My First Time With a Man Was on Christmas Eve

I’d been buried for nearly a year in those dating sites where people post ads looking for the same thing I was. I had written to dozens of men, received half-finished replies, canceled dates, photos that didn’t match the person who showed up later. Every time it seemed like something was finally going to happen, up came an excuse: work, a partner, fear. Especially fear. Mine and theirs.

It was December 24 when it finally happened. I’d spent the whole morning exchanging messages with a guy I’m going to call Iván. We hadn’t exchanged photos until that very day. The only thing I knew about him was what he wanted, what I wanted, and that he lived an hour from my place. We didn’t need any more messages. Sometimes, when something has been stuck in your throat for years, the decision gets made in thirty seconds.

—Plaza Las Acacias, at five —he wrote.

—I’ll be there —I replied.

I sent him my car’s license plate. He sent me a quick description: gray jacket, black cap, backpack over one shoulder. Enough.

I left home under the excuse of doing the last-minute shopping for dinner. My family was expecting me at nine. I had four hours. More than enough, I thought then. Today, looking back, I know four hours is nothing when you’ve spent half your life carrying a question.

I got to the parking lot twenty minutes early. I stayed in the car, looking at the rearview mirror, trying to convince myself I wasn’t doing anything strange, that this was just a curiosity like any other. But my hands were shaking. The radio was playing Christmas carols and I couldn’t focus on a single word. I thought about leaving. I thought about it three times. The fourth time, I saw him coming toward me.

He wasn’t a model. He wasn’t ugly either. He was a normal man, in his early thirties, with a tired face and a nervous smile when he identified me. He opened the passenger door and got in without looking at me much.

—Hi —he said.

—Hi —I answered.

The two syllables weighed like a stone.

—So now what? —he asked.

—There’s a hotel three blocks away —I said—. I know it. It’s discreet.

He nodded. We didn’t talk on the way there. I kept counting the blocks and checking the mirror at every corner, as if I were expecting someone I knew to see me. He looked out the window, hands clasped over his legs, and out of the corner of my eye I could see he already had a bulge pressing against the fabric of his pants. We got to the hotel, I paid for the room for two hours at the front desk, got the key, and we went upstairs in silence.

***

The room smelled of disinfectant and of another time. A double bed, a nightstand, a TV on with the welcome channel. I locked the door. He left the backpack on a chair and stood in the middle of the room, not quite sure what to do with his arms.

—So? —he said, trying to laugh—. Who goes first?

—I don’t know —I answered—. It’s my first time with a man.

—Mine too.

We looked at each other one second longer than necessary. Something loosened in my chest.

—All right —I said—. Take your shirt off.

He took it off. He had the body of someone who doesn’t go to the gym but doesn’t neglect himself either. Broad chest, dark hair running down to his pants, a small scar on his side. I took mine off. We looked at each other for a moment, both in jeans and barefoot, and suddenly the embarrassment I’d been carrying since morning deflated.

—Come here —he said.

I went closer. I didn’t know if I should kiss him or not. I decided not to, not yet. I put a hand on his neck and slowly slid it down his chest, feeling his skin rise under my fingers. He did the same, less sure, and for a moment we were both standing in the middle of the room, tracing each other like we were checking whether the other man’s body was real. When I ran my hand over his jeans, I grabbed his cock through the fabric. It was hard, heavy, throbbing under my fingers. He took a deep breath and did the same to me: he squeezed me through my pants and worked me slowly, measuring my length with his open palm.

—Take your pants off —I murmured.

He did. I followed his lead. We stayed in our underwear and the air in the room seemed to grow denser. I saw the bulge marked against the cotton, the dark wet patch right at the tip. After so many months imagining it, there it was: another man, in front of me, with a hard cock and a stained brief, wanting the same thing.

He knelt.

He didn’t ask, didn’t warn me. He simply lowered himself to his knees in front of me, took hold of the waistband of my briefs, and slid them down to my ankles. My cock sprang free, hard, pointing at his face. I felt his hand, tentative at first, adjusting to the shape of something new. He circled the base with his fingers, glanced up for a second—as if asking permission—and took me into his mouth.

—Slowly —I said—. You don’t have to rush.

It wasn’t the best blowjob of my life, but few things had ever felt that hot. I could feel his lips sealing around my head, his tongue clumsily working beneath it, his left hand squeezing my balls like he didn’t quite know what to do with them but didn’t want to leave them out of the party. Every so often he gagged, coughed, and took me back in, eyes watery, a thread of saliva hanging from his chin. I put a hand on his neck, not pushing, just to feel him, and I noticed he started sucking deeper, letting me touch the back of his throat. When he pulled off for air, he jacked me with his hand and spit all over me, leaving me slick, soaked, then went back to eating me from the tip.

It wasn’t the technique that had me on edge. It was the image. It was the confirmation that this man, a stranger I’d contacted through a website, was kneeling in front of me in a hotel room on December 24, sucking my cock like a horny fucking slut, and for the first time in my life I wasn’t imagining it: I was living it. I looked at his face while he sucked me and felt a pull in my balls that almost made me come right there in his mouth.

