My Best Friend’s Confession Changed Everything

I’ve known Carla since we were seven and they used to seat us together because we were the two who talked the most in class. We grew up in the same neighborhood, in the same stairwell of identical apartment blocks, and for years what we had was exactly what you’d expect from two kids: stupid fights, swapped backpacks, entire afternoons on the console in her living room while her mother shouted at us to turn the volume down. Nothing I’m about to tell would make sense without first understanding that Carla was, before anything else, my favorite person in the world.

Things started to change when we were around twenty. Not all at once, but with that strange slowness lifelong friendships have when they shift. Carla had come out not long before, and I say not long because in our world that still took courage. It wasn’t some movie-level drama, but it wasn’t easy either: looks, comments, the awkward silence of some acquaintance. I found out one winter afternoon, sitting on a bench with two coffees going cold in our hands.

—I like girls —she blurted out, not looking at me, her eyes fixed on the pavement—. I always have.

—Yeah, no shit —I told her—. I’ve known longer than you have.

She laughed, and a tear slipped out, and I took her to eat a burger to celebrate. That was the first of many confessions, though I didn’t know it then.

***

We went through a period of distance, those months when each of us was busy with our own mess, but it didn’t last. We went back to how things had always been, only with one difference: now we could both talk about girls. And I, who always make everything a joke, didn’t miss the chance.

—The good thing —I told her one afternoon at the beach— is that from now on we can comment on people passing by together. Mixed team.

—You’re disgusting —she said, but she didn’t take her eyes off the group of girls that had just walked past our towels.

That was us. We told each other about hookups, disasters, first dates that went badly and second dates that went too well. Carla still didn’t talk about that stuff with almost anyone; she didn’t feel fully comfortable. With me, yes. With me, over time, she started speaking in so much detail that it made both of us a little nervous, even if neither of us said it out loud. She’d tell me how she ate out some girl named Marta until she made her shake, how she slipped two fingers inside herself while the other girl licked her tits, how she ended up with her face soaked in the other girl’s come. And I listened with my dick hard, bulging under my pants, not even trying to hide it, because by then there was no hiding anything between us anymore.

I remember that, with no apparent malice, she’d point at the obvious bulge in my pants whenever I told her something filthy and call me a pervert, laughing. “You’re getting hard, you pig,” she’d say, and smack me right over it. And I’d return the favor when her nipples stood out under her T-shirt or when, while telling me one of her stories, her hand slipped a little too long between her legs over her clothes. “You’re getting your cunt wet just thinking about it,” I’d say, and she’d laugh while squeezing her thighs together. Small gestures, almost innocent ones, that gave us both away. We’d laugh. Change the subject. Come back to it.

***

The next step came without anyone planning it. One day, while we were talking about our partners, Carla took out her phone to show me a conversation with Daniela, the girl she’d been seeing for a few months. It was the kind of conversation you don’t show anyone: explicit, direct, the kind you write at two in the morning without thinking someone else will ever read it. There were messages from her saying “I want you to finger-fuck me until I scream,” “I’m going to eat your cunt until you come in my mouth,” “get on top of my face and suffocate me.”

—Careful, you might show me something you won’t want me to see later —I warned her, half joking.

—What do you think, I’m going to get shy? —she answered with that half-smile of hers—. Sometimes I even watch straight porn, for cultural reasons. I love seeing a guy shove it all the way into a girl, even if it’s not for me.

—That’s not the same as seeing what I write to Lucía.

—Then show me and we’ll compare.

She said it like a challenge, and I’ve never known how to say no to one of her challenges. I handed her my phone. I watched her read, arch an eyebrow, bite her lip. She paused at every message: the one where I told Lucía I was going to come inside her, the one where I described how I was going to fuck her ass slowly, the one where I asked her to suck my cock until she swallowed it whole. When she gave it back, she took a couple of seconds before speaking.

—You guys aren’t saints either —she said—. Jesus, the filthy things you write to Lucía are worse than mine. And look, if you use it thinking about Lucía, then I’m all for it. I’m no nun either, if you were wondering. Yesterday, for instance, Daniela had my face between her legs for almost an hour before she let me breathe.

That afternoon ended there, the two of us passing the phone back and forth over a café table, my cock half-erect under my jeans and her crossing and uncrossing her legs every couple of seconds. But something had shifted. We both felt it.

***

From then on, sometimes we’d meet up just for that. We didn’t say it like that, of course. We said “to catch up,” but both of us knew catching up meant telling each other, in explicit detail, what was happening in our beds. We’d show each other conversations, send each other video clips related to whatever the other had just told us. She’d send me clips of women devouring each other with brutal hunger; I’d send her scenes of men fucking a girl from behind while pulling her hair. We’d comment on positions, cock size, how this actress or that one moaned, whether the cumshot was fake or real. It was a game with rules we never agreed on but followed to the letter: no touching, all telling.

And yet, there was less and less space between the two.

One night, each of us at home, we’d been texting for a while. It was one of those conversations that start out silly and heat up before you even realize it. I told her that the night before Lucía had climbed on top of me and ridden my cock until she came twice in a row, her hand around my throat and her tits bouncing in my face. She told me that she’d given Daniela such a long sixty-nine that the two of them had fallen asleep with the other woman’s cunt half an inch from her mouth. At some point I wrote that if her girlfriend were straight, I wouldn’t be responsible for myself. She answered that if Lucía played for her team, neither would she; that she’d eat her cunt until she was hoarse from screaming. We laughed separately, each in front of our screen, miles apart and closer than ever.

