Germán’s Nephew Came to Bathe That Night

By the time I turned twenty-two, I already knew what I was, even if I still couldn’t say it out loud. I lived with my wife in a small apartment in the northern district, worked by day and studied at night, and whenever I could I found a way to slip away for a few hours to the house downtown where Germán waited for me.

Germán was in his fifties and had been a friend of my family since before I was born. No one suspected a thing. He was a discreet, tidy man, living alone in that big house with his nephew Mateo whenever Mateo came to visit. With me he had been patient, almost pedagogical. He taught me things little by little, without rushing, and I learned without asking myself too many questions about what we were to each other. He taught me how to suck an entire cock all the way down my throat without gagging, he taught me to open my ass with fingers slicked with oil before taking it, he taught me to rock my hips while sitting on top of him so his dick would hit that exact spot that made me leak without touching myself. I learned in his bed, with his cum inside me and his voice in my ear saying things that the first time made me blush and by the tenth had me moaning louder.

But the house gave me more than just his nights. In the back room I had hidden a bag with clothes I’d collected little by little: a black skirt, a fitted cream blouse, a brown wig that fell to my shoulders, a pair of medium heels, and some basic makeup. When I arrived before Germán got home from work, I would change slowly, carefully, as if haste could ruin something. I’d sit in front of the bathroom mirror, put on the wig, line my lips, dab a little shadow on my eyelids. And then I would look at myself. Long and hard. Until I recognized something I otherwise couldn’t see.

I want to make something clear before going on, because it matters: I never heard the word “faggot” as an insult. Lots of men said it to me to feel superior, to pin me in the place they decided for me, but I took it differently. It was descriptive, not degrading. It was mine. There were even nights when I asked for it, when I needed to hear it to finally let go completely, when I whispered it myself to the guy of the moment while he was fucking me: call me a faggot, tell me I’m your faggot, don’t stop. There was no contradiction in that. After all, when the situation allowed it, I was the one fucking them, parting their ass cheeks with my hands and driving my cock into them to the balls while they moaned face-down into the pillow.

The first time I went out dressed into the street was to the house’s yard. Just a few minutes, standing in the shadows of the tree in the back. Cars passed on the street and I watched them from behind the bushes, my heart clenched tight. No one stopped. No one really saw me. But the feeling of being there, exposed even from far away, was enough to keep me coming back.

With time I grew bolder. I started walking around the block when the night was very deep. Back then there were few streetlights on in that neighborhood and I could choose my routes through the darkest areas. I walked slowly, aware of every step in my heels, watching how people would sometimes appear at the corner and I’d simply turn and disappear into the shadows before they could fix their gaze on me. There was something hypnotic about that game. A controlled exposure that gave me exactly what I needed and nothing more.

I went on like that for more than a year. The visits to Germán became more frequent, the excuses about studying more automatic, and I started setting aside free time specifically to change and go out walking. My wife never asked too much. She had that kind of trust that comes not from knowledge but from distance.

***

The Tuesday night was like any other at first. I arrived at the downtown house a little after ten, changed, put on the wig, painted my lips, and went out for a walk around the neighborhood. It was cold and I didn’t walk more than twenty minutes. When I came back, I was wondering whether Germán had already arrived or whether I’d have the house to myself for a while longer, and when I turned the last corner I saw a figure standing in front of the door.

I stopped dead.

A man. With his back turned, arms crossed, waiting.

My stomach tightened. I took one slow step. Then another. My heels clicked on the wet asphalt and the man turned his head. I tried to make out something familiar in his silhouette before deciding whether to keep approaching or turn around and wait on the corner. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with that posture of someone who’s been standing there a while and isn’t in a hurry.

When I was a few meters away, I recognized him. It was Mateo.

Mateo was about thirty-five and was Germán’s nephew, though the dynamic between them always struck me as a little opaque. I had seen him two or three times in passing, on short visits that left no room for long conversations. He was the kind who looked straight into your eyes, without pretending or effort. That night he looked at me exactly like that.

—Good thing you got here —he said—. I’m out of water and need to bathe. Can I use the bathroom?

