I Met an Active Guy and Ended Up Making Him Moan

I had learned not to get my hopes up too much with hookup apps. Most conversations ended before they ever turned into anything concrete: someone who wrote for a few minutes and then disappeared without warning, someone who sent pictures and then never replied again, someone who promised to come over and canceled with a one-word message. I was patient, but not infinitely so. I preferred the passive role almost always, though I didn’t rule anything out if the chemistry was good and the guy inspired trust.

That morning, around ten, I got a message from someone I hadn’t seen before. He introduced himself with first and last name —Rodrigo Mena— and with a direct description: versatile with a preference for active, forty years old, own apartment in the neighborhood. The photos he sent were recent and genuine, without the artificial lighting of fake profiles or the calculated angle meant to hide something. And something about the way he wrote caught my attention: no rush, no stock phrases, none of the tone of someone about to vanish. I answered. Within half an hour we had agreed that I’d come to his place that same afternoon.

He lived forty minutes away by subway, in a seventies building with a buzzer and an elevator that took far too long. He was an accountant at an insurance company, he’d told me in chat. Forty years old, ten more than me. When he opened the door, I understood why his photos had looked so natural: they were him without artifice. Average height, discreet but well-kept build, the kind of body someone has who walks a lot and eats well but doesn’t go to the gym. He greeted me with a handshake, with a calm that wasn’t cold, just certain.

The apartment was tidy and quiet. Little decoration, functional furniture, books stacked on a shelf by the window. He offered me sparkling water and we sat on the living room sofa. We spent a while talking about the usual things in those first meetings: past experiences, what we were looking for, how strange it is to meet someone this way and still have it work. Rodrigo listened with real attention. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t change the subject before I was done speaking. For someone who claimed to be active, he had a way of being there that didn’t quite match that label.

When my glass was empty, I got up to take it to the counter. I stood there for a moment, gauging things. Then I walked back to where he was sitting, stood behind him, and started massaging his shoulders with both hands. The muscle gave almost immediately. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. I moved my thumbs along his trapezius, pushing up toward his neck, and noticed how his whole body settled a little more into the sofa.

I lowered my lips to the base of his neck. I could feel his skin rising under my mouth, how he swallowed when he felt me so close. I kissed him slowly, not biting yet, just working my way along the line where neck meets shoulder. A low moan slipped out of him, almost embarrassed, and then I understood that the calm exterior was exactly that: an exterior. I slid one hand over his chest, traced the outline of his collarbone over his shirt, and he arched slightly, seeking more contact as if his body were already arguing with his head.

He got to his feet slowly, without hurry, as if he didn’t want to interrupt something. He turned around. We looked at each other for a second, both knowing what was coming, and then he came closer and kissed me. It was a kiss with more calm than I’d expected from someone who said he was active. No urgency, no rush to get somewhere else. I bit his lower lip carefully and felt him open his mouth for me. We began moving around the apartment without speaking, without deciding anything out loud, but moving in the same direction.

I unbuttoned his shirt from top to bottom, feeling the heat of his chest under the fabric. He undid my belt with steady fingers, lowered my zipper, and slipped a hand inside my underwear as if he already knew exactly where he’d find me. His hand closed around my cock with a firm pressure, pulsed through by a slow rhythm. A short gasp escaped me. He gave a tiny, satisfied smile and kissed me again while stroking me from the base to the glans, smearing everything with a friction that made me harder and harder.

I pulled down his pants and boxers together until he was exposed. He had a thick, heavy cock, skin taut and shiny with arousal. I took it in my hand and squeezed hard enough to rip a rough sound from him, almost a growl. I ran my thumb over the head, gathered the moisture already beading there, and spread it slowly over the slit. He was breathing through his mouth, looking at me with an intensity that now did fit what he said about himself, though not entirely. There was something on his face that wanted to be dominated and something in his body that wanted to be in charge, and that contradiction made him more interesting.

***

The bedroom blinds were halfway down. A strip of afternoon light cut diagonally across the bed. We took each other’s clothes off patiently, without skipping anything, discovering each part as if time were abundant. I pulled his boxers all the way down, made him sit on the edge of the mattress, and knelt between his legs. I licked his cock from balls to tip, with a flat tongue first and then with more focus, circling the glans, sucking it insistently, taking it into my mouth until I felt it filling my throat.

