My Cousin’s Wedding and Her Husband’s Secret

Valeria’s wedding started like all the weddings in my family: two hours of pre-ceremony chaos, an echoing church, and too many people you only ever see once a year trying very hard to look as if they see one another all the time. I’m the oldest of all the cousins, forty-one, the only single one among those of us past thirty, and from first thing in the morning I had quietly taken on, without anyone asking, the role of invisible coordinator: picking up the uncles coming in from out of town, taking them to the hotel, making sure Grandpa arrived on time, and enduring with a stone smile the “So when’s it your turn?” that someone inevitably dropped between the appetizers and the starters.

I’m gay. I’ve been gay all my life, though it took the family a few years to find out. The older ones stay silent. The ones my age normalize it with the visible effort of people who are normalizing. The younger ones frankly don’t care, which is how it should be. At weddings like this, being gay has an unexpected advantage: I can look at Diego Castellano, Valeria’s husband-to-be, without anyone judging me for it.

Twenty-seven years old. Six foot one. Shoulders that filled out his jacket as if it had been tailored directly onto his body. Dark hair, a little wavy, worn slicked back with a natural ease that would have taken me twenty minutes in front of a mirror. And that smile—the one he let out when something genuinely amused him, not the polite one for photos, but the other one, the quick one that creased the outer corner of his left eye—that had been doing something to me inside since the first time I saw him almost a year ago, at a small family dinner where we ended up talking about cinema and never stopped.

Since then we’d seen each other rarely. Some meal, some afternoon at my cousin’s house. But when we did cross paths, the conversation picked up exactly where we’d left off, with no need for small talk to catch up. He was the kind of person with whom time didn’t need to be wasted.

The night before, at the informal send-off in a neighborhood bar, we sat in the same corner for more than an hour. We talked about the wedding, about the nerves Diego wasn’t quite willing to admit he had, about unimportant things and a few that were important. He looked at me in a way I couldn’t quite categorize: too much attention to be simple politeness, too calm to be discomfort. Valeria was at the other end of the bar with her friends, toasting and laughing, completely oblivious.

I went home without reaching any conclusion. Well, yes, I did. I went home, locked the door, got into bed, and jerked off thinking about his mouth, about the way his lips moved when he pronounced long words, about the way his bulge showed when he sat with his legs apart. I came in barely two minutes, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t shout my cousin’s fiancé’s name the night before his wedding.

***

The meal ended around seven-thirty. They had served God knows how many courses, dessert dragged on, coffee too, and by then I had a fairly reckless mix in me of cava, wine, a herbal liqueur Uncle Matías pulled out of some inner pocket, and a couple of glasses of something somebody put in my hand without me asking. I was fine. Happy. More than necessary, perhaps.

Diego and Valeria had made several rounds through the hall, greeting table by table. On one of those circuits, while she stayed behind talking with my aunt’s coworkers, he came up behind my chair and leaned down toward me.

—I’ve got something to tell you —he said in a low voice—. Later.

He wasn’t smiling when he said it. His tone was neutral, almost serious. But a second later, when he was already straightening up, he gave me a left-eye wink and recovered the impeccable-groom expression he’d kept for the last nine hours.

I got stuck on that. Something to tell me? A problem? A secret? Diego wasn’t the type to create unnecessary suspense, so it had to mean something. I tried not to think too much about it. I thought about it constantly. And while I was thinking, sitting there with the napkin over my lap, my cock started swelling under my suit trousers, uncomfortable, pressed tight against the fabric, and I had to shift position three times before it went down.

When the wedding dance began, I was already needing to get up. I crossed the hall toward the nearest restrooms, and as I was pushing the door open a hand grabbed my arm from behind.

—Not that one —Diego said—. Come on, I’ll take you to a quieter one.

—If it takes you more than a minute to get me there, the hallway floor will know everything —I replied.

He laughed. A short, real laugh, no polish. He let go of my arm and started walking.

We crossed a long corridor, went out into an inner courtyard, and entered an annex building that belonged to the complex but was unused that Saturday because there was no celebration there. A large room with chairs stacked against the walls, folding tables, an unattended bar. The only light came from the garden floodlights through the side windows, a dim oblique brightness that sliced the space into long angles and left the center almost in shadow.

Diego nodded toward the restroom at the back. He waited.

When I came back into the room, he was on the other side. His jacket rested over the back of a chair. The tie too. The white shirt, open at the neck, looked different without the full suit. A different kind of handsome: more casual, more real, more him.

