My Friend Marcos and What We Never Told Anyone

Marcos was a year older than I was. I met him when I was in my first year of high school and he was finishing his second, at that age when a year’s difference feels like a world apart. And yet we became friends almost immediately, without effort, in that way certain people sometimes do.

He was of average build, with the kind of easy physicality of someone who knows how to move without taking up more room than necessary. I got along well with him because he didn’t brag about anything. He was the kind of guy who would help with assignments without making you feel like he was doing you a favor.

We shared a lot of things during those years: football matches on weekends, afternoons in front of the TV, summers at the beach when we could manage it. Also the inevitable conversations about girls, which we’d recount when weeks went by without seeing each other and we needed to catch up.

By the time we turned twenty-two, life took up more of our time. He studied and worked in the afternoons; I had my own commitments too. But whenever we ran into each other, the dynamic was always the same.

***

For several months by then we had discovered, almost without talking about it, that we both watched porn when we were alone. I mentioned it one afternoon without really thinking, to see what he’d say, and he answered naturally that he did too. From there to doing it together was only one step.

The first time was weird. We sat on the sofa in his room, him at one end and me at the other, with the screen in front of us and each of us taking care of our own business. Without looking at each other. Without commenting. As if we were alone despite being together in the room. On the screen some chick was letting two guys fuck her, mouth open and pussy dripping, and each of us jerked off at our own pace, our breathing getting rougher and rougher.

With time it stopped feeling strange. It was simply what we did when the house was empty, at his place or mine.

That Saturday afternoon we were at his house. His parents wouldn’t be back until Monday night. We’d been on the sofa for a while, each of us at our own rhythm, when Marcos muted the volume without saying a word and turned to me.

—What if we jerk each other off?

I didn’t answer right away. The question was direct and there wasn’t an easy answer to give.

—No one’s going to find out —he added—. And it has to be a lot better than this.

He didn’t wait for my answer. His hand found mine and guided it to him. I felt the heat of his skin, the firmness of his hard cock against my palm, the thick vein pulsing on the back, something different from the touch of your own hand, which you already know by heart. I didn’t pull my hand away. On the contrary: I closed my fingers around his cock and felt the foreskin slide back on its own with the first movement, leaving the head swollen and shiny against my thumb.

Then he took mine and started.

The effect was immediate: a different kind of heat, more precise, rising from below and taking my breath away for a moment. His fist was different from mine, tighter at the base and looser at the tip, and he knew exactly when to twist his wrist as he got to the top. With my free hand I pumped his, not thinking too hard, responding to what I was feeling, trying to match the same rhythm he was imposing on me. I could hear our breathing blending together, the wet smack of skin on skin, the faint creak of the sofa under the two tense bodies.

It didn’t take long. Neither of us warned the other; neither of us had to. I felt his cock get even harder between my fingers a second before he started spilling hot jets over my hand and forearm, and that same image, combined with the tug of his fist on my cock, made me blow behind him, splattering his stomach and the hand with which he was still jerking me off until the last drop. When we were done we stayed silent for a few seconds, breathing, semen dripping between our fingers, before quietly cleaning up and turning our eyes back to the screen.

But something in the air of the room had changed.

***

For the next three months it became a habit. We didn’t talk about it; we didn’t need to. When the opportunity came up, we took it. Sometimes without even pulling our pants all the way down: we’d take our cocks out over the waistband of our boxers and work them until we came over our chests or stomachs, eyes fixed on the screen and one hand crossed over the other’s thigh.

Then his parents announced a four-day trip for a long holiday. Marcos called me and invited me to stay over. I accepted.

The first day was like always, more or less. Our usual routine, the sofa, the screen. Until Marcos turned it off completely and turned around to look me in the face.

—Want to 69?

I burst out laughing, more from surprise than anything else.

—That’s a whole other story —I said.

—Why? —he asked, completely calm—. No one’s going to do anything to you that you don’t want. And no one’s going to find out either. Didn’t you see how much they enjoy it in the videos when they suck each other off? It has to be completely different.

