I Never Imagined It Would Feel Like That

I was nineteen when it happened, and I remember it with a clarity I wouldn’t expect for something that took place on an unremarkable Saturday in August. It was one of those days when the heat flattens everything—the air, time, the will to do anything—and I was alone in my parents’ apartment for the first time in months.

They’d left early, before eight, headed for the coast with my little sister and the cousins who came every summer from up north. I’d gotten out of it with an excuse I didn’t even bother to polish: work pending, a project to hand in, something that sounded serious enough for no one to insist too much. At nine in the morning I heard the front door close and I was completely alone.

True solitude—not the kind you have for two hours while someone buys bread, but the kind where you know nobody will be back until Monday—has its own texture. As if the apartment breathed differently. As if the walls relaxed.

I had breakfast at my own pace. I put music on from my phone. I wandered through the empty rooms with that strange feeling of being a temporary owner of a space that’s usually shared. Then I flopped onto the sofa with my laptop on my lap, with no concrete plan.

I started browsing aimlessly. YouTube, a social network, the day’s headlines. Nothing held me for more than five minutes. It was that kind of afternoon when you don’t know what you’re looking for but you know it isn’t what’s in front of you.

I ended up where I almost always ended up when I was alone for long enough. Porn.

I spent half an hour watching familiar stuff, the kind of content you turn on in automatic pilot: big tits, noisy blowjobs, thick cocks going in and out of shaved cunts. My dick was already getting hard inside my shorts, pressed tight against the seam, and I’d rubbed it a couple of times over the fabric without any real desire to finish yet. But then I came across something different. It wasn’t what I expected. It was a woman alone in a bright room, legs spread, with a shiny dildo buried all the way in her ass, moving it with a calm that didn’t feel acted. No background music, no aggressive editing. Just her, her ass wide open to the camera, and that piece of silicone going in and out of her hole with a focus that seemed completely genuine.

I watched the video to the end. Then I rewound it.

Why would she do it like that?

It wasn’t a moral question. It was pure curiosity, the kind that settles behind your sternum and won’t move until you give it an answer. I’d seen similar scenes before without them stirring anything in particular. But this time something was different. Something in the way she did it—the face she made when she pushed it all the way in, the open mouth, the way her ass tightened and opened around the toy—made me stop at the real question: what does that feel like from the inside?

I stayed still for a few minutes, with my cock hard as a rock in my shorts. The ceiling fan turned slowly. The music was still playing from my phone, though I wasn’t listening anymore.

I got up. Went to the bathroom. Washed my hands carefully, with soap and water, for longer than usual. I looked at myself in the mirror for a moment, with no clear thought. Just the hum of a curiosity that hadn’t asked permission to settle in, and my dick outlined against the fabric, refusing to go down.

I went back to my room. I yanked off my shorts and briefs and threw them on the floor. I lay down on the bed with a towel under my ass, something I did almost instinctively, without thinking too much about it. I took the bottle of moisturizing cream from the nightstand and squeezed a good amount onto my fingers. I lifted my knees, spread them, and brought my hand down between my cheeks, searching for the place I’d never touched in earnest.

I started exploring with my fingers, slowly, with the caution of someone moving through territory they don’t know well. I brushed the rim of my hole with the pad of my middle finger, in circles, smearing it well with cream. The first sensation was ambiguous: not exactly pleasure, not exactly discomfort, but something in between that didn’t have a name in my vocabulary back then. The hole tightened on its own whenever I touched it, clenching as if it had a life of its own.

I pushed a little. The finger slid, didn’t go in. I put on more cream. I pressed again, firmer this time, and felt the muscle give way just enough for the tip, a hot, tight ring closing around the first knuckle. I stopped. I breathed.

I tried again, with even more patience. I slid the whole finger in, up to the knuckles, very slowly. This time the sensation changed. Not radically, not all at once, but like the slow adjustment of an image when a lens finally focuses. Something clicked. I started moving it inside, in and out, and there, against the front wall, I found a soft lump that, when I pressed it, sent a jolt through my whole cock. A low moan slipped out of me. My dick, which had lost some hardness in the process, went rock hard again all at once, with a thick drop of precum hanging from the head.

This exists, I thought. It’s been here all along and I never stopped to check.

I kept pushing my finger in, faster, pressing against that spot every time I went in. I grabbed my cock with the other hand and started jerking off at the same rhythm, my palm sliding over the precum that was leaking from me. After a while I added a second finger. It burned for a second at the entrance, a dry sting, and then gave way. Having two fingers in there felt different, fuller, and when I spread them a little like scissors I could feel my ass opening around them.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, fucking myself with my fingers and pounding my dick. The August heat pressed against the closed blinds. The apartment was dim. I was learning something about my own body without anyone having taught me, without instructions, by being patient and paying attention to what each new sensation was telling me. I could have come right then and there. I was close several times, feeling the semen rise and having to squeeze the base of my cock to stop it. I didn’t want to finish yet. I wanted more.

When I thought of going to the kitchen, I didn’t do it with urgency or a plan. It was a natural extension of that afternoon’s curiosity, nothing more. I walked naked down the hallway, my cock bouncing between my legs and my ass slick with cream. I opened the fridge and the first thing I saw was a long, firm cucumber my mother had bought on Thursday. I took it. I put it under the kitchen tap, cold water, soap, and washed it with the same care I’d washed my hands. I dried it with paper towels. I held it in my hand for a few seconds, weighing it. It must have been about eight inches long, with a pretty generous thickness, thicker than two fingers. My ass clenched just looking at it.

You don’t have to do anything, I told myself. You can leave it here and go back to bed.

