My First Time with a Man Was in That Car

I still can’t believe it. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head and I still don’t understand how I let it happen, or why, when the time came, I didn’t want it to stop.

I’m thirty years old and happily married. I’m tall, dark, and I’ve never had trouble getting people to like me; for years that was part of my identity, almost a certainty. I live near the coast, I lead a normal life, and if anyone had told me what I’m telling here, I would have laughed in their face.

That weekend was the bachelor party of a lifelong friend. We took a ferry to Formentera with the idea of spending three full days there, with no schedules, no phones, no obligations. We were a large group, sixteen people, and we rented a house together. From the first day it was a pleasantly chaotic mess: music all the time, coolers full of beer, people coming and going.

There were some guys I didn’t know and a couple of older men, fathers of friends of friends, who had joined the trip. At first I thought it was strange, but they were nice, friendly, and they fit in quickly. One of them, Ramón, must have been in his mid-fifties. A bit chubby but solid, with that quiet confidence of men who no longer have anything to prove. He laughed easily and got along with everyone.

The first night we went out to a couple of clubs on the island. We danced, drank more than we should have, talked to a lot of girls. Some in the group managed to disappear with company; I spent half the night flirting with a blonde who was absolutely stunning. I bought her drinks, made her laugh, danced pressed against her until there was almost no space left between our bodies. But in the end nothing happened. She left with her friends and I was left frustrated and with a stupid hard-on that wouldn’t go away.

When we decided to head back to the house, already in the early hours of the morning, almost everyone had drifted off. There were four of us left for the rental car: Dani, who was driving, Bruno in the passenger seat, Ramón, and me in the back. We’d all been drinking quite a bit.

—Guys, seriously, we can’t drive like this —Dani said as he started the car—. Let’s stop somewhere for a while, clear our heads, and then keep going.

He was right. None of us were in any condition to drive. We parked in a vacant lot near the beach, under some pine trees, with the windows half-open and the sound of the sea in the distance.

It was a matter of minutes. As soon as the engine shut off and we fell silent, Dani and Bruno fell asleep. Literally. They started snoring almost at the same time, one slumped over the wheel and the other against the window.

—These two are out cold already —Ramón muttered beside me, chuckling under his breath—. Come on, let’s rest too.

I closed my eyes. I was tired, but sleep wouldn’t come. I had a thin cardigan folded over my legs and my shorts were unbuttoned at the waist, for comfort. I stayed like that, still, listening to the snoring and the wind in the trees.

I figure about fifteen minutes passed. Then I felt a hand resting on my knee.

Don’t make a big deal out of it.

I didn’t move. I didn’t open my eyes. I told myself it must have been an unintentional gesture, that he’d fallen asleep and his hand had just landed there. But after a moment that hand started moving. Slowly. Sliding up my thigh by barely a couple of centimeters.

I stayed completely still. My heart had sped up and I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t saying anything, why I wasn’t pulling my leg away and ending the matter with a joke. But I didn’t. I stayed there listening to my own breathing, pretending to be asleep when I wasn’t.

The hand kept going up. There was no longer any way to fool myself: Ramón was stroking my thigh with deliberate slowness, measuring every movement, waiting for a reaction I wasn’t giving. I felt a strange mix of nerves and something else I took a while to recognize.

Turn-on? Seriously, is this turning me on?

That’s what I thought, and the question scared me more than the hand itself. I’m straight. I’m married. A man is touching my leg in a car and I’m still here, motionless, with a tingle climbing my spine. React, I ordered myself. I didn’t react.

When his fingers reached the pocket line, he slid them over the fabric of my shorts and brushed, almost accidentally, the tip of my cock. It was like a crack of lightning. A shiver ran through me and, before I could stop it, I started getting hard.

I kept pretending to be asleep. I didn’t know whether he noticed or not, but I suppose my body was speaking for me. He began to press gently over the fabric, with a patient rhythm, and with every squeeze I was hit by a spasm I could barely hide.

I was about to explode. I didn’t want him to know I was awake, and at the same time I didn’t want him to stop. Both things at once, pulling me in opposite directions.

Then I felt his fingers at the zipper of my shorts, sliding it down tooth by tooth, unhurried. And I still didn’t move.

