The Stranger in the Café Who Repeats in My Dreams

I’m going to confess something I’ve never said out loud. I’m twenty-two years old, I live in Guadalajara, and I still haven’t been with anyone. Not for lack of wanting, but because my imagination always won the day. Every night, before falling asleep, I go back to the same scene. I’ve repeated it so many times that I already know the script by heart: the café, his hands, the elevator that takes too long to go up. I don’t know if I’ll ever dare to live it. For now, at least, I dare to write it.

It always begins the same way. It’s a Thursday afternoon and I’m sitting in a café downtown, the one with the brick walls and the barely audible music. I got there early on purpose, because waiting standing up makes me nervous. I order a latte and choose the corner table by the window, so I can see him come in before he sees me.

I met him through one of those apps where you talk a lot and act on it little. We’d been writing to each other for weeks and, in my head, I already knew what his voice sounded like even though I’d never heard it. That afternoon, I finally see him cross the door.

His name is Tomás, or that’s what I call him in this dream I invent every night. He’s taller than he looked in the photos, he’s wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a smile that only appears on one side of his mouth. He looks for me, finds me, and something in my stomach tightens.

—You came —he says, as if he can hardly believe it.

—I came —I answer, hating myself a little for not having something smarter to say.

We talk for a long hour. About small things, music, the city, how strange it is to meet someone you already know halfway. He has the habit of leaning over the table when something interests him, and every time he does I can smell his cologne, a mix of wood and something citrusy that sticks to my memory. I play with the spoon, turn it between my fingers, pretend to be calm when I’m not. Under the table I squeeze my thighs because my cunt is already getting wet just from watching him talk, from imagining that mouth on my nipples, those long fingers prying me open.

I don’t want this to end at the café door.

He’s the one who says it first, though not with those exact words. He puts his hand over mine, on the table, and leaves it there long enough for me to understand.

—Do you want to keep going somewhere else? —he asks, and his voice drops half a tone.

I nod. I don’t trust my own voice.

***

The hotel is three blocks away. We walk without touching, but the space between our arms is charged, as if a spark could jump at any moment. At the reception he talks to the clerk while I stare at the marble floor and think that anyone could guess what we’re about to do. My face burns. Not from shame, but from anticipation. I squeeze my thighs again and feel my panties stick to me, soaked, between my legs.

The elevator is the moment that repeats most in my head, the one I keep playing over and over like it’s my favorite scene from a movie. We both get in. The doors close. And in the exact instant the metal reflection gives us back our silhouettes, he turns and kisses me.

It’s not a timid kiss. It’s a kiss he’d been saving all afternoon. He cups my face with both hands, presses me gently against the elevator wall, and I let myself go as if I knew how to do this, even though it’s the first time in my life someone has kissed me like this. His lips taste like coffee, his tongue slips hot into my mouth and finds mine. I lift my hands to his chest and feel his heart, just as fast as mine. He presses his body to me and I feel the hard bulge of his cock under his pants against my belly. Everything in me burns. Without thinking I slide a hand down and rub him over the fabric, and he lets out a rough moan into my mouth that leaves me breathless.

The elevator stops before I want it to. We break apart, breathing hard, and he laughs softly, almost apologetically. We walk down the hallway too fast. The key card doesn’t work on the first try and both of us laugh from nerves. When the door finally opens, we go in and let it close behind us.

***

Inside the room we take a second. Just one second. It’s the moment when, in real life, I would probably run. But this is my dream, so I stay.

—Are you okay? —he asks. He asks it seriously, looking me in the eyes, and that disarms me more than any caress.

—I’m nervous —I admit—. It’s just… I’ve never done this before.

He doesn’t seem surprised or mock me. He only nods slowly, brushes a strand of hair away from my face, and says:

—Then we’ll go slow. You tell me.

And we do go slow. He kisses me again, but differently, without hurry, as if we had all night, which is exactly what we have. His hands slide down my back and stop at my waist. Mine dare to undo the first button of his shirt, then the second, amazed at how steady my pulse is when the rest of me is trembling. When I open his shirt all the way and run my hands over his bare chest, a sigh escapes me. I go down to his belt and he lets me do it, still, letting me discover him. I unzip his pants, push them down, and there, outlined in the boxer briefs, is his cock, hard, thick, impossible to hide. I touch him over the fabric and he closes his eyes.

—Fuck —he murmurs—. Wait, if you keep that up I’m not going to last.

He sits me on the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of me to take off my shoes, one and then the other, and there’s something in that gesture so un-erotic that it melts me completely. He looks up at me and smiles to one side, that smile I already recognize. From there, kneeling, he runs his hands up my calves, my knees, and slowly opens my legs. He stays there, looking between my thighs for a second, as if studying something, and I feel my face burn.

