I Let Myself Give In to a Man at Fifty-Two

For years, the same curiosity had kept circling through my mind at the most unexpected moments. When I sat down to work, when I showered before going out, when I turned off the bedside lamp. A silent, contained fantasy that I only allowed myself to explore alone, with my hands or with some toy hidden in the back of the drawer. I had just turned fifty-two when I decided I didn’t want to keep waiting.

I posted a brief ad on a dating site. I didn’t say much: mature man, first time, looking for someone who knew how to teach patiently. The messages started coming in that same night. Some frightened me with how crude they were, others made me feel sorry for how clumsy they sounded, and a few seemed interesting. Even so, every time I was about to arrange a meeting, I backed out. The embarrassment, the fear of the unknown, the idea of being exposed in a situation I wouldn’t know how to handle. I canceled with whatever excuse I could come up with and promised myself that next time I really would.

Until Esteban appeared.

His first message wasn’t aggressive or overt. He asked me how I felt about the idea, what I liked imagining, what held me back the most. We wrote to each other for almost three weeks before even talking about meeting. He sent me links to articles about how to prepare, what clothes to choose if I wanted to dress in a more feminine way, how to breathe, what to avoid. He never rushed me. He said things like, “If you’re not ready, that’s fine; we can talk whenever you want.” That was what finally convinced me.

We arranged to meet at a motel on the outskirts of Resistencia. He would arrive first and wait for me downstairs in the parking lot. I was supposed to take a taxi, get out, get into his car, and let him take me away. When I climbed into the passenger seat that March afternoon, I felt a flutter in my stomach unlike anything I had ever felt. I looked at him and said, almost without thinking:

—Now I understand what a woman feels when she’s on her way to the place where she’s going to be made someone’s.

Esteban laughed softly, without mockery, and squeezed my knee with his free hand.

—You’re going to be fine. I promise.

***

The room had indirect lighting, a mirror on the ceiling, and a stereo playing something instrumental that sounded like piano and strings. He had thought of everything. On the nightstand there was a bottle of water, folded towels, lubricant, condoms of various kinds, and a couple of latex sheets. That preparation surprised me. I had arrived with a small backpack containing my things and nerves weighing down every step.

—Take a relaxed shower —he told me—. Take your time. I’ll shower afterward.

I went into the bathroom and let the hot water run for a long while. I washed myself carefully, going over every part of my body as I had been advised on the pages he had sent me himself. When I came out, wrapped in a towel, I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his phone. He smiled at me as if seeing me there, almost naked, carrying fifty-two years on my back and breathing unevenly, were the most natural thing in the world.

While he showered, I took the opportunity to get dressed. I put on fishnet stockings that came all the way up to the bottom of my buttocks, a very tight red thong, a short skirt of the same color, and a thin blouse that let my skin show through. I tied a silk scarf around my head. I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror and felt ridiculous and aroused at the same time. The image looking back at me from the glass didn’t quite seem to be me, and far from frightening me, that turned me on even more.

Esteban came out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist. When he let it fall, I had trouble swallowing. He had a well-built body, not a gym body but that of someone who moved around a lot, and an erect penis considerably larger than I had calculated from the photos. I stared at it without blinking for a few seconds. He noticed my expression and approached slowly.

—Relax —he said in a very low voice—. If it doesn’t fit today, that’s okay. Today is for us to have a good time, not to meet some objective.

I believed him. I don’t know why, but I believed him.

***

We began by embracing. He wrapped both arms around my waist and I put mine around his neck, as if we were dancing to something slow. His mouth came close to mine and he kissed me without hurrying, first on the lips, then on the neck, moving down to my collarbone. Each kiss loosened a different knot inside me. I realized I had been clenching my jaw ever since I entered the room, and only then, against his chest, did I begin to breathe normally.

His hands slowly moved down to my buttocks and caressed them over the thong. Then he slipped his fingers underneath and squeezed my bare skin. I felt a tug in my lower belly, a current running up my back. He began tracing the line between my buttocks with one finger, from top to bottom, with a slowness that made me bite my lip to keep from crying out. When he reached the center and barely brushed me, I let out a moan I hadn’t expected.

—You like it —he said, not as a question.

—Yes —I murmured.

He pushed my hips against his. His erection collided with my own bulge beneath the skirt, and we both moved in a slow, almost suspended rhythm. But what mattered most to me was that electric tingling, that buzzing between my buttocks that he kept feeding with the pad of his finger.

