The Taxi Driver Who Was Waiting for Me in My New Country

I was working for a technology company in Monterrey when a headhunting firm contacted me with an interesting offer. The package was good and the position was regional director, but there was one catch: it meant moving to another country. When I asked where, they told me the headquarters were in Panama. I knew little more than the canal and a few postcards from the old quarter.

After talking it over for several nights with my wife and checking the numbers two or three times, I decided to accept.

A week before the trip, I received the instructions by email from Labor Relations. The move was arranged, the apartment ready, and, most importantly for this story, a driver would be waiting for me at the airport.

I packed two large suitcases and a small one with the essentials. On the plane, while flying over the Caribbean, I went over the building address and the name of the taxi driver I was supposed to look for once again. I landed at night, body tired but mind awake from the time change.

After claiming my luggage, I headed for the exit. According to the instructions, I had to find a sign with the company logo and a man named Aníbal. I found him quickly. He was a thin man with glasses, who greeted me with the practical smile of someone who had already done that a thousand times.

—Mr. Andrés, it’s a pleasure —he said—. Look, my colleague Hernán is the one who’s going to take you to the building. I’m waiting for another passenger who’s arriving on the next flight. Anything you need, this is my number.

He handed me a card and I put it in my pocket. I confess I was a little annoyed that it wasn’t him who was taking me. I was tired and just wanted to throw myself on a bed, not meet yet another stranger. But I thanked him as best I could and asked him where I could find Hernán.

—Parking level two, sir. It’s a gray Toyota.

I took the elevator and went out to level two. Hernán was already waiting for me, leaning against the fender and looking at his cell phone. He straightened up when he saw me.

—Good evening, Mr. Andrés. Allow me.

He grabbed the two big suitcases with surprising ease and loaded them into the trunk with a measured motion. I got into the front seat, in the passenger side. Hernán was a man of about fifty-five, with gray-streaked hair brushed back, a trimmed mustache, and a little belly that showed under his shirt but did not take away from his elegance. He smelled of cologne, not too much.

We left the airport and took the highway. The city could be seen in the distance, full of lit-up towers. Hernán drove without hurry, with one hand high on the steering wheel.

—First time in Panama? —he asked.

—First time. I came for work, I’m going to be here for a long while.

—Ah, you’ll like it. People are calm. And do you already know the area where the apartment is?

—No, not at all.

He started telling me about the neighborhood. That it was a good area, with restaurants, a pharmacy open late, a park nearby for running if I liked that. He spoke with the calm of someone who had made that same trip hundreds of times. I felt more relaxed.

After a few minutes, the conversation changed. Hernán glanced at me sideways, weighing whether he could say what he was about to say or not.

—Mr. Andrés, look, anything you need, I can help you get it. For example —he groped for the words—, I know discreet places where you can relax, where they take good care of you. If you want, look at these videos, so you can get an idea of what I mean.

He handed me his phone as naturally as if he were handing me a map. The screen was open to a gallery. I took it on reflex.

And then I saw what I wasn’t expecting.

They weren’t videos of women. They were men. Male striptease, men dancing for other men, close-ups, looks to camera, thick cocks bouncing under tiny thongs that fell to the floor. I blushed at once and felt the heat in my ears. I wanted to give him back the phone and tell him he had made a mistake, but something stopped me. I was embarrassed to be abrupt. And worse still, I was curious.

I swiped to the next photo. A guy clutching his hard cock in front of the mirror, his hand full of spit. Then the next. Two naked men, one on his knees sucking the other down his throat. Hernán kept driving, looking straight ahead, giving me space.

After a few minutes, without realizing the exact moment, my cock started getting hard. I shifted in the seat to adjust it so it wouldn’t show, but the friction of the jeans made it worse. I closed my eyes for a second. In the next photo, a guy was burying his whole cock in another man’s ass, and you could see the receiver’s mouth, open, moaning for the camera.

—Keep going, there are more ahead —Hernán said without turning his head—. There are also some photos at the end.

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. There was also a thick bulge in his pants that he was trying to adjust discreetly every so often, nudging it with two fingers toward his thigh.

***

I had always considered myself heterosexual. I have a wife, I had girlfriends before, I had never slept with another man. But it is also true that sometimes, only in my room, I had put in my fingers, the handle of a brush, once even a cucumber, and the orgasms were huge, different, deeper. When I touched that spot inside, I would cum in jets that no hand job could ever match. And afterward I was always left with the question of what it would feel like to have a real cock inside me.

Once, on a trip to Madrid, I even hired an escort. But the moment he tried to penetrate me, it hurt so much that I asked him to stop. I got dressed, paid him in full, and left without saying anything else. I never tried again.

That was what was going through my head while I flipped through the photos on Hernán’s phone and saw, out of the corner of my eye, the outline of his cock under his pants.