—What did you want to tell me? —I asked.

—Sit down first.

I obeyed without really thinking whether it was a good idea. I sat in one of the few chairs that weren’t stacked, right across from him. Diego didn’t sit. He stayed standing, about two meters away, and started unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.

I kept watching him. First button. Second. Third. Maybe he’d spilled something and wanted to show me. Maybe he had a tattoo nobody in the family knew about. Maybe he was completely crazy or completely sober, which sometimes produce the same result.

—Relax —he said without looking up—. Nobody’s going to come looking for us here. I told them I had to speak with the venue manager and that I was bringing you as a witness in case a family member was needed.

Sixth button. The shirt opened all the way. He let it fall to the floor.

His chest was smooth, hairless, broad but not excessive. His abdomen was flat, with the definition of someone who moves around a lot but doesn’t live at the gym. A fine line ran from his navel to the waistband of his trousers, disappearing under the fabric. The garden light struck him from the side, carving out shadows along his flanks.

—No hair? —I asked, because it was the only thing I could think of.

—I prefer it this way. Everything, even the balls. Is that a problem?

—Not at all.

He undid his belt. One motion, measured, unhurried. Then the trouser button. Then the zipper. By then I had stopped bothering to look calm and had a fully hard cock inside my trousers, throbbing with every heartbeat, pushing the fabric upward in a way I couldn’t hide even sitting down.

He lowered his trousers to his ankles, kicked off his shoes with the opposite foot, and left everything in a neat pile on the chair. The dark boxer briefs, fairly tight, left little room for speculation, and what they did leave open to speculation was a very good sign: a thick, heavy bulge outlining the full shape of his cock against the fabric, the head pressing into the waistband elastic.

—Socks ruin any scene —he said, and took them off too.

Only the boxer briefs were left. Diego looked at the table behind him, assessed it for a second, and climbed up onto it. He stood on it. From that height, with the side light from the garden cutting him out, he looked like a Greek statue someone had placed there by mistake or in bad faith.

He raised his right arm and braced it against the wall. Tilted his head slightly. With the free hand he started stroking his chest, slowly. His nipples, which hardened at once, became two dark points on his pale skin. His stomach. He wet his index finger in his mouth and drew slow circles over his skin, with a deliberate attention that was more erotic than any urgency. His hips shifted barely at all, a tiny change of weight, and the shape inside the boxer briefs responded by growing, pushing the fabric forward until every inch showed clearly: the full length, the thickness, even the ridge of the head stretching the dark cotton.

He lowered his hand down his abdomen, slipped it inside the boxer briefs, and grabbed his cock without taking it out. The fabric bulged, moving with the shape of his clenched fist around it. He stroked himself like that for a few seconds, looking straight at me, checking the effect. Then, with both hands, he hooked his waistband and pulled the boxer briefs down slowly to his knees.

His cock sprang free, bouncing against his stomach before settling upward. Thick. Long. The head purple, glossy, already with a bead of pre-cum hanging from the tip. His balls completely bare, heavy, hanging beneath. The base surrounded by a slightly darker area, meticulously shaved. The whole package exposed less than three meters from where I was sitting, unable to breathe properly.

I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could.

He spat into his right palm, a slow, deliberate gesture, and wrapped his fist around his cock. He started jerking off. Slowly. Drawing the foreskin down to the base, sliding it back up to cover the head, twisting his wrist at the top. The saliva made the entire length shine. Every vein stood out under the taut skin, every tug of the glans visible when his hand came up and back down.

With the other hand he grabbed his balls, kneaded them, pulled them down a little. Then he ran two fingers underneath, over the perineum, pressing that spot that makes a guy’s knees go weak. His knees bent slightly.

—Look at it properly —he said at last, his voice a little rougher—. It’s for you.

He turned his back to me without stopping his hand.

Firm, round buttocks, white compared with the rest of his skin, completely hairless too. Long legs. The curve of his back dropping into the hollow of his waist. He slipped his left hand behind him, between his buttocks, and with his middle finger parted them, slowly caressing the entrance. His cheeks tightened and released in time with what he was doing with his fingers. With the other hand he kept working his cock in front, now at a different angle, his wrist turning between his legs.

He wet his finger with saliva and brought it back to his ass. This time he slid it in. Not much. To the first knuckle. A low, contained gasp escaped him. Then he pushed it all the way in. His hip began moving back against his own finger, forward against his fist, a short rhythmic rocking that had me with my mouth open and both hands gripping the seat of the chair.

