That Night at the Cinema No One Mentions

I discovered the place by chance, one afternoon when I got lost looking for a hardware store and ended up walking down a street I didn’t know well. The façade was discreet: a narrow door, a small sign with the name of a film distributor, and a dark green rubber curtain that kept you from seeing inside from the street. Nothing that would catch the eye of anyone who didn’t know what it was.

An acquaintance had mentioned the place to me months earlier, in that way people have of saying something without quite saying it. “There’s a cinema downtown where they show movies for single men,” he told me once, while we shared a beer and he looked away. It took me weeks to understand exactly what he meant by “for single men.”

The first time I went in, I limited myself to watching. I sat in the back row, let my eyes adjust to the dimness, and stayed still. There were five or six men scattered through the small room, each in a separate seat, and on the screen two guys were fucking a woman amid exaggerated moans while the camera focused on the cock going in and out of the soaked cunt. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at anyone directly. It was like a choreography everyone knew except me.

With time I began to understand the unwritten rules: who was willing and who preferred only to watch and jerk off in silence, how interest was signaled without saying a single word, how long it was reasonable to stay before it became strange. I went several more times. On some occasions, someone would come up to me and place a hand on my thigh with barely perceptible pressure, slowly sliding up to brush the bulge already hard in my pants, asking without asking. At first I went rigid and the person would back off. In time I learned to let it happen, to let that stranger’s hand open my zipper and pull out my cock and work it calmly until I came into a handkerchief. And at some point I decided I wanted more than that.

But that night — the one I want to tell about — was different from all the others.

***

That afternoon I got up with a fixed idea. I don’t really know where it came from, whether from something I’d read or from some thought I’d kept tucked away in a corner of my head for a long time. The thing is, when I got dressed, I opened the bottom drawer of the closet and took out a black thong and some garter stockings I’d bought weeks before without being very clear about what for. I put them on. The thong’s fabric fit tightly against my cock and balls, outlining the bulge obscenely, and the stockings ran up my thighs with that elastic pressure that made my skin prickle. I looked at myself for a moment in the bathroom mirror. I was getting hard just from seeing myself like that. Then I put on my usual pants and my usual shirt, as if nothing had changed.

I left a little before six in the evening.

The man behind the glass at the entrance was the same as always: about fifty, bored face, a small TV beside him that he never turned off. He charged me without looking at me. I pushed aside the rubber curtain and went in.

There were more people than usual for that hour. I counted seven before I sat down. I looked for a place halfway down the room, where the darkness was deepest and from where I could see both the screen and the entrance door. I settled in, crossed my arms over my lap, and set myself to waiting without really knowing what I was waiting for. On the screen a big-titted blonde was taking two cocks at once, one in her mouth and one in her cunt, and guttural moans filled the room.

Twenty long minutes passed.

Then he came in.

He was young, no doubt about it. He must have been in his early twenties. Slim, with dark-framed glasses and his hair combed to one side, wearing a gray wool dress that fell to mid-thigh. He walked with quiet confidence, unhurried, as if he knew the place and exactly how much room to take up in it. He was not what you’d expect to see walk into that place, although there I had learned that the unexpected was part of the inventory.

The guy chose a seat near the door. He sat down, crossed his legs carefully, and barely two minutes had passed when he was already leaning toward the man beside him. The guy — bulky, work clothes, about forty — didn’t waste time: he opened his pants with clumsy, urgent fingers and pulled out a thick, dark cock, already semi-hard. In less than a minute the young man had his head bowed over the other’s lap and was sucking him in silence, taking the whole thing, going down to the base and coming back up with his tongue wrapped around the head. I could hear the wet slurping from where I was. He worked with concentration, as if everything else in the room had ceased to exist, one hand stroking the guy’s balls while the other hiked the dress up from behind, showing he had nothing on underneath: pale, round ass, on display for anyone who wanted to look at it.

From where I was, the scene was easy to see. I’m not one of those who pretends not to look. I was hard again, painfully tight against the thong.