That was when I decided to show her how far Lucía and I went. I had some screenshots saved that made everything very clear: messages where I described how I wanted to fuck her against the bathroom mirror, how I was going to fill her cunt with semen, how I was going to come on her tits. There was one catch: the conversation came with a couple of photos. Photos of me, the kind you take at three in the morning when your head isn’t in charge, with my hard cock in my hand, full-frontal and uncropped. I warned her before sending anything.

—Warning that I’m in there. All of me. And properly hard.

—Send —she wrote, that was all.

I sent it. And then came the longest silence of the night. I could see her online, reading, savoring it, and I was on the other side counting the seconds with my heart in my throat and my cock already half-hard just imagining her looking. When she finally replied, I read her message three times in a row.

—Jesus, Lucía has amazing tits, now I want to eat them too. Fuck, her nipples are showing and everything, I want to suck one while I stick my hand in her panties. And that’s your dick? Fuck, I’d never seen it like that, and I wasn’t expecting it to be that thick. Nice. I’m picturing Lucía trying to fit the whole thing in her mouth, and no wonder she writes you those filthy messages.

I don’t need to explain what state I was in in real time. That line of hers, written with the casualness of someone commenting on the weather, drove me wild. My cock was straining hard against my boxer briefs, and I pulled it out without thinking. We kept talking a little longer, and since I was home alone, I’d already started touching myself while I typed. With one hand I wrote, with the other I stroked my glans slowly up and down, with the image of her biting her lip in front of my photo burned into my head. I didn’t tell her. There was no need. I think she knew, just as I knew what she was doing on the other side: two fingers buried in her cunt, the other hand squeezing one breast, her breathing ragged.

***

When it was time to say goodnight, Carla didn’t want to owe me anything.

—Come on, so I’m not the only one who’s seen something today, here.

And I got a screenshot. In it, Daniela had sent her a topless photo, one of those couples send when the other person gets home late. Hard nipples pointing up, and one hand shoved inside the waistband of her pants. I stared at it longer than I care to admit, my cock already leaking at the tip.

—Fuck, that’s obscene —I wrote—. I want to eat those too. I’d lick those nipples until she was moaning. And yours?

—Mine? You’ve seen mine tons of times.

And it was true. Carla had gone topless on the beach in front of me since we were old enough to go alone, we’d changed clothes in front of each other a thousand times, without shame, like people sharing a room with a sibling. Even so, I kept insisting it wasn’t the same, that seeing her by choice had nothing to do with catching a glimpse by accident, that now I wanted to look at them knowing I was thinking about fucking. She didn’t bite, but she took just long enough to reply for me to know she’d thought about it.

—Goodnight, you pervert. And don’t come too hard, we’ve got to get up early tomorrow.

—Goodnight, horny girl. Stick your fingers in deep for me.

I finished what I’d started with Daniela’s photo still on the screen. I stroked my cock slowly at first, squeezing my glans every time I reread Carla’s “now I want to eat them too,” picturing her in her bed doing the same thing I was. When I came, it shot out in spurts across my stomach, biting my lip so I wouldn’t say her name out loud. I fell asleep with a stupid smile, my hand sticky, and a new feeling I didn’t quite know where to put. It wasn’t love, not in the classic sense. It was something else. A complicity that had spilled over the edges and that we no longer knew how to put back in its channel.

***

The next day I texted her the first thing that came to mind when I woke up.

—If we keep getting each other worked up like this, I’m going to end up showing you a homemade video of my own making. Haha.

I wrote it like a joke, with the safety haha at the end, that little tag we add so we can back out if things go sideways. She didn’t take long to answer.

—I’m not going to freak out. I might even like it. Is Lucía in it sucking you off? Because if so, send it now.

I read that sentence and felt something wake up inside me, a perversion I hadn’t let myself name until then. My cock went stiff again, morning-hard and sensitive, just from imagining her watching Lucía swallow my dick whole while she shoved her hand into her panties over breakfast. It wasn’t the desire to sleep with her; it was never that, she was perfectly clear about what she liked and I respected that as I respect very few things. It was the thrill of the boundary. Of knowing that with Carla I could cross a line I wouldn’t cross with anyone else, because with no one else was there enough trust for it to mean nothing and, at the same time, mean everything.

How far were we willing to go?

That question hovered between us for days. The truth is, no matter how much we flirted with the idea, that step seemed doomed never to happen. Or not yet. There was an invisible line neither of us had spoken out loud, but both of us knew was there, and respecting that line was, deep down, what kept everything else standing.

***

Years have passed since those nights. Carla is still my best friend; she’s now married to a wonderful woman who isn’t Daniela, and long ago I learned not to tell anyone what I do with the person I share my bed with. But sometimes, when we end up at the same dinner and someone cracks a filthy joke, we look at each other across the table and let out a smile no one else understands.

Because there are things we only tell each other. Things a true friend keeps like treasure and would never repeat aloud. I carry mine with me, just as she carries hers. And every now and then, in the middle of the night, with my cock in my hand and my breathing cut short, I remember that screenshot, that “I might even like it,” and I understand that the most honest friendship of my life was also the hottest. Even though we never, not even once, actually touched.

I suppose some confessions are worth precisely that: everything that was said, all the soaked cunts and hard cocks we aroused from a distance, and everything that, knowing it together, we chose not to do.