We undress in turns, without rushing, pausing to look. He takes off my sweater and lets it fall to the floor. I finish opening his shirt. When I’m left in only my underwear I cross my arms by instinct, and he gently pulls them apart.

—Don’t hide —he murmurs—. I want to see you.

He unclaspes my bra and tosses it aside. My breasts are bare and he looks at them for a moment before lowering his head and taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucks slowly, licks it, nibbles it just a little, and I arch my back and grab the back of his neck so he won’t stop. He moves to the other one and does the same, harder, and I feel a tug straight between my legs, as if my nipples were connected by a cable to my cunt. When he finally pulls down my panties, the last thing I’m wearing, he slides them carefully down my legs and drops them on the floor. I’m naked for the first time in front of a man. And instead of shame, I feel a heat rising from my belly.

He lays me back on the pillows. He traces my body with the tips of his fingers, still not touching where I want it most, drawing the outline of my ribs, the hollow of my hip, the inside of my thighs. Every touch is a promise that takes its time to be fulfilled, and I arch my back looking for more before its time. I open my legs without realizing it, offering myself, and he smiles against my neck.

—Easy —he says against my neck—. We’re there now.

When he finally slides his hand between my legs, I let out a sound I didn’t know I was capable of making. I’m soaked, throbbing, ready in a way I’d only ever felt alone, in the darkness of my room, imagining this same scene. His fingers slip between my lips, up and down, gathering my wetness, and when he finds my clit a sharp moan slips out of me, surprising even myself. He starts drawing circles, first slow, testing, then more precise. One of his fingers goes down and sinks into me, slowly, to the knuckle, and I squeeze my eyes shut because I’d never felt anyone inside me before. He moves it, pulls it out, slides it back in, and after a little while he adds a second finger that stretches me a bit and tears a gasp from me.

—You’re soaked —he says against my ear—. God, you get so wet.

—Don’t stop —I manage to say—. Please.

He moves slowly, attentive to every reaction of mine, adjusting the rhythm to my breathing. His fingers fuck me with a steady back-and-forth while his thumb keeps pressing my clit. I close my eyes and let myself go a little, just a little, because I don’t want to finish before I’ve even started. The muscles of my cunt close around his fingers, throbbing, and he notices and smiles against my shoulder.

***

He comes down kissing my belly. I know what’s coming and my heart starts racing. When his mouth reaches between my legs, I grip the sheets with both hands and bite my own lip so I don’t scream. He opens me with his fingers, exposes my clit and licks it from bottom to top, once, twice, with his tongue flat and hot, and I lift my hips off the bed without meaning to. He’s patient. He finds the rhythm that makes me tremble and stays there, insisting, sucking my clit like it’s candy, sliding his tongue inside me, alternating. After a while he slips two fingers in again and keeps sucking above, and the combination blurs my vision. Until I feel something gathering in my belly like a wave that hasn’t broken yet.

—Wait —I gasp—. Wait, I want… I want it to be with you.

He comes back up to my mouth. He kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips, on his tongue, salty and thick, which should embarrass me and instead turns me on even more. He yanks off his boxer briefs and his cock is bare between us, hard, thick, the tip shining with pre-cum. I look at it and swallow. It’s bigger than I’d imagined on my nights alone. I reach out and take it, almost by instinct. It’s hot, throbbing, the soft skin stretched over something rock-hard. I squeeze it slowly and he lets out a guttural moan.

—Like that —he says, voice rough—. However you want.

I dare to move my hand, up and down, clumsy at first, more confident after, watching him close his eyes and bite his lip. A clear drop rises to the tip and without thinking too much I lean in and lick it. He spits out a curse between his teeth. I gather my courage and take him into my mouth, just the tip at first, testing, and he puts a hand in my hair without pushing, letting me go at my own pace. I take a little more, suck, pull him out, take him back in. Saliva runs down my chin. He breathes hard, gasps my name, and I feel a new power, something I didn’t know I had, until he gently pulls me away.

—Stop, stop —he says, laughing—. If you keep going like that I’m going to come and I don’t want to. Not yet.

—If at any point you want to stop, we stop —he says afterward, now more serious, reaching for a condom on the nightstand—. I mean it.

—I don’t want to stop —I answer, and for the first time all afternoon my voice sounds sure.

I watch him tear open the packet with his teeth and roll on the condom with a calm I envy. He settles over me, propped on his elbows so he won’t put all his weight on me. I feel the head of his cock against my entrance, slippery from how wet I am, and I tense without meaning to. He stops immediately.

—Breathe —he whispers—. Look at me.

