The Motel Where I Learned Not to Play with Strangers

There are things you learn the hard way. I always believed I managed my bisexual life well, that I knew how to choose, that I had enough street smarts to tell a fun stranger from a troublesome one. After that afternoon at the Las Acacias motel, I’m not so sure anymore.

I’ve been doing this for years. My wife doesn’t know and never will, because what we have works and because the other part of me—the part that needs to suck cocks and get fucked—lives in a locked compartment. Until that afternoon, I’d never had a serious scare. The rule was simple: long chat, face pictures, a public location for the first meeting, and above all, instinct. If something didn’t add up, I didn’t go. Period.

With Iván, I broke every rule.

I met him on a Tuesday through one of those apps you don’t brag about using. He was in his early twenties, with gym pictures that didn’t show his face, a bare-bones profile, and a couple of curt messages that made me lose interest. I was about to delete him. But on Wednesday he wrote again, this time with his face uncovered, and I discovered a dark-haired, slender guy with a sharp jaw and clear eyes. I thought maybe he’d just been shy at first. We arranged to meet Friday at six.

—Are you handling the place? —he wrote.

—Yes, I’ll make the reservation. I’ll send you the address at five.

The Las Acacias motel is in a discreet area on the outskirts. Room 207. I asked for one with a large bathtub because I thought the evening was going to be a long one. I turned up the air-conditioning, left the lube and condoms within reach, and poured myself a whiskey while I waited for him.

He arrived fifteen minutes late, without saying hello or looking me in the eyes. That should have been the first sign. He came in, closed the door, and stood in the middle of the room, taking everything in as if he were measuring the exit. I offered him a drink; he said no. I asked whether he wanted to take a bath first; he said no. He took out his phone and placed it face down on the nightstand.

—Are you going to hurry up, or do I have to? —he asked.

There was something in his tone I didn’t like. A lack of warmth, of foreplay, of that complicity you build during the first few minutes. I felt the first prick of doubt. But I was already there, I’d paid for the room, and the guy was handsome. I told myself I was overanalyzing, that he was one of those shy types who loosen up once they get naked.

I was wrong.

He took off his clothes with gym-routine speed: shirt, pants, underwear in three movements. His body was spectacular, I won’t deny that, defined where it needed to be and firm where it needed to be. But between his legs hung a cock much bigger and thicker than any in the pictures he’d sent me. It hung heavy and fat, veins showing beneath the dark skin, with broad balls swinging underneath. He gripped it at the base and shook it a couple of times while looking at me, as if to say, “This is what you’re getting.” I thought the pictures had been modest by comparison.

—Get on the bed —he said.

Not “let’s go” or “come here.” A curt order. I knelt between his legs and began sucking him slowly, the way I like it: taking my time, playing with my tongue before putting it all the way in. I licked his balls first, one and then the other, taking them into my mouth one at a time and sucking them carefully while stroking his cock with my hand. Then I moved slowly up the shaft, my tongue flat, savoring the hot skin that was already beginning to pulse. I wrapped my lips around the head, kissed it, licked it in circles, playing with the frenulum until I felt the whole thing tense in my hand. That’s the foreplay I enjoy, the kind that builds desire slowly, the kind that makes my ass throb before anyone has even touched me.

Iván didn’t want foreplay. After a few seconds he grabbed the back of my neck with both hands and began pushing, seeking the back of my throat without matching my rhythm. He shoved his entire cock in with one thrust, not letting me breathe, and I felt the head strike my palate and descend into my throat. The first gag brought tears to my eyes, and a strand of saliva fell from my chin onto his balls. The second time, I firmly pushed his hands away, coughing, my mouth open and drool hanging from it.

—Easy —I said—, not like that.

—Like this —he replied.

He pushed again. I pulled away again. I lifted my head, looked him in the eyes, and said the words I still regret:

—Fine, but fuck me instead. If I sit on top, things will go better.

