My First Time with a Man, While Married

I sent the final report at eight twenty in the evening and stayed staring at the screen a few seconds longer than necessary. Three months of analysis, corrections, and endless meetings distilled into forty pages that were now floating on some server, waiting for approval. I closed the laptop. The building was almost empty already, and the only light still on was in my office.

But I felt like celebrating.

My wife had been at her sister’s for four days—she had just had a baby—and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday. My son was at a college friend’s place studying for an exam. My colleagues had left two hours earlier. The night was mine, and I had no plans for it.

I took only my keys, left the briefcase, and walked out carefree for the first time in weeks. It was cold, but not unpleasant. I walked down the usual street, the same one I took every morning, and halfway along I saw a bar I had passed a hundred times without going in. Warm light spilled out from inside, and above the door was a burgundy neon sign. “El Reverso.” I had never paid it much attention.

That night I pushed the door open and went in.

The bar was on the left, six leather stools, four occupied. Nobody looked up. I ordered a very cold beer and settled in at the end, with my back to the wall. I drank it slowly, looking at nothing in particular.

“Long quarter?” a voice to my right said.

I turned. The man who had spoken to me was big: about six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a dark, full beard. His arms were covered in tattoos from wrist to where I could see beneath his short sleeves. He had to be forty, maybe a little older. Calm face, with nowhere in the world to be in a hurry.

“An endless quarter,” I replied.

He laughed heartily and pointed at my beer.

“Another?”

“Won’t hurt.”

He ordered two, and that was how the conversation started. His name was Bruno and he had a tattoo studio three doors down from where we were. We talked about music first—there was a poster on the wall for a jazz festival neither of us was going to but both of us wanted to see—then about football, then about the trips people always plan and never take. It was easy to talk to him. Direct, no detours, the kind of person who really asks when he asks.

We reached our fourth beer without noticing.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.

“Me too. Come on.”

I followed him down a narrow corridor toward the back of the place. The bathrooms were at the end. I went into the stall, did what I had to do, and came out. Bruno was right behind the door, standing there, taking up almost the entire width of the hall.

I stopped.

He said nothing. He took a step toward me, put both hands on my shoulders, and pulled me toward him calmly, without roughness, as if he were giving me time to decide. I didn’t pull away. His lips found mine and the kiss was firm, loaded, with the taste of alcohol mingling between us. One hand held the back of my neck, the other went straight to my crotch and squeezed over my pants. I was hard without realizing it. He noticed and smiled against my mouth.

“It shows,” he murmured.

He squeezed me again, slower this time, groping the bulge up and down through the fabric. I closed my eyes.

I could have pushed him away. I didn’t.

When he pulled back, he looked at me fixedly, not taking his eyes off mine.

“Want to come to my studio?”

I nodded without speaking.

***

He paid for the beers quickly and we went out into the street. I walked two steps behind him, feeling the cold of the asphalt as if it were the first time I had ever set foot on it. Three doors later he took out a bunch of keys and unlocked the place.

Darkness first. Then he switched on a desk lamp and the space took shape: black leather armchairs, shelves with ink bottles arranged by color, posters on the walls with intricate designs, a tray with sterilized equipment. It smelled of disinfectant and something warmer I couldn’t identify.

He led me to the back office, smaller, with a high exam table and dim light. He closed the door and turned to me.

“I want it to be unfiltered,” he said. “Is that okay?”

I swallowed.

“Don’t hit me. The rest is yours.”

“All yours, then,” he said, and grabbed me by the collar of my shirt.

He took his shirt off without rushing. He had the kind of body built by moving a lot for many years: not gym-made, but real, worked. The tattoos covered his chest and sides in a map that would have taken hours to read in full. He unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants and underwear in one motion, and his cock came free, thick, hard, curving upward, his balls hanging heavy underneath. It was much bigger than I had expected. My mouth went dry at once.

I tried to unbuckle mine and he took it out of my hands, tossed it aside, and grabbed me by the waist. He made me kneel down.

I don’t know what part of me knew it, but something knew before he asked.

