I Discovered My Body on My Own, and Nothing Was Ever the Same Again

All of this happened when I was still living with my parents, in a quiet neighborhood on the west side of Guadalajara. I had just turned twenty, and my head was full of an urgency I didn’t know how to name. Hormones ruled me at all hours, and although on the outside I looked like any other guy, inside I was boiling with a curiosity I confessed to no one.

I had always considered myself straight. I liked women, dreamed about them, sought them out with my eyes on the street. But there was one detail I discovered very early on, and that stayed with me for years, almost like a secret I was ashamed to admit even to myself.

One afternoon, when I was younger, I was taking my time in the shower. The hot water relaxed me, and I began running my hands over my body without thinking too much. By accident, my fingers slipped between my buttocks and brushed against an area I had never paid much attention to. The sensation left me standing still under the spray. It was strange, intense, unlike anything I knew. An electric tingling ran up my spine, and I felt my cock, which until then had been hanging peacefully, begin to swell on its own, as if that spot between my buttocks had a direct line to it.

Why does it feel like this?

Curiosity got the better of me. I got out of the shower, found a hand mirror, and locked myself away to study my own naked body with a mixture of embarrassment and fascination. I spread my buttocks in front of the mirror and saw my own hole for the first time, that pink wrinkle that contracted on its own every time I looked at it. I brushed the edge with my fingertip and felt a lash of sensation that made me clench my teeth. I didn’t know what I was looking for; I only knew that curiosity turned me on in a way I didn’t understand.

***

The real discovery came by accident. At home we had one of those massagers, the kind that vibrate to relieve back pain. One day, playing with it, I rested it against my crotch without thinking, over my pants. The vibration went through my entire body. It was so sudden and pleasurable that I was left breathless, with the image fixed in my mind, unable to forget it. I felt my cock harden inside my jeans within seconds, pulsing against the fabric and wetting my boxer briefs with a sticky thread that leaked out without permission.

I waited for hours. I counted the minutes until the house was empty. As soon as I heard my parents’ car drive away, I ran for the device like a man possessed. I stripped in a hurry, lay down, and pressed the vibration directly against my cock, which was already completely hard before I even touched it. The swollen, purple head glistened with a drop of clear liquid sliding down the glans.

The sensation was devastating. I pressed the device against the frenulum, against my balls, along the entire length of the shaft. Every vibration made me arch my back against the mattress. Without realizing it, I spread my legs and lowered the device until it brushed my perineum, then a little farther back, until the vibration reached my hole. I screamed into the pillow. It was too much. My cock began jumping on its own, throbbing without me touching it, and I felt something building at the base, a weight, a pressure rising without restraint.

Something gave way inside me, and I came for the first time in my life. Thick jets of semen shot from the tip and splattered over my belly and chest; one even reached my chin. My cock shook on its own, spitting hot milky fluid, and I trembled all over, my legs rigid and my toes curled.

I had no idea what had just happened. I didn’t understand what that thick liquid was that now dripped between my fingers when I brought it to my hand to smell it, to touch it, to understand. I only knew it was the most intense pleasure I had ever felt. And because I was barely more than a boy, I was ready again in less than five minutes, my cock hard once more, eager to repeat it.

That was how I learned to masturbate without realizing I was learning. Whenever I was alone at home, I ran for the device, locked myself in, and made use of every minute before someone came back. It was my secret ritual, my escape, the one thing that belonged entirely to me. Sometimes I came three or four times in a row, until I was dry, my cock reddened and my balls empty.

***

Eventually the internet came to our house, and with it access to videos and erotic stories that opened up an entire world to me. At last I understood what was happening to my body, put names to things, and discovered I wasn’t the only one who felt those urges. I learned that the liquid was cum, that the pressure was called an orgasm, and that there were people who spent their lives seeking what I did in secret.

My sessions changed. I stopped trying to finish quickly. I learned to prolong the pleasure, delay the final moment, and remain on that delicious threshold for endless minutes while I read or watched. I discovered that desire could be stretched like a taut string, and that the tighter I pulled it, the more powerful the explosion. I jerked off slowly, squeezing the base so I wouldn’t come, loosening my grip when the urgency subsided, watching videos of women being fucked from behind while imagining myself in their place.

One night, lost among so many readings, I came across a different kind of story. A man described an encounter with a trans woman, and for some reason those words turned me on in a way I hadn’t expected. I read how she spread her legs, how he pushed his cock all the way into her ass, how the trans woman moaned and begged for more, and my cock jumped on its own in my hand. I came instantly, barely touching myself, shooting cum all over the keyboard. But that night I learned two things that left their mark on me.

The first: there were people who enjoyed anal pleasure without shame, who dared to explore what I had only barely touched out of fear. I wasn’t alone in that curiosity. What I felt when I touched myself between my buttocks had a name, and plenty of people sought it out gladly.

The second, more practical thing: rubbing my cock with cream or something that lubricated it multiplied the sensation. From then on I also began masturbating with my hand, slowly, discovering textures. I spread cream across my palm and closed it around my shaft, sliding it up and down, squeezing the glans when I reached the top, twisting my wrist as if it were a tight pussy swallowing me. Little by little I began leaving the old massager aside.

***

As the months passed, my searches became focused on one thing. I was obsessed with anal sex. I stared at women presenting themselves on all fours, spreading their buttocks with their own hands so men could put their cocks in their asses, twisting as they were thrust from behind. I devoured stories looking for those exact passages, the precise moment when a cock forced the sphincter open and made its way inside. I reread those lines again and again, imagining myself as the one receiving.

One afternoon, after coming twice in a row with my body already limp, I still had a heat in me that wouldn’t go out. My cock refused to rise again, but my ass throbbed as if it were hungry. I got into the shower to calm myself down. The hot water ran over me and, without thinking too much, I lay down on the shower floor, drew my knees up to my chest, and began stroking myself between my buttocks, remembering all those images.

