As I'm heading towards the train station, I suddenly realize that I've forgotten my transit card. Again. This isn’t the first time it's happened, and it certainly won't be the last. I have this annoying habit of forgetting things—whether it's my keys, my phone, or like today, my transit card. Sighing, I turn around and head back to the apartment. I don't live far from the station, so it's not a huge waste of time, but I hate having to backtrack.
As I approach the door to the apartment, a thought crosses my mind about what awaits me inside. Tom is probably in front of the TV, as usual in the morning. And I know that if he sees me come back because I forgot something, he won't miss the chance to tease me about it. After all, it’s not the first time.
So, I decide to make as little noise as possible when opening the door. Carefully, I turn the key in the lock and gently push the door open, trying not to make the hinges creak. I slip inside, my steps light on the floor, and I take a discreet glance towards the living room to check if Tom is indeed absorbed in his show.
But what I see stops me in my tracks.
Tom is there on the couch, but he’s not watching TV. In fact, his eyes are closed, his head slightly tilted back, as if lost in another world. It's not so much his posture that surprises me, but what he's doing. His jeans are unbuttoned, and his right hand is buried inside, under the fabric.
He's clearly touching himself, but something doesn’t add up. Something about the way he’s moving his hand doesn’t match what I would expect to see. Usually, when a man masturbates, he takes his penis out, right? But here, Tom keeps his hand inside his jeans, and the movements I perceive under the fabric aren’t those of typical male masturbation.
I see the bulge his hand makes in his jeans, and I notice how it seems to grow and shrink rhythmically, almost as if he’s pushing in and pulling out his fingers. This isn’t the kind of movement I would expect to see from a man masturbating. In fact, these gestures remind me more of what a woman might do when she touches herself, exploring with her fingers, finding what feels good.
A wave of confusion washes over me. Am I misinterpreting what I’m seeing? My mind tries to piece together an image of what’s happening under the fabric of his jeans. But the more I think about it, the more it seems incoherent. A man couldn’t do that, not in that way. Unless...
I avert my eyes, suddenly feeling embarrassed, my heart beating a little faster. I shouldn’t be here, watching him in such an intimate moment. I tell myself I should leave immediately, but my feet refuse to move. I steal another glance at Tom, almost against my will.
He’s so absorbed in what he’s feeling that he hasn’t even noticed me. His hand continues its slow, almost hypnotic movements, and his face is marked by an expression of intense pleasure, one that can’t be faked. I realize I can easily retrieve my card from my room without him noticing.
I take a deep breath and quickly head towards my room, trying to make as little noise as possible. Once inside, I find my transit card on the dresser, where I had left it earlier. I slip it into my bag and head back towards the front door. I take one last furtive glance at Tom before leaving, but nothing has changed. He’s still there, completely lost in his sensations.
Once outside, I hurry towards the station, but my thoughts remain fixated on what I just saw. It was so strange, so... out of the ordinary. I can’t shake the image of Tom on the couch, the way his hand moved inside his jeans. It’s so different from anything I could have imagined.
As I walk, my mind continues making connections, trying to make sense of what I saw. Tom isn’t the type to do things halfway, but there was something different this time, something that felt off. The movements of his hand, the way he seemed completely absorbed in what he was doing, none of it felt masculine. Or at least, not anything I could imagine in a man.
I consider the possibility that it’s just a misunderstanding, an optical illusion, but logic eludes me. The gestures I saw don’t match those of a man masturbating. And even if they did, it would be terribly uncomfortable. I can’t help but think about what’s at Tom’s fingertips, but the thought doesn’t make sense.
Then, other memories surface. Like the fact that I haven’t seen Tom with a morning erection for weeks. Or the razor he no longer uses, collecting dust in the bathroom. Or the fact that he now wears a t-shirt in the morning, as if trying to hide something.
My mind begins to concoct theories, hypotheses, but they’re all more improbable than the last. And yet, I can’t help myself. What if something had changed in Tom? Something deeper than what I can see? But what? How?
As I reach the station, I realize that my heart is still racing, as if my body knows something my mind refuses to accept. I board the train, hoping that the noise of conversations, the movement of the train, and the routine of the journey will help me push this image out of my mind. But as soon as I sit down, closing my eyes to try and focus on something else, the scene I witnessed earlier resurfaces with an almost obsessive intensity.
I see Tom on the couch again, his jeans unbuttoned, his hand buried inside. My mind then begins to dwell on this idea, turning it over and over despite myself. What’s happening under that fabric? What secrets are hidden under his fingers, that my eyes couldn’t see but that my mind is beginning to reveal? I see his fingers brushing against a warm, moist, sensitive area, an area that reacts to every caress, every pressure. It’s as if I can see through the jeans, as if I can guess what’s happening beneath. His fingers trace slow circles, exploring a fold of skin, a delicate crease that shouldn’t be there, but that is, and that seems to respond to his movements with an intensity I don’t understand. I can almost hear his breath changing, becoming deeper, more ragged, as his fingers find their way into what should be an impossibility, an opening that shouldn’t exist but that is very real under his touch.
The image becomes clearer, more insidious. I see him, not masturbating as a man would, but touching himself as a woman. His fingers glide in a back-and-forth motion, plunging into a warmth that I can almost feel myself, a warm and welcoming heat that envelops and overwhelms him. I replay those movements under the jeans over and over, the bulge that grows and shrinks, as if he’s pressing his fingers deeper, losing himself in sensations that are not those of a man, but those of a woman.
And then, in the pit of my stomach, I feel something stir, a warmth that begins to spread slowly. It’s a sensation I know, but it’s disconcerting in this context. I’ve never been particularly attracted to men. In fact, I’ve always felt more drawn to women, though I’ve rarely wanted to admit it. Social pressure, expectations, all of that has always pushed me to deny that part of myself. But now, this image of Tom, so different, so unusual, both disturbs and entices me.
I feel a slight shiver run through my skin, a warmth rising gently along my spine. My legs cross unconsciously, and I feel a tension forming, a light but persistent pulse in the pit of my stomach. This scene, as improbable as it is, captivates me, keeps me on edge. My body reacts, despite myself, to this vision.
There’s something intriguing about this idea, something that strikes a chord within me. Perhaps it’s the forbidden aspect, or simply the unexpected, but I feel strangely attracted to this image of Tom, not as a man, but as a woman, a body that speaks to me in a way I don’t fully understand.
My hands grip the edge of my seat, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it’s difficult. The more I try to push these thoughts away, the clearer they become, the more they impose themselves on me. I find myself imagining what it might be like, what it might feel like, to discover Tom in this new form, to understand what he’s feeling, to touch those curves I’m beginning to perceive under the fabric. These thoughts trouble me, fascinate me, and I feel a warmth spread across my face, my cheeks burning slightly.
I wonder. Is it simply the novelty, the unknown, that attracts me so much? Or is it something deeper, something I’ve always felt but never had the courage to explore? This scene, what I imagine under Tom’s jeans, these are images that awaken desires in me that I’ve long buried.