We arrived at the building. It was an elegant complex, with a guard at the gate and an entrance with mirrors and plants. Hernán got out first, opened the trunk, and adjusted the bulge in his pants without knowing that I could see him in the side mirror. I did the same when he bent down for the suitcases.

—Shall I help you take them up, Mr. Andrés?

—Yes, please.

We rode the elevator in silence. The suitcases were heavy and he carried them without complaint. On the twelfth floor, the building manager was waiting for us, a kind woman who had come to hand me the inventory.

Hernán left the suitcases in the living room and moved toward the door to say goodbye while I signed papers.

—Mr. Andrés, anything you need, you know. You have my number.

—Hernán, wait —I said, taking a twenty-dollar bill out—. Could you do me a favor? If you’re not too busy, go to the supermarket and bring me a few things. I’ll make you a short list.

—Of course. My pleasure.

I wrote on a sheet from the building notepad: water, bread, coffee, fruit, soap, beer. He took the bill and the list and left. I kept signing the inventory with the manager. We went through the apartment, checked the appliances, the curtains, the keys. The woman handed me the copies and said goodbye. When I closed the door, I leaned against it and took a deep breath. My cock was still half hard inside my jeans.

I took the suitcases to the main bedroom. The apartment was nice, better than I expected. It had a balcony with a partial view of the city, a kitchen with a bar, and a large living room. I washed my face in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. My pupils were still dilated.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

It was Hernán with two bags. He put them on the kitchen counter and began taking out the things carefully, commenting on the prices. He pulled the change from his pocket and left it beside the apartment keys.

He stood there, ready to leave. And then I said it, without really knowing where the voice came from.

—Hernán, I didn’t finish looking at the photos. Would you mind if I finish before you go?

He looked at me for a second, weighing it. Then a small smile.

—Not at all, Mr. Andrés.

He handed me the phone and sat down on the long sofa in the living room. I sat in a single chair, diagonally across from him. Only the background music from the videos and the low hum of the air conditioner could be heard.

***

In the second video things started to heat up. It wasn’t just striptease anymore. An older guy was shoving his cock into a younger one’s mouth, grabbing him by the hair, setting the rhythm. You could hear the moans, the slurping of spit, the dirty talk. My cock got so hard that the jeans squeezed me until it hurt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hernán also touching himself over his pants, squeezing the bulge with his open palm, not hiding it completely.

—Mr. Andrés, seems like something needs to be let out —he said in a low voice—. If you want, no problem. We’re both serious men here.

I lowered the zipper of my jeans to my thighs and pulled my underwear down just enough. My cock sprang out, hard, wet at the tip, with a thick drop of precum hanging from the head. I grabbed it with my right hand and started stroking the head with my thumb, slowly, spreading the liquid.

—Hernán, relax, if you want go ahead and do the same.

But he didn’t just pull down his zipper. He unbuckled his belt completely, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled them down to his knees. He was left with his belly out and his cock exposed, hairy at the base, thick, more girthy than long, with a purple, shiny head. He started stroking himself slowly, staring straight into my eyes.

—Just look at how nicely you’re packing it, Mr. Andrés —he murmured—. Rock hard.

I looked down at the phone but I was no longer paying attention to it. I was watching out of the corner of my eye how Hernán’s thick hand moved up and down that hairy cock. He brought two fingers to his mouth, covered them well with spit, and ran his hand over the head until it was shining, mixed with his own precum. It gleamed under the soft light of the lamp. I couldn’t look away.

I dropped the phone onto the sofa.

I stood up. I took off my jeans completely, the underwear, the shoes. I was left with only my shirt on, my cock pointing toward the ceiling, my balls tight. I walked over to where he was and knelt on the rug between his open legs. Hernán’s cock was at my face level. It smelled strong, like a man, like all-day sweat. I looked at it for a second before taking hold of it.

—Ah, Mr. Andrés —he murmured, letting his head fall back against the sofa—. Easy.

I grabbed it by the base and stuck out my tongue. I had never done that in my life. I licked the head first, with the tip of my tongue, feeling the salty taste of the precum. Then I opened my mouth and took it in. Just the head at first. I sucked it slowly, testing the weight, the shape. Hernán let out a low moan, restrained, like someone who doesn’t want to scare you.

—Like that, like that, suck me good —he told me softly, placing an open hand on the back of my neck without squeezing—. This is so good, Mr. Andrés.

I pushed my mouth farther down. It reached the back of my throat and I gagged, but came right back up. I sucked him with a rhythm, up and down, while with my hand I held his balls from underneath, weighing them. They were hot, heavy. I drooled all over my chin and wet the patch of hair at the base. He started moving his hips against my face, slowly, pushing his cock against my palate.

—Look at your mouth watering, you little bastard —he said with a hoarse laugh—. And you said it was your first time.

I pulled it out of my mouth with a wet sound and licked along its length, from the balls to the head, as I had seen done in the videos. I took it back into my mouth. Hernán started panting harder, looser. His cock throbbed in my mouth, getting even harder. I felt that if I kept going like this I’d end up cumming on my tongue, and that wasn’t what I wanted.

