“Tell me a truth.”
“Tell you the truth? About what?”
“Not the truth. A truth. Tell me something true about yourself. Something I don’t know.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
“I hated you in high school.”
That got her attention.
We lay together atop the bedspread, not really doing anything, our fingers intwined. I had been looking up at the popcorn ceiling and thinking of nothing in particular, simply enjoying the animal warmth of her hand, her shoulder pressing into mine. Then this question. She had a habit of doing things like this. When we met again – or, depending on how you look at it, for the first time – in college, she didn’t say, “I remember you from Hendricks High.” She didn’t say, “You look familiar, did we go to school together?” She didn’t say, “Why are you wearing that dress, weirdo?”
She said: “I was just reading about sky burials. They sound badass. I’d like to be eaten when I die, how about you?”
I’d like to be eaten when I die. By you, my love.
She sat up halfway, taken aback. “You hated me?”
I thought about it. “Not with an adult hate. Not like I hate abuse or discrimination or people who kick puppies. The way you hate things when you’re young because you’re scared and insecure and things are going on in your downstairs that make you want to dance, or scream, or cover yourself in gasoline and set yourself on fire. Or maybe all of them at once.”
“You have a way with words,” she said, not sarcastically.
“With you I do.”
She snuggled in closer. “Do I bring that out in you?”
“You brought a lot out in me.”
“Yep.” She squeezed my hand. “So why did you hate me?”
I tried to order my thoughts. “Do you remember what I looked like in high school?”
She thought for a moment. “Sullen. Quiet. Bookish.”
“How I looked, love.”
“You were a little heavy.”
“That’s very diplomatic, thank you. I was the fat kid with the babyface reading Stephen King books in the back row. That, and glancing furtively at the beautiful girl with the spiky blue hair who sat a few rows ahead of me. The confident girl who wore leather jackets with Blade Runner and Buckaroo Banzai patches sewn into the shoulders. The girl who was openly, proudly bisexual. The girl who took no shit from anybody, and kissed anyone she damn well pleased.”
“As long as they said ‘yes’,” she said. “I like to kiss.”
I know a cue when I hear one.
We kissed. We parted.
“I’d have kissed you back then,” she said. “If you’d asked.”
-That’s the beginning of “Truth,” the first story in my late partner’s collection of kinky and nonbinary love.
It’s now as a pay-what-you-want ebook from Smashwords and Gumroad, or 99 cents on Amazon. All royalties earned will be donated to Trans Lifeline. But please feel FREE to read for free – the goal is to get these stories into the world, and money shouldn’t be a barrier to that.
There’s also a paperback version from Gumroad or Amazon for $5 to cover printing and shipping, with anything left over becoming a donation.
First, “Beyond Words” in 
s. “Yes. Please.”
Originally planned for an anthology project called Positively Sexy, this short story was written in the belief that knockout-passionate writing is one of the sexiest ways to break down a taboo, and it’s being published to raise funds for more education work! With every copy sold, $1 will be donated to the Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health (http://www.thecsph.org/), an organization* that promotes dialogue about sexuality without fear or shame.