The First Time a Man Made Me Lose Control

I am forty-eight years old. I’m a lawyer at a firm I cofounded fifteen years ago, specializing in commercial law for mid-sized companies. I live in a spacious apartment north of the city with Elena, my wife of twenty-two years, and our three children, the youngest of whom just turned sixteen. From the outside, it’s a settled life. From the inside, it was too, or at least that’s what I thought.

I’m not the sort of man who asks unnecessary questions. That’s a virtue as a lawyer and a flaw as a person. For nearly five decades I was who I was supposed to be: good professional, good husband, good father. Heterosexual without shades or doubts. No moments I couldn’t explain.

Everything changed one October afternoon at a gas station on the outskirts of town, where I stopped to fill the tank before heading home.

I was taking my card out of my wallet when someone came up to me. It was a young guy, twenty-four or maybe a little younger, holding a tablet and wearing a smile that didn’t seem rehearsed. Slender, narrow-shouldered, with blond hair almost falling over one eye. He wore a neatly ironed light-blue shirt and spoke with a courtesy that seemed unusual in someone his age.

He asked me to answer a survey about mobility habits. I agreed without really knowing why. I answered the questions while he wrote them down, and when we finished he thanked me with a small nod of his head that was at once old-fashioned and charming.

I was getting into the car when he asked whether, by any chance, I was going near the Argüelles metro station. He needed to get there and it was too far to walk.

—Get in, —I said.

On the way he told me about an app he was developing for inventory management in small businesses. He did it clearly, without the hesitation that usually goes with young people talking about their projects. When I asked him what legal advice he’d gotten so far, he said none. I gave him my card. He tucked it into his shirt pocket with a careful gesture that I noticed without meaning to notice it.

That night, in bed, Elena slept on my left and I spent an hour staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, or that’s what I told myself. I replayed the conversation, the boy’s courtesy, the way he explained things. At three in the morning I fell asleep and dreamed about him. In the dream he was on his knees in front of me, mouth open and my cock sliding in and out between his lips, and I woke up with my underwear soaked in semen and my breathing ragged, with the uncomfortable clarity of someone who has just discovered something he would rather not know.

I put it away. I went on with my week.

Matías called me the following Tuesday. We met on Thursday in a café downtown to go over his documents. He arrived on time, with an orderly folder and a prepared list of questions. We spent almost two hours reviewing his contracts. When we finished with the work, he kept talking, unhurriedly, as if the meeting didn’t have to end just because the professional pretext was used up.

He invited me to a second coffee. I accepted.

We talked about his hometown, about the process of building something of his own at such a young age, about the differences between working alone and working with others. He listened well. He didn’t interrupt. When he gave an opinion, he did it with a conviction that was not arrogance but confidence. I noticed his hands while he spoke, the way he rested his elbows on the table, the clean line of his jaw. I noticed things I had no reason to notice.

We met three more times that month. The first at the café, the second at his apartment to review a contract with his main supplier, the third also at his place, on a rainy afternoon when he had landed his first real client and wanted to celebrate.

He uncorked a bottle of cava that clearly cost more than he should have spent. We toasted standing up in his small kitchen. There was something different about him that afternoon: he was calmer, less concerned with seeming professional, more himself. We laughed easily. Time passed without my watching it.

When I looked at my watch it was nine at night. I had told Elena I’d be home at eight.

I put on my jacket. Matías walked me to the door. In the doorway he gave me a brief hug, the sort that’s more habit than affection, but when he pulled back he stayed a second closer than usual. His face was only a few centimeters from mine. And I, who for forty-eight years had known exactly what I would do in every situation, turned my head.

Our mouths met. One second, maybe two. It could have been a miscalculation.

It wasn’t. He understood it before I did. He parted his lips slowly and I did not pull away. His tongue found mine with a calm I wouldn’t have expected from someone so young. He wrapped his arms around me, drew me against him, and I felt his hard cock pressing against my thigh through his pants, and I let myself be carried along without resisting, without thinking about the clock or Elena or anything outside that threshold.

We closed the door.

***

His body was unlike anything I had known. Not only because of the obvious differences, but because of something subtler: the texture of his skin, finer, the thinness of his wrists, the way his shoulder blades barely showed when he took off his shirt. I watched him for a moment before touching him, with the care one gives something one wants to remember properly.

I undid his belt with clumsy fingers and pulled his pants down to his knees. His cock sprang hard against his stomach, longer and thinner than mine, the tip already wet and the head bare. I looked at it for a second, with that mixture of curiosity and vertigo of someone peering for the first time into something that had always been forbidden. He said nothing. He waited.