While that was happening, another man came up behind the young one. He slid his hands under the dress, spread his cheeks apart, and started stroking his ass slowly, spitting on two fingers to slide them in gradually. The guy didn’t stop. A muffled moan escaped him with the bulky man’s cock in his mouth, and he only adjusted his posture slightly to give better access, arching his back and pushing his ass back, as if he’d already calculated how much room each one would need. The second man was fucking his ass with his fingers, two, then three, at a slow rhythm that made the boy’s hips sway backward, begging for more.

It went on a few more minutes. The bulky guy finished with a grunt and emptied himself into the young man’s mouth; I watched the boy swallow and then lick the tip clean with patience. After that the man whispered something in his ear and the young man stood up, adjusted the dress with a calm, almost bored gesture, with a thread of semen still shining at the corner of his lip, and both of them went out through a side door I hadn’t noticed until that moment. The other man stayed in his seat, his cock still out, stroking himself while staring at the screen.

The room grew emptier. Those who remained seemed to have lost interest in the film, and one by one they left too, until only two of us were left: me and a middle-aged man sitting three rows ahead, who for some time had been turning his head toward where I was.

He wasn’t the sort of man I would have chosen in another situation. Older, graying hair, the outline of someone who’d spent many years going from desk to home and home to desk. But at that moment I wasn’t thinking very clearly: my cock was hard as a rock, pressed against the thong, and the stockings were burning on my thighs.

I opened my pants, pulled my cock out over the waistband of the thong, and started jerking off slowly, with no attempt at hiding it, eyes fixed ahead. I ran my saliva-wet hand up and down it, letting the tip shine wetly in the dimness. The man looked at me. His lips parted slightly. He stood up. He came over to where I was and crouched in front of my seat.

Without ceremony he pushed my hand aside and took my entire cock into his mouth. His tongue was hot and he knew what he was doing: he sucked it all the way down, choking a little when he reached the base, and then began to move up and down at a steady pace while cradling my balls with one hand. He picked up where I’d left off and did it with a calm that contrasted with the urgency I was already feeling in every muscle of my body. He sucked me off looking up at me with half-closed eyes, pulling away from time to time to run his tongue under the head, to lick my balls one by one, to take me whole again. I let him do it for a long while, my head resting back against the seat and my eyes half shut, letting the sensation spread slowly, my hand on the back of his neck sometimes setting the rhythm, pushing his face against my groin until his eyes watered.

Then I decided to go further.

I stood up and pulled my pants down to my ankles. The black thong was soaked in the front, with my cock pushed out over the elastic, dripping saliva and pre-cum, and the garter stockings were exposed in the room’s dim light. The man paused for an instant. I watched his eyes travel over what I had in front of him, from top to bottom, stopping on every detail: the garters pulling the stockings taut, the thong stretched tight over my package, the hard cock thrust out as if it were the only important thing in the room. And something in his expression changed: he was no longer just the bored man three rows ahead. There was something like hunger on his face, an old hunger that had been waiting a long time for something like this.

—Turn around —he said. His voice came out hoarse. It was the first time anyone had spoken since I’d walked into the cinema that night—. Turn around, whore.

I stood up, put my palms on the back of the seat in front of me, and he ran his hands over my hips, over the thong fabric, over the seam of the stockings. He took his time exploring before kneeling: he groped my ass, dug his thumbs into the flesh, pulled the thong aside and left my ass bare. He spat on two fingers and ran them over the entrance, tracing circles, and then he sank his tongue there. I felt the hot tongue go in and out of my ass, wetting everything, while one hand searched for my cock in front and worked it slowly. After eating my ass with patience, he stood up for a second, forced me to turn around again, and knelt once more in front of me and took me in his mouth with an unexpected subtlety for someone who looked like him. He took the whole thing down to his throat, held his breath, drew back slowly leaving a strand of spit, and took me in again. I had to bite my lip hard not to make a sound, gripping his gray hair with both hands.

***

At some point, while I was in that position with my hands clenched on the backrest, I heard the cinema door open.

I didn’t move.

Soft footsteps on the concrete floor. The squeak of a seat as someone folded down. And then, without my catching the exact moment he approached, a hand on my waist.

It was the guy in the gray dress. He had come back alone.

He was standing beside me and looking at me with a curiosity that had nothing shy or uncertain about it. He examined me with that direct attention people have when they no longer need to justify what they want. His eyes dropped to my cock — still in the gray-haired man’s mouth — and he ran his tongue over his lips. Then, without saying a word, he lifted his dress to his waist, knelt in front of me beside the other man, and waited his turn.