What are you doing? Stop this already. What the fuck are you doing?

I was screaming at myself inside and still I let him. He pulled the waistband of my boxer briefs down with two fingers and left me exposed, open to the cool air of dawn.

That’s when I did react. I pretended to wake up suddenly, blinking as if I had no idea what was happening. The two in front were still snoring like bears.

—What’s up, man? —I said softly, dragging the words—. Scoot over, you’re wasted. Come on, go to sleep.

For a second I thought sanity had returned, that this would become a misunderstanding we’d never speak about. But Ramón didn’t move away. He grabbed my wrist firmly so I wouldn’t pull up the zipper, looked me in the eyes in the dim light, and pulled my boxer briefs aside again.

The next thing I felt was heat. Wet, enveloping heat that left my mind blank. He had taken the whole thing into his mouth and I froze, unable to think, feeling his tongue and his saliva in a caress unlike anything I had ever known before.

I tried to push his head away, more by reflex than conviction. Every time I tried, my hand got a gentle slap, and with each slap my resistance weakened, until I stopped trying.

I stayed still. I glanced sideways at the two in front, terrified they’d wake up, and that same possibility, the danger of being caught, made me even harder. I couldn’t understand how he was able to do it with such skill, such devotion, sucking in a way that steadily shut down my reason.

I came almost without warning. I lost sight for an instant and came in less than a minute, biting my lips so I wouldn’t make a sound, with the sensation of emptying myself completely. He swallowed everything, leaving not a single drop behind that could give anything away, and kept going, slowly, with no rush to let me go.

He was looking me in the eyes while he did it. I’m sucking your cock and you’re losing your shit, his eyes seemed to say. And he was right. I was losing my shit.

***

When he finally let go, he took my hand and brought it to him. He was out, hard, waiting. I didn’t pull my hand back. I let myself go.

I had never touched another man. Never had I held in my palm anything that wasn’t mine or a woman’s body. He was hot and firm, and he let me do it at my own pace. I started moving my hand slowly, clumsily at first, discovering completely new territory.

My mouth dried out from sheer arousal. Every time I slid my hand to the tip I felt the wetness there, and I can’t explain why that, instead of putting me off, only turned me on more. I wanted him to know I was doing it because I wanted to. That it wasn’t the alcohol, or an accident, or a favor. That I was enjoying pleasing him.

He kept looking at me. He shook his head, pointed downward with his eyes, then looked at me again, repeating the gesture as if he were asking for something without daring to say it.

What am I supposed to do, man? No. One thing is letting him do this to me and another very different thing is this.

But every thought of refusal was at the same time a stab that pushed me in the opposite direction. The idea of doing it, of crossing that final line, was killing me inside.

I looked down while I kept stroking him slowly. And then it hit me. A shiver ran down my back until I was almost dizzy, and the idea of sucking him off settled in my head and refused to leave.

I checked again that the two in front were still snoring like logs. And I let myself fall.

The first touch of my lips against another man sent me through the roof. I did what I knew how to do, what I had felt done to me so many times; I let instinct and memory guide me. I tasted him, felt his heat, and at that point I didn’t care about anything else. I did it slowly, with contained hunger, wanting him to understand I was willing, that tonight was his.

Why do I like this so much? Am I really the one doing this?

It was filthy, yes. It was something that fit nothing I thought I knew about myself. But I liked it, and for once I decided not to fight myself.

He warned me in a whisper, almost a thread of voice, to move away, that he was about to come. I didn’t move away. I remembered how women did it with me and kept going, focused on the tip, until I felt him finish and swallowed everything, without thinking, as if I had been doing it all my life.

***

After that we both sat in silence, putting our clothes back in place, cleaning ourselves up as best we could, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Dani and Bruno’s snores still filled the car.

Neither of us said a word. We only exchanged one last look before closing our eyes and pretending to sleep, until the sky began to lighten and we drove back to the house as if we were four tired friends coming home from a night out.

That was only the first day of the three we were going to spend on the island. Even today I still don’t fully know who I am after that dawn. The only thing I know is that, when I remember it, I don’t feel shame. I feel something else I’d rather not say out loud.