—Yes, of course —I answered, trying to make my voice sound normal—. Come on, we need to turn on the water heater.

I went in first. He closed the door behind us.

—You look good —he said, while I turned on the heater in the kitchen. It wasn’t an eager compliment or a provocation. It was the calm observation of someone noticing a detail and saying it without making more of it than necessary.

—Thanks —I said, not really knowing what else to answer.

The bathroom in that house was big by neighborhood standards. It had a door that opened directly into the kitchen, and Mateo left it wide open. I stayed in the kitchen pretending to prepare some mate nobody was going to drink. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I moved from one side to the other. He took off his T-shirt first, slowly, without hurrying. His shoulders were defined and his back broad. Then he unbuttoned his pants and let them fall. Underneath he had black briefs that outlined him in a way that made me swallow. The bulge was halfway there, neither fully soft nor fully hard, heavy, hanging to one side. He lowered those too, with the same calm, and his cock came out, thick even at rest, the head peeking from the foreskin and the balls hanging low, the kind of cock that had walked a lot before stepping into the shower.

I started changing little by little. I took off the wig, wiped away the makeup with the cloth I had stored in the bag, and began removing the clothes and putting my usual ones back on. But my hands kept failing me. I had the feeling that if I moved too fast I’d miss something, so I slowed down too, pretending to look for things in the bag while I glanced toward the bathroom whenever I could.

Mateo showered without rushing, with the door open the whole time. He lathered himself from behind first and then from the front, with no apparent awareness that I was watching him, or with too much awareness. I couldn’t tell which. What I did know, when he turned under the spray, was that he had a considerable cock, much bigger than anything I had seen up to then. He ran his soap-covered hand over his chest, over his stomach, and down to wrap it around his dick and work it slowly. It wasn’t masturbation, it was hygiene, but his cock responded anyway. It started to rise under his own hand, thickening, lengthening, and he let it be, let go of it and kept washing his legs as if nothing were happening. I watched it climb on its own, curving upward, the head bright and purple under the water, while soap ran down his balls. The steam gave the bathroom a dense, almost unbreathable air, and I was still there in the kitchen, bag in hand, eyes that wouldn’t stay still.

—Is the towel there? —he asked from inside.

It was on the kitchen table. I had left it there before going out that afternoon.

I stood and approached the bathroom door with the towel in my hand. Mateo had turned off the shower and was standing in front of the fogged-up mirror. Water kept running down his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, and over his cock, which was already completely hard, pointing up, heavy, a thick vein running along it. He reached out for the towel but when he took it he didn’t cover himself right away. He stayed there, looking at me without hurry, completely naked and visibly erect.

—Do you like it? —he asked.

—It’s big —I said. The answer came out on its own.

—Try it —he said. It sounded more like an invitation than a challenge in his mouth, though the difference was slight.

I knelt in the bathroom threshold. The floor was wet and my knees sank into the warm puddle left by the shower. I took it in both hands first, feeling its weight, its temperature. It was really heavy. The skin was hot, the shaft hard but elastic, the head darker, with a clear bead already at the tip. I ran my tongue over it first, caught that drop, tasted it. It tasted salty and a little sweet. Then I went down along the underside, following the vein with the tip of my tongue to the balls, and licked one first and then the other, keeping them in my mouth while I kept working the shaft with my hand.

—Fuck —he said, in a low voice.

I came back up. I brushed my lips all over the head, wrapped around it, held it there, letting it settle in my mouth. Then I opened wider and took him slowly, letting him in little by little as I adjusted to the size. It was a lot. It stretched my mouth until the corners hurt, but I opened more, relaxed my jaw, swallowed, and kept going down. When the head hit the back of my throat I braced myself not to clamp shut and pushed him a little farther, feeling the shaft press inside me. My eyes filled with water and I held on.

—There, like that, stay there —he said.

I stayed there for a few seconds with my nose against the wet pubis, smelling the soap and something denser beneath it. Then I pulled back slowly, took a breath, and went down again. It was something I knew how to do and something I liked doing, and at that moment there was no distance between those two things. I worked him with my tongue, regulated the rhythm, paid attention to every detail with the focus of someone who wants to do it well for their own reasons. I hooked my tongue under the head on each rise, squeezed the shaft with my lips, stroked his balls with one hand while supporting the base with the other.