The gray-haired man let go of me and gestured to the boy. The two of them got settled: the older one went back to sucking my balls, taking them one by one, while the younger one took my whole cock into his mouth and started sucking me with a technique that had nothing to envy the other’s. The two men worked at the same time, each from his own angle, and I tried to keep my balance with white knuckles on the back of the seat. The boy sucked with hunger, burying his face to the base, and when I pushed his neck to go deeper he opened his throat and let me slide in. The older man licked my balls, ran his tongue up my perineum, sought my ass again. It was too much. It was exactly the right amount of too much.

I had to stop them.

I stood up, breathed, and motioned for the boy to take care of the other man. I needed a few seconds if I didn’t want to come right there. I took them standing in the dark of that small room, watching the young man pull from the gray-haired man a cock thicker than one would have imagined under that office-worker clothes and take it into his mouth, while on the screen the projected images played toward three backs that weren’t watching them and the sound in the room did what it did: recorded moans and real moans blending in the stale air.

When I’d recovered a little, I crouched toward the young man. I lifted his dress from behind, ran my hand over his ass — the skin was soft, shaved, warm — and found that he was lubricated, wet, ready. He’d prepared himself before coming in. I could see it up close now, without the distance from before. What was suggested from afar didn’t tell the whole story: he had a bigger cock than his slim figure suggested, curved upward, and he had that clean, warm smell of someone who had thought ahead of time about being smelled. I made him let go of the gray-haired man for a moment and knelt behind him. I ran my tongue slowly over his ass, pushing it in, and he arched his back and let out a sharp moan that was the first clearly human sound I’d heard from him all night. Then I turned back and sucked him, taking the curved cock from the base, pushing it to the back of my mouth, and I took as long as I wanted while the boy gasped with his fingers tangled in my hair.

Then we switched again. The boy came back to me; I went back to the other man. The gray-haired man made me crouch between his legs and guided my mouth over his cock, setting the rhythm with a hand on the back of my neck. We rotated like that for a good while, unhurried, without speaking, following the rhythm the three of us had found without needing to agree on it. At one point the boy got on all fours over two seats, dress lifted up to his back, ass open and offered, and the gray-haired man positioned himself behind him and slid it in slowly to the hilt. I watched the older man’s cock go in and out of that young ass, shiny with saliva and lubricant, while the boy moaned against the backrest with his mouth open. I moved in front and offered him mine. The young man opened his lips without hesitation and sucked me to the rhythm of the other’s thrusts, choking each time the gray-haired man drove into him harder. The room was completely empty except for us. Outside, the neighborhood carried on with its night.

When I felt I couldn’t hold back any longer, I pulled away. I stood with one hand on the neighboring seat, breathing slowly, my cock throbbing heavy, red, on the brink. The boy looked at me with a question in his eyes, mouth still open and shining. I shook my head. I moved a step away and worked myself hard and fast, and let the end come on its own, without company, standing in the dim light. I came in several long streams that fell over the garter stockings and onto the front seat, and I stood there for a second trembling, my cock still dripping in my hand.

The ending was silent and without drama. I heard the gray-haired man grunt low behind the boy and come inside him; I watched the young man close his eyes and come too over the seat, without having touched himself, just from the cock inside him. I cleaned myself with the handkerchief I carried in my pocket, got dressed again carefully — first the shirt, then the pants over the thong and the soaked stockings, which I didn’t take off — and before leaving I nodded to both of them. It wasn’t much of a gesture, but it was what there was.

The night outside smelled of wet asphalt. It had rained while I was inside.

***

I didn’t go back to that cinema for several months. Not because I regretted anything, but because some nights work better as memory than as habit. That one did.

I never saw the guy in the gray dress again. Nor the gray-haired man.

Sometimes, when I pass through streets like that one — streets with narrow doors and rubber curtains and signs that don’t say what they are — I remember the way that man looked at me when I pulled down my pants and showed what I was wearing. His expression wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. As if he had seen exactly that before, in exactly that place, and knew precisely what it meant.

I don’t know whether that says something about me or about him. It probably says something about both of us.