I was trying to redirect things, to regain control. I thought that if I controlled the rhythm, everything else would fall into place. I took the condom, put it on him myself, unrolling it down to the base with my mouth, coated my fingers with lube, and inserted two into my ass to open myself up a little. He lay me on my back, got underneath me, and I climbed on top astride him. I gripped his cock, positioned it against my hole, and began lowering myself slowly. It took effort to get it in; he was enormous. The head stretched my sphincter with a dull burn, a prick that made me grit my teeth. I lowered myself a centimeter, breathed, lowered another, breathed, and continued like that until I felt his balls pressed against my buttocks. The first moment of pain passed and I began moving, riding up and down, squeezing my ass each time I reached the bottom, feeling that thick dick fill me completely. His expression changed. He began breathing heavily, digging his fingers into my hips, setting the pace from below, thrusting upward each time I lowered myself. For two or three minutes, it was almost what I wanted. My cock grew hard too, bouncing against my belly with every thrust, and he grabbed it and jerked me off a couple of times with his sweaty hand.

And then he sat up.

Without warning, he pushed me backward, grabbed my ankles, threw my legs over his shoulders, and began thrusting as if he had to finish before a siren went off. He drove his cock all the way in, pulling it almost completely out and slamming it back in, the wet sound filling the room. The bed creaked, the wood knocked against the wall, and the mattress shifted beneath us. He had me folded in half, my knees against my chest, and I felt his balls striking my ass with every thrust. The entire room was vibrating. I asked him to slow down, and he answered with a short laugh. Not an affectionate laugh. The laugh of someone who wasn’t listening.

—You’re my slut —he murmured—. You love this cock, don’t you, you filthy thing?

I played along so I wouldn’t cool things down. I muttered something, told him yes, yes, his dick, more, to put it all the way in. I said it on autopilot, the way someone does after playing this game a hundred times. But inside, I was registering something else. I was registering that the guy didn’t respond to words, that every time I told him “slow down,” he went faster, that the words “slow down” worked like fuel for him. Each thrust was more brutal than the last. He spat into my mouth, grabbed my neck without quite squeezing, and licked my face. I felt the burning in my ass mixed with an arousal I didn’t want to acknowledge.

—Turn over —he said.

—No, I’m fine like this.

—Turn over.

He turned me over himself. He put me on all fours, grabbed my hair with one hand, and with the other guided his cock to my hole. He drove it into me again with a hard shove, without waiting. That was when I understood, with a clarity I never want to feel again, that it had stopped being sex and had become something else.

***

The room was halfway down from the reception desk. A couple next door was listening to music at full volume. I want to believe that if I had really screamed, someone would have heard me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t know how to scream. I did what many people in that situation do: I endured it. I told myself he’d finish in a minute, that he’d get tired in another minute, that this would pass like everything passes.

He fucked me on all fours with both hands clamped on my hips, pulling me backward every time he thrust, impaling me on his cock as if I were a toy. The sound of his thighs slapping against my ass was a constant applause. Every so often he smacked my buttock, so hard that the handprint burned on my skin. Then he grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and fucked me with my back arched and my neck stretched, feeling his cock split me open from the inside with every thrust.

Part of me—and this is the most uncomfortable thing to admit—was aroused. My cock hung hard between my legs, dripping fluid onto the sheets, and every time he thrust into me I felt it swing. My body responded even while my mind was begging him to stop. Both things existed at once, elbowing each other aside. It’s a feeling I hope no one ever has to experience: being hard and wanting to leave at the same time.

Iván moved his hands from my shoulders to my hips and neck. He forced my face down against the mattress, my ass held high, and spread my cheeks with his thumbs to look at the hole his cock had wrecked. He spat there, in the very place where he was buried, and kept fucking me harder. When I thought he was finally going to come, he stopped. He pulled out. He went into the bathroom without saying a word, leaving me there with my ass open and throbbing, with the strange empty feeling that comes after having that dick inside me for so long. He came back two minutes later, his eyes red and the smell of marijuana reaching me from the doorway. Great, he’s high, I thought. The situation had gone from uncomfortable to frankly alarming.

I had lowered my feet to the floor, grabbed the bathrobe, and was preparing to put an end to it.

—Where are you going? —he said.

—We’re done whenever you want —I said, trying to make my voice sound confident—. I’m ready to go.

He laughed again. That laugh.

—I haven’t gotten mine. Come here.