I thought about it. What he was saying wasn’t entirely illogical. What we’d seen on screen seemed different from everything before, of another intensity. Something I myself had wondered about without ever reaching an answer.

—We shower first —I said at last—. Otherwise I don’t think that’s right.

—Perfect —he replied, getting to his feet without delay.

His room had its own bathroom. We went in. He started taking off his clothes naturally while I stood there by the door, not really knowing what to do with my hands. When he pulled down his boxers I saw his cock half-erect, hanging heavy, and I looked away by reflex even though I’d already seen it a hundred times.

—The water takes a while —he warned me, already under the shower with the tap running.

I finished taking off my clothes and stepped in. The space was enough for both of us if we didn’t make any sudden moves.

—Turn around —he said, taking the soap—. I’ll wash your back.

I did. His hands started on my shoulders and moved down with even strokes, without rushing. It could have been anything, a friendly gesture, nothing more. But when he reached the small of my back and paused, his soapy fingers slipping between my cheeks and brushing my asshole a second too long, I knew it wasn’t. My cock started to rise on its own against my stomach.

—My turn now —I said.

He turned around. I soaped his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck. I went lower without stopping. Without meaning to, I fixed my eyes on the curve of his ass beneath the water, firm and pale, and felt my body responding on its own. I ran my soapy hand between his cheeks, feeling the tense little pucker under my fingertips, and he let out a short sigh that made me even harder.

When he turned back toward me, he took the soap and started cleaning my chest. He went lower slowly, with an attention that made it hard to tell where washing ended and something else began. His fingers wrapped around my cock and soaped it calmly, pumping it two, three times under the excuse of rinsing it; my balls hung heavy in his other hand, carefully squeezed, as if weighing them.

Then he knelt down.

He pulled the foreskin back, let a stream of clean water fall, and took me into his mouth.

I wasn’t expecting him to do it that fast. I braced myself against the wall, eyes closed, focused only on not falling. I felt his tongue circle my head, suck the tip with firm suction, and then his throat opening to take me in all the way until his nose bumped against my pubic mound. He came back up slowly, lips tight around the shaft, and went down again. His rhythm was one you can’t describe until you feel it: deep, wet, with his tongue working against the frenulum every time he pulled back. It was different from everything before: fuller, more enveloping. One hand was stroking my balls from below; the other pressed my ass, pushing me toward his face so I’d fuck his mouth.

I held out as long as I could. I watched his wet head moving between my thighs, his lips stretched around my cock, a thread of saliva and water running down his chin, and felt my legs start to tremble.

—Marcos —I said, my voice thick—. I’m about to cum.

His left hand held me gently under the balls. His right hand pressed lightly at the base of my cock. He didn’t move away. On the contrary: he sucked harder, his tongue flattened under the head, and took me to the hilt just as I lost control. I emptied into his mouth in powerful spurts, feeling him swallow without letting go, feeling his throat contract around the tip, tightening with each pulse of semen that came out of me. When I was done he pulled off me slowly, sucked the last of it from the head, and gave the tip a quick kiss before letting me go.

When I opened my eyes, he was straightening up. He looked at me calmly, without any exaggerated gesture, his lips still shining.

—Your turn —he said.

It took me a moment. I knelt down, soaped his groin with the same care he had used on me, rinsed away the remaining water, and took him into my mouth.

It wasn’t all that different from what I’d imagined. Not unpleasant, just different: a weight on my tongue, the texture of taut skin over hard flesh, a heat that wasn’t my own. The head filled my mouth and the vein underneath pulsed against my tongue. I focused on what I’d just felt myself and tried to reproduce it as best I could: the suction as I pulled back, the tongue circling under the crown, the free hand pumping the base in the same rhythm as I moved my mouth up and down. I licked his balls, sucked them one by one, taking them all the way in, and went back to his cock, swallowing it down until I gagged.