But something was different that time. All my arousal had moved to that area. My cock was hard again, yet I had no desire to touch it. All I wanted was to keep caressing that entrance, pressing it with my fingertip, feeling the muscle contract beneath my finger, daring to go a little farther.

I made up my mind. I licked my little finger until it was soaked with saliva, thinking it would be easiest because it was the smallest. It wasn’t. I was a virgin there, with no experience at all, and my body resisted. I pressed patiently, pushing the tip against that closed ring, feeling it give a millimeter before closing again. I kept at it over and over, until the tip managed to force its way through and slip inside.

The sensation surprised me. At first it was pure confusion, a strange pressure, a burning. Then a sharp pain arrived, as though something were being driven into me, almost making me stop. But I remembered what the stories said: that it hurt at first, that you had to go slowly, and that only after a steady back-and-forth would the pain give way to pleasure.

So I persisted. I began moving my finger with a gentle, steady rhythm, in and out, sinking it a little deeper with each thrust and waiting for that promise. To my amazement, it worked. The pain gradually faded, replaced by a thick warmth and an arousal that grew with every movement. I felt my ass relax on its own, sucking my finger inward, and at one point my pinky slipped in to the knuckle without resistance. For the first time I enjoyed feeling something inside me, moving, opening me. My cock grew rock-hard against my belly, leaking precum, though I hadn’t touched it even once.

That first time I didn’t take proper care of hygiene, and the discomfort afterward taught me a lesson. From then on I researched how to prepare properly, because I knew this wasn’t going to be a one-night experiment. It was a door I had just opened, and I had no intention of closing it.

***

Over the following days I forgot about the device and the cream. My attention was elsewhere. I learned to use the laundry-room hose to clean myself inside, fill myself with lukewarm water, and then expel it all until I was perfectly prepared to explore myself calmly and without unpleasant surprises.

I began masturbating every day in the shower, now focused entirely on that new sensation. I would kneel, press my chest against the wet floor, and hold my ass high, offered to the air. I ran the full length of my longest finger inside me, sank it all the way in until my hand touched my buttocks, twisted it inside searching for spots, then drew it out slowly before thrusting it back in one motion. With my body relaxed and the hot shower falling across my back, what had hurt before now made me sigh against the tile.

I discovered a spot inside, toward the front, that made me spurt a thick stream of precum from the tip of my cock when I pressed it with my fingertip, without even brushing against it. I would stay there, massaging that place, watching my cock drip on its own like a badly closed tap, my thighs trembling.

After many attempts I decided to put in two fingers at once. It wasn’t easy; my body protested at first, and my sphincter resisted opening that wide, but persistence overcame the resistance and I succeeded. The sensation of fullness was different, thicker, more grown-up. I began pumping myself with both fingers, slowly opening myself, feeling my ass stretch to swallow them, and every new achievement left me wanting more, as if there were always another threshold waiting for me.

Eventually I began looking for objects around the house, each one thicker than the last, to imitate the firmness of a real cock. Well-washed, covered broom handles, cucumbers I stole from the refrigerator, thick candles my mother kept in a drawer. I coated them with cream, got on all fours in front of the mirror, and slowly pushed them inside, watching them disappear into me, watching my hole open to swallow them to the base and then close around them when I pulled them out. Once my body could accept considerable sizes, my sessions became a back-and-forth between jerking off in front or riding an object from behind, depending on my mood that day.

The strangest and most wonderful thing was discovering that those anal sessions lasted forever. I didn’t come, I didn’t ejaculate; I simply floated in continuous pleasure that seemed to have no end. I could spend an entire hour with something inside my ass, moving it slowly, playing with the rhythm, panting softly so I wouldn’t wake anyone, never reaching the end. Much later I would have orgasms through that route so intense that my entire body shook, that my cock fired off endless jets on its own, without needing to touch myself in front even once.

***

But imagination never stays still. As I perfected my pleasure in solitude, my fantasies became more concrete, more demanding. I began imagining myself surrounded by bodies, in encounters where men and women were there at once, where I was the center of every hand, every mouth, every cock. I saw myself sucking one cock while another man fucked me from behind, with a woman sitting on my face and offering me her pussy to lick. My lust no longer fit inside me.

One night, after one of those endless sessions in which I finished with two fingers inside me and my cock shooting cum across the tiles, I knew what I wanted. I was tired of fantasizing. I wanted it to happen for real. I wanted someone to make me feel what I had spent years imagining alone in the shower.

The logical thing, I thought, was for my first time to be with a woman. That was what I wanted most. I dreamed of sinking my cock into a real pussy, of feeling that tight, hot flesh swallow me. But with so little experience, I had no idea how to suggest something like that to anyone. I joined hookup sites, and reality hit me: no woman seemed interested in a guy with no experience. Almost all of them wanted a steady partner or a mature man who knew what he was doing.

That was when, in the middle of one of those hot nights, another idea crossed my mind. If I was so obsessed with penetration, if I had practiced it so much on my own with fingers and objects, why not look for a man willing to initiate me for real, to push a flesh-and-blood cock all the way inside me? I wrote it almost as a game, without much hope.

The response left me speechless. There were countless men willing to give a first-timer his debut, to guide someone young and curious along a path I only partly knew. The messages piled up, all of them offering themselves, all promising thick cocks, hot cum, long sessions to teach me how to take it properly. And I, heart racing and cock hard against my pants, began reading them one by one, trying to decide who would be first.

This is about to stop being a fantasy.

But how I chose, what happened on that first date, and everything that came afterward—that’s another story. I’ll save that one for next time.