The Morning I Discovered My Favorite Fantasy

It was an ordinary Tuesday that ended up changing something fundamental in the way I knew myself.

Nothing announced it: there were no signs, nothing in the air that morning to suggest things would go differently. I woke up at eight to the alarm, lay there staring at the ceiling for ten minutes like I always do, and when I got up the apartment was silent and the rain was already beating against the bathroom window.

I’d been thinking about Rodrigo for days.

Rodrigo was a guy I’d met the previous month at a mutual friend’s place, at one of those gatherings where you end up talking to people you didn’t expect to run into. He was tall, broad-armed, and had that kind of comfortable silence that doesn’t need to be filled with words. We’d exchanged two sentences that night, maybe three. But since then he kept showing up in my head regularly, at the least convenient moments: on the subway, waiting for the coffee to brew, before falling asleep.

That morning he appeared as soon as I put my feet on the floor.

I went into the bathroom without turning on the overhead light, only the small mirror lamp, which throws a softer, more ambiguous light. I looked at myself for a moment before stepping into the shower. I’m twenty-six and have a body that works well even if it’s nothing extraordinary: slim, with nothing especially attention-grabbing about it. That morning, though, I looked at myself with a different kind of attention. As if I were evaluating myself, even though I didn’t know exactly for what.

I turned on the water and waited for it to warm up.

I always do my morning ritual in the same order: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and then shaving my chest, which I do about every two weeks. That day was the day. I took the razor and went slowly, carefully, running the blade over my chest and abdomen until the skin was completely smooth. I ran my open palm over it and felt the difference in texture: the water slid differently, more directly, more intensely even though the temperature hadn’t changed.

There’s something about that sensation that always unsettles me. Not in an unpleasant way, but in the way something unsettles you when it makes you more aware of being inside a body. That this body is you.

Rodrigo had a smooth chest. I’d seen it that night when he undid the button on his shirt because of the heat.

The thought came without warning, as always. And once it appeared, it didn’t go away.

I stayed under the stream with my eyes closed and let the image take shape. It’s not that I hadn’t done that before; but that morning something was different. Maybe it was the rain outside, which made the bathroom feel more enclosed and intimate. Maybe it was that I’d been carrying tension for too many days without doing anything about it. Maybe it was simply Tuesday and I had plenty of time before I had to go to work.

I started masturbating, leaning against the wall.

The tile was cold. The contrast with the hot water was almost painful, a boundary between two temperatures that grew sharper the longer you held it. I kept my back against it anyway, because that kind of sensation—the one that makes you more conscious of your own body—was exactly what I needed at that moment.

I went slowly at first, unhurried, letting the fantasy of Rodrigo become more detailed. I imagined him there, in that cramped space, with water running over his shoulders. His big hands, his long fingers. That way he had of looking that always seemed to be thinking something more than what he said.

I imagined him coming closer. I imagined him undressing without saying a word, stepping into the shower with me, pressing chest to chest first, then hip to hip, forcing me to feel the hardness of his body against mine. In my head, Rodrigo grabbed the nape of my neck with one hand while with the other he traced my freshly shaved torso, his fingers sinking into wet skin as if he wanted to memorize me.

I touched his abdomen, firm, warm from the water. I moved my hand lower until I found his cock already heavy, hardening between my fingers with a speed that left me swallowing hard. In the fantasy he let out a low, rough sound, the kind that doesn’t seem like a sound so much as a confession. He told me in my ear to keep going, not to act shy, that he wanted to see me open my mouth and kneel in front of him.

And I obeyed.

I imagined myself bending down in front of his spread legs, with water running down my face, and taking his cock with my hand first, then with my mouth. The heat, the salty taste of skin, the living weight of flesh tightening on my tongue. I imagined sucking him slowly, looking up from below as the muscles in his abdomen flexed when his breathing changed. His fingers buried in my hair, not to push me with violence but to set the rhythm, to tell me without words how far he wanted to go.

The thought made me grip harder, and the shower suddenly became a space too small for what I was feeling.

I put more intensity into the movement.

I imagined him peeling me away from the tile, turning me around with a hand on my waist, forcing me to brace my palms against the wall. His breathing behind me. His mouth on the back of my neck. The head of his cock brushing my ass, wetting my skin, searching for entry with that impatience that wasn’t clumsiness but hunger. In the fantasy I told him yes, to strip away the last bit of modesty I had left, to fuck me all the way and not get delicate about it.

The water kept falling over us, pounding backs, shoulders, ass, and the steam made everything blur except the friction, the pressure, the need. Rodrigo spread my legs a little wider with his knee, spat into his hand or used the still-slippery soap to lubricate himself, and then pushed in slowly at first, then deeper, until I felt the exact, burning stretch of his cock entering my ass.

There was no poetry in it. There was flesh. There was the brutal feeling of being filled, of being pierced by something hot and hard, of having to breathe deeply so as not to lose my balance. There was the blunt slap of his hips against my ass and my own hand seeking my cock to keep stimulating myself at the same time, because in the fantasy I didn’t want to choose: I wanted everything at once, the pressure in my hole, the friction on my cock, the water, the breathless gasping, the delicious humiliation of asking for more with a broken voice.