I ran my hands over him slowly. His shoulders, his neck, the line of his collarbone. I kissed his chest, his side, the bone of his hip. I licked one nipple and then the other, and he breathed deeper when I closed my lips and sucked. I moved down his stomach, along the line of blond hair disappearing below his navel, until my mouth was an inch from his cock and I felt its heat on my face. His eyes were half-lidded and he was breathing slowly, unhurried. He wasn’t performing. He just was.

—Is this your first time? —he asked quietly.

—Yes, —I said.

—It shows, —he said, and it sounded like praise, not an observation.

I stuck out my tongue and licked him from the base to the tip, collecting the clear drop that beaded from the head. It tasted salty and slightly bitter, and instead of disgusting me it made me suddenly hungry for more. I opened my mouth and took him in whole, as much as I could, until I felt the tip brush the back of my throat. I gagged for a second, pulled back, tried again. I found the rhythm. I started sucking as if I’d been doing it for years, with an attention I hadn’t given anything sexual in years, my tongue pressed against the underside of his cock and one hand at the base helping where my mouth could not reach.

His response was small and unmistakable: the tension in his thighs, the gentle pressure of his hand on my nape, a low sound that was not a moan but confirmation. I took his balls in my other hand, weighed them in my palm, stroked them while I kept sucking him. He began to move his hips slightly, pushing into my mouth without roughness, letting me set the depth. Saliva ran down my chin. I didn’t care.

—Stop, —he whispered. —If you keep going like that I’ll come, and I want to last.

I pulled back. My mouth was full of the taste of his cock and my knees were stiff from the floor. He hauled me up by the shoulders and pushed me gently until I lay on my back on his bed. He finished taking my clothes off by tugging my pants and underwear off in one motion. My cock sprang out thick and red, harder than I remembered it being in years, the tip shining.

He looked at it for a second with a small smile. Then he bent down and took over with a concentration that left me defenseless. He did things with his mouth no woman had ever done to me. He sucked it all the way down without gagging, his tongue working beneath it, his throat closing around the head. He came up for air and took it back in again. He licked my balls one by one, took them into his mouth, sucked slowly while he jerked my cock with his hand.

He spread my legs and kept going down. He licked my perineum with the tip of his tongue, and when he got to my ass I gave an instinctive jolt. He didn’t stop. He licked me calmly, pushing his tongue against the muscle, forcing it to open just a little. It was such a new and direct sensation that I felt like I might come without anyone touching my cock. He paid attention to parts of my body I’d ignored for decades, with a patience that didn’t seem like effort but genuine interest. He explored without rushing, reading my reactions with a precision that completely unmoored me.

He came back up. He took my cock into his mouth to the root, and with two wet fingers he pressed against my perineum from the inside. It was too much. I grabbed his head with one hand and warned him with a growl that I couldn’t hold on any longer. He didn’t pull away. He sped up. He sucked harder.

When I came, I did it with a convulsion that left me unable to speak for a few seconds. I felt the spasms leave me in thick jets, one after another, straight onto his tongue and palate. He took it all without lifting his mouth, swallowing what he could, letting the rest run from the corner of his lips. When I finished emptying myself he pulled me out slowly, lips tight around me, and licked the tip one last time to clean off the final drop.

I lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling of his room. Matías lay down beside me without saying anything, his arm brushing mine. That small contact felt more intimate than everything that had come before.

I got home after eleven. Elena was already asleep. I showered slowly and got into bed trying to identify what I was feeling. I couldn’t that night.

***

I saw him again the following week.

There was no work excuse anymore: we met directly to fuck. Matías was affectionate without needing anything in return, curious without becoming invasive. He had a way of being in another person’s body that conveyed experience without boasting, and that was teaching me things I would not have known how to name before I met him.

With Elena everything stayed exactly the same. The breakfasts, the children, Friday dinners. I was the same from the outside. Inside, something had turned in a direction with no way back.

On several occasions I came in his mouth at his request. The first time I asked whether swallowing semen bothered him, he laughed, knelt between my legs, and told me to ask him for it. I put my hand on the back of his neck and pushed his head against my cock while he took me all the way in, and he swallowed every spurt without pulling away, eyes closed and lips pressed together. Afterward he showed me his tongue stained with my cum before swallowing the last of it. He enjoyed that with a frankness that was completely new to me: without pretending, without needing me to praise him, simply satisfied.

Another afternoon we spent hours without leaving the bed. I sucked his cock until he came in my mouth for the first time, and although I choked at first, I forced myself to swallow everything he’d shot down my throat, eyes watering and chin dripping. He held my face and kissed me with his semen still on my tongue, mixing our tastes. I learned how to do a slow handjob with two hands, one for the cock and one for the balls, and to read his body so I knew when he was close and when I had to ease off. I learned that I liked having him in my mouth when he got very hard, feeling him swell between my lips.