I pulled it out of my mouth. I climbed onto him, opened his legs with mine, and sat on top, face to face, astride him, with our faces inches apart. He smelled of cologne and something else, animal, that I hadn’t felt before. My cock brushed against his hairy belly.

—Spit on my ass first —I asked in a whisper, surprised by my own words.

Hernán obeyed. He gathered the saliva well in his mouth and spat it between my cheeks, twice, and with his thick fingers spread it around, feeling for my hole. He slipped his middle finger inside, up to the knuckles, without warning. I let out a groan that escaped from my throat.

—Easy, Mr. Andrés. Open up, open up for me. It won’t hurt if you relax.

He moved his finger in circles in there. When he found that spot I knew from touching myself, I arched all the way against him. He pulled his finger out, coated his hand with spit, and also coated his cock, smearing it with saliva and his own precum until it was dripping.

I lowered my hand, grabbed his cock, and guided it between my cheeks to my ass. It was wet, slippery, that helped. I lowered myself slowly. The head pressed against my closed hole. I pushed my ass down, clenching my teeth. The tip went in all at once, smooth, different from Madrid, without that rigidity. I lowered myself a little more. I had to stop, breathe, let my body get used to the thickness. I felt myself opening from the inside, stretching centimeter by centimeter.

—That’s it, papi, that’s it —murmured Hernán, and he grabbed my hips with both hands—. Lower yourself when you can. No rush.

I lowered a little more. Then I kept going until I was fully seated, with his thighs against my ass and his whole cock inside me. I felt the hair of his pubic mound against my groin. I stayed there still for a second, mouth open, unable to believe I had all of it inside me.

—It’s all inside now, Mr. Andrés —he told me in my ear—. All for you. Move whenever you want.

I braced my hands on the back of the sofa, behind his head, and started moving up and down. Slowly at first, then with rhythm. Each downward stroke drove him deep into me and pulled a moan from me. Hernán looked at me with his mouth slightly open, saying little, letting me take the lead, but every so often he gave me a soft slap on the ass and whispered things in my ear.

—What a tight ass you have, bastard. Look how you squeeze me. Move faster, come on.

I started going up and down faster, riding him. His cock went in and out with that wet, obscene sound that only happens when there’s a lot of spit. Hernán grabbed my hips and started thrusting from below too, ramming me every time I came down, slamming me against the bottom. I had never done anything like that in my life. I felt like someone else. I felt good. Each thrust hit the exact spot and shook my whole spine.

—Oh, Hernán, fuck me harder —I begged him, and I barely recognized my own voice—. Put it all the way in.

He gripped my hips harder, dug his fingers in, and started lifting and lowering me himself, using me like a doll on his cock. The head hit exactly, exactly, inside. My own cock was jerking between our bodies, dripping precum over his hairy belly.

Hernán reached down and grabbed my cock. He started jerking me in rhythm with the thrusts, squeezing my head each time he came up. That was too much. I lasted just a few more minutes. I felt the jolt at the base of my spine, the heat rising from my balls, and came over his belly in thick bursts. A first spray that reached the first button of his shirt, then two, three, four more spurts that soaked the hair on his chest. I had never come like that, never in my life. I shouted something, I don’t remember what.

As I came, my ass clenched several times around his cock, squeezing it, milking it. Hernán let out a hoarse grunt, dug his fingers in harder, and unloaded inside me. I felt the hot spurts one after another, lashes inside, filling me. A new sensation, strange and good at the same time. His cock throbbed in my ass, shooting his load deep inside.

—Holy shit, Mr. Andrés —he panted against my neck, breathing hard—. Holy shit.

We stayed like that for a long while, not moving, still impaled on him, with his cum dripping inside me. I rested my forehead against his, breathing. He had his hands open at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them. My cock felt limp against his belly, still dripping the last threads of semen over the hair on his chest.

I waited for him to soften inside me and got up carefully. His cock came out with a wet sound and I felt a warm trickle of his load slide down the inside of my thigh. I went to the bedroom, found the wet wipes I always carry in my travel bag, and came back. I cleaned his belly and shirt, cleaned his soft, hairy cock. Then I cleaned myself, between the cheeks, the thigh, where it had fallen. Hernán pulled his pants back up, adjusted his shirt, ran a hand over his mustache.

Before leaving, at the door, he gave me a soft pat on the ass over my shirt.

—Mr. Andrés, whatever you need, you have my phone number.

He closed the door and I stood in the middle of the apartment, still half dressed, my head spinning and my ass throbbing from being used.

***

That was the last time I saw Hernán. I never called him. In the days that followed I thought about doing it several times, picked up the phone two or three times and put it down again, but I was embarrassed. And a little guilty too. But it wasn’t the only time something like that happened to me in Panama. This city, for some reason, brought out things in me that in my own country I had never known how to name.