I look at him. And while I’m looking at him, he pushes just a little, gaining a centimeter and stopping, waiting for my body to accept him. It hurts, yes, a stinging burn that makes me clench my teeth, but it’s a pain I don’t mind feeling, a pain mixed with something much bigger. I feel tense, full, split in two in the best possible way. He goes on like that, little by little, watching me the whole time, pulling back a bit and then pushing in again, gaining ground with each thrust, until suddenly there’s no distance left between us, I feel him all the way inside me, to the hilt, and both of us go still, surprised, holding our breath.

—Okay? —he asks, his forehead pressed to mine.

—Okay —I say, and a nervous laugh escapes me that he returns.

***

He starts moving. Slowly at first, a careful, gentle rhythm that gives me time to discover what my body wants. He comes almost all the way out and sinks back in, out and in, and I feel every centimeter of him dragging against my walls. I dig my fingers into his back, not to stop him but to have him closer. The pain starts to fade and is replaced by something else, a friction that grows with each thrust, a dull pleasure rising from the pit of my belly. I start lifting my hips to meet him, to match his rhythm, and I discover that if I tilt my pelvis a little his cock brushes exactly where it needs to brush.

—Like that —I say, surprised by my own boldness—. Just like that. Harder.

He obeys. He pushes deeper, firmer, and the sound of our bodies colliding fills the room. He finds a rhythm and keeps it, his hips slamming into mine, and I let myself go completely, forgetting my nerves, my inexperience, all the times I imagined this without daring to live it. I wrap my legs around him, dig my heels into his ass so he won’t come out, and he groans in my ear.

—You’re so tight —he pants—. Fuck, you’re not going to last long like this.

—Neither are you —I shoot back, surprised to hear myself talking like this, with this dirty mouth I didn’t know I had.

He slips out of me for a second, turns me onto my stomach with firm hands, and lifts my hips. I stay on my knees, chest against the pillow, offering him my ass without thinking. He touches me with his fingers, makes sure I’m still wet, and pushes back in with one single thrust that tears a muffled cry from me. From that position he goes deeper. He grips my waist with both hands and fucks me, and I bury my face in the sheet and let myself be fucked, moving back to take him in, biting the fabric so I won’t scream too much.

—Look at you —he says from behind, and one of his hands strokes my back, slides down my spine and squeezes one cheek of my ass—. Look at you taking my cock so well.

Our breathing mixes, his gasps against the nape of my neck, mine lost in the pillow. He slips a hand under me and finds my clit without stopping his thrusts, and starts rubbing it with his fingers in the same rhythm he’s fucking me, and now I can’t think about anything. The wave that had been left unfinished comes back, now bigger, unstoppable. I feel it building, rising inside me, tightening every muscle, and I scream at him not to stop, not to stop, and I shatter into a thousand pieces around his cock, throbbing, clenching him so hard from the inside that he lets out a deep groan.

—I’m coming —he pants—. I’m coming, I’m coming…

He sinks all the way in, two, three deep thrusts, and I feel him tremble behind me, come inside the condom with his cock buried to the hilt while my walls keep milking him from within. He finally collapses on top of me with all his weight, breathing into my neck, and I stay like that, with him over me, with him still inside, feeling us beat at the same time.

We stay like that for a long while, sweaty, breathless, saying nothing. He slips out of me slowly and lays me on my side, and holds me from behind. He kisses my temple. I hear his heartbeat slowly returning to normal, and I think I could live inside that sound.

After that we do it again, without the urgency of the first time. This time I climb on top, clumsy, learning how to move, hands on his chest while he looks up at me and grabs my tits and whispers filthy things that make my cunt tighten more. I come sitting on his cock, biting my lips, and he finishes a while later with his fingers dug into my hips. And a third time, deep into the early morning, laughing at how awkward we are when we change positions, fucking side by side, with him behind me, our legs tangled, discovering each other without a clock and without hurry, until exhaustion wins and we fall asleep wrapped in each other with the city lights slipping through the curtain.

***

And there, right there, is where I always wake up.

Because none of this has happened yet. There is no Tomás, no hotel, no elevator. It’s only me, in my room in Guadalajara, cheeks hot, hand between my legs and fingers soaked, my heart beating as if I’d really run those three blocks. Twenty-two years old and all the desire in the world locked away, waiting for someone who knows how to open it slowly, who asks if I’m okay, who isn’t in a rush.

I know that one day it’s going to stop being a dream. I know the café exists, the app exists, that somewhere there’s someone who leans over the table when something interests him. Maybe the only thing I’m missing is daring to answer the message I haven’t replied to in days.

For now, I confess it here, where nobody can see my face. I dream about that. And every night, before falling asleep, I start again from the beginning: the café, his hands, the elevator that takes too long to go up.