Where Venomous Snakes Sleep

1. Ryan

Ryan

Three Months Earlier

“Can’t you at least try them on, babe?” Paul holds the offending gift bag out to me, shaking it a little as if to entice me.

“What don’t you understand about the word ‘no’?” I ask, practically hissing as I bat the bag away and retreat into the kitchen.

Paul follows me with a long-suffering sigh, like I’m the one making this difficult. “I just think you’d look incredible in them. They weren’t cheap, you know.”

“Then you should return them so that we can spend the money on something we actually need, like getting my car fixed.”

He sets the bag on the counter with a frustrated huff. “I told you I would handle that.”

“You’ve been saying that for three weeks.”

“And I’ll get around to it,” he grunts.

“Yeah, okay,” I scoff, rolling my eyes as I stand on my tiptoes to reach the pan I need, which is, of course, on the highest shelf of the cabinet.

I can sense Paul coming closer as he says, “Look, just do this one thing for me, please? I’ll have the car fixed this week.”

“No, Paul.”

“I was looking online…” Here it comes. “And there’s a lot of guys like you who love wearing this stuff. It’s like a whole kink thing.”

Finally, my fingers catch on the rim of the pan I need. “Okay? There’s probably also a lot of ‘guys like me’ who don’t like it. Not all trans people are the same, Paul.”

I almost drop the pan when his body suddenly presses against mine, pushing my pelvis uncomfortably into the edge of the counter.

“Paul.”

His arms come up on either side of me, effectively boxing me in. “You know I like seeing you dressed up.”

“I know you like seeing a version of me that doesn’t exist.”

He lets out an exasperated breath against the back of my neck. “Why do you always have to twist what I say?”

“I’m not twisting anything.”

“You are.”

I finally get the pan down and turn around as much as his body allows. There’s barely an inch between us.

“Move.”

Instead of moving, his hands settle on my hips. “You’ve gotten so… defensive, Ry.”

“I wonder why,” I answer sarcastically.

His thumbs brush against the fabric of my jeans as his hands start to knead my ass. “I miss when you let me have fun with you. I bought the lingerie because I thought it could heat things up. Get you to let me into that nice, tight pussy again.”

I barely keep myself from retching.

It isn’t even the word—pussy.

I’ve never really cared about the word itself. Plenty of trans guys use it. Hell, sometimes I do too, depending on the conversation. Sometimes, in the right situation, with the right partner, I even find it hot.

This is neither the right situation nor the right partner.

Lately, every time it leaves Paul’s mouth, it sounds less like he’s talking about a part of my body and more like he’s talking about the person he wishes I’d stayed.

I catch his wrists and push them away from my hips. “No.”

His hands immediately drift back. “C’mon, Ry.”

“I said no.”

“You used to like it.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“So then what’s the problem, babe? We both want it.”

“I can’t,” I force out. “I just can’t, okay?”

For the past month, every time he’s tried to steer us toward using my front, I’ve found an excuse.

Headache.

Too tired.

Work in the morning.

Anything.

Because the last two times we’d had sex that way, his condom had “broken.”

The first time, I convinced myself it was an accident. These things happen—no big deal. I just made sure to take a morning-after pill, and threw out the rest of the box of faulty condoms.

But the second time? When I’d seen the look on his face afterward?

He wasn’t panicked, or frustrated, or anything close.

He had looked hopeful.

Ever since then, every mention of it has made my pulse skyrocket.

I don’t want kids; I have never wanted kids, and the idea of getting pregnant sits somewhere between my worst nightmare and a horror movie I can’t turn off. Paul knows that.

“You’re overthinking this,” he says quietly, like he’s reading my mind.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

His voice softens into something almost pleading. “I miss being close to you.”

“You are close to me.”

“Not like that.”

I laugh once—a tired, humorless sound. “My ass isn’t enough?”

The question hangs in the air.

I’ve been saying yes to things I don’t particularly enjoy because they’re the only things that still feel safe.

Compromise, I’d told myself.

Relationships require compromise.

Even if compromise feels like continuously giving him small pieces of me that I don’t want to give, just to protect the biggest piece.

Paul’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You know.”

“No.” I step sideways, forcing enough space between us to finally slip past him. “I don’t.”

