I Confess What You Asked Me for Every Night in Bed

You liked it back then when I did it to you from behind. And it wasn’t a shy preference, one of those things someone hints at with half-spoken words and then denies the next morning. It was a declared need, almost a banner. You said it without shame, with that naturalness of yours that used to completely undo me.

We had been together a little over two years when you started asking me for it in earnest. At first it was stray comments, tossed into the air while we were having dinner or while you were undressing at the edge of the bed. Later they became a ritual, a conversation we repeated almost every night, until it became part of who we were.

You even told me it was a real shame that I couldn’t feel what you felt. That I was missing out on something huge. And you repeated it to me so often, with so much conviction, that the seed of that idea eventually sprouted in my head, a head always far too fertilized with deliciously filthy thoughts.

But that came much later, and I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s another confession, for another dawn.

***

Marina had the habit of warning me with her eyes. Words weren’t needed. We were on the sofa, watching whatever series neither of us was really following, and all of a sudden she would turn her head and look at me in a way I had already learned to decipher. A slow blink, a barely sketched smile, her tongue grazing her upper lip.

—Upstairs? —she would ask, even though she already knew the answer.

—You go up —I’d tell her—. I’ll be there in a minute.

I would stay a few more minutes in the living room, deliberately stretching out the wait. I knew that little delay turned her on more than any caress. When I finally went upstairs, I always found her the same: lying on her side, waiting for me, her clothes already on the floor and the bottle of lubricant on the bedside table, placed there like an invitation that left no room for doubt.

—You were taking too long —she would complain, pretending to be annoyed.

—I know what I’m doing —I’d answer, and I’d see her smile against the pillow.

***

You got on all fours for me with a surrender that still raises goosebumps on my skin when I remember it. There was no shame in the gesture, no calculation. Only desire, pure and direct. You arched your back, pressed your chest down against the mattress, and lifted your hips, offering me that ass of yours that was, without exaggeration, the first thing I noticed about you years earlier, at a party where we barely exchanged ten words.

It was a big, firm ass, the kind that holds itself up. Two round, tight cheeks that filled my hands completely when I grabbed them. And between them, that taut place that you asked me to claim as if it were mine.

I took my time. That was one of my rules, one of the few I never broke. I poured the lubricant slowly, letting it fall in a cold stream that made you hold your breath. I could see your whole body tense with that first contact, how you held the air in your lungs in anticipation of what was coming.

—Cold —you whispered, laughing under your breath.

—Take it —I told you, and I slid in one finger, just the tip, unhurried.

***

I stretched you open little by little, with a patience that surprised even me. One finger first, turning it slowly, feeling how you gave way millimeter by millimeter. Then two, once you were ready, once your breathing changed rhythm and you started pushing back, looking for more.

You panted. They were vague pants at first, almost silences, as if you were embarrassed to admit how much you were enjoying it. I leaned over your back, kissed you between the shoulder blades, whispered in your ear that you were beautiful like that, open for me, trembling.

—Don’t stop —you begged me—. Please, don’t stop now.

—I’m not going to stop —I promised—. We’ve got all night.

And when I felt your body truly demanding me, when you could no longer stand that prelude, I moved behind you and started to enter. Centimeter by centimeter, slowly, feeling how you clenched around me, how every part of you closed over me in a taut caress that tore a growl from between my teeth.

You huffed. A long, rough sound, half relief and half hunger. You lowered your forehead to the pillow and gripped the sheets with both hands.

***

You gripped them so hard that more than once I thought you were going to tear them. Your knuckles were white, your arms tense, your whole body focused on that sensation you said I couldn’t even imagine.

I started out slowly. Always slowly. I loved watching you let go, how little by little you stopped holding yourself back and started pushing against me, setting the pace you wanted. Then I sped up, but gradually, attentive to every sound that escaped you, to every time you arched your back more, asking for deeper.

—More —you said, and it wasn’t a suggestion—. Harder.

And I listened. I grabbed your hips with both hands, sank my fingers into your flesh until I left marks that would last for days, and drove into you with all my weight. The bed started to move, to inch away from the wall with each thrust, until the headboard no longer touched it.

***

When I let myself go completely, when there was no trace left in me of that patience from the beginning, I did it to you without mercy. At full speed, with a fury that only ever came out with you, pounding into you so hard that the sound of our bodies filled the entire bedroom.

And you howled. There’s no other word for it. They weren’t soft movie moans; they were real screams, uncontrollable, the kind that make you turn the TV volume up so the neighbors won’t find out. You screamed my name, screamed for me not to stop, screamed things you felt awkward remembering the next morning.

—Like that —you repeated—. Just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop.

You came in a way I never saw in anyone else. Brutal, long, your whole body shaking beneath mine. Soaked, undone, clinging to the sheets as if the mattress were the only thing keeping you in this world.

***

And in the middle of those orgasms of yours, when your whole body was closing around me in waves, I could no longer hold back. You milked me without meaning to, with that rhythmic tightness that dragged me to the edge in a matter of seconds.

I ended up growling. Panting against your back, breathless, my forehead pressed to the nape of your neck and my hands still dug into your hips. I came with an intensity that left me dizzy, emptied, unable to speak for quite a while.

Because in those exact moments I felt like an animal. Without thought, without a mask, without any of the polite, proper man I was the rest of the day. Only instinct, only body, only you and me and that bed pushed out into the middle of the room.

And I liked feeling like that. More than I ever dared tell you out loud.

***

Afterwards came the silence. The good one, the after kind. We’d lie there recovering our breath, our broken breathing gradually syncing up. You’d turn toward me, sweaty, your hair stuck to your forehead, and look at me with a smile of complete satisfaction.

—One day you should try it —you’d tell me, almost joking, almost not.

—Don’t even dream about it —I always answered, and you laughed.

But the idea stayed there, floating between us, the same as every night. A small, stubborn seed that you watered with every comment and every laugh, without fully knowing what you were planting.

***

It took me months to admit, even if only to myself, that curiosity had gotten the better of me. That every time you came like that, part of me wondered what it would feel like to be in your place. What it had that could wrench screams out of you that I had never experienced.

I never confessed it to you then. I kept it to myself, as I kept so many things, behind the face of a confident man that you valued so much. But the seed was still there, sprouting in my always too-fertile head for forbidden ideas.

And one day, a long time later, I ended up trying that feeling too, which, I admit now, would have been a real shame to miss out on.

***

But that night when I finally dared, that dawn when it was you who smeared the lubricant on me and whispered for me to hold on, that we had all night, that’s another story. One I’ve never told anyone either.

Maybe someday I’ll gather the nerve to confess it all. Maybe not. There are memories you keep because telling them wears them out, and this one still warms my blood every time I close my eyes and see your arched back again under the bedside lamp’s dim light.

For now this is enough for me. To admit, here, in a low voice, what you asked me for every night and how much, how very much, I enjoyed giving it to you.