your SSRI’s, a short king who’s always Big Spoon, a workaholic who holds tension in your perky butt. (This gives me ample opportunity to do deep-tissue ass massages.) I am a sissy sun, butch moon, simp rising with a lower sex drive due to recently getting off testosterone. For some reason, we never had that can’t get enough of you, gotta fuck at all times phase in our relationship, and now that we live together, we have sex probably once every week to every two weeks. Even though I think you’re a sex icon, that doesn’t always translate to physicality for some reason. This simply won’t do. To put it frankly, I want to get railed.

I put on an electronic playlist and get my own blanket and tea. Consider the mood set. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath. “Ready.”

I pull up my phone with a list of questions pulled from the Internet. “What is a kink or new sexy thing you would like to try?”

You pause. “Fisting.”

“Ooh, I think mine is eating ass.”

“You are always thinking about eating ass,” you tease.

“Do you have any secret fantasies?” I change the subject.

“Being a kind of voyeur. Like watching you get it on with someone else, and me just sitting across, watching.”

“Kinky,” I grin. “I think mine is getting topped by you and someone else, or many other people. I just want to be totally objectified. Next question: where’s the most adventurous place you’ve had sex?”

“With you in the woods.”

When you and I first got together we went to an outdoor concert in Vermont and snuck off to the woods to have sex. I can still remember the moon above us in the trees, me going down on you, you coming in my mouth, hearing the music and party not too far from us, knowing anyone could catch us at any moment.

“Besides that, I had sex in a park.”

“How very eighties gay of you! With who?” I rub your thigh.

“Someone I had just met when I was visiting Seattle. What about you?”

“Also the woods. And I went down on an ex on the top floor of a parking garage in the middle of the day. Anyways, where’s your favorite spot to be kissed?”

“I’m not sure, we might need to try it out,” you say. I lean over and kiss you on the mouth. “Oh, yes, there.” I kiss and suck on your neck. “I like that too…” I kiss your shoulders and start to go elsewhere when you pull me back. You love to be in control. Back to business. We continue a rigorous questioning into our sex dreams and history, until we get to the end of my questionnaire.

“Are you happy with our intimacy level?”

You hesitate. “Emotionally, yes. I can’t imagine it being better. Physically, I mean, I think there’s room to grow—”

“I totally agree,” I rush to agree with you. “Emotionally I feel closer to you than I ever have, with probably anyone. But I know we both want to have sex more often… I think for me it’s so hard to have sex after work for some reason. Like I just feel so disconnected from my body and just drained.”

“Yes, me too.”

“Moving on. Would you like to hold my hand?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s nice,” you take my hand.

“Would you like to see me shirtless?”

“This is part of 21 questions?” Your eyes widen. I nod slowly and take off my shirt. You giddily do the same. Your body is androgynous and reminds me of a Greek statue, or maybe the young David statue, if David was a trans babe.

“Would you like to be passionately hugged?” I raise my eyebrows. You laugh and nod. I embrace you, stroking your hair and squeezing your back, pressing my half naked body against yours. We begin to make out, I feel you up, and the thought of fucking you immediately makes me want to throw you on the bed then and there.

Day 2

Finding a queer sex documentary is not as easy as it sounds. After sorting through many hetero sex ed and “inside the porn industry” films, we finally find the one we have been looking for, a documentary series called Planet Sex with Cara Delevingne. We pick the episode, “Monogamish,” since you and I are thinking of trying polyamory for the first time. We dream of dating someone together, which I’ve done with past partners, and I honestly get so turned on by the idea of showering someone new with adoration and attention — together. I want to let someone else in on this.

The episode is pretty silly. Can brain scans show us we’re in love? Does ball size decide if an animal will be monogamous or polyamorous? Can DNA tell us if we will be partnered or not? I remain unconvinced. Polygamy activists in South Africa, a Japanese woman marrying a Sim, it’s all pretty extreme. All the while Cara hems and haws about whether or not she should be monogamous or polyamorous.

The poly couples are all queer, which definitely piques my interest. There are two wives and a boyfriend raising a child, a woman with a fiancé and two queer lovers, and finally a crew of poly queers who seem the most relatable. One of the queers interviewed says how jealousy is natural, but the goal is to thwart it before it becomes anger or resentment.

“I’m nervous, what if you really hit it off with someone and I am just left behind?” you share after the episode, laying back on our new gold velvet couch, your pitbull in between your legs. “You’re so much more outgoing than me, and I’m not even sure I know how to flirt. What if it’s awkward? I just want to skip the first five dates and get to the point where I know what to expect.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, “That would feel really bad. But we’ve got to trust each other to notice if one of us is not feeling it, and either redirect the conversation to include the other person or take a step back, even if we’re feeling it. The only reason I want to do this is so it will connect us and be fun.”