I couldn’t see his face. Only his back, his shoulders, the shoulder blades sharpening when his arm lifted. The shadow the garden light threw against the side wall was explicit and calm at the same time, as if this were the most natural thing in the world: the enlarged silhouette of a naked man fingering his own ass while he pounded his cock.

His breathing changed. Deeper at first, then faster and shorter. His knees bent a little more. His head fell back, dark hair sliding over his neck.

He turned to face me again. Now I could see everything. His cock reddened, slick with saliva and his own fluid, his fist moving faster and faster. His abs tightening in waves. His chest rising with every breath. He bit his lower lip. Closed his eyes for a second and opened them again to look straight at me.

—Watch me come for you —he whispered.

Low, controlled moans, like someone calculating exactly how much volume he can allow himself. His balls contracted, lifting up against the base. His buttocks clenched. His whole body locked into a short arch and the first spurt shot forward, landing on the white tablecloth beneath him. The second was longer, thicker, a dense stream that splashed over his own fingers and kept falling. A third, a fourth. He kept jerking himself, squeezing out the last drop, his closed hand pressing the base and sliding slowly up to the tip, forcing out the semen that remained, letting that fall onto the table as well.

The white tablecloth took the evidence: thick puddles, white threads crisscrossing the fabric. Diego took a moment to recover his posture. His knees straightened slowly. His breathing eased down. He brought the stained index finger to his mouth and sucked it clean without taking his eyes off me, wiping his own semen from his finger with a calmness that nearly made me come inside my trousers.

Then he half-turned his head toward me.

—I hope you enjoyed that. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks, with you nearby. Think of it as a gift, just the other way around from how it’s usually done.

I cleared my throat. My cock hurt from being so hard.

—Tradition says the gifts are brought by the guests.

—Tradition says a lot of ridiculous things too.

He stepped down from the table calmly. Picked up the boxer briefs, pulled them on without even wiping what remained on his hand. Gathered his clothes from the floor. Dressed without haste or shame, with the same natural ease with which he had undressed. When he finished, he came over and put a hand on my shoulder, the gesture of two acquaintances who have just talked about something utterly trivial.

—You’re the only person here who would have appreciated it this way —he said—. Including Valeria, who has different tastes.

—You judged that right.

—I usually do.

We left together into the hallway. Before turning toward the main hall, I stopped.

—Sorry, I think I need to go back to the restroom.

Diego looked at me sidelong.

—Again? Already?

—This time for a different reason.

I winked at him. He let that smile fall, the real one that creases the left corner of his eye. He kept walking toward the hall without looking back.

I went into the same bathroom I’d come out of before. Locked the bolt. Leaned back against the door, unbuttoned my trousers with both hands, and pulled my underwear down to my thighs. My cock sprang up, hard in a way I hadn’t remembered in years, the head purple, a long strand of pre-cum hanging and dripping onto the tiled floor.

I spat into my palm and grabbed myself. With the first stroke of my hand I almost came. I closed my eyes and saw him again: Diego on top of the table, the shadow against the wall, his finger going into his ass, the stream of semen falling onto the white tablecloth. I sped up. I took my other hand underneath, gripping my balls, squeezing them the way he had. I imagined it was his hand around my cock. I imagined his mouth closing over the head, his tongue working my frenulum, his throat opening to take me all the way. I imagined fucking him from behind myself, shoving him against that same table, the stained tablecloth beneath, fucking him until he screamed.

I came in less than two minutes, biting my forearm so I wouldn’t make a sound. A long spurt that splashed the door and covered my whole hand, and then two, three, four more shakes that dripped to the floor. I stayed there for a while, leaning, breathing, with my cock still in my hand, throbbing, not fully going down. Then I cleaned up with paper, flushed everything away, washed my hands, and looked at myself in the mirror. I was flushed. My eyes were bright. My tie was crooked.

I went back into the main hall just as they were cutting the cake.

There are weddings you remember for the food. Others for the music, for the bride’s father’s speech, or for the photo that came out badly. Valeria’s I’m going to remember for what happened in that empty room, in the indirect light from the garden floodlights, with Diego standing on a table and me not moving from my chair for twenty minutes that were worth the whole night.

And also for what I did afterward, alone, with his semen still drying on a tablecloth thirty meters away and his image seared into the part of memory one reserves for what one wants to be able to bring back when one needs it.