I imagined him telling me I was tight, that I was swallowing every centimeter of him, that I should let go. I imagined him setting the rhythm with one hand on my hip and the other on my cock, giving me short tugs that tore barely contained moans from me. I imagined him pulling out a little, then driving back in, harder, each time more slippery from the water and from our own desire, until I could no longer think of anything but his body moving behind mine.

***

The masturbation reached the first peak without my especially seeking it. A long wave that rose slowly and ended almost gently. But when it was over I realized it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t an issue of intensity. It was something different. A curiosity that had been there for a while, crouching in some corner, and that morning decided to come out.

There are fantasies you have without fully accepting them. You recognize them, you know they’re there, but you don’t touch them, as if leaving them in that state of uncertainty were a way of protecting yourself from something you still aren’t sure you want. That morning, with the shower running and the steam making it impossible to see the bottom of the bathroom, I was no longer interested in protecting myself from anything.

I started slowly.

The free hand I had began to explore toward my back, down to the lower part, following the line of my spine vertebra by vertebra. There was no rush. There was all the time in the world and the water was hot.

The first contact was just that: contact. A touch. A brush that didn’t commit to anything and at the same time changed everything, because as soon as it happened the body responded in a way that left no room for ambiguity.

So this was what I wanted.

The thought didn’t arrive with drama or shame. It arrived the way things arrive when you already knew them and simply recognize them when you see them: with a kind of quiet relief.

I kept going.

The pressure of the hot water on my back helped. It loosened the muscles in a way that otherwise would have taken much longer. I used the bar soap first, learning the texture between my fingers before doing anything else. Then the shampoo, which had exactly the right consistency and whose temperature was perfect, identical to the water’s.

I took my time.

I took a long time doing anything other than simply exploring. Learning how far I could go, what responded in what way, what asked for more and what asked for a pause. The body has its own language and that morning I was learning it from the beginning, the way you learn a language: awkwardly at first, more fluently with time.

When I started going deeper, something changed in the quality of the sensation. It was no longer curiosity alone: it was real pleasure, a pleasure that came from the inside out and spread in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I had to brace myself with the other hand against the wall to keep my balance.

Rodrigo was still in the fantasy. I imagined him being the one doing what I was doing to myself. His hands instead of mine. His weight against my back, his breathing next to my ear. In the fantasy he knew exactly what he was doing; he was sure without being rough, patient without being passive.

In fantasies, things are always cleaner than in real life.

But the reality of that morning wasn’t bad either.

***

The second climax took much longer to build. I came close and backed off several times: I learned to recognize the exact point where the tension was about to resolve and to stop right there, holding that edge, letting my body get used to being on it without falling over.

It was pleasure, yes. But it was also control. It was also the satisfaction of understanding how something worked that up to then I had not fully explored.

I pressed both arms out against the wall, water running down the back of my neck. My eyes were closed and my breathing was deep, deeper than it usually is when I breathe without thinking. I could feel my heart in my chest and in my fingers and in my thighs. I felt my whole body as one connected thing, which is not always the case.

Then I stopped holding back.

Rodrigo, in my head, was now completely naked behind me, pushing with a slow, brutal cadence. He held my hips to open me wider, to drive deeper, and I came first from the friction in my hand, then from the pressure of imagining him filling me and using me with animal certainty. The fantasy became so precise that I could almost feel the pulse of his cock inside my body, the growing tension in every thrust, the wet sound of his hips slapping against me.

I imagined turning my head to kiss him. My tongue entering his mouth. His saliva mixing with the water. His moans becoming shorter, harsher, closer and closer to coming. I imagined him telling me not to stop, to keep sucking him after, that he wanted to come with me and inside me, that he wanted to leave my ass hot and full, trembling beneath him.

When I came, it was long.

It wasn’t a wave but a current, something that lasted longer than I expected. The sound I made echoed against the tile in a way that made me feel absurdly accompanied.

I stayed still for a moment. A long moment. My forehead against the cold wall, the water already starting to cool. My body felt heavy in the right way, that afterweight that says something has been completed.

***

I got dressed slowly.

I made coffee while I finished drying my hair with the towel. I took it out onto the balcony to drink it even though it was raining; I stood under the small corrugated roof that barely covers a square meter and watched the water falling into the inner courtyard.

I had been late to work before and I would be again. I sent the foreman a message—“transportation delay, I’m on my way”—and didn’t wait for a reply.

I thought about Rodrigo while I drank my coffee. About what he would say if he knew. About whether he would ever give me the chance to find out in practice and not just in imagination.

I thought about how what I had discovered that morning wasn’t going to stay confined to that morning. That it was the kind of knowledge you take in and that changes the way you think about what you want. That now I knew much more clearly which direction desire pointed when you let it choose without interference.

I thought about how I was going to need proper equipment. Something designed for this, not improvised. I was going to need time, patience, and maybe, if I was lucky, someone to share it with at some not-too-distant point.

But that was for later.

I finished the coffee, put the cup in the sink, grabbed my coat, and took my keys. As I stepped out into the landing, the neighbor from the fourth floor greeted me with a gesture from the stairs. I returned the greeting with a smile she didn’t know how to read.

Outside, it was still raining.

I got to work forty minutes late and with a calm no one could explain.