My First Night Out Dressed and the Man at the Club

I moved to Rosario in 2012 for a programming job. I rented a studio apartment near the pedestrian mall and, for the first time in my life, lived alone. That freedom hit me like a breath of fresh air. I started buying things I had always wanted but had never dared to own: a pair of lace panties, a tiny black thong, some fishnet stockings that I kept hidden under the mattress.

At first, that was all it was: getting dressed when I came home from work, looking at myself in the mirror, taking my clothes off before bed. Then I opened a profile on one of the chat sites of the time and started meeting guys like me. Some were living the same thing in absolute solitude. Others had years of experience and taught me what I didn’t even know how to ask.

I became genuinely close friends with three of those girls. Marisol had been living with Andrés for almost a decade, and they handled the whole subject with a naturalness that seemed like science fiction to me. Lorena was an engineer, recently separated, and had put an expiration date on her closet. Patricia worked at a travel agency and often brought imported perfumes that she distributed among us.

Fridays were our ritual. I’d show up at Marisol’s at nine with a backpack full of clothes and a pair of shoes. Andrés already had the cooler ready and the little living-room table transformed into a vanity. The four of us would do our makeup, teach one another how to blend concealer over our barely shaved beards, lend one another necklaces and purses. By then we were already a sisterhood.

“You’re wearing red lipstick tonight,” Marisol told me with a brush in her hand. “I saw you looking at that liner and then you chickened out.”

“It’s just that red makes me feel like I’m in costume,” I replied.

“You are in costume, darling,” Patricia laughed from the sofa. “But it looks gorgeous on you.”

Andrés was a huge guy, nearly two meters tall, with enormous hands and a very open smile. He worked for a logistics company and on Fridays he served as our driver, bodyguard, and, depending on the mood, a little more. All of us had ended up in his bed at some point, with Marisol watching or taking part. Two Fridays earlier, I myself had sucked his cock on my knees in the hallway outside Marisol’s bathroom, while she held my hair and whispered in my ear to open my mouth wider, to swallow that whole thick dick down to my throat. We already had that arrangement figured out, and nobody made a fuss about it.

That night we were going to check out a new club in Pichincha. It had opened two months earlier and, according to Lorena, it was the only place in the city where people didn’t stare at you for walking in wearing a knee-high boot with your Adam’s apple on display. Andrés dropped us off a block and a half away, on a tree-lined corner. Walking those two blocks was part of the game.

“I’ll go first,” Marisol said, adjusting her cleavage. “If the bouncers get smart, I’ll handle it.”

We went in single file. Patricia in front, then Lorena, then Marisol, and me at the back. When we reached the door, the two men at the entrance greeted my friends with respectful bows. They stopped me with an open hand.

“You pay,” the taller one told me.

“She’s one of us,” Marisol jumped in. “Dressed like a man, can’t you see?”

The bouncer looked me up and down. I was five feet ten barefoot, and that night I was wearing flat espadrilles, skin-tight black jeans that outlined my ass, a white tank top with no bra, and black eyeliner that had taken me half an hour to apply. My hair reached the nape of my neck, with a long lock on the left side that kept falling across my face every few minutes.

“Dressed?” he asked, then softened. “Go on in.”

The girls burst into giggles inside and grabbed my arm.

“He checked out your whole ass, did you see?” Patricia whispered in my ear. “That bouncer wants to fuck you, I swear.”

***

The club had two floors. Downstairs, loud electronic music and strobe lights. Upstairs, a small dance floor with more Latin music and a balcony overlooking the street. We went straight up. Lorena ordered four drinks and distributed them with a priest’s solemnity.

“To the first night out of the year,” she toasted.

We drank standing against a pillar, then pushed into the center of the dance floor. I had never danced much in my previous life. Dressed like that, though, my body worked differently. My hips moved on their own, my arms rose without me thinking about it. I closed my eyes a couple of times and let the bass carry me.

