It was November of 2013, Vancouver standing placid and shocked, the thrumming chaos of urbanity almost domesticated by the uncharacteristic cold. For me, a trembling sliver of an 18 year old who’d never seen so much as a flurry of snow in her Californian life, the cold was a novelty that quickly became hell. I’d only been on hormones for about a year at the time, but my hitherto suppressed sexuality was burgeoning and insisting itself into my head during every waking moment.
I spent most of my time laying in bed in that 100 square foot prison cell I called a dorm room, and a deadly brew of cabin fever and feminine libido was stirring. I found myself shivering down to my core whenever I tried to venture outside, and I only really left when my minimal diet left me in need of groceries. Dating apps hadn’t really caught on yet, and though I was 5’7 and pretty and had been stealth since before hrt, dating was a too dangerous a world for someone like me. I was still decidedly a virgin, despite the best efforts of my highschool classmates who didn’t know I had a dick, and firmly intended to stay that way unless the opportunity knocked. That night, the first thanksgiving I’d spent away from my parenthetically supportive family, it did. Gently, and in a playful little pattern, like my dorm was a clubhouse with a secret passcode or something. I opened the door to an immense tower of leather and ripped jeans, and stumbled back in surprise at the sheer size of the man before me. For there could be no doubt of his sex, his large yet gentle hands extended in a greeting that was friendly, yet decidedly Meant Business.