He was right there in front of my face, pointed at me. The head of his dick gleamed with a thick bead of precome, and the smell—skin, warm sweat, man—hit me hard and straight. I had no experience. None. I stuck out my tongue and tasted the tip first, a short lick that left a salty taste in my mouth. Bruno gave a low grunt above me.

“That’s it, slow,” he said. “Open wider.”

I opened my mouth carefully and took the whole head of his cock in. It was wide, stretching my lips, and I learned in real time what was possible and what wasn’t, where the limit was. I went down a few centimeters more, nausea reflex kicking up, and came back up. Again, a little deeper. Again. Saliva started dripping from the corner of my mouth and running down over his balls. He put one hand on my nape, not pressing, just setting the rhythm, and rested the other on the edge of the table.

“Look at me while you suck me off.”

I lifted my gaze without taking him out of my mouth. His face was tense, jaw clenched, staring at me as if he were learning something about me that I didn’t know myself. He pulled out for a second, ran it along my lips, across my cheeks, tapped my face softly with it, leaving a wet trail there, and pushed it back in until it pressed against the back of my palate. My eyes shut, tears filled them, and yet I opened my mouth wider, wanting more.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You learn fast.”

He sucked me off with his eyes for a long while, watching me swallow, watching me choke, watching me catch my breath and go back in. He ran his thumbs over my stretched lips wrapped around his cock. He gave my mouth a few short thrusts, setting the rhythm with his hips, and I let him do it, my hands clenched around his thighs.

He was the one who stopped. He pulled me up by the forearms, kissed me again—longer than the first time, heavier, knowing he was passing me the taste of his own cock on my tongue—and the saliva that slipped from the corners of my mouth gave me a mix of shame and desire I couldn’t untangle.

His hands tore off my shirt, my belt, my pants, all of it dumped carelessly on the floor. I stood naked in front of him, my cock hard, swollen, pointing upward, and he lowered his gaze and smiled. He wrapped his hand around me and worked me slowly a couple of times, firmly, his palm rough.

“You’re dripping,” he said. “Sucking me got you like this.”

I couldn’t answer. His hands circled my hips from behind and he pressed me against him. His cock, wet with my saliva, dug between my ass cheeks and stayed there, hot, heavy, making it perfectly clear exactly how much he wanted to keep going.

“Up,” he said.

I lay back on the table. He lifted my legs and spread them slowly, unhurriedly, folding them against my chest, leaving me open and exposed under the dim light. He leaned in and what came next was unexpected: his mouth, his tongue, working directly on my ass, on a part of my body where no one had ever reached me that way before. I tensed, my muscles locked. His tongue pushed, insisted, circled and pushed again, wetting me completely, gradually softening what had been closed. He slipped in the tip. Then a little more. Then two saliva-slick fingers that opened the way patiently, going in and out, turning me inside. I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stop or to go on forever.

I didn’t want him to stop. I heard myself moan, a new, sharp sound I didn’t recognize as mine.

“You’re opening right up,” he murmured against my skin. “Look how you open.”

When he straightened, his eyes were shining and his beard was wet. He opened the drawer of the side table, took out a condom and a tube, rolled it on, and coated his cock with lubricant until the whole thing gleamed. He put a little more at my entrance and went back in with his fingers, slick, two and then three, stretching me without hurry. He looked at me before continuing.

“You still here?”

“Still here.”

He settled between my legs and rested the head of his cock against my ass. He pushed. What came next was pain first. Sharp, precise, a burn that split me open from the inside out and made me clamp my fists on the edge of the table. Bruno didn’t move. He stayed still inside me, buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against my ass, completely still, and waited. His hand stroked my side without saying anything. The other found my cock, which had gone soft from the pain, and worked it slowly, bringing it back little by little, until he had it hard again in his hand. My breathing stopped hissing and turned into something more like normal.

“Okay,” I said.

He started moving. Slowly, measuring it, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in gradually, and I began learning how to go with him: to release the tension at just the right moment, to sync myself to every entry and retreat. The pain eased away and gave way to something entirely different. Every time he drove into me to the hilt, he hit something inside me that made my cock jump against his hand. A pressure in the exact spot I hadn’t expected, a heat rising from inside to my belly and not stopping.