He held my head with one hand, not pushing yet, as if he didn’t want to break the rhythm. When he started moving, it was a restrained motion, a short controlled back-and-forth at first. Then he lost patience. He grabbed my hair a little harder, set the pace from above, and let out a trembling breath that warmed me through and through. I spit a little saliva on the tip, kept sucking and working the rest with my hand, licking his balls with the same attention with which I then ran my tongue along the base of his cock, from bottom to top, until I heard him mutter curses through his teeth.

Under the clothes he had the body the photos had promised: broad back, flat chest, hips with a little meat on them. Nothing exaggerated, nothing to hide. When he was left in just his boxers, I made him lie face down on the mattress and started with his shoulders. My hands worked his whole back, following the spine, finding every muscle. He responded with his body: tensing where he liked it most, letting out air when my fingers found a new spot, moving slightly toward wherever I pushed. He wasn’t faking. That was obvious from the start. What he felt he showed without calculation, and that made everything much simpler.

I moved down his spine with my mouth, slowly, without skipping anything. I nibbled the skin of his waist, drove my tongue into the crease between his ass cheeks, and spread his legs wider with my hands, holding him there while I kept pushing him toward the edge. When I got to his ass cheeks I yanked his boxers down and kept going. I licked his ass with almost obscene dedication, circling the rim, barely sinking the tip of my tongue in, then pulling back out to suck the wet skin. I brushed my lips over the inner thighs, covered every part with the same attention I’d given his back. His hips started moving on their own, pressing lightly against the mattress. The moans were short, involuntary, the kind of sound that isn’t chosen but slips out.

I worked two fingers in with lube and opened him slowly, patiently, feeling how he tensed at first and how he gradually began to give. He asked for more with his shoulders, with his hands gripping the sheet, with his ass pushing back every time I pulled my fingers out a little. It was obvious he wanted to feel me inside him, not just on him. That gave the room a wet, thick tension, bodies against bodies waiting for the exact moment.

I turned him over. He’d had a full erection for a while. I leaned over him and kept going over his abdomen, his sides, his hips. Deliberately I stayed away from what he expected. I spent several minutes like that, moving around him without getting to the center, without hurry. I licked his belly button, sucked his nipple until it hardened, bit the skin of his groin, and then went back to his cock, which was already throbbing with an unbearable tremor. His hips began to lift on their own, searching for something I still hadn’t quite given him.

I hadn’t felt in that place for a very long time. It was a feeling I didn’t remember enjoying this much.

I turned him over again. I opened his legs and started working his asshole with my tongue. He clutched the sheets with both hands. First he tensed, then he suddenly loosened, as if his body had understood before his head that resisting made no sense. I ate him slowly, soaking him with saliva, tracing circles around the hole until it really started to open. The moans coming out of him were different from the earlier ones: shorter, more urgent, each one a little higher than the last. He moved toward me with his hips. He wasn’t the active he’d described in his profile, or maybe he was in other contexts, but not with me and not that afternoon.

I slid in one finger, then two, deepening slowly while I kept licking him. He was breathing in broken gasps, mouth open, and every thrust of my fingers made him visibly shudder. When I started moving my fingers in and out, the skin of his thighs went taut and shiny. He asked me to keep going without quite saying it, just with a muffled noise that left no room for doubt. I obeyed. The lube and the saliva did the rest. The room filled with that wet sound, with his ragged breathing and the soft thumping of his body against the mattress.

***

He stayed face down and slowly lifted his hips, without me saying anything. It was a gesture with no possible ambiguity. I stopped and looked at him. His eyes were closed, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched.

—Please —he said softly. He wasn’t asking. He was instructing.

I got up to fetch the condom from my pants pocket. When I came back to the bed I found him exactly in the same position, waiting. I put lube on with my fingers first, calmly, measuring how he responded. He didn’t protest at any point. Every time I advanced a little, he drew me toward him with his hand. I opened him again with two fingers, pushing deeper until his ass began to give with a wet spasm. I gave his ass another lick, licked his balls, settled behind him, and brushed the entrance with the tip of my cock covered by the condom, letting him feel the heat before going in.

