What My Girlfriend Doesn’t Know About My Desires

I’m writing this because I need to tell someone, even if it’s just a blank screen at two in the morning.

I’ve had a partner for three months. Her name is Sofía. She’s twenty-eight, works as an illustrator, and has that way of laughing that makes everything else seem less important. I love her, or at least I think I do. I don’t always know how to tell love apart from habit, genuine desire from the comfort of having someone nearby who knows you.

What I do know for certain is that I don’t want to hurt her.

And I also know that I’m cheating on her.

Not with another woman. With men.

I’m saying it straight because it’s the only way I know how to say it. I’m not generally attracted to the male body. I don’t turn my head when a man walks by on the street. I don’t fantasize about faces, torsos, the details that usually define physical attraction. But cocks fascinate me. The weight, the texture, the temperature of the skin, the way they go hard in my hand, how they throb when I have them in my mouth, how the glans swells and shines when I run my tongue underneath. I’ve known that since I was twenty. For a long time I didn’t know what to call it. Now I don’t care about the name anymore.

Trans girls are something separate in this equation, and I’m saying that because it matters for understanding the rest. With them, both things come together: desire for the whole person and what their body does to me. To me they represent a combination that no other category can match, that mix of soft tits and a hard cock between the legs that drives me crazy. In a more honest world, that would probably be where my love life would be. Sometimes I think that if I had met a trans woman earlier, someone I had something serious with, everything would have taken a completely different path. But that’s a thought that doesn’t lead anywhere useful.

In this world, Sofía came to me.

I met her at a wedding we were both attending out of obligation. She was leaning against the same wall I was, watching the couple’s first waltz with an expression somewhere between resigned and amused. I made a comment about the groom’s father’s endless speech and she burst out laughing in a way I hadn’t expected. We spent the rest of the night ignoring the party, drinking too much, and talking about everything else. Three weeks later we were together. That little planned."

With Sofía, the sex is good. I’m not going to lie about that to justify what I do. I eat her pussy almost every day and we fuck four or five times a week. I love how she smells between her legs, how wet she gets the instant I run my tongue over her clit, how she grabs my hair when I get my tongue in as deep as I can. She loves it when I lick her slowly, parting her lips with my fingers, licking her from bottom to top until she starts trembling and begs me to fuck her. Then I get on top, shove my cock into her with one thrust, and feel her close around me, hot, tight, still pulsing from the first orgasm. She loves it when I come inside her, and I almost always do, feeling her muscles clamp down on my cock until I’m emptied out completely. There’s something real and concrete in our intimacy: trust, tenderness, genuine want. But there’s also a gap, a kind of specific hunger that doesn’t get filled with her—not because there isn’t desire, but because it isn’t what I’m lacking. I don’t know if there’s a cure for that or if that’s just how it is.

Before I met Sofía, I already had regular hook-ups with two men.

One is Marcos. Forty-six years old, works in construction, married with three kids. We met two years ago at the gym, in that slow and not entirely conscious way these things begin. A look that lasted a second too long in the locker room corridor. A silence charged with tension while we both pretended to check our phones. Another look, this time dropping to each other’s crotches while we changed, and the certainty that the bulge he had in his briefs wasn’t a coincidence. A number exchanged without either of us saying exactly what for.

Two weeks later we met for a drink at a bar near his work. We lasted twenty minutes with the beers in front of us. Then we went to his car, parked in a dark side street, and within half an hour we both knew exactly what we were to each other. As soon as he closed the doors, I already had my hand on his thigh, moving up until I found his hard cock under his trousers. I unzipped him without saying a word, pulled his thick dick out of his briefs, and had it in my mouth before he could react. Marcos let out a deep groan, leaned back in the seat, and put his hand on the back of my neck. I took him all the way down until I felt him hit the back of my throat, and I started sucking him with everything I had, going up and down, letting the saliva run down the shaft, licking his balls whenever I had the room. When he came, he grabbed my hair and pushed my head down. I swallowed everything. I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and we said goodbye with barely any words.