He turns as I put the pan on the stove. “Ryan.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know exactly what you were going to say.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Everything has to be a fight with you now.”

“No.” I keep my back to him as I reach for a bottle of cooking oil. My hands are shaking, so I have to tighten my grip. “Everything has to become an argument because you won’t accept my answer.”

“What answer?” he asks, brows drawn together in frustrated confusion.

“No.”

The kitchen falls silent, then, when he finally speaks again, his voice has gone cold. “I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

I swallow hard but don’t turn around. “Then maybe you never knew me as well as you thought.”

For several long seconds, neither of us moves. Then the gift bag disappears off the counter with an angry rustle.

“Forget it.”

A moment later, the front door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hallway.

The apartment settles into silence.

I stay exactly where I am, staring at the burner I never turned on, listening to my own breathing.

Only when I’m sure he’s driven away do I realize my hands are still trembling.

I lean both hands on the counter and close my eyes.

When did this become us?

The question comes more often these days, and I never have an answer.

Because this isn’t the man I fell in love with.

Or maybe it is.

Maybe this version was always here, tucked somewhere beneath six years of shared history and teenage promises, waiting for the right circumstances to crawl out.

I don’t know which possibility hurts more.

When I came out to him, I’d been terrified. Not of telling him I was trans—I already knew that part of myself. I was terrified of losing him.

Six years together had started with two awkward sophomores who shared chemistry class and made out in his beat-up Ford pickup after football games.

Paul had been my first everything. First boyfriend.

First person I trusted enough to tell about the problems at home.

First person who made me believe I could have a future that wasn’t just surviving one miserable day after another.

I’d expected him to leave, but he hadn’t.

He’d held me while I cried, kissed my forehead, and told me I was still me.

“You’re still my Ryan,” he’d whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

I don’t know if he lied to me, or if he lied to himself.

Or if he’d assumed the female Ryan wouldn’t take long to resurface.

The first cracks didn’t show up until I started talking seriously about surgery.

I never even had much of a chest. Being built like a scarecrow had at least done me that one favor.

Most days, I was comfortable enough just wearing something oversized with nothing underneath.

If I had to wear something more form-fitting, depending on the company and circumstance, the most I’d ever needed was a tight sports bra.

Still, I’d wanted to have consultations, just to know my options, and I told him so.

But Paul had gone strangely quiet.

Not angry.

Not at first.

Just… withdrawn.

When I asked him what was wrong, he’d admitted he couldn’t stand the thought of me changing my body like that. “It’s permanent, Ry.”

As if I hadn’t noticed.

As if permanent wasn’t exactly the point.

In the end, I’d decided against it anyway.

Not because of him.

Because every hospital smell reminded me of my mom’s last surgery before the cancer took her. Because anesthesia scared the hell out of me. Because the idea of voluntarily letting someone cut into me made my skin crawl.

The same went for anything downstairs.

I’d never really wanted bottom surgery. Testosterone had eased enough of my dysphoria that I was content with what I had going on down there.

That should’ve been the end of it, but it seemed like every day, Paul found something new to criticize.

He didn’t like that my voice had deepened.

He hated the dark hair spreading up my stomach, and the scruff on my jaw that forced me to shave every few days.

He didn’t like how my clit had grown into a little cock from the hormones. Once, he’d even called it disgusting.

It was death by a thousand tiny cuts.

Together they’d hollowed something out inside me.

The worst part was that I still caught glimpses of the old Paul.

The one who brought me soup when I had the flu and slept on the couch because he was afraid of getting me sick again.

The one who used to send me playlists of bands he knew I would hate just so we could trade snarky commentary over texts all afternoon.

The one who drove across town at two in the morning because I’d called him crying after a nightmare.

The one who used to rub circles into my back until I fell asleep, never asking for anything in return.

Sometimes he’d smile at me across the living room, and for a split second I’d swear nothing had changed.

Whatever happened to us didn’t happen all at once.

It happened so slowly that half the time I want to blame myself for not noticing.

It’s like watching paint fade in the sun.

You don’t see it day-to-day. The walls just exist. Until one afternoon you look up and realize the color you remember is gone, and you can’t remember when, why, or who started letting it fade.