I went back to the room with the cucumber in my hand.

I lay down again, this time with my legs bent against my chest, my ass fully exposed. I spread cream on the cucumber until it was shining, dripping, and put even more cream on my hole. I set the tip against the opening. It was cold, colder than my fingers, and at the first contact my ass tightened in a spasm. I breathed. I pushed slowly.

The process was slow. That was what made it work, what made the difference between something that might have been merely uncomfortable and what it ended up being. I didn’t try to force anything. I pushed a centimeter, stopped, waited for my ass to relax around it, and pushed a little more. The first time the head—that round cucumber tip—passed the sphincter ring, a long gasp escaped me. My ass closed behind it, trapping the cucumber inside. There it stayed, still, while I learned to breathe with that new pressure.

I took as much time as it needed: stopping, breathing, waiting for my body to decide on its own whether it wanted to keep going. There were moments when I had to stay completely still, not moving, letting things settle at their own pace. Impatience would have ruined everything. I understood that quickly.

Pain was part of it. But I learned to tell the difference between pain that warns you and pain that says stop. The first was tolerable, even necessary in some way. It was the sign that something was really happening. The second never came. I kept pushing it in farther, a little more each time, until half the cucumber was inside my ass. Then two thirds. In the end almost the whole cucumber was buried, and only the end I was holding was sticking out.

I started moving it. Pulling it out a few centimeters, pushing it back in, very slowly. Fucking myself. The word formed in my head on its own while I did it: I was fucking myself with a cucumber, and I was enjoying it in a way I had never felt before.

What came next was different from everything before. An internal pressure that spread toward my abdomen, blending with everything else in a way I couldn’t separate or analyze. Every small movement of the cucumber against my prostate sent a charge racing up my spine. My cock was leaking precum all over my stomach, a shiny little pool in my belly button, and I wasn’t even touching it. I clutched the sheets with my free hand. I had to control my breathing so I wouldn’t make noise, even though I was alone and there was no one to hear. It was a physical, instinctive reaction I hadn’t asked permission to have.

I started fucking myself faster, in and out with a steady rhythm, aiming each thrust at that spot inside. I grabbed my cock with my other hand and worked it in time, squeezing hard. It didn’t take long for my whole body to tense, for my ass to tighten in waves around the cucumber. I came with a force that surprised me: thick ropes of semen splattered my chest, my neck, one hit my chin. And while I was coming, my ass kept clenching and releasing the cucumber, squeezing me from the inside, and every contraction sent out another spurt. It wouldn’t stop. I had to bite my lip not to shout.

When I was done, I lay there unmoving for a good while, the cucumber still inside me and semen cooling on my skin. I pulled the cucumber out carefully, feeling my ass resist letting it go, that strange emptiness that remained afterward. The ceiling was the same as always: white paint with a crack in the left corner that no one had fixed in years. The fan turning. The distant sound of cars in the street. Everything the same. Only I was different, or at least I knew something I hadn’t known before.

***

I took a long shower. Hot water in August is a small penance you impose on yourself because you need it. I thought about what had happened with the same objectivity with which you review a new experience: what it had been, what it hadn’t been, what it could be. I threw the cucumber away wrapped in newspaper, deep in the trash, under other things.

That afternoon I went to buy water at the kiosk on the corner. The neighborhood was the same as always. The woman on the third floor was watering her plants from the balcony like every Saturday. Two kids were playing on the sidewalk across the street. The world hadn’t noticed a thing.

But I kept thinking.

Not with shame, which was what I might have expected to feel. With something more like a quiet inventory. Like when you try a food you’ve never had and your head starts cataloguing it: the flavor, the texture, whether you’d want to order it again. The word came by itself, without being called: repeat.

That night, before falling asleep, I explored again. With nothing but my fingers, in the dark room. I put one in, then two, then three, and my ass accepted them much better than the first time, as if it remembered. I curled them forward, searched for the prostate, found it right away. I rubbed it in circles while with my other hand I jerked off my dick, slowly, unhurriedly. It was different: more intimate, slower, without the urgency of the first time. Better in some ways, different in others. My body already knew where it was going, and that changed everything. I came in silence over my stomach, with the three fingers buried to the hilt, biting the pillow.

And in that space between sleep and waking, when thought no longer has filters, I found myself imagining something I hadn’t imagined before. A hand that wasn’t mine. A different weight, more real, warmer. A real cock instead of the cucumber, hot and alive, fucking me slowly. The concrete possibility of another person who knew what they were doing, who would open me up with their tongue first, who would lick my hole until it was soaked before putting it in.

It wasn’t a vague desire or an abstract fantasy. It was specific, clear, with a sharpness that surprised me. I wanted to know what that would be like with someone. With someone who had the patience I’d had that afternoon, who knew that territory better than I did, who could take me farther than I’d gone alone. I wanted a cock inside me. I wanted to feel someone come in my ass.

My parents came back on Monday at noon. My sister came in slamming doors as always, asking if there was any food in the fridge. My mother checked that I’d cleaned up the kitchen. My father left the bags in the hallway and went straight to the shower. The homecoming ritual was the same as always, without variations.

I greeted them. Helped unload the car. Asked how the beach was, if the water was cold, if the cousins had made it to the bus on time.

No one knew anything. And I, while putting things back where they belonged and answering questions about a weekend I hadn’t lived, kept thinking about that new desire that wasn’t going to disappear just because the family was back. I kept thinking there was something I wanted to explore beyond what I could explore alone. That the curiosity of that Saturday in August had only just begun, and that sooner or later I was going to find a way to continue.