I put on the condom, added more lube, and pushed in slowly. I felt him yield, felt him receive me. I went all the way in with two slow movements and stayed still for a moment, resting against his back, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. I waited for him to settle before going on. His ass was tightening and loosening in waves, as if his body were opening in stages, swallowing my cock with a mix of urgency and pleasure that tightened my chest.

I started moving.

At first slowly, finding the cadence, calibrating how much pressure to use. He had his hands clenched around the pillow. Every time I almost pulled all the way out and went back in, he let out a sound that went straight through me. I took his hips with both hands and picked up the pace. He arched his back and pushed backward, closing the space between us. The bed creaked with each thrust, and the sound of his ass taking me, wet and open, made everything dirtier, more direct, more animal.

—Like that —he said through his teeth—. Don’t stop.

I didn’t stop. The room filled with the noise of both of us, with friction, with breaths that no longer had any control. I slid a hand under his chest and lifted him slightly, looking for a better angle, more depth. I felt something building and rested my forehead between his shoulders, closing my eyes, straining not to finish too soon. His moans had become constant, without breaks, and every time I drove in harder he let out something that sounded like a mix of relief and demand.

—You’re going to make me come like this —he said, his voice changed.

I pulled out slowly. I turned him over onto his back and started finishing him with my hand, looking at him. I grabbed his cock firmly, stroking up and down at exactly the right rhythm, while my thumb stroked the glans and my other hand held his hip so he couldn’t escape. It took less than a minute. He came with his legs stiff, thrown back, and a short cry he didn’t try to hide. His semen shot out in pulses over his abdomen and part of his chest, hot and thick, while I kept squeezing the base to prolong his orgasm until he was trembling. Then he took my hand and guided it. I finished too.

***

We lay there without speaking for several minutes. The strip of light on the wall had shifted. His breathing was still fast. I stared at the ceiling and thought about nothing in particular.

—It’s been a long time since I let myself go like that —he said at last.

—Did you think you were going to be the active one?

—I took it for granted, yeah. It doesn’t always work out that way.

—It’s usually the other way around for me —I told him—. I almost always prefer the other role. But something about you brought it out of me.

—You can tell you enjoy it. You’re not one of those who just want to finish fast.

—The guy next to me matters to me. If he’s not enjoying it, I’m not either.

—And you do it very well. Would you like to do it again?

—I’ve got no problem with that.

We showered separately. Then he made us something cold to drink and we sat in the kitchen a while longer, talking with that particular calm that comes after the first time when everything goes well. That strange blend of rest and lightness that few things produce. Before I left, we exchanged phone numbers. We said we’d coordinate when we could.

***

I saw him four more times over the months that followed. The role exchange became smoother with every meeting: sometimes I took the lead, sometimes he did, without either of us planning it beforehand or discussing it afterward. We were good together in bed, which, over time, I came to understand is not something you can take for granted. The problem was that Rodrigo had a very complicated schedule —work trips, family obligations he never quite explained properly— and our schedules almost never lined up without effort. The messages thinned out on their own. At some point we stopped writing to each other.

There was no conversation about it and nobody had to explain anything. It simply happened, and we both let it go without drama.

***

Around that time I was living a pretty compartmentalized life. I had Patricia, whom I’d been with for three years: my official girlfriend, the one who knew my family, the one I pictured in some long-term plan. With her everything was stable and predictable, which had value but also its limits. And then there was Verónica, who showed up and disappeared according to her whims, without warning or clear explanations.

Verónica was intense when she was there and conflictive when she wasn’t. She knew she wasn’t the only one, but she wouldn’t accept it. Every time we split up, the messages would start coming: that I was selfish, that if I truly loved her I had to choose her, that it wasn’t fair to anyone. She was right about some things, but that didn’t make her any easier to listen to. It wore me down without my ever quite cutting ties, trapped in that cycle where you keep postponing hard decisions because the alternative is costly too.

What I had with Rodrigo was different. No reproaches, no demands, no need to define anything in advance. Every time we saw each other it was simply that: two people who were good together in bed and enjoyed the time they spent together. Maybe that was exactly why I remembered him for a long time afterward. Not because he was the most intense encounter I ever had, but because it was the cleanest.