I Accompanied My Friend to His First Time with Another Man

I’ve known Ramiro for more than fifteen years. We joined the same company almost at the same time, shared side-by-side desks, endless lunches, and enough confidences to consider each other more than just coworkers. So when one afternoon he went quiet longer than usual and told me he had something to confess, I knew it was serious.

—I like men —he blurted out, without beating around the bush, staring at the coffee cooling between his hands.

The first thing I felt was a knot in my stomach. I’m fifty-three, widowed, and I’ve never thought of myself as anything other than what I’ve always been. For one absurd second I thought that confession came with an intention toward me, and it must have shown on my face, because Ramiro let out a nervous laugh.

—It’s not about you, relax —he clarified at once—. There’s someone. Someone from here, from the office.

Someone from here. That threw me even more.

He told me the rest little by little, like someone emptying stones out of a pocket. The guy was named Bruno, he was twenty-four, and he worked in the director’s area, two floors up. They’d had something going for months that neither of them had named: conversations that stretched on, messages at odd hours, a couple of secret meetups where things had gone from words to hands. Kisses in the parking lot. Hasty caresses inside the car. Nothing more, until then.

—But Bruno wants to go further —Ramiro said, lowering his voice even though no one was nearby—. And so do I.

Ramiro is forty-seven, married, and he takes care of himself. He’s no heartthrob, but he goes to the gym three times a week and keeps his body firm. I, on the other hand, am the opposite: big, hairless, with the extra pounds that years and solitary dinners leave behind. I’m telling you this because it’ll matter later.

—And what do I have to do with any of this? —I asked, because I still didn’t understand why he was telling me.

Then came the real reason for the talk. Bruno had invited him to his place on Friday. An entire night. And Ramiro needed an alibi for his wife, who has known me forever and would never suspect me. If he said he was going out with me, he could stay out without anyone asking questions.

—I just need you to drive me there and be there —he said—. In case Laura calls, in case I have to justify where I am. You’re my perfect cover story.

I told him I wasn’t planning to get involved in anything, that this wasn’t my thing. He promised me he wasn’t asking for that, just company and backup. I’m not sure why I agreed. Maybe because he was my friend. Maybe because, deep down, there was something about all of it that intrigued me more than I was willing to admit.

***

On Friday I picked him up a few blocks from his house, just as we’d agreed. He got into the car perfumed, wearing a shirt I’d never seen before, and I noticed his hands trembling slightly on his knees.

—Since when did you switch teams? —I asked, half joking, as I pulled away.

—I didn’t switch anywhere —he replied, looking out at the street—. One day I simply started wanting it and couldn’t stop.

During the ride he told me more than I wanted to know, and at the same time I couldn’t stop listening. That they’d been seeking each other out for more than five months. That he’d already sucked him off a couple of times in impossible places —once in the twelfth-floor bathroom, another time in the back seat of his own car, with the windows fogged up and his shirt stained with semen—. That tonight, finally, he was going to let Bruno fuck him all the way, because the kid was the one calling the shots. The active one, he said, with a mixture of shyness and pride I didn’t know in him. And he added, more quietly, that for weeks he’d been getting himself ready with his fingers in the shower so he could take the whole cock without shitting himself.

I nodded without saying anything. I didn’t know what expression to wear. Part of me wanted to turn around and go home. Another part, one I didn’t quite recognize, kept gripping the wheel with curiosity.

***

Bruno’s place was an apartment on the third floor, neat and dimly lit. He opened the door in jeans and a tight T-shirt, barefoot. He was taller than I’d imagined, with a well-built body and a smile that knew exactly what it provoked.

He shook my hand with just the right amount of courtesy. He greeted Ramiro differently: he took him by the waist, pressed him against the doorframe, and devoured his mouth without shame, shoving his tongue all the way in while squeezing his ass with both hands over his pants. Ramiro let him, with a muffled moan, and my mouth went dry right there, standing in the hallway with my backpack hanging stupidly from my shoulder.

—Come in —Bruno said, letting him go only slightly.

The living room had a two-seater sofa and, opposite it, an armchair where I sank down while they settled in. Bruno turned on the television almost as a courtesy toward me, to give me something to look at, and then completely forgot I existed.

They started slowly. Bruno pushed Ramiro against the backrest and kissed his neck while unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time and running his tongue across his chest, moving down unhurriedly. He bit one nipple and Ramiro arched his back with a short moan he tried to swallow. I watched the screen without understanding a word of whatever was on, my eyes darting every so often toward the sofa beside me like someone who doesn’t want to look and can’t help it either.

I saw Bruno squeeze his ass over the pants, saw him slip his hand inside the waistband, saw him search for the hole of his ass with his fingers and Ramiro’s legs tremble. I saw my friend reach for the bulge outlined in the cotton shorts and stroke it in slow circles, feel it getting hard beneath the fabric, swelling and swelling, until Bruno caught his wrist and pressed it against his cock so he could feel how thick it already was.

—Go on, take it out —Bruno whispered, his voice rough and clear to me—. Take it out and suck it the way you like.

Ramiro pulled down his shorts with both hands and Bruno’s cock sprang free, hard, heavy, a size that forced me to clench my teeth in my chair. The room filled with a thick silence, broken only by my friend’s ragged breathing and the low moans that escaped him against the other man’s skin.