“You’re not nervous at all?” you furrow your brow.

“I am now,” I joke.

“Oh, no,” you fold your arm over your eyes. “This is terrible.”

“Maybe I’ve been naively confident.”

“Every partner I’ve had besides you has cheated on me continuously,” you say, lifting your arm above your blue-green eyes. “I trust you, truly, but I’ve never had a partner be with someone else consensually. Maybe I’m scared, maybe I don’t trust myself not to be blinded by jealousy or triggered. I’m worried I’ll just get angry and shut down.”

“I have had only unsuccessful open relationships,” I agree. “I’m also worried I’ll just lash out or be nasty. I think we have to agree that if it’s too painful, we just shouldn’t do it. Why poke at an open wound?”

Day 3

“Let’s go to the Dandelion!” I exclaim after we find out that Nifty Fifty’s South Philly location is takeout only. You and I had plans to go to a queer dance party hosted by Mal from The Ultimatum: Queer Love with your friends A and S (S supposedly is friends with Mal on Instagram). You and I were also toying with something more low key, such as getting decked out in leather and going to the Bike Stop, the resident gay leather bar featuring a sexy dungeon. But early in the afternoon you texted me that your dad had been admitted to the ER. So now we are driving in South Philly, trying to think of a fun restaurant to cheer you up.

After driving through all of South Philly trying to decide where we should eat (this is why two air signs should never date), we decide to go to the Pub on Passyunk East, fondly referred to as the Pope. The Pope is a dark wooded Irish punk pub. “It’s always so crowded,” you grab my hand as we walk up the block.

“It’s always so empty,” I roll my eyes.

As I open the wooden door with a twisted iron handle, hot air and a jostling of voices greet us. Surrounding the bar are a throng of people, happily yelling at each other and drinking beer.

“I told you,” you smirk.

You order the mulled whiskey, I order a chai old fashioned. It just tastes like an old fashioned. Your mulled whiskey tastes like honey and spices.

“To intimacy boot camp!” you toast, raising your tiny glass.

“May the best contestant win!” I clink my glass with yours.

Though you’re hiding it with wit and laughter, I know you’re hurting. Your dad is in the ER for the same condition you had this past summer that landed you in the hospital for three days. It’s not life threatening, but it is a strain on the heart due to stress. I feel that your mom and I need to seriously keep a close eye on you two, both you and your dad’s body seem to bottle stress in until you’re literally bruising your heart. There are easier ways to set boundaries, I want to tell you.

But in some ways the “accident” last summer was a huge turning point in our relationship. We always had issues with conflict. I think the hospitalization put things in perspective. We regained a sense of grounding and trust in each other. Slowly, over a few months, we began to heal. Now we’re six months of ease and grace later, but our sex life hasn’t reflected this. I don’t fully understand what the hang up is. I think you’re sexy, you think I’m sexy, the net total of this should be some sexy times, and yet there is this wall between us mentally, physically. Work, stress, exhaustion, hormones, something always gets in the way.

But tonight, you’re in my favorite punk bar, drinking mulled whiskey and getting a twinkle in your eye. We talk like we haven’t talked all week, about our fears, our hopes, what we’ve been processing in the background. It may not be sexy, but I love to share space like this.

Day 4

“You know the rules,” you say as you spread out the cardboard hexagons.

“You know you’re about to get beat,” I say as I organize the resource cards. We’ve decided to play strip Settlers of Catan, and to be honest, I’m not sure anyone has ever played this. We decide that when someone rolls a seven and moves the Robber Baron to a resource hexagon, or if they roll the number the Robber Baron is currently on, the loser has to take an article of clothing off. The player who rolls a seven puts an article of clothing back on. Whoever wins the game gets to be eaten out whenever they choose.

“Like a Monopoly get-out-of-jail-free card,” I say, and bring over our mixed drinks,; Hendrick’s Gin with Poppi strawberry and lemon soda, lime juice, and a little bit of Triple Sec. Delicious.

I’m feeling a little cocky. Even as a rookie, I’ve always won. We begin to play. Quickly my sock comes off, and you kiss my foot passionately as I stretch it out. Then I roll a seven and the tables turn: your pants come off, then your sweater, then your shirt, as I keep rolling on the Robber Baron.

“I feel so exposed,” you modestly pretend to attempt to cover yourself. You’re naked except socks and underwear, and I walk over and begin to kiss your breasts and neck, kiss your legs and thighs. I love to win.

