Confession: the chat with a man who obsessed me

It took me almost three years to accept what my body had already decided for me. It started in early 2020, in the middle of lockdown, with a discomforting curiosity I didn’t know how to name. I’d watch porn like any bored twenty-something, and little by little I started noticing that the click wasn’t on the girl anymore. It was on the other one. On him. On the cock she was taking into her mouth, on the guy’s tight ass as he thrust, on the face of pleasure he made when he came.

I denied it for a long time. I told myself it was a kink, that it was a matter of trying something new, that as soon as I found a girlfriend it would pass. It didn’t pass. Every time I really liked a woman, emotionally, it was still only with women. But physical desire had two lanes. And the second one, the one that led to men, was getting louder and louder.

At the beginning of this year I finally worked up the nerve to do something about it. I downloaded a dating app, marked my profile as bisexual, and let the algorithm do its thing. The first week was disorienting. I got messages from guys asking for pics within two minutes, from others who just wanted to meet and fuck without so much roundabout nonsense, and from some who seemed more interested in my ass than in my name.

Until Iván wrote me.

He lived fifteen minutes from my neighborhood. The profile photo wasn’t from a gym or a mirror. It was a normal picture, smiling, in a gray T-shirt with his hair a bit messed up. I liked him even before I read his message.

—Hi, how’s it going? —he wrote—. Your bio made me laugh. Seriously, you’d never talked to a guy on here before?

Never with anyone like this.

—Never —I answered—. I’m pretty new to all this, to be honest.

What came after was a long conversation, longer than I expected. He asked me how long I’d been thinking about men, how I’d come to accept it, whether anyone in my family knew. I answered carefully, weighing every word, feeling strange talking about it for the first time with someone who could also make it real.

—And what do you like about sex? —he asked all of a sudden, after we’d been at the keyboard for two hours.

I stared at the screen. It was the first direct question, and for some reason it made me nervous to answer.

—I don’t know —I typed—. With women I’ve always liked oral. Eating pussy until they come in my mouth. And having them suck me off without rushing. Why?

—Because I wanted to know if you’re passive, active, or both. If you like getting fucked or fucking. On the app people don’t usually say it plainly.

—I think passive. Although without having tried it, without having had a real cock inside me, I don’t know how seriously I can say that.

—Want to send me a photo?

***

I got up from the sofa. I walked around the living room. I poured myself some water. I went back to my phone and the question was still there, hanging on the screen, waiting for an answer I already knew I was going to give.

—Yes —I answered.

I went into the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and stood with my back to the mirror. I took the photo leaning a little forward, opening my thighs slightly, without showing my face. You could see my whole ass, the crease, even a shadow of the hole if you looked hard enough. It took me a while to hit send. When I did, I felt a strange heat behind my ears, half shame, half something else I still didn’t dare call arousal.

Three dots.

—Fuck —he wrote—. You have a gorgeous ass. You can see your little tight hole. I’d eat it whole. Another one from the front?

I took the second photo more decisively. I was half hard just from reading his message, and in the mirror my cock could be seen peeking out, the head shining with a drop of precum that had leaked out without me noticing. By the time I sent it, I had far fewer doubts about what I was doing.

—Will you send me one? —I wrote.

It took less than a minute. The photo that came back was of him, face hidden too, holding his cock in his right hand. It was thicker than I’d expected. It was erect and slightly curved upward, veins running along the shaft, heavy balls hanging underneath, the swollen head glossy at the tip with a clear drop about to fall.

I looked at it for too long. I zoomed in. Closed it again. Zoomed in once more. I thought about the weight of that cock in my palm, its taste, what it would feel like brushing against my lips.

Something clenched in my chest. It wasn’t disgust, or rejection, or the confusion that for three years had accompanied me every time I thought about something like this. It was the opposite. It was a huge throb in my groin and the instant, vivid mental image of that same cock inside me, opening me up, driving all the way in.

—You still there? —he wrote.

—Yeah. Sorry. It’s just…

—What?