At some point I stopped pretending to watch television.

***

Bruno finished stripping off his shorts in one yank, took off his T-shirt too, and sat back down with his legs apart, completely naked, his cock standing up toward the ceiling. Up close, with nothing to hide it, it was outrageous: thick as a wrist at the base, long, with marked veins and a glossy glans, already beaded with pre-cum at the tip. I shifted in the chair, not knowing what to do with my own hands, and felt, with shame, that something was starting to show in my pants too.

He took Ramiro by the nape with firm gentleness and guided him downward.

—Suck all of it, daddy —he told him, never taking his eyes off me—. Show your friend how you suck cock.

My friend put up no resistance. He knelt between Bruno’s legs as if he’d done it all his life, took the cock in both hands, and started by licking it slowly, from base to glans, tracing the whole length with a flat tongue. He sucked the balls one by one, took them into his mouth, and went back up to the head, where he lingered, playing with the tip, licking the slit until Bruno let out his first serious growl.

Then he took it in. All at once. He swallowed it halfway and pulled it out again with a thread of saliva hanging from his chin. He took it in again, deeper, and this time he choked a little, coughed, breathed through his nose, and kept going. He began to bob his head up and down with an obscene rhythm, slurping, making wet noises that filled the whole living room and there was no way to pretend they couldn’t be heard.

And while he did that, Bruno was looking at me.

Not discreetly. He held my gaze over Ramiro’s head, with a half-smile, lifting one eyebrow as if he were inviting me to something neither of us was going to say out loud. He bit his lip when my friend took him all the way in, narrowed his eyes, and fixed them on me again. I looked away toward the screen and back again. Over and over. Until I stopped fighting it.

—Just like that, just like that, take it all —Bruno said, his voice growing more agitated, gripping the hair at Ramiro’s nape with both hands—. You suck it so well, motherfucker. Look how deep you’ve got my throat.

The sounds my friend made were the most disturbing part of all of it. Guttural, wet, completely surrendered. He moaned with his mouth full, saliva dripped down the sides, he pressed the cock against his cheek and then took it back in. I saw him choke again when Bruno shoved his head to the back of his throat, saw him stay there for a few seconds with his nose flattened against the kid’s belly, then pull free gulping for air like a diver. He wiped the saliva off with the back of his hand and went back to impaling himself on the cock with a devotion I’d never have imagined in the man who ate milanesas with me every noon. His eyes were closed, his mouth overflowing, and for the first time I fully understood what he’d told me in the car. That wasn’t curiosity. It was hunger. It was pure desire.

Bruno started moving his hips. He held Ramiro’s head with both hands and set the rhythm himself, faster and faster, fucking his mouth without a trace of delicacy, going in and out like it was an ass. His balls slapped against Ramiro’s chin with every thrust. The noises were obscene: slurping, brief gagging sounds, the kid’s ragged breathing as he occasionally broke into a rough insult.

—You’re going to make me cum in your mouth —he warned him, tugging his hair—. You’re going to take all of it, you hear me? All of it.

Ramiro said yes with a muffled moan, without taking him out, and sped up on his own. Bruno went taut all over, arched his back against the sofa, and a long growl climbed from his chest and came out through his open mouth. I saw his belly contract, saw Ramiro stay still with the cock buried to his throat, swallowing, swallowing, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. I saw a white thread run from the corner of his mouth, which my friend caught with a finger and licked off again without a second thought.

When he finally let it go, Bruno’s cock was still half-hard, glossy with saliva and semen, resting sideways against his thigh. And I saw Bruno look at me again, still breathless, breathing through his mouth, with that same half-smile, as if to say without words that there was plenty there for the two of us.

***

He stood up naked, without the slightest shame, and walked toward the bathroom, passing right in front of my chair. He stopped for a second, looked down at me with that same smile, his cock hanging heavy and still wet at the level of my face, and kept walking, swaying, leaving the image burned into my retina.

Ramiro got up from the floor. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, and there was a white stain on the collar of his shirt he hadn’t managed to clean. He sat for a moment on the edge of the sofa, catching his breath, and only then seemed to remember that I was there.

—You okay? —he asked, and I almost laughed at how absurd the question was.

—I should be asking you that —I answered, my voice rougher than I expected.

He smiled, still lost in it, running his tongue over his lower lip as if there were still some remnant left to gather up.

—We’re going to leave you alone for a while —he said, straightening his open shirt—. He wants to fuck me in the bedroom. If anything, call me.

—And you’re okay? —I insisted, because it was the only thing I could think to ask.

—I’m not the same man I was before —he replied, and by the way he said it I knew it was true—. Did you see the cock he has? It’s fucking delicious. He’s going to split me in two and I don’t give a damn.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I had only been listening, I told him at last, and he gave a low laugh before standing up.

Bruno came back from the bathroom, took his hand, and led him down the hallway. Before closing the bedroom door, he turned his head and gave me one last look, long, deliberate, one that made it perfectly clear the door wasn’t left ajar by accident.

I was left alone in the living room, facing a television that was still talking to nobody, listening to the first sounds beginning to seep through from the other side of the hallway: the creak of the mattress, a long moan from my friend, Bruno’s rough voice telling him to spread his legs wide, to let himself go, that he already belonged to him. And for the first time in a long while, I had no idea what I was going to do with everything I was feeling.

***