Without saying anything, he gently turned me by the hips and made me place my hands on the edge of the bed. My body formed an angle, almost a right angle, while he knelt behind me. I felt him pull my thong down to my thighs and place a latex sheet between us. What came next was nothing like anything I had experienced with my own fingers in the dark. His tongue, thin and hot, moved over the entire area with patience, lingering longer at the center, repeating the motion again and again until it left me trembling.

My moans were no longer discreet. They rose and fell in waves, and he used them as a map to know where to insist.

***

Then came the lubricant. I felt the gel’s coldness against my skin, followed at once by a finger—not hurried—that stayed there for a while, barely pressing before entering. I remembered the advice he had sent me in writing days earlier: relax my body, bear down as if I were going to defecate, don’t hold my breath. I did it, and the finger went all the way in. Esteban didn’t move. He asked whether I was all right, whether it hurt, whether I wanted him to stop. I asked him to continue.

The second finger was harder. The third made me moan loudly. It was a strange sensation, half pleasure and half pressure, half fear and half relief. When he moved them inside me, he found a spot that made me close my eyes and tense my thighs. He noticed and began searching for it deliberately.

—That one, right? —he said near my ear—. I’ll find it with something else soon enough.

He blew into my ear, slowly bit my earlobe, and I understood that the moment had arrived.

He turned me onto my side, with my left leg bent upward. He put a strawberry-flavored condom over his penis and brought it to my mouth. I took it without thinking. While I sucked him with all the desire I had, he continued with two fingers inside me, opening the way. His erection grew even harder against my tongue, and we both knew what came next couldn’t be delayed any longer.

***

He changed position, moved behind me, and pressed the tip against me. I took a deep breath and relaxed as much as I could. I felt the first centimeter enter and stayed still. So did he. We waited. Then he pushed in a little farther and waited again. In stages, he advanced until he was completely inside me. There he remained motionless for quite a while. He stroked my back, kissed my shoulder, and whispered things in my ear that I don’t remember exactly; I only remember the tone.

When he began to move, he did it so slowly that it seemed as though we were breathing together. Little by little, he sped up. Sometimes I shouted, other times I moaned, and at one point I asked him not to stop even though it burned. Because it did burn, yes, but it was also a strange, deep pleasure that reached parts of my body I hadn’t known existed. I thought the people in the room next door would hear us, and the idea, far from making me uncomfortable, turned me on even more.

We went through several positions. At one point he lay on his back and made me straddle him with my back to him, so he could see me properly. I braced my hands on his knees and moved up and down, feeling him fill me completely. Later he took me to a chair in the room. He sat down, spread his legs, and gestured for me to sit on top of him. When I lowered myself onto him, he went in effortlessly, as if he had always been there. I felt butterflies rising through my entire abdomen.

Then we went back to the bed. He put me on all fours, my cheek pressed against the sheet, and gripped me tightly by the waist. That was when I stopped thinking. I felt female, a slut, an animal, everything I had imagined, and I also felt like myself, more truly mine than I had in a long time.

When I came, I did it twice at once. My sphincter contracted in waves, and at the same time I ejaculated without anyone touching my penis. Esteban felt it and came almost immediately, digging his fingers into my shoulder.

***

We lay there, silent, listening to the music that was still playing softly. Then I settled against his chest and we slept for a while. When I woke up, he was hard again, and I was incredibly reluctant to move, but I smiled at him and asked for another condom.

The second time was different. Longer, slower, without any urgency. I offered myself on all fours, and he entered without waiting for me to open up. The path had already been made. He held me by the shoulders, then by the waist, then by the neck, and I moved backward in time with him so I wouldn’t miss a single inch. I came again, twice again, once more in waves.

I had barely slipped off him when the room telephone rang. The four hours were over. Esteban paid for another half hour so we could shower without hurrying and get dressed in peace. When we went down to the car, afternoon had already turned into night.

—Are you all right? —he asked me.

—Yes. Sore, but fine.

He laughed.

—Tomorrow you’ll be worse. The day after, better. And next time, you’ll dare to try more things.

There was a next time, and another, and quite a few more. We saw each other every two or three weeks, always with plenty of time, always with the same calm. Until one day he told me he was going to Concepción del Uruguay for work and didn’t know when he would be back. I wrote to him a few months later, and he didn’t answer. I lost track of him.

Today I still live in Resistencia, I still have the same desires, and little by little I’m looking for someone with whom to repeat that feeling from the first afternoon. If anyone reading this recognizes himself in it, let him know that fulfilling a fantasy at fifty-two doesn’t make you ridiculous. It finally makes you the owner of your own body.