—You’ve got me really turned on. I’m hard just looking at your picture.

—Take it out. Show me it hard. I want to see what looking at my cock does to you.

I did as he said. I pulled my pants all the way down, sat on the edge of the sofa, and sent him a photo with my cock pointing toward the ceiling, my hand wrapped around the base, a thick strand of precum dripping toward my navel. I’d never sent anything like that to anyone. Much less to a guy. And there I was, breathing hard, waiting for him to reply.

—Fuck. So hot. Touch it. Tell me what you’re imagining.

I started jerking off slowly, with the phone resting on my stomach, typing with the other hand whatever came to mind first.

—I imagine your cock in my mouth. Sucking it all the way. With your balls brushing my chin. Swallowing whatever comes out.

—Jesus, newbie. You write like you’ve been doing this for years. I’m jerking off too. I’m going to come before I ever have you in front of me.

***

That night I masturbated thinking about him. Not about a woman, not about some vague fantasy: about him. About his hands around my neck. About what it would be like to have him on top of me, crushing me into the mattress, about how his voice would sound against my ear, about what he’d say right before burying his cock all the way inside me. I went to the drawer, took out a dildo I’d bought months earlier to answer for myself the question I hadn’t dared ask anyone, and covered it in lube until it was dripping.

I lay on my back, lifted my legs, spread my ass open with one hand and started pushing it in slowly with the other. The tip went in with a strange tug, half burn, half pleasure, and I let out a low moan I hadn’t expected to hear come out of my mouth. I pushed a little more. The dildo was working its way in, millimeter by millimeter, and every millimeter was a new jolt. When I had it all the way inside, I stayed still for a few seconds, feeling it, imagining it was him, imagining it was his cock filling me up.

I started moving it. Out, in. Out, in. With my other hand I grabbed my cock and jerked myself off to the same rhythm. I imagined Iván behind me, his hips slamming against my ass, his voice telling me filthy things in my ear: “Like this, open up for me, take it all, good boy.” I sped up. The dildo went deeper, hit a spot that made my voice slip out of me, and suddenly I felt everything rising up from my feet.

I came in less than five minutes. It was a long, thick shot that splashed onto my chest and stomach in three bursts. I’d never come like that alone, without even fully finishing my masturbation, just with that thing moving inside me.

And afterward I lay there on the bed, with the dildo still halfway in, semen cooling on my stomach, the ceiling spinning, thinking that something had changed for good. It wasn’t that I hadn’t known before. It was that before I could pretend it was an abstract idea. Now it was a concrete craving, with a real body on the other side of the screen and my ass that had just discovered what it was really for.

We talked almost every day after that. Iván had a way of writing that completely undid me. He wasn’t sappy, he wasn’t syrupy, he didn’t talk to me like I was some damsel. He said things directly, with a mix of calm and filth that made me read every message twice.

—When you come to my place —he wrote me one Tuesday at eleven at night— I want to eat your ass before I put anything else in you. Has anyone done that to you?

—No —I answered, and my hand had already wandered on its own to the waistband of my pajama pants.

—Then we’d start there. Face down, legs apart, and my tongue taking its time. Licking your hole, pushing the tip in, soaking you all over until you beg me to fuck you. So you can relax. So you understand there’s nothing to be afraid of.

—Keep going.

—When you couldn’t take it anymore, I’d put a pillow up under your chest, lift your ass, and slide my cock into you slowly. Very slowly. All the while in your ear, telling you how tight you are, how good it feels to break in a virgin ass. I wouldn’t let you breathe. Once you were used to it, I’d slam it all the way in at once.

I’d already pulled it out. I was stroking it with my right hand while I read, typing clumsily with my left.

—And then?

—Then I’d fuck you on your back, so I could see your face. With your legs over my shoulders. So I could see your eyes roll back. So I could see your cock dripping without you touching it. And when I was about to come I’d tell you, and you’d decide whether you swallowed it or let me fill you up inside.