I made him get up after a few minutes, before I lost it. I kissed his forehead without thinking. He laughed, with swollen, shiny lips.

—And that?

—I don’t know —I said—. I felt like it.

I guided him to the bed. I told him to lie down and knelt between his legs. I pulled down his briefs. His cock sprang out, thick, red at the tip, with a fat drop of pre-cum dripping from the frenulum. I grabbed it at the base and brought it close to my face. It smelled like man, like hot skin, like something I recognized and didn’t at the same time. I stuck out my tongue and licked him from his balls to the tip, slowly, letting the head rest there for a second before taking him all the way into my mouth. I felt his thighs tense.

I did what he’d done to me, but slower, trying to take in every detail: the texture of the veins against my tongue, the salty taste of precum on my palate, the way a man’s body responds to another man’s when you suck him right. I swallowed his cock as far as I could, gagged, pulled it out with a string of spit, and took it back in again. Then I lifted his legs, ran my tongue over his balls, sucked them one by one while I shook his cock against my cheek. Iván closed his eyes and let out a long, rough moan, which made me pump my own against the sheets without realizing it. He had a hand on the back of my neck, not pressing, just resting there, trembling slightly.

—Stop —he said after a while—. Stop, stop.

I stopped, with the tip still between my lips.

—What’s wrong?

—If we keep going like this I’m going to come —he said, swallowing—. And I want more. I want you to fuck me.

***

He turned over on the bed. He got on all fours with his chest against the sheets and his ass in the air, and turned his head to look at me over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His cheeks were spread, the hole tight and pink in the middle, throbbing every time he breathed.

I asked if he was sure. He nodded. I moved closer, opened his ass with both hands, and spat on it. I watched the saliva run down the crease and drip to his balls. I ran my thumb over the hole, pressing just a little, and felt it open a millimeter and then close again. I slid in one finger first, very slowly, and he let out a muffled moan against the pillow. I moved it inside, pulled it out, added more spit, and slid in two. I remembered all the things I’d read at night in forums, in chats, in stories from others like me, and for the first time I had them under my body, not on a screen.

—Open a little more —I asked.

He opened. I curved my fingers inside him and searched for the prostate, that spot I’d read about so much and never touched. When I found it, his back arched and he let out an animal growl against the sheets. I worked him from the inside a little longer, until he started pushing his ass against my hand, impaling himself on my fingers.

—Now —he said, voice tight—. Put it in now, please.

I spat into my palm, coated my cock well, and got behind him. I pressed the tip against his entrance. Pushed. Slowly. Centimeter by centimeter. I felt him open, yield, the tightness of another man’s body being a sensation no woman had ever given me. A ring of muscle closing around my head, milking me the moment I got in, so hot inside it almost hurt.

—Wait —he said, voice tight—. Wait a second. You’re big.

I waited, with half of it inside. I put a hand on his lower back and rubbed his kidneys. I felt him breathing, relaxing around me, felt his ass stop biting my cock and start accepting it.

—Keep going —he asked—. Slowly.

I pushed the rest in. When I had all of him inside me, my balls pressed against his, I stayed still for a second, feeling his ass pulse around my cock as if it had its own heartbeat. Then I started moving. Slow at first, pulling out almost all the way and pushing back in slowly, watching my cock disappear inside him and come back out gleaming with spit. Then a little faster, reading each of his gasps like instructions. When I was sure it didn’t hurt him, I slapped his ass. Just once. Lightly.

—Again —he whispered.

I did it again. His cheek went red.

—Harder.

I did it harder. He let out a sound against the pillow, clutching it with both hands, and started pushing back, setting the rhythm, impaling himself on my pelvis. The room filled with the sound of my thighs hitting his ass and his increasingly unrestrained moans.

—You clench so fucking good —I told him, grabbing his hips and pushing deeper—. You’re milking my cock, you son of a bitch.

—And you —he answered, not turning around, voice broken—, you don’t know what you’re doing. Fuck me harder. Put it all in me.

I laughed and obeyed. I grabbed his shoulders and started fucking him deep, pulling almost all the way out and driving it in to the balls. Each thrust tore a growl from him and made him throw his head back. I stretched out, grabbed his cock from the front, and found it soaked, leaking pre-cum onto the sheets. I jerked him off in time with my fucking, and he started saying something he didn’t even understand himself, a mix of curses and “more” and “like that,” face buried in the pillow.

After a few minutes I pulled out, my cock shiny and throbbing. I wanted the first round to be complete, and it still wasn’t his turn.

—Your turn —I said.

I lay on my back at the edge of the bed, lifted my legs, and spread myself with my hands. He settled between my thighs. He spit on his cock, spit on my hole, passed two fingers into me first, trying to loosen me up like I had done with him. When I felt the tip press against my entrance, I knew it was going to hurt. And it did. Much more than I expected. My cock shrank a little from the shock, but I signaled with my hand for him not to stop.