Three minutes later I heard his breathing change. His thighs tensed, his cock got even harder between my lips, and he dug his fingers into the nape of my neck without squeezing too hard.

What came was abundant and direct. The first spurt hit the back of my throat and kept going down before I could stop it; I held back the second and third with my hand at the base, which also acted as a stop when his hips pushed forward, trying to get deeper inside. I felt the hot cum filling my mouth, sliding over my tongue, and swallowed what I could while the rest dribbled down his shaft over my fingers, quickly washed away by the shower water.

When he was done, we stayed under the water, which had already turned lukewarm, in silence for a while.

We got out, dried off, and lay down on his bed without ceremony. We turned on the TV. Neither of us had the energy for anything more.

—That was it —Marcos said after a while, looking at the ceiling.

—Yeah —I said.

—Like another world.

—Yeah.

That was enough. A little later we fell asleep with the television on.

***

The next day we did it again, more calmly. Without the urgency of the first time, without needing to prove anything. We lay on the bed in opposite directions, each with the other’s cock in front of his face, and spent a long while licking each other, without hurrying to finish. I sucked his balls slowly while he pushed his tongue under my head, and when we finally came we did it almost at the same time, swallowing each other down to the last drop. We took longer, paid more attention to the details, and the result was different: longer, more conscious, easier to remember.

The four days passed with that same rhythm. Mornings, afternoons, once or twice a day depending on the moment. We sucked each other off on the sofa, on the bathroom floor, with one of us sitting in a chair and the other kneeling between his legs. In between we talked about other things: football, work, the girls we were seeing. Then we went back to what we were doing as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which by then, more or less, it was.

***

Some months passed after that. By then I was already going to the gym where he trained, and sometimes we’d run into each other. One Tuesday afternoon we finished working out at the same time and went together to the locker room.

The communal showers were empty, but not for long; at that hour people always came in.

I told him quietly that I was horny, my cock already starting to show through the towel.

Without answering, he knelt down.

I was naked; he still had his boxers pulled down to his thighs. He took me into his mouth with more force than usual, fast and determined, because there wasn’t much time. He worked only with his mouth and one hand at the base; the other was resting on my thigh. He sucked with dry suction, swallowing me all the way down every couple of thrusts, never taking me out completely, just letting me breathe for a second before plunging me back into his throat. The slurping was wet and ugly, saliva dripping down his chin to his chest, and I had to hold myself back from moaning out loud and drawing attention from anyone who came in.

I was almost there when I looked down.

I saw the puddle forming between his knees on the white shower floor. Thick, white, slowly washed away by the stream of water toward the drain. Without either of his hands having touched it. His cock was still hard against his stomach, still dripping the last remnants.

That image was the trigger. I grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and emptied into his mouth in hard bursts, feeling him swallow without moving away, his tongue flattened under the head absorbing each pulse. I finished almost at the same time as he did, or rather a little after, because he had already come on his own while he was sucking me off.

When he stood up, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and I pointed toward the floor with my eyes.

—How long has that been happening to you?

He shrugged for a moment before answering.

—Almost from the start —he said.

He explained it to me without beating around the bush: from the first times, when he could feel me getting close to cumming, something would go off in him without needing to touch himself. It was the anticipation, the exact moment when he felt me lose control, the taste of semen filling his mouth. That was enough to make him cum with his cock untouched.

—And that’s why you were always up for it, even though I never really gave you anything back?

—Partly —he admitted—. But also because I like sucking your cock.

I didn’t know exactly what to say. But I did know one thing: I stopped feeling the guilt that sometimes came over me when I let him do it without giving anything back. What I had interpreted as a sacrifice on his part was, in reality, something he sought out on his own.

From that day on everything became more direct. No implicit accounting, no sense of debt on either side.

***

Many years have passed since then. We both got married, went on with our lives, and that chapter stayed where it always should have been: between us, nameless and with no need for any explanation.

I don’t know what to say about what we were or what we are. I only know that we were good friends then, and that we still are now.