We’d been there twenty minutes when I felt it. A large hand on my hip, fingers spread, resting there with the confidence of someone who knew the terrain. A body pressed against my back, and a hot mouth sought out my ear.

“Hi, baby.”

His breath raised goosebumps on the skin of my neck. I didn’t move for a second. Then I turned slowly, still not quite understanding whether he meant me or one of my friends.

He was tall. I put him at about six-foot-three, with dark hair full of short curls and very light green eyes, almost gray beneath the lights. He wore a blue shirt with three buttons undone and a broad chest covered in black hair. He smelled of something citrusy, some expensive cologne. His smile froze halfway when he saw my face.

“Uh…” he began.

“What happened?” I asked, keeping my voice as light as I could.

He leaned toward my ear again, this time with less confidence.

“Sorry. I mistook you for a friend. From behind, I thought…” A nervous laugh escaped him. “I swear, I thought you were her.”

“It’s okay,” I said, and I didn’t move even half a step away.

He looked me up and down again, and this time his gaze was different. Longer, more lingering. He spent a while on my bare shoulders and another while on my mouth. I raised my chin a little, the way I’d seen Marisol do a thousand times.

“Do I look good?” I asked him.

“You look very good,” he replied.

What came next was dance-floor silence, two motionless bodies in the middle of a crowd that was jumping around. He didn’t leave, and neither did I.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Whatever you’re buying.”

I looked over my shoulder at my friends. Marisol was raising her eyebrows, wearing an I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-seeing expression. Patricia was making a hand gesture that meant go, go. I winked at them and took his hand. It was huge and hot.

***

He took me to the bar at the back, where the music hit less harshly. He ordered a fernet for himself and, without asking me, another for me. I hardly ever drank fernet, but I drank it anyway.

“My name’s Mateo,” he said.

“Cami,” I replied, pulling the name from somewhere.

He looked straight at me for half a second, as if assessing me. Then he nodded.

“Cami,” he repeated. “You come here often?”

“First time.”

“Me too. I came with a couple of friends from work and lost them. Do you live in Rosario?”

I nodded. We chatted about nothing for a while. Where I worked, what I did, whether I had siblings. He was a lawyer, working at a small firm near the river. Thirty-two years old. Had been single for a year.

While we talked, he never took his hand from my waist. His fingers crept upward half a centimeter at a time until they touched the edge of my tank top. I breathed shallowly. At one point his hand dropped and he squeezed one whole cheek over my jeans, without even trying to hide it, and I felt my cock stiffen inside my thong.

“You know I’m not a girl,” I told him at one point, without really knowing why I had to say it.

“I know.”

“And?”

“So what?” He shrugged. “I like you anyway. Maybe more. I love fucking girls like you, with a cock between their legs and a little-girl face. I’m telling you straight, no beating around the bush.”

I looked into his eyes. There was no challenge there, no kind of fetishizing that made you feel ugly. It was a calm statement, spoken by someone who had already thought about the subject and had it all figured out. That lowered my guard more than any compliment could have.

“This is the first time I’ve gone out like this,” I told him.

“Dressed?”

“Dressed, and having a guy talk to me this way. Usually people don’t look at me.”

“They don’t look at you because they don’t see you,” he replied, brushing the lock of hair from my face with one finger.

***

He didn’t kiss me inside the club. I was grateful for that later. He took me to the first-floor balcony, where there were a few tables with low lights and the place smelled of tobacco. He leaned against the railing and slowly pulled me toward him. The street below was a river of people coming and going.

“Would it bother you if I kissed you?” he asked.

I shook my head. He gave me the first kiss very gently, almost a brush of the lips. The second was longer, with tongue—a thick tongue that opened my mouth and slipped inside to explore me as though the back of my throat belonged to him. By the third, one hand was on my nape and the other planted on the small of my back, pressing downward. I felt his erection against my hip, a long, hard bulge outlined by his pants, and my breath caught for a moment.