“There,” I panted. “Don’t stop.”

It took me a moment to realize it was me.

Bruno picked up the pace. He dug his hands into my thighs, spread me wider, and started fucking me with longer, deeper thrusts that made the table bang against the wall. I looked at him above me, enormous, his chest shining with sweat, with that same look of concentration he had when listening to jazz in the bar, and something in that contrast—the same man, the same expression, a completely different context—struck me as strangely intimate.

“Turn over,” he said.

I rolled over on the table, face down, knees bent underneath me, ass raised. He positioned himself behind me, spread my cheeks with his thumbs, and drove back in with a single thrust. I cried out against the leather of the table. He started fucking me like that, gripping my hips, pulling me back every time he drove forward, slamming his pelvis against my ass with a wet, dry sound that filled the room. His balls slapped against me with every thrust.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “I want to see you come with mine inside you.”

I wet my hand and started stroking myself at the same rhythm he was setting. I was dripping, leaking precome onto the leather, and after a few pulls there was no way to hold it back. His deep voice, the weight of his body, the accumulated friction against that exact spot inside: everything reached a point where there was no controlling it anymore.

“I’m coming,” I moaned. “Bruno, I…”

“Come. Go on.”

I came first, in a spasm that shook me from top to bottom. I shot in thick white ropes over my hand and over the table, and with every jerk my ass clenched around him, sucking him in. My whole body contracted, my thighs trembling, and I lost strength in my arms, collapsing onto my elbows.

“Fuck, how you clench,” he growled.

He buried himself in me two, three more times, the rhythm frenzied, and came seconds later with a long, deep shudder I felt from inside, pulsing. He stayed there, wedged in, panting against my back, his hands sunk into my hips as he finished coming. I felt every throb of his cock through the condom.

Neither of us spoke for a long while.

He came out slowly, carefully, and I felt the strange emptiness he left behind, the muscle open and throbbing. He ran a long, calm hand over my back, like he was soothing an animal.

***

Bruno went to the bathroom. I heard water running. When he came back he tossed me a small towel and nodded toward the bathroom door. I went in, cleaned myself up, looked at myself in the mirror for a moment. My mouth was swollen, my lips red, a dried smear of saliva on my chin, hair mussed. I didn’t quite recognize the expression on my face.

I went back to the office. He had put water on to heat in an electric coffeemaker and was buttoning his shirt without rushing.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.”

He poured me some in a thick, dark ceramic mug. I drank in silence. Bruno leaned against the shelves and looked at me with something like curiosity.

“Do you know what kind of bar you walked into tonight?”

I frowned.

“A bar. With good beer.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“It’s a gay bar. Men’s bar. People from all over the area come here. I go in from time to time because it’s three doors down and sometimes I like somebody.”

I stayed quiet, processing that.

“So… you thought I was gay.”

“At first, yes. But ten minutes into talking I realized you weren’t. And that you had no idea where you were.”

“And then?”

“Then I thought that if you were bothered by what I did in the bathroom, you’d tell me no. And if you weren’t bothered…”

“I wasn’t bothered.”

“I know,” he said. And he smiled for the first time all night. Not the social smile from the bar: a smaller one, more his own.

“And if I had reacted badly?”

“I would have kept the memory of kissing you,” he replied, without hesitation. “For me, that would have been enough. And for you, it would have been your first man.”

I finished the coffee. I put on my jacket slowly, still feeling the burn between my ass cheeks every time I moved. Bruno didn’t hurry me.

Before leaving, I turned back from the doorway.

“When do you usually go to the bar?”

“Thursdays. Sometimes Saturdays.”

“And if I’d rather come straight here?”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I closed the door on my way out.

The street air hit me in the face. I walked toward the subway without hurrying, hands in my pockets, thinking about what I’d say to my wife when she came back on Wednesday. Nothing, probably. That I’d gone out to celebrate the project. That I’d had a good night.

It was true. Just incomplete.