You roll a seven and then it’s my turn, on goes your shirt, off my sweater, then shirt, then pants until I’m only wearing one sock and briefs. I go over to switch the record to Prince’s album 1999, and you laugh at my predicament. We both are getting a little tipsy as I keep refilling our glasses. You’re catching up to me in settlements and points. I decide it’s time to get serious. I finally save up three ore and two wheat to build a city, and triumphantly show my points: settlements, cities, longest road, and two Victory Points. You scream.

I come over to you and begin to make out with you passionately, feeling your body. “Have you come to collect your prize?” you ask.

“No. I’m going to save it. Doesn’t mean we can’t both be rewarded,” I look at you, your long hair cascading around your shoulders. “I want you to stomp on my face.”

You take my hand and lead me upstairs.

We go to the bed and I begin to strip, not in a sexy slow and deliberate way, more in a messy eager what-should-i-take-off way. I decide it’s your show and leave my pants on. I lie down in the bed, and you begin to covet my body with your eyes and hands, leading your way up my legs to my mouth, and you stick a finger in between my lips, to show that in this moment you own me. You kiss me slowly and carefully, pulling at my nipples, and rubbing my boy-pussy until I’m flushed.

You flip me over. Lie down, you press my body into the blankets and pull out your vibrator. You put it on my pants right on top of my clit-dick, and roll it back and forth until I am begging for more. But this is your show, and it has to be on your time. You twist me over and I ask, “Can I take off my pants, sir?”

You nod and I strip. You trail down, and tentatively give me a taste. More. You eat me out, and I swear even though I’ve been off that boy-juice my clit has never been more sensitive to you or in tune with your body. Every part of me is electrified. You stop, and grin at me. This is your show.

“Please sit on my face,” I try to imitate a good boy. I just want to be the best dog you’ve ever known, I want you to take me on walks and give me treats when I heel.

You saddle up to sit on my face. There is something about being suffocated by pussy, that eros of possibly a little death. When your lips meet mine, I try to tell you I have come to your steps to pray, because this life blood that you’re giving me can sustain me for days, weeks, years—just a little more, just a little more. You come in my mouth, your thighs gripping my head, and collapse on me. You’re lying in my arms and your auburn hair shags in your face, your eyes rest lightly on mine.

“Thank you for stomping on me.”

We’ve officially moved past the asexual roommate phase.

Day 5

At A and S’s holiday party, we are expecting a lot of hot queers. We put on our matching snakeskin faux-leather pants and both wear our Harley Davidson boots. I’m wearing chainmail and a tight tank with no bra, you’re wearing a cropped turtleneck. Your dad has been released from the hospital, and it’s time to let loose.

S greets us with two Negronis. They are the epitome of style, their home decorated with velvet couches and purple lights, a glowing orb lamp sits on the ground of the patio outside. Shortly after we go outside to say hello to A by the bonfire, the lights shut off. The breaker goes out, and A needs to go to the basement to investigate. “I’ll come too!” you quickly volunteer, and I pinch you.

“You found a task!” I tease.

“A task!” How typical.

As you leave, I go back inside and try to occupy myself. Other than S and A, I don’t know anyone here. I walk up to the first person I notice, barely even looking at them. “Hi, how’s it going?”

A tall, mulleted brunette turns to me, their smile slightly bemused. “Hi. I’m C.”

“M,” I say hastily, a little unnerved that I chose to talk to perhaps one of the most attractive people in the room.

“How do you know A and S?”

We begin to chit the chat, their dark eyes meeting mine with confidence and sultriness. I just try to maintain eye contact and not desperately look away like a fool. I have not flirted with anyone besides you in a long time, and truly I am out of practice. Is it supposed to be this nerve wracking? C’s friends join the conversation, a sweet queer couple, who asks if they missed the memo about a leather dress code. I look over and see you and A, both decked in leather, chatting.

“No,” I laugh, “I think we’re just dramatic like that.”

S comes over and asks us to pose for a photo. C and I put our arms around each other, like we’re so close and so comfortable, and press the sides of our bodies together. As benign as this contact is, I’m slightly flushed. I see you across the room, talking to some hot cougars. I smile, excuse myself, and come up and link my arm with yours. “What are we talking about?”

At the end of the night, it is only C, A, S, you, and myself left. It’s clear C, A, and S are going to hook up. We all join in a semi-circle as you put on a fashion show with a giant fur cape, and chat and lean on each other in drunk comradery. Are we all flirting? What would happen if we stayed? It was only seven months ago I was so jealous of A and your relationship. Now I am enthralled by the idea of us all sleeping together. As amusing as that is, you’re giving me the side eye — it’s time to go.

