I Never Thought a Man Would Get Me Like This

I tell this with a mix of shame and satisfaction that I still struggle to separate. My name is Roberto, I’m forty-six years old, I’m an architect, and I’ve been married for eighteen years to my wife, a smart, attractive woman and, I’ll be honest, excellent in bed. And yet, for years now, I’ve had a young lover I see two or three times a week. I also sleep with a married colleague whenever the timing lines up, a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. I’m not short on sex. I never have been. I always considered myself a man of very clear tastes.

It was almost two years ago. I was assigned a restoration consultancy at a winery estate in the central region, a place with limestone manor houses and underground cellars from the last century. The man who came to receive me was Rodrigo, the estate’s production director. He was around forty, tall, broad-shouldered, with that square jaw that looks sculpted. Big hands, measured gestures, a deep voice that came effortlessly. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed to draw attention: the attention was already there whenever he walked into a room. The women who worked there treated him with a deference that went beyond the professional. I shook his hand and thought: nice guy, competent, nothing more.

We spent the whole day touring the buildings. Rodrigo knew every crack, every arch, every underground cellar as if he’d been born there. He spoke about the history of regional architecture with a precision I hadn’t expected from someone in his position. When evening fell and the last rays of sun stained the vines a dirty orange, he suggested dinner in the main dining room before they took me to the hotel in town. I accepted without thinking.

Dinner lasted more than three hours. We opened four different bottles, all from the estate, and Rodrigo explained each one with the patience of someone who’s spent decades studying something he also loves. I drank more than I should have. By the time it was time to go to the hotel, it was obvious neither of us was in any condition to end the night. He suggested we go upstairs and continue talking in the room the hotel had reserved for me, since they’d left a complimentary bottle there. I agreed.

The suite had a terrace overlooking the vineyards. In the dark, the rows of vines looked like black lines across the earth. We sat outside with glasses in hand, and the conversation drifted, as long conversations drenched in wine tend to do, toward sex. Rodrigo talked about women with the calm of someone with a lot of experience and no need to impress. I shared too. We laughed. I felt comfortable. The night air was cool and smelled of wet earth.

At one point, Rodrigo stood up and went to the bathroom. He left the door ajar: carelessness or habit, I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to look, but the room layout and the angle of the mirror gave me a view I hadn’t sought out. I saw him in profile, pissing. I saw what he had in his hands.

I looked away. The image stayed.

He came back to the armchairs and took something from his pocket that at first I thought was a cigarette. The smell proved otherwise. Marijuana. I told him I didn’t smoke. He insisted with a kind gesture, without pushing. I took the joint awkwardly and tried to take a drag. He laughed softly, not condescendingly, just amused. He stretched out his fingers, put it between my lips, and held it while I inhaled. His fingertips brushed the corner of my mouth. It was a tiny contact. But I felt it in my chest.

“Let the smoke out slowly,” he said in a low voice.

I did. Then he leaned in and asked for the smoke. I didn’t understand until it was too late: his face was inches from mine. I exhaled with my mouth slightly open, and he inhaled, and at that instant his lips settled over mine. It wasn’t a long kiss. It was a deliberate brush, soft, clear in its intent. When he pulled back, I didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

Then he kissed me again, this time without the excuse of the smoke, and I let him. He took my jaw in one hand and kissed me with a calm that threw me, as if he had all the time in the world. I had never kissed a man. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I set them on his shoulders without thinking, and he took that for what it was: that I wasn’t going to stop.

He led me inside. I sat on the edge of the bed. Rodrigo stayed standing in front of me, looked at me for a moment without saying anything, and began unbuttoning my shirt with slow, sure movements. When he took it off, he lowered his head and dragged his mouth over my chest, my nipples, my neck, biting the skin just enough as if he wanted to measure my trembling. My heart was racing and my hands were still on the sheets. It wasn’t exactly fear. It was something more like vertigo right before jumping.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked against my clavicle, without lifting his head.

“No,” I answered. And it was true.

He took off his shirt. Broad torso, flat stomach, dark hair on his chest and abdomen. The body of a man who works with his hands and also takes care of what he has. He took my trousers off with an efficiency that made everything seem natural, as if this were something we’d done before. Then he knelt in front of me and took me into his mouth.

No one had ever done that to me like that. With that focus, with that deliberate patience. His tongue moved with obscene precision, looking for every reaction, every startle, every sound I tried to hold back. He gripped my thighs firmly and opened me little by little, without haste, licking from below up to the rim, alternating suction with hot pressure, until I had to throw my head back and breathe through my mouth. My wife does it well. My lovers do too. But Rodrigo knew exactly where to put his tongue, when to press and when to ease off, and in ten minutes I was clutching the sheets with both hands, unable to think of anything except what I was feeling.

When he stood up, I saw what his trousers had been hiding all night. It was impressive: thick, long, with veins that seemed exaggerated until you had them in front of you. He looked at me with a calm that unsettled me, as if he knew I was already losing control just from seeing him like that, hard, heavy, pointing at me.