I came on my stomach three messages later. I didn’t answer him for twenty minutes. When I came back, I only wrote: “I just came reading you.”

—That’s the effect I want to have on you.

I masturbated again with that the next day. And again on Friday, when he sent me a thirty-second audio describing in a rough voice what he’d do to me if we saw each other that same night. I could hear even his breathing. I could hear him swallow before saying, “I’m going to put it all the way in, newbie, balls deep.” You could tell he was jerking off while recording too.

I saved the audio. I shouldn’t say this, but I still listen to it sometimes. I get hard just from hearing the first three seconds.

***

The problem started when he proposed a real date.

—How about this Saturday?

I worked Saturdays until nine. He went in at six in the morning the next day. It didn’t line up at all. We tried again the following Wednesday: I had a family dinner. Sunday: he had his nephew over. Every time a possible window opened up, one of the two schedules closed.

I wanted to think it was just the calendar. That it was bad luck. But the truth is, if I’m honest with myself, there was something else too.

Every time a concrete date, an exact time, an address got close, my stomach felt weird. Not fear exactly. Something more complicated. The feeling that crossing that door would mean crossing a line that couldn’t be erased afterward. Once I went to his place, got naked in front of him, and let him put his cock in me for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t be able to tell myself anymore, “I’m still figuring it out.” It would be a fact.

I’m suspicious by nature. I always have been. I find it hard to let anyone new in, even for dinner. And this wasn’t about dinner. It was about lying face down on a stranger’s bed, opening my legs for him, and letting him lick my ass, open it with his fingers, and fuck me exactly the way he’d promised me over chat for weeks.

Another part of me, the part that jerked off to his audios and shoved a dildo all the way in while imagining him on top of me, gasping in my ear as he rammed me, was shouting for me to stop thinking so much. To just go already. That later I’d regret not going more than I’d regret going.

But the body, when I’m alone, makes different decisions than the ones it makes when I’m in the chat with a hard cock.

***

We’ve been like this for a month and a half. We’ve both talked to other guys on the app. I tell him about them, he tells me about them. None of them fit like he does. Some physically attract me, of course, but the conversation doesn’t flow, or they’re too fast, or too bland, or they ask me for things I’m not ready to give yet: sending videos of me jerking off, meeting without seeing each other’s faces first, going straight to sucking them the second I walk through the door.

With women everything is different. With them there’s feeling, there’s a future, there’s the urge to wake up next to someone. With men, at least for now, it’s pure desire. Flesh. Hard cocks, asses, semen. Curiosity that’s been piling up for years and wants to get out somehow.

Iván is still there. Sometimes three days go by without us talking and then he writes me at two in the morning asking if I’m awake. I am. Almost always I am. We talk for a while, get each other hot, masturbate separately — he sends me audios breathing hard, I send him photos of my cock dripping — and go back to sleep with our underwear stuck to our thighs.

The other day he asked me if I was still scared.

—It’s not fear —I answered—. I just want to be sure.

—And when are you going to be sure?

I didn’t know what to say to him. I sent him a stupid emoji and changed the subject.

But that question has been circling in my head for weeks. When am I going to be sure? After how many audios, how many photos, how many nights with the dildo inside me imagining him on top of me, panting in my ear while he pounds me?

I know the answer. I’ve known it for a long time. I’m never going to be completely sure. The only way to find out what it feels like — really, with a hot cock going into me, with another man’s skin against mine, with a stream of someone else’s cum sliding inside me — is to get in the car on a Saturday night, drive those fifteen minutes, and ring the bell of an apartment I haven’t seen yet.

I’m going to do it. I don’t know when. I don’t know if it’ll be this week or next month, but I’m going to do it. And when it happens, when I finally leave that apartment with shaking legs and a burning ass, I promise I’ll tell it.

For now, this is what I have. An app, a boy who lives fifteen minutes away, an audio saved in favorites, a dildo that almost knows the way by itself, and the uncomfortable certainty that I stopped being who I was a long time ago — I just haven’t dared say it out loud until tonight.