We see each other three or four times a month, always during the week, always in places where nobody knows us. A roadside motel, his car in some industrial estate, a shopping center parking lot far enough from our neighborhoods. His wife only wants conventional sex, according to what he’s told me, and he needs something more that he can’t have at home. I don’t judge him. I’m in the exact same situation, just the other way around. I suck him off and he fucks me. And he really fucks me. Marcos has a thick cock, not especially long, but wide in a way that opens you up and leaves you feeling it for days. In the roadside motel he puts me on all fours on the bed, smears my ass with spit and lube, slips two fingers into me until I feel myself relax, then drives his cock in with a firm thrust that tears a moan out of me into the pillow. He fucks me while gripping my hips, unhurried at first, letting his pelvis slap my ass with a dry, steady rhythm. When he speeds up, he grabs my hair, pulls back, and forces my spine to arch while he pounds into me harder and harder. The last time, he pulled out just before coming, turned me over in one motion, and came all over my face, hot semen dripping onto my forehead, my lips, my chin. I opened my mouth and sucked the head to get the last drops out. No romance, no promises, no long conversations afterward. That’s all, and it’s enough for both of us.

When I leave those encounters, the feeling is relief, like opening a valve that’s been shut too long. There’s no need to talk, no tenderness afterward. We part with a gesture and each goes back to his life. That’s part of what I need too.

The other is Diego.

Diego is twenty-six and openly bisexual. He hides nothing, he doesn’t live a double life, he owes nobody any explanation about who he sleeps with or in what order. He eats pussy in the morning and sucks some guy’s cock in the afternoon with the same naturalness other people use to change channels. The first time I noticed that, it made me uncomfortable. Over time I understood that what I felt wasn’t discomfort but envy.

We meet on Wednesdays, almost always. At his apartment downtown, which smells of coffee and always has the blinds half down. Diego has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen in my life, long and thick, with that slight upward curve that makes it even more obscene when he’s hard. He has a way of taking the back of your neck in his hand that makes everything outside that room disappear completely.

The moment I walk into his place, I already know how it’s going to start. He kisses me against the door, puts his tongue in my mouth, grabs my cock over my trousers and squeezes until a moan slips out of me. Then he pushes me down. I kneel without him needing to ask. I unbutton his jeans, pull down the zipper, take that huge dick out of his briefs, and my mouth waters just seeing it, thick, straight, with that prominent vein running all the way down the shaft. When I take him into my mouth I think of nothing. The whole world narrows to that: the weight on my tongue, the heat, the pressure, the rhythm he sets with his fingers in my hair. There’s no mental noise, no guilt. Just that point of absolute focus I can’t find anywhere else.

I take him as deep as I can, feeling him hit the back of my throat, choking a little and swallowing again to keep going. Diego holds my head and guides me, sometimes slowly, letting me run my tongue over his frenulum and suck his balls one by one, sometimes with an impatience that turns me on, fucking my mouth with thrusts that make my eyes water. I answer with eagerness, saliva sliding from the corner of my mouth and onto my chest, my jaw tight and my nose pressed to his pelvis, breathing in that male sweat that gets me hard in a way I can’t explain. When he moans, that sound hits me straight in the cock. His fingers dig into my hair, he pushes me lower, holds me there for a few seconds until my eyes water, and when he lets me breathe I look up at him from below with my mouth open and my tongue out and he spits in my face and laughs with that crooked smile that makes me want to be his slut.

That never happens with Sofía.

It’s not that I don’t want her. It’s that sex with her exists on another level. It’s intimate, it’s pleasurable, there’s something genuine in it. But it doesn’t clear my head. With Diego, sometimes I come without touching myself, just with him inside me, and that kind of orgasm has nothing to do with anything else I know. It’s more physical, deeper, as if it switches on something that normally stays off. Feeling him tense when he’s close, feeling that heat in my throat, that first thick load hitting the roof of my mouth and making me swallow through gagging, is something that gets me insanely turned on in a way I can’t compare to anything else.

Sometimes he puts me on my back on the mattress, bends my legs up to my shoulders, and just stares at my ass like it’s his dinner plate. He spits on me, rubs the spit in with two fingers, and slowly slides them in, one first, then two, opening me, getting me ready. When he sees I’m ready, he places his cock at the entrance and at first pushes in slowly, just the head, pressing until I feel myself stretch, feel myself filled up until my moans get cut off in my chest and I have to breathe deep through my nose. Then he pushes a little more, and a little more, until he has all of it inside and my balls are slapping against his every time he moves. He fucks me with a precision that undoes me, holding me by the hip, lifting my ass, spitting in my face, giving me soft slaps on the cheek while he calls me his. He changes the rhythm until I’m trembling, moaning as if nobody had ever fucked me before, begging him not to stop. When he grabs my cock and starts jerking me off at the same time he’s pounding me, I come in spasms, staining my chest and stomach, feeling my whole body contract around him. Diego speeds up, grabs my throat, and empties himself inside me with guttural grunts that go straight to the bone. When he finishes, he stays still for a second, breathing hard, his cock still hard and buried deep, and that silence after the final thrust is almost as intense as the orgasm itself. When he pulls out, slowly, I feel the semen start to trickle out of my ass, and he looks at me with that smug bastard smile that makes me want to ask for more.