“Your turn,” he said.

I had never done this. I froze for a second. But something in me had already decided before my head had finished thinking it through. I leaned toward him, took him in my hand first, learning the weight and texture. The skin was warm, smooth, the head wet. Then I opened my mouth and took him in. The taste was salty, warm, intense. I sucked him for a good while, hands on his hips, finding the rhythm he liked by the way his body answered. When he nudged my head forward just a little, I knew he wanted more depth; when he stayed still, I knew tongue and lips were enough. His breathing changed, grew heavier, and I got off on watching him lose that perfect calm. I licked his balls, ran my tongue along the base, sucked the tip hungrily, feeling him grow even harder in my mouth.

We ended up on the bed in a position neither of us had planned: we simply moved until we were mouth to mouth and hip to hip, and the rest was instinct. He explored parts of me no one had explored before. He stripped me completely, opened my legs with both hands and ran his fingers over my ass, parting me slowly, never losing me for a second. He worked one finger in, then two, patiently, moving them inside me in slow circles, giving me time at every step. His thumb massaged my entrance while he kissed me and swallowed my moans. When he finally told me what he was going to do, I had been waiting for it for a while.

At first it was only pressure. An intense discomfort that wasn’t exactly pain. Rodrigo didn’t move until I told him he could go on. Then he lubricated better with saliva and his own hand, lined his cock up with my entrance and started slowly, patiently, pushing in only a few centimeters, pulling back, then going deeper again. He opened me little by little, with a contained force that made me clench my teeth. I felt every millimeter: the head, the thickness, the way he stretched me from the inside. He stopped several times to look at my face and ask if I was still okay. I was already trembling with lust and embarrassment, and I told him not to stop. Then he started pushing deeper, not roughly but without mercy, until I was short of breath and could only think about his weight inside me.

“Tell me if you want more,” he said in my ear, in that deep voice that seemed to vibrate down my spine.

“More,” I replied, almost hoarse.

And he gave me more.

He held my hips and started fucking me with a firm, deep rhythm, slamming into me with each thrust until the mattress creaked. The sound of our skin was wet, filthy, and I found myself lifting my ass to take him better, opening myself for him, asking him to go harder, deeper, not to let me breathe all the way. He spoke to me in a low voice. He said things I won’t repeat here and that stripped away whatever shred of modesty I had left. He called me his, said he was breaking my ass, that he was leaving me full of his cock, and I answered with my hands knotted in the sheets, begging him to keep going, to make me come like that, fucked and hot. When he sped up, I wasn’t thinking about anything except that.

He lasted far longer than I would have been able to in his place. He pulled out almost until I felt empty and came back in with brutal precision, hitting the same spot every time until I arched and came between us with a moan that made me ashamed and delighted at the same time. He didn’t stop. He held me while he kept giving it to me, using my own trembling to bring me back to the edge. When I asked him to finish in my mouth, he looked at me for a moment, serious. He pulled away, knelt in front of me, and took my face in his hands. I held his gaze. I sucked him again, hungrier this time, until I felt the change in his breathing, the pull in his belly, the tension in his thighs. I ran my tongue over the tip just before he came. He did it with a low, brutal groan, and filled my mouth with a thick, salty, hot load. I didn’t feel disgust. I felt the concrete satisfaction of someone getting exactly where they wanted to get.

I slept little that night. The next morning was awkward for exactly ten minutes, the time it took me to stop pretending what had happened had been an accident.

***

Five months passed. Rodrigo sent me a message with his address in the city and a time. No further explanation. I went.

I drove for two hours with my stomach tight and my mind focused on one thing alone. I arrived hard. When he opened the door, we embraced without saying anything, and I had my hand on the back of his neck and my mouth reaching for his before he even closed the door.

He had left something on the bed: a pair of thin red boxers. He asked me to put them on. I did, without shame. I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror wearing that garment that wasn’t mine and understood something I hadn’t quite understood the first time: that there are parts of yourself that only come out with certain people, in certain contexts, and that those parts are no less real than the rest.

Rodrigo took nearly an hour to take those boxers off me. He worked over my whole body with deliberately slow patience, licking my neck, sucking my nipples, sliding his fingers into my ass again until I was soft and needy. When he finally penetrated me again, I had been asking him out loud for a while with no shame at all. He told me I was acting like a hungry son of a bitch, and that only turned me on more. I told him I was his, that he was filling me, that I wanted more. He slammed me against the bed, spread my legs and drove his cock into me all the way again and again, until my whole body pulsed with that mix of pain and pleasure I already knew so well with him. That night I completely forgot who I was supposed to be outside that room and was left only with what I wanted.

We stayed together for three days. We slept just enough. We talked more than I expected. I left with that strange clarity you get from doing something you didn’t know you needed until you do it.

I’m not sure what I am now. The word bisexual seems a little too small for what changes when you’re with a man who knows exactly what he wants. I’m still with my wife. I’m still with my lovers. And when Rodrigo writes to me, I still go.

I have no intention of stopping.