The Confession I Kept to Myself for Eight Years

Bruno deserved a better moment in my life. I still remember those tiny eyes, like a puppy lost in the rain; he knew how to smile at me without barely moving his mouth. I’m not going to tell you where we met or how we started seeing each other. Or how we ended up kissing in the parks after dark. I’d pick a bench, he’d hold me from behind and, with his jacket thrown over us, he’d slip his hand under my bra. In time I stopped wearing a bra on the days I knew I was going to see him.

His fingers were so soft it felt like life hadn’t used them yet. He liked not touching my nipples right away. He preferred to weigh my breasts in his hands, feel their weight, their shape, as if he wanted to memorize the shadow they cast in his palms. And then suddenly, without warning, he’d brush the tips quickly and I’d jump, bite my lips, and melt a little on the inside.

He kissed the top of my head and stayed there, mouth resting in my hair. He murmured things I didn’t understand but decoded through the vibration. I’d look him in the eye without saying anything, and he knew my empty eyes meant, “Take me somewhere you can fuck me.” The birds came back to their nests in flocks and I went away with his smell stuck to my hands. But I wasn’t going to talk about this either.

At the movies we did more things. If the film was boring, I’d suck him off a little. We went during the week, late, when the theaters were empty. We’d choose any seat, because always choosing the back row was suspicious. I’d open his belt carefully, trying not to let the buckle make a sound, and I’d lower his zipper with two fingers. I liked feeling the bulge over his boxers, the way it curved to one side, the way it grew. Then I’d pretend I’d fallen asleep and lean back in his lap. We couldn’t make any big movements: I had to manage with suction and tongue alone.

I like the verb “to cum.” Nobody uses it here, but it has that dragged-out r that is so lascivious. “To finish” sounds like deflating, like falling apart. Cumming wasn’t falling apart; it was coming into me. And I did it that way twice, at the movies. He nearly died when he saw me swallow his semen. Immediately he got hard again and… well, that part wasn’t at the movies, that part was at his apartment.

I’m getting tangled up, sorry. Back to the movies. I’d suck him off quietly, without moving my neck, just my lips sliding up and down the shaft, my tongue playing with the glans, his cock pressed against my cheek from the inside. Sometimes I’d look at him when I pressed him against my cheek and I’d realize that image pleased him way too much.

Once we did it in a church. I didn’t just suck him off: he fucked me, too. Thinking about it still makes me… Does that seem in bad taste? Fine, I’d better not tell you that part.

I never asked Bruno for anything. That would have been hypocritical of me. He told me about the girls he liked, and he had good taste. I liked those girls too. But he was so clumsy he never managed anything with any of them. I know that while he was with me, he was with only me.

Me? I was dying for Sabrina. After a stretch where I lived like a vampire, shut away in my room, feeling like I was dying, we started seeing each other. She was a party girl, a runner, one of those women who pull you along. I, just to fuck her, even tried to be cheerful. Well, I’m exaggerating a little about “fucking her.” Half my brain fantasized about it; the other half was content with her company.

Sabrina was of medium height, strong, with big, firm legs. She had breasts much bigger than mine. That’s how I like women: touchable. And she had skin that begged to be touched. I remember the first time I touched her. It was at her birthday party, in 2015. We kissed in one of those silly games. There were men around, but not the kind who shout stupid things when two women kiss: they were the kind who smile knowingly and, inside, are already putting the image away for later.

I liked that: there was silence in our kiss. We both knew it was going to happen sooner or later, so neither of us rushed it or got awkward. I started by touching her cheeks, stroking her neck. She smiled and we pressed our noses together. It wasn’t a wet or blazing kiss, but it wasn’t innocent either. Her lips were warm. Have you felt those flowers that seem as if they’re going to melt between your fingers, but keep a cool texture? Sabrina’s lips were like that.

We went to sleep together, of course. Men who want to fantasize about women are always willing to give them a room. Logistically, the first time was nothing to write home about. I spent a long time sucking her breasts in bed. She moaned, but it wasn’t a moan of satisfaction, more a “let’s do something else.” I know my own body well, I know how I like to be touched, but I wasn’t sure I knew how to touch hers. Still, we communicated. I got her wet with kisses, stroked that little pink flower she had, fingered her softly, found a spot inside where her face loosened and kept rocking my fingers there for a long while.