On the way home, you tease me about trying to sleep with everyone.

“No way!”

“I saw you flirting with C,” you say as you turn right on Baltimore Ave. You grab my thigh. “I didn’t mind at all. They were cute.”

We’re not quite ready for a fivesome, but in all seriousness, maybe jealousy and open relationships are about learning to let go and follow intuition, and trusting you know how to return home.

Day 6

“Can you have a bubble bath with epsom salts?” I ask as you draw the bath.

You flip your hair back from your face. “Who says we can’t? We’re adults.”

I get Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters and you light candles around the bath. We slowly submerge, giggling and sighing in the heated water. Your cat, Kitty, comes in, and curiously puts her paws on the ledge and peers over. Soft fur and hot water on skin. We sink all the way in on opposite sides, and interweave our legs so we’re both reclining comfortably. You put your foot on my chest. “You have such a foot fetish,” I groan as you try to caress my cheek with your foot. I swat it away like a mosquito.

“Tipping the Velvet is lesbian canon,” you tell me, withdrawing your foot and picking up the book. “Look at that butt on the cover!”

“I can’t believe I never heard of this book.”

“It’s where the expression ‘tipping the velvet’ comes from,” you explain, clearly pleased.

I raise my eyebrows skeptically, “I have literally never heard of that.”

You ignore this comment and say, “Shall we?”

I begin to read outloud, trying to use my most theatrical storytelling voice, like an audiobook actor. “‘Have you ever tasted a Whitstable oyster? If you have, you will remember it.’”

You’re a wonderful audience, captivated and listening attentively, sipping your Christmas IPA. After a while you take a turn at reading. “The Palace was a small and, I suspect, a rather shabby theatre; but when I see it in my memories I see it still with my oyster-girl’s eyes…”

I was so stressed all day at work, waiting to hear back about a promotion and beginning to be convinced I hadn’t gotten it, but now the day seems insignificant. I feel so utterly mesmerized by you reading to me, so relaxed I could fall asleep. “‘…In the centre of this there was a girl: the most marvellous girl—I knew it at once!—I had ever seen.’”

“GAY,” we both yell.

The narrator describes a music hall performer wearing a suit with a white bow tie and a “topper” over her boyish hair, and small heels underneath. “That sounds hot,” I say.

“That sounds crazy,” you scoff. But I know you are equally as delighted, and should it have been the 1880s, you also would have been turned on.

I lean over and nuzzle your neck. We put the book away, and I lean my body into yours. What is it about naked bodies pressed together that feel so good? Why does my body always feel like it needs to be touching yours? I pull back and suds my boobs. You’re impressed, and caress my bubbly boobs. I press your hands closer to my body.

Day 7

We cheers in Fiume, the funky little bar above a particularly good Ethiopian restaurant. My friend M is working and gave us a discount. I get a birch syrup, gin, and campari cocktail, you get a tequila and chocolate bitters cocktail. They’re both delicious. “To intimacy boot camp!”

“What was your favorite part,” I ask as I sip my delicate little drink.

You purse your lips, thinking. Finally you say, “Favorite part was definitely Strip Catan, I was really surprised how much I liked it. Least fave… how rushed we were, I wish we could have spread it out more or had a vacation to do it.”

“But I think it was really nice to know that even in the thick of it, a relatively stressful week for us both, we were able to put a couple hours aside every day just to be present with each other.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “What about you?”

“My favorite was the bubble bath,” I laugh. “I loved that, so sensuous to read to each other naked. We will have to do that again. Least favorite was probably the documentary. I don’t actually feel like I learned anything.”

“But it did elicit a really good conversation for us,” you point out. “A much needed one.”

“So true,” I say. I look over at you; you’re toying with your drink, smiling softly the dim light hitting your high cheekbones. I lean over, and whisper in your ear, “Should we end this night with Taco Bell?”

You grin devilishly at me. “Yeah.”

After a couple of drinks we drive to Taco Bell, order five different tacos and burritos and a giant Sprite. We make out in the parking lot under a fluorescent street lamp, across from the glaring Sunoco. It reminds me of when we first got together two years ago, and made out to pop punk in the Taco Bell parking lot like teenagers. Back then, we drove back and listened to ‘90s country, the wind rolling in my hair, and a feeling hit me — this could be the start of something real. Two years and a half years later and I know I was right. Sometimes you need an experimental date week to spice things up, and start prioritizing getting it on. We didn’t have more sex than usual, but it still felt like we broke through some imaginary boundary of touch and sensuality. And thank God, Taco Bell still elicits romance.

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