—You knew what you were doing —he said, and rested his hand on my head—. My uncle told me you were good.

I paused briefly, with his cock resting against my cheek.

—He taught me —I answered, and went back to it without further explanation.

Mateo started guiding the rhythm with his hand on my head, setting the depth and speed. He wasn’t rough. He was precise. He shoved me all the way down, held me there for a second until I started making muffled sounds, and then let me go so I could breathe. Then again. And again. I drooled all over him, saliva dripping down my chin and running over his balls, and each time he drove his hips up to take my mouth deep, I opened wider and let him do it. There was something in that precision that I found harder to endure than anything else, because it left no room to dodge the intensity of what was happening between us.

—Look at me —he told me at one point, tugging just enough on my hair to tilt my face up without taking his cock out of my mouth.

I lifted my eyes. He had them locked on mine, unblinking, while he rammed my throat with short thrusts. I saw his mouth open a little, his jaw clench. I made a sound on purpose, a muffled moan around the cock, so he could feel the vibration.

—Faggot, you’re a textbook faggot —he said, almost tenderly, without breaking the rhythm.

I closed my eyes and tightened my lips around him on the next rise. The word went through me the way it always did, not like a blow but like recognition. I was. On that wet floor, with another man’s cock choking me, I was entirely that.

I felt him getting harder a few minutes before the end. His cock swelled even more inside my mouth, his balls pulled up tight against his body. He held onto the doorframe with his other hand and gestured for me not to stop. He sped up. The thrusts became shorter, deeper, and I pulled my hands away and grabbed his ass so he could drive in all the way each time. I felt the first shot burst against my palate, hot and thick, and then another, and another. He finished in silence, hard, with a quantity that surprised me. I swallowed as much as I could, swallowed again, and still it kept coming. It filled my mouth, spilled from the corner of my lips and ran down my chin to drip onto the floor. I couldn’t hold it all. I got to my feet with numb legs, went to the sink, and drank water straight from the tap. I spat, rinsed, drank more, and felt the taste still lodged down there.

—Good suck job —he said while drying off and starting to get dressed—. Didn’t expect that.

He looked down at the floor, where a thick strand had stuck to the tiles beside the dark marks from my knees.

—How were you dressed? —he asked a moment later, buttoning his shirt.

—Good —I said, my voice still rough—. Though I still need a few things.

He gave a slight laugh, not mocking. It was a short sound, almost inward.

—Next time you come dressed —he said, without looking at me—. With the skirt on. And you’ll suck me like that, kneeling in heels.

I didn’t answer. He didn’t wait for one either.

—I’ll lock up —he said—. You can go.

I went out into the street with the feeling that I had crossed something I hadn’t planned to cross. My throat burned, my jaw was still tight, and on the inside of my thigh, where a drop had fallen, the wetness had dried and pulled with every step. Later I would find out that Mateo and Germán had a tacit agreement not to share lovers, and that that night had been a slip Mateo never confessed to anyone.

I got home after midnight. I washed my face in the apartment bathroom but traces of makeup stayed at the edges of my eyes, that dark line that always resists. I washed my mouth twice with rinse. My wife noticed from bed.

—What’s on your eyes?

—They got smeared at university —I said—. A prank from some classmates.

She didn’t ask anything else. We held each other in the dark and that night we fucked in silence. She climbed on top of me and grabbed my cock over my pants, feeling me hard again all at once, and I didn’t ask her anything, I let her do it. She pulled it out, sat on top, and took it in on her own. I grabbed her hips and guided her down, moved her against me without making a sound, feeling her tight and wet while she bit her lip so as not to wake anyone. I pushed up from below, pinned her to me, and came inside her with my eyes closed. I was thinking of the bathroom threshold at Germán’s, of Mateo’s hand on my head setting the rhythm, of the salty taste still inside me, and of the sound of my own heels on the wet asphalt as I walked toward that door without yet knowing what was waiting for me when I got there.