The hardest part was scissors. For some reason we never lined up right. When she pressed, I didn’t press in the same rhythm. We ended up giving up and she licked my vulva. When we did sixty-nine, she was on top. She came first, sitting almost on my face and working harder to fuck my mouth than to give me pleasure. There was something perverse about it, I have to admit; I liked it. When she was about to come, she suddenly went still, threw her head back, and said to me, with a sweetness I hadn’t heard from her before:

—Oh, Mariana, I love you.

The moment she finished, I knocked her down and sat on top of her. I rubbed myself against her almost spitefully, and thinking I was getting even with her made me so hot. Sabrina realized it and doubled her effort, shoved her tongue into me, made my ass bounce against her face. That night, already having orgasmed, fighting sleep so we wouldn’t fall asleep too early, we talked about Bruno for the first time.

—Who’s that guy I keep seeing you with lately? —she asked me.

And I told her. That he was sweet; that he read to me until I fell asleep; that he cooked with me; that he always started sex by eating my vulva because he was afraid of cumming before he’d satisfied me. I told her that with him I’d had more consecutive orgasms than with anyone else. When I told her how many, she didn’t believe me. I’m not going to tell you either; no cheating.

She made me show her photos and I saw her savoring him with her eyes. She made me introduce them:

—I want to know who you’re with —she told me.

And they got along. I, right away, was dying of embarrassment. With Bruno I was completely honest, and he knew I had finally slept with Sabrina. My fears turned out to be false: for one day there was plenty of maturity. We ate together, watched a movie, and nobody made any out-of-line comments.

The next time I talked to Sabrina, she blurted out:

—Don’t you know if he’d like a threesome?

—How would I know that? —I answered, blushing all over.

—He’s a man you get along with, who knows you slept with me and already knows me. Don’t you think he’d want to?

—Really, you want a threesome with us —I said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Sabrina laughed, but she raised her eyebrows to confirm it. I started suggesting it to Bruno little by little. I’d tell him what Sabrina was like in bed. That turned him on like a match to dry grass. I’d get on top of him instantly and, in the middle of it, whisper:

—You should take advantage.

He played dumb and pushed my hips down to spear me all the way in.

—You should take advantage —I kept saying, moaning, feeling him huge because of the perversity of what he was surely thinking—. I’m dying to fuck her, and she wants you to come with me so you can put it in her… nice and deep, the way you’re putting it in me right now. Imagine I’m her. I’m giving you permission. Imagine you’re fucking her.

Then he’d change my position, lay me on my back, fuck me but from above, and whip into me with long thrusts. Judging by the way he fucked me, yes, he was imagining her.

Does that sound too rough? No, no, it’s just that you didn’t know Bruno. When he got intense, he was even more tender and careful. Sometimes I’d scream with pleasure and he’d fall all over himself apologizing, convinced he’d hurt me.

I think we were one step away from pulling it off. Sabrina, Bruno, and me. But it didn’t happen. It was because of Damián. Yes, back then I was still with Damián. He was my “real” boyfriend, and we were about to hit two years. Damián never liked the idea of an open relationship and, well, I wasn’t willing to accept anything else.

What can I do? I’ve never been able to be faithful. Sometimes I think it’s because of my father. Sometimes I think not, that I’m just like this. Sometimes I say society will be better when nobody questions you for the dicks you let into your territory or don’t. Sometimes I think I say all that to calm myself down. The point is I could never be faithful. I once saw a movie where some asshole said to an unfaithful girl, “Why do you behave like a man?” Can you believe people have said that to me more than once? But anyway, what am I telling you this for? You already know how I am, and you know I’m sorry.

Damián was the opposite of Bruno. Tall, strong, with eyes full of nothing. Black, black. Big, calloused hands. He wore a size 33. You know what that means, right? 33, I’m telling you. Remember how Bruno fucked me when we fantasized about Sabrina? Well, Damián fucked me like that at least once a week. Sometimes he’d lift me up in his arms and fuck me suspended in the air, and when he got tired he’d pin me against the wall. I went dead inside. I let him do it.

The first few times with him I had enormous, long, savage orgasms. Then, when I started feeling used, I stopped having them and had to fake them. But he learned to tell the difference and got furious when I faked it. He had stamina and endurance, and the bastard never finished. We’d keep fighting for forty minutes until, finally, he came. Sometimes, in the heat of all that rage, he’d take the condom off, rub his dick across my face, and come all over me. Once he took it off and shoved it back in just to come inside. I wanted to kill him. The next day I had to go buy a pill.