I thought about it. I really thought about it. I mentally calculated the distance to the door, where my keys were, whether my wallet was in my pants or on the nightstand. I calculated how quickly I could get out of there in a bathrobe if things turned ugly. And in the end I did what many people in my place would do: I decided to finish so I could leave. I softened the mood with a gentle kiss, stroked his chest, and told him to relax, that I’d finish him my way. I knelt in front of him again and gave him a slow blowjob, tasting latex and salt and my own ass. I sucked his entire cock, from base to tip, coating it well with saliva, taking it from my mouth only to lick his balls before putting it back in until it reached my throat. I felt his breathing quicken, his thighs tense, and him begin pushing my head again. He took off the condom with one hand while continuing to fuck my mouth with the other, and a few seconds later he yanked his cock out, jerked it twice in front of my face, and aimed it at my lips.

—Swallow it —he said—. Open your mouth, you filthy thing.

That, at least, was something I had asked for a hundred times in my life. Something I enjoyed. I closed my eyes, stuck out my tongue, and focused on the only good thing I was going to take away from the afternoon. I felt the first hot stream splatter against my cheek, the second cross my lips and enter my mouth, the third fall onto my chin and drip down to my chest. I grabbed his cock and put it in my mouth while it was still throbbing, drawing out the last drops, sucking the head and swallowing everything he had left inside. When he was finished, he let go of my hair, went to the bathroom, and left me there on my knees, my face soaked in semen, with the physical sensation of a war and a perfectly clear head.

***

I showered. I washed myself three times. I got dressed while he remained in the room without saying a word, lying on his back and smoking. Before I left, he said the sentence that finally made the whole picture fall into place:

—Hey, aren’t you going to give me something for a taxi?

I looked at him. I saw the handsome dark-haired guy from the pictures, but I also saw the stranger who had spent two hours reducing me to nothing and was now charging me as if I were the client. I answered without raising my voice:

—No. We’ve already seen each other.

And I left. I went down the stairs as if I were coming down from a mountain, got into my car, and didn’t breathe properly until I was three traffic lights away from the motel.

***

I got home a wreck. My wife was watching a show with her feet on the couch. She asked whether I wanted dinner. I said yes, that we should order sushi, and that I was going to shower again. In the shower I cried—not from pain, but from rage. Rage at myself, rage at the guy, rage at how easily I had signed the contract to walk into that room.

That night, after dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, my wife and I fucked. I owed it to her and to myself. I kissed her mouth with a tenderness I hadn’t shown her in a long time, undressed her slowly, caressed her breasts, and sucked her nipples until they grew hard. I moved down her belly, opened her legs, and ate her pussy slowly, licking her clit in circles, sliding my tongue inside her, listening to her breathing grow heavier until she came with her hands tangled in my hair. Then I moved back up, kissed her on the mouth so she could taste herself, and slid my cock inside her slowly, looking at her and thinking of no one else. I fucked her slowly, with long thrusts, pressing her hands against the mattress, until I came inside her with a hoarse groan. When I finished, I held her for a while, still inside her, feeling her breathe against my neck.

—You’re acting strange —she said—. Are you okay?

—I’m tired —I lied—. But I’m okay with you.

That last part, at least, was true.

***

Three months have passed since what happened at the Las Acacias motel. I deleted the app that same night. I’ve slowed down a lot. I haven’t made any grand promises because I don’t believe them myself: with the urges I have, I know I’ll go looking for a cock again at some point. But I’ve learned things.

I’ve learned that a stranger is exactly that: a stranger. That pictures aren’t people. That a curt profile can hide much more than shyness. That when an inner alarm goes off as you cross the threshold of a room, you have to listen to it instead of filling the silence with whiskey. That saying “slow down” isn’t a magic spell, and that some men hear the opposite.

And I’ve also learned, because you have to be honest in a confession, that my sex addiction—because that’s what I have—won’t cure itself. I need help. I’m looking for it. Not because of moralizing, but because I want to grow old and because my wife deserves a partner who always comes home.

If anyone reading this recognizes themselves in my story, don’t feel judged. Take care of yourself. Listen to that prick in the pit of your stomach when it sounds. And leave, even if you’ve paid for the room.

That afternoon left me with only one lesson. And one room, 207, that I will never return to.