—Wait —I murmured anyway a second later—. Wait a second.

He stopped. He didn’t pull out. He just stayed still, with the tip barely inside, looking at me, one hand on my chest as if taking my pulse. I waited. I breathed deep. I signaled again.

—Keep going. Slower.

He kept going. He slid in another centimeter and waited. Another and waited. I focused on breathing, on relaxing my body, on opening for him. After a few long seconds, the pain started changing shape. It didn’t disappear, but it stopped being pain only. It was a strange mix of discomfort, tension, something opening inside me, hot fullness. When I felt his thighs hit mine, I knew he was all the way in. His cock filled me completely, throbbing against my walls, touching me in a place that had never been touched.

—Good? —he asked.

—Good —I said—. Fuck me.

He started moving. Slowly at first, almost shyly, pulling out just a little and then easing back in carefully. I grabbed the backs of my knees and opened myself wider, offering it all to him. On the second or third thrust he grazed my prostate and I let out a moan I didn’t recognize as mine. It was like an electric cable had been thrown through me. My cock got harder than it had all afternoon, bouncing against my stomach every time he pushed.

—There —I told him, grabbing his ass with both hands—. Right there. Don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. He found his rhythm, fucking me head-on, looking me in the eyes, and somewhere between the fourth and fifth thrust, what had been pain turned into something else. A feeling I’d never had before and will remember forever: the confirmation that my body could give and receive, without rules, without a manual, without anyone’s permission. I was letting a stranger fuck me and I was liking it more than any fucking I’d ever had.

***

We stayed like that for a long while. We changed positions twice. He rode me sideways, one leg over his shoulder, fucking me while he jerked my cock with his free hand. Then I sat on top of him and impaled myself, sinking all the way down, moving my hips in circles and feeling his cock touching me everywhere. At some point he lost his erection from using it so much and asked me to suck him to get him hard again. I knelt between his legs and took him all the way into my mouth, still with his taste and mine mixed on my skin. He got hard again in my mouth and, for some reason, that seemed to me the most intimate thing about the whole afternoon: feeling him grow against my tongue, filling with blood, throbbing against my palate.

When he was hard again, I put him on his back, climbed on top of him, and took him again, this time with my back to him, squatting, letting him watch his cock go in and out of my ass. I took one of his hands and brought it to my cock, and he started jerking me off while I bounced on top of him. A long moan escaped me when he hit the right spot again.

After that I was the one who turned him over and fucked him. He got on all fours again, with his knees to his chest, and I drove my cock all the way in. I grabbed his cock and worked it at the same pace I was fucking him. The room was a symphony of skin slapping skin, muffled moans, the creaking of the hotel’s old bed. I asked permission before coming, never pulling out, breathing hard against his ear.

—Where do you want it? —I asked, my voice already wrecked, feeling everything gathering in my balls.

—Wherever you want —he said.

—Inside?

—Inside. Come inside me. Fill me up.

And I let go. I thrust two, three more times, all the way in, and felt my load rise from my balls and explode inside him. Spurt after spurt, feeling his ass squeeze me and milk every drop, feeling my hands closing around his, feeling his voice whispering something I didn’t understand but that sounded a lot like relief. When I pulled my cock out, a thick thread of semen mixed with saliva ran out and down his crease to the sheets.

We stayed still for a while. Then it was my turn. He settled behind me, his cock hard again, and he put it back in, this time easier, with my ass already open and loosened from before. He fucked me spoon-style, biting my shoulder, grabbing my cock from the front and jerking me off slowly, and after a few minutes I came over his hand in long waves, with him still inside me. When he came a few minutes later, he did it without warning. I felt the hot lash inside me, three, four, five times, and his body trembling against mine. He pulled out slowly and left a warm stream running down my thigh. Time no longer mattered. The room was dim and the TV was still on its silent welcome channel. Outside, the world was still December 24. Inside, I was no longer being someone else.

We showered separately, without talking much. We got dressed. We went down the hotel stairs with the same face we’d had before, as if nothing had happened. I took him to the bus stop he pointed out to me. Before getting off, he looked at me.

—Merry Christmas Eve —he said.

—Merry Christmas Eve —I answered.

He closed the door. I watched him walk away in the rearview mirror until he blended into the people at the stop. We never wrote to each other again. Not out of anger, or regret. For something stranger. As if we both knew that insisting would have meant pushing against a door that had already opened all the way.

I got to the family dinner at nine oh five, with the grocery bag still half full and my ass burning under my pants. My mother asked why I’d taken so long. I told her there had been a lot of traffic. We ate. We toasted. My nephew hugged me at midnight.

That was my first time with a man. I don’t know if it will be the last. I’d spent years carrying that fantasy like a silent weight, and that Christmas Eve afternoon—in some random hotel, with some random stranger—I finally put it down. Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic. Maybe it lacked preparation, foreplay, conversation. But in the end it was what it had to be: one man and another man, in a room, fucking each other until they emptied out into one another, discovering what their minds had been denying them for so long.

***