That’s why I’m telling you: Bruno deserved a better moment in my life. Damián started to suspect. Bruno was too present to be just a friend. I didn’t realize how much Damián had started following me, but suddenly he knew where Bruno lived, his schedule, his number. Bruno knew nothing and I didn’t want to scare him.

I remember one day when I saw Damián from the window of Bruno’s building. He was smoking furiously on the sidewalk. What was he waiting to do? That day I decided everything had to stop.

—It’s our last time —I told Bruno.

At first he thought it was a joke, but then he saw I was sad and hugged me. We didn’t cry. We put on a dumb movie and curled up together. He started rubbing against my hip, pulled down my pants, and masturbated himself between my ass cheeks. Was it animal desire, was it habit? Maybe it sounds like that. At the time it felt like a farewell. He didn’t let me suck him off. We kissed. He opened my button-up shirt and kissed my breasts. First one, for a long time; then the other. He seemed unwilling to leave there. Then he went down to my navel.

I had taught him exactly how I liked oral sex: kisses on the inner lips, slow licks, a little pinching kiss over the clit. He’d added his own trick: he’d slip one finger inside me, trap my clit between his index and middle finger, and lick it slowly while fingering me. I loved when he did that.

I told him I was going to masturbate him, that he should lie down on the bed. But I lied. I got on top and took him in without a condom. I could see on his face that he didn’t quite like the idea, but he didn’t try to stop me. I understood it was a one-time thing. His cock burned inside me: I had never felt him bare before. I got so wet it embarrassed me. Starting to ride him was almost automatic. The fire inside me made me fuck him harder than I remembered ever doing.

I worked to make him like it. I tried to clench around him, twisted my hips, bounced on him so he’d feel my ass hitting his thighs. He didn’t moan: he only smiled at me. I knew he liked it because he touched my breasts with excitement while I rode him. But the scene was actually a little sad.

I got tired quickly. He noticed and took over. He started very slowly. He barely kissed my mouth, my breasts, my shoulders. The penetration seemed like an accompaniment to the rest of the caresses. Little by little he sped up, until he was fucking me faster than he ever had before. That speed reminded me a little of Damián and made me feel strange. But I understood that was his way of loving me. While he started to snort and his cock swelled even more inside me, I took off his shirt and tried to memorize his chest and his face.

—Come inside me —I told him, exaggerating the r’s.

It was irresponsible, I know. And he knew it. He shouldn’t even have been giving it to me like that, raw. But I wanted to give us that permission, that small recklessness, to let whatever had to happen happen. Now that I think about it, I was stupid. And Bruno too, but less so.

—Come inside me —I repeated, moaning as if it hurt.

But Bruno already knew how to read me and kept fucking me with his passionate tenderness, with his measured delicate fury. He sped up a little and came down to kiss me. His thrusts became shorter, more focused, more curved. I complained beneath the kiss, which stole my voice; with one hand I scratched his back without meaning to and with the other I clung to the edge of the mattress. I clenched around his cock, burning hot, and my wetness left the hair on his pubic mound and thighs shining.

He gave me ten seconds to breathe and then slid back in, even faster than before. Now everything was completely reversed. This time we weren’t kissing. He was almost upright and we made a ninety-degree angle. Bruno lifted my ass and pulled me closer to him. He shoved it all the way in and came almost all the way out, and then, whoosh, he had me speared again.

I was one thrust short of my second orgasm when he told me he was about to cum. I tried to tell him to cum inside, but the speed stole my words. I managed to squeeze him a little when my orgasm hit, and almost immediately he pulled out and came on my stomach. He brought paper towels, a little water, and a towel, and cleaned me up.

I disappeared for a while. I left crumbs for Damián so he’d try to find me. I figured that if he chased me, he’d leave Bruno alone. And it worked. A lot of bad things happened after that, things I don’t want to talk about. But now I’m… no, maybe I’m not okay, but something close.

I’ve seen him several times since then. Bruno, I mean. He moved, but I still ran into him by chance and found out where he works. I think it’s the little home office of some political party: he comes out with a leather briefcase, like a little office worker. Yesterday I saw him with a very pretty girl. Curly hair, dark-skinned, a wide smile, beautiful ass. He has the look of a man in love when he looks at her.

I have a boyfriend too. And I love him, a lot, even if you don’t believe me. With him, I think I’m finally happy. Why am I here, with you? It has nothing to do with my boyfriend, I swear it doesn’t. It’s just that tomorrow makes eight years since my last time with Bruno.