I also learned to let him fuck my thighs. He would get behind me, our legs pressed tight and him snug against my back, and shove his cock between my thighs and against my balls, slicking himself with the oil he’d put on me, moaning in my ear about how good I was squeezing him. He came against my balls, and I felt the hot spurts splashing me, and I jerked myself off from the front until I finished over the sheets.

There were also afternoons when we did everything and afternoons when we barely touched, lying on his sofa talking about his company or about nothing in particular. Those quiet afternoons surprised me more than the others, because in them there was nothing to justify how good I felt being there.

A month after the first time, Matías asked me to stay still. He made me lie face down, naked, with a pillow under my hips. He started at my shoulders and moved down without hurry, devoting time to each part as if he had a map and meant to cross it all. His lips on my back, in the hollow of my kidneys, on the inside of my thighs. Every time I tried to move, he would rest a hand on me gently and I would stay still again.

He pulled my ass cheeks apart with both hands and went back to doing what he had already done that first afternoon, but this time without haste, without an expected end. He licked my hole with his whole tongue, then with the tip, pushing inside, insisting until I felt the muscle yield. He licked me for what felt like whole minutes, with methodical calm, while with one hand he stroked my cock from underneath without letting me come. My face was buried in the pillow, moaning without being able to control it, my hips pushing back against his mouth without meaning to.

Then I heard the click of the lubricant bottle. He slicked one cold finger and pushed it into me slowly, to the knuckle. At first I tensed up and he waited. When I gave, he started moving it. A little later he put in a second finger. I could feel the stretching, the discomfort turning into something else, a dull pleasure I didn’t recognize. He moved his fingers in a particular curve, searching for something inside, and when he found it I let out a choked cry into the pillow. He gave a soft laugh and touched it again. And again. Until I was begging without words, pushing my ass against his hand.

—Yes? —he asked.

—Yes, —I said.

I heard the crackle of the condom wrapper, the wet sound of lubricant, the sound of him settling between my legs. When I felt his body positioning itself in a way I had never experienced before, I didn’t react with fear. I breathed slowly. I felt the head of his cock pressing against me, hard and slick, pushing. I let him in.

At first it hurt. A specific burn, the clear sensation of being opened. He stayed still with half of him inside, waiting for me, kissing my nape and ear, murmuring for me to breathe. When my body got used to it and I pushed back on my own, he slid the rest of the way in. I felt his balls pressing against mine, his flat stomach against my ass, his cock buried all the way inside me.

He started moving. At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and easing back in, until my body understood the rhythm. Then faster, deeper, with his hands gripping my hips to pull me against him on each thrust. He drove it all the way in, again and again, finding that spot inside me that made me moan into the pillow like I’d never moaned in my life.

What followed did not exist in any mental file I’d had before. It wasn’t only the physical sensation, though that was new too. It was complete surrender, the total absence of control, the fact of receiving rather than giving, of being entirely present without having to think about the other person. He slid a hand underneath and grabbed my cock, and started jerking me off in time with his thrusts. I was incapable of coordinating anything. Just letting myself be fucked and let myself be given a handjob at the same time, moaning, my face soaked.

Matías whispered in my ear in simple, direct words, without embellishment: how tight my ass was, how well he fit in, how hot I was inside. I listened to all of it. And when I told him in a broken voice to come inside me, he drove in deeper, sped up, and I felt him tremble all over while he filled the condom in spasms I could feel throbbing inside me. I came a second later, shooting onto the sheets, with his cock still buried in me and his hand closed around mine. When he reached the end, I felt it from beginning to end.

He stayed inside a while, sprawled over my back, breathing into my neck. When he came out slowly I felt the emptiness, a strange tingling, the warm stain of lubricant between my thighs. We both remained motionless for a good while. He didn’t ask anything. I didn’t say anything either. It was one of those situations where silence isn’t awkward but exact.

***

Several months have passed since that afternoon at the gas station. Matías and I still see each other every week or every two weeks, depending on our schedules. His app already has a dozen clients and a small team. I still advise him when he has legal doubts, though by now that’s more of a pretext than the real reason for our meetings.

Elena knows nothing. No one in my world knows. At work I’m the same as always.

I’m not sure what to call what I am. At forty-eight it’s hard to reconfigure oneself with new words, and I’m not even sure words add anything useful to what already exists. What I do know is that for decades I ignored something that lived inside me, silent and nameless, and now I can no longer pretend I haven’t discovered it.

If someone asked me whether I regret it, I’d answer no. Not Matías, not what happened that afternoon in his doorway, not any of the afternoons that came after. I regret, perhaps, having taken so long to get here.

I’m telling this story for the first time. And I’m surprised by how good it feels to write it down.