The last time I saw Diego was four days ago. Sofía thought I had a work dinner that ran late.

That afternoon I spent two hours at his place. He sucked me off first, kneeling between my legs on his sofa, looking me in the eyes while he took my cock all the way into his mouth. Then I fucked him for a while, with him on all fours on the rug, gripping his hips while I drove my cock into him to the balls and felt him moan against the floor. And in the end he fucked me in his bed, against the wall, with my legs around his waist, for what felt like an eternity. I came twice. He came once. By the time I finished I was wrecked, my ass burning, my lips swollen from all the sucking, and a stain of semen drying on my thigh that he’d spat over me when he came in my mouth and I didn’t have time to swallow it all.

I left his apartment at eleven at night with wrinkled clothes and that specific exhaustion sex leaves when the body really works. On the subway, standing up, with people around me staring at their phones, I thought about Sofía waiting for me at home. I felt bad. Not shattered, not spiraling, but with that very particular discomfort of someone who knows he’s done something he shouldn’t have done. When I got there, she hugged me at the door without suspecting anything, and I hugged her back still feeling Diego’s load inside my body.

The thing is, I don’t know if I can stop either.

***

Before Sofía and I became official, I told her my sex life up to that point had been “complicated.” I didn’t go into details because I don’t know how to explain them without sounding like I’m making excuses. She nodded without asking anything else. I assumed she’d understood something. She probably hadn’t understood anything.

Sofía wants a conventional relationship. No third parties, no practices that go outside the usual. Not because she’s closed-minded, but because that’s what she needs to feel safe. And that’s completely valid. The problem is that I need things that don’t fit that definition, and I can’t stop needing them no matter how hard I try.

I tried. The first week after we got together I didn’t see either of them. The second week either. I’d masturbate in the bathroom thinking about Diego’s cock, about Marcos’s semen, seeing myself in the mirror with shame and coming anyway into my hand with a groan I had to smother so Sofía wouldn’t hear me from the living room. On the thirteenth day I texted Diego. I didn’t consciously plan it. I just did it. That same afternoon I was kneeling in his kitchen with his cock in my mouth, swallowing him like I’d been starving for weeks. And the truth is, I had been starving for weeks.

If I tell Sofía the truth, I lose her. And even though the right thing would probably be that, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to let go of what we have. I like having breakfast with her on Saturdays. I like the way she arranges her illustrations on the table, in piles by projects she never finishes. I like the life we’re trying to build together, even if it has cracks only I can see.

If I leave Marcos and Diego, I know exactly what happens: I hold out for a while and then go looking again. That’s not a guess. It’s a pattern I know all too well.

I’ve read about this. About the difference between sexual attraction and romantic attraction, about fragmented bisexuality, about men who identify as straight and regularly have sex with men. No category fits me perfectly. I stuck with the one that best describes what I experience: I like women, I like trans girls, and I like cocks. The three things at the same time, with none of them canceling out the others.

***

There are nights when Sofía sleeps curled up against me and I stay awake staring at the ceiling. I’m not thinking about Diego or Marcos specifically. I’m thinking about what it says about me that I can love someone and lie to them at the same time. Sometimes, while she breathes deeply against my neck, I get hard without meaning to remembering Diego’s cock opening my ass or Marcos’s semen dripping onto my face, and I have to stay very still so she won’t notice. Am I a bad person? Probably. Would I do things differently if I could go back? Honestly, I don’t know.

Sofía deserves someone who doesn’t hide anything from her. Marcos and Diego deserve to be able to live without building lies on top of lies. I deserve to be able to be who I am without dividing it into separate compartments that don’t touch each other.

But for now I don’t know how to make that happen without something breaking in the process.

So I keep going. Wednesdays with Diego, his cock in my mouth, in my ass, his load inside and outside. Three or four times a month with Marcos, his thick dick opening me up on all fours in a roadside motel. Four or five times a week with Sofía, eating her pussy, fucking her slowly, coming inside her while I think about something else I shouldn’t be thinking about. And that dissonant background note that never quite resolves, that’s there when I wake up and when I go to bed and in all the moments in between.

I wrote this to see if putting it into words would help me understand it better.

It didn’t help.

But at least it’s not only in my head anymore.