I Gave Him a Blow Job in His Car Coming Back from the Fiestas

I was sitting in the passenger seat, in the dark, my back pressed against the seat and my head spinning. It was night. Or rather, already dawn, that dead hour when the whole village is asleep and only those who still haven’t wanted to go home remain awake. The car was parked a few meters from the entrance to my parents’ building, on a narrow street I’d known since childhood.

The only thing breaking the darkness was a streetlamp, just one, standing a few meters from us. Its yellowish light didn’t reach our faces. We could barely make each other out. And yet those few rays slipping through the windshield landed right where they shouldn’t: on his cock, hard, shiny, wet. It stood out in the middle of the gloom as if someone had put it there on purpose.

I had wet it. With my mouth. And I was about to go back down again.

I was very drunk, I’m not going to lie. I had drunk too much all night, several gin mixed drinks, and I’d topped it off with a couple of shots someone put in my hand at the peña bar. Frankly, I don’t remember the exact moment I ended up inside that car. There’s a black gap between the last song I remember dancing to and the instant I saw myself there, with his hand on the back of my neck.

What I do remember perfectly is who he was.

***

His name was Rubén, though back then everyone called him by his surname. It was from when I was in high school, from those years when I still wasn’t going out with the guy who would later be my boyfriend for almost a decade. I’d always liked Rubén. He wasn’t the best-looking in class or the most popular, but he had a way of looking at me that made me nervous, a crooked smile he saved just for me when he crossed paths with me in the hallway.

He flirted with me openly. He waited for me after school, offered to take me home on his motorcycle, whispered things in my ear at the village fiestas during those summers. And I loved that he did it, even if I never let him get too far. In the end I started going out with someone else. Things happened that way, that was all, and Rubén and I lost track of each other for years.

Until that night.

We’d run into each other again at the fair, amid the noise of the orchestra and the sticky plastic cups. He recognized me right away. He hugged me, told me I was exactly the same, that I hadn’t changed a bit. We talked about the old days, about people from the village, about what had become of everyone. And while we talked, I kept drinking, and he kept looking at me in that same way, and the distance between our two bodies kept getting smaller and smaller without either of us quite deciding it.

I don’t know who suggested leaving the grounds. I don’t know who said we should go to his car. I only know that all of a sudden the two of us were alone, on the street of my childhood, in the dark, and that the dawn air had sobered me up just enough to understand what I was about to do and not enough to stop myself.

***

It started with a kiss. One of those kisses that had been waiting twenty years, clumsy at first because of the alcohol, and then less and less clumsy. He put his hand on my thigh. I didn’t move it away. His mouth slid down my neck while his fingers went higher, and I let him do it with my eyes closed, thinking that none of it counted, that it was happening in another life, that tomorrow I’d erase it all.

I was the one who unzipped him. I remember because it was hard, because my fingers weren’t working properly and he gave a low laugh in the dark. When I finally got it out, I felt it heavy and hot in my hand. Big. Bigger than I’d imagined on all those afternoons in high school when I fantasized about him without daring to admit it.

I leaned over the seat and opened my mouth.

—Fuck —was the only thing he said when I wrapped my lips around it.

I started slowly, sliding over the tip, up and down, feeling it harden even more against my tongue. He had placed a hand on the back of my neck, not squeezing, just keeping pace with me. The other hand rested on the roof of the car, tense, as if it were hard for him to keep still.

I pulled it out of my mouth for a moment. I had felt the tip, huge, beginning to drip slowly. I paused, caught my breath, and in the dark, leaning a little on his legs, I went straight back down.

—Take me back in your mouth —he asked me, his voice broken—. Take me back in your mouth.

***

His cock went down my throat again. It was already completely wet, slippery, tasting of a mix of my own saliva and his. I closed my eyes. The world shrank to that tiny space between the steering wheel and the seat, to the smell of the car’s leather, to his breathing growing more and more ragged above my head.

I moved up and down, taking him as deep as I could and pulling back to get air. Sounds came out of my throat that I couldn’t control, clumsy, wet sounds mixed with his panting. My lips burned. Saliva ran down my chin and I didn’t care at all.

—Suck —he murmured—. Please, suck, don’t stop.

And I didn’t stop. I was drunk, but not so drunk that I couldn’t realize what was happening, the woman I was becoming at four in the morning in that car, so different from the one everyone thought they knew. And that, instead of slowing me down, pushed me to keep going.

I began to notice the first drops of his cum seeping out, splashing onto my tongue as I sucked. I spat a couple of times, without taking him out completely, and still I kept insisting. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to be the one deciding when and how.

***

I was aware the moment was approaching. I could feel it in everything: in how he had stopped talking, in how he was lasting less and less, in how his hips had begun moving on their own, looking for my mouth. He was panting harder. He asked for more, asked me not to stop, repeating my name like a plea.

—Marisol, fuck, Marisol...

And that was when I decided to stop.

I had the tip between my lips and I pulled it out slowly, without letting go, gripping it tightly with my hand. It was hard, very hard, but at the same time completely soaked in my saliva. I squeezed it, started jerking him with my closed fist, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, while bringing my face close enough to be just a handspan from him.

—You’re just about to come —I told him.

—No, no, no —he gasped—. Marisol, suck, suck again.

—I know you’re just about to come. —I kept moving my hand slowly, enjoying the power I had at that moment—. Do you want to come now? With my face this close to your cock. Do you want to come on my face?

He didn’t answer with words. He couldn’t. All that came out of his mouth was a long, hoarse, choked sound that broke off in the middle of my name.

—God... Marisol... aah...

Just saying it to him was enough, and I felt it. I felt everything surge up his cock under my fingers, felt it throb hard once, twice, three times, and then the hot jets spraying everywhere, over my hand, over my cheek, over the darkness wrapping around us. I kept moving my fist until the end, milking him slowly, while he trembled in the seat and let out his breath in one sharp rush.

***

We stayed still for a long while, saying nothing. All you could hear was his ragged breathing gradually returning to normal and the distant hum of the orchestra, still playing for those who didn’t want the night to end.

I felt for a tissue in my bag and cleaned myself up as best I could. He was looking at me in the dim light with a smile I couldn’t see but knew was there, the same crooked smile from high school, the one he saved just for me.

—I’d spent twenty years imagining this —he said quietly.

I didn’t answer. I straightened my clothes, ran my fingers through my hair, and opened the car door. The cool dawn air hit my face and brought me back to reality in a single breath. A few meters away was my entrance, my street, my ordinary life, waiting for me as if nothing had happened.

—Good night, Rubén —I told him before closing the door.

I walked home without looking back, with his taste still in my mouth and the certainty that I was never going to tell anyone about it. Ever. I’d keep it the way I now keep this confession: in the darkest corner of memory, where it only peeks out some nights, when alcohol and memories mix together again and I ask myself what would have happened if, all those years ago, I’d given Rubén a little more rope.