“Sorry,” he said softly, realizing.

“Don’t apologize,” I replied, placing my hand over it. My palm filled with cock, thick and throbbing beneath the fabric. I squeezed gently, and he let out a short growl against my neck.

“If you keep touching me like that, I’ll fuck you right here against the railing,” he whispered in my ear.

“Shut up and kiss me more.”

We stayed like that for a long while, kissing against the railing as the cool river wind struck our faces. His hand slid from my back until it dug into my ass, two fingers parting my cheeks over my jeans, searching for my crack. A huge stranger is pawing at my ass as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, I thought. And my friends, one floor below, probably knew and were toasting me.

When we broke apart to breathe, he asked if I wanted to leave with him. I told him I had to let my friends know. I went downstairs alone, found them at a little table, and told Marisol the bare minimum. She took my hand.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“I’m sure. I get hard just looking at his hand.”

“Oh, darling,” she laughed. “Let him fuck you properly. If anything happens, call me. Andrés will come get you wherever you are. Did you write his number down somewhere?”

I showed her my phone. I’d saved it during the pre-drinks.

“Go,” she told me, and kissed my forehead, smearing half my foundation.

***

Mateo lived in a spacious apartment in the Echesortu neighborhood, on the sixth floor, with a rooftop balcony. We took the taxi almost without speaking, his hand on my knee and mine on top of his. Halfway there, his hand crept up my thigh until it brushed my crotch, and when he felt my cock stiff beneath my jeans, a sideways smile escaped him. The taxi driver looked in the mirror once and then didn’t look again. We went upstairs in silence and went inside in silence. He closed the door and switched on a low light in the living room.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked out of courtesy.

“Water.”

He gave me a glass. I drank it all while he watched me, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, in no hurry. When I set the glass down, he came over, brushed the lock of hair from my face again, and kissed me. This time there was no railing, no people, no wind. I felt myself going soft against him. He grabbed my ass with both hands and lifted me off the floor, just like that, as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist and felt his hard cock digging between my cheeks over my jeans. He carried me to the bedroom like that, hanging from him, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan in the hallway.

He switched on a lamp that gave us just enough light to see each other. The bed was large, with neatly made gray sheets. He threw me onto it with measured firmness and stood in front of me. I sat on the edge, and he knelt. He took off one espadrille, then the other. He looked at my feet, at the pink-painted toenails Patricia had done for me that afternoon.

“You’re beautiful,” he told me, and he meant it.

He helped me take off my tank top. He stared at my nipples for a long second, small and hard, then lowered his head to suck them one by one, tugging them with his teeth just enough to make me arch. When he saw the black thong showing above my jeans, he smiled for the first time all night with that full smile he’d worn when he first approached me. He lowered my jeans slowly with both hands, looking at my thighs as if examining something he’d been told about and still couldn’t quite believe. The thong barely contained my cock, already hard and leaking a wet spot from the tip that showed through the lace.

“Look at you, slut,” he murmured, running his thumb over the wet fabric. “All hard for me.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said afterward, more quietly.

“Wanted what?”

“This. Someone like you. Exactly like this, wearing a thong and made up.”

He yanked my thong down to my knees, and my cock sprang up against my belly. Mine wasn’t huge, but it was standing, red at the tip, the vein prominent. He wrapped his whole hand around it and stroked me slowly, two, three times, looking me in the eyes.

“Do you like me holding it?”

“Yes,” I answered voicelessly.

“Say it properly.”

“I like you holding it. Do it harder.”

He bent down and took me all the way into his mouth in one go. I felt his hot tongue wrap around me and his palate close over my glans. I don’t know what I’d expected from a guy like him, but not that mouth. He sucked me like a man who knew how to suck a cock: with rhythm, with saliva, his hand working along the base. He dug his nails into one of my thighs when I unintentionally thrust my hips upward.

“Hold still,” he told me when he released me for a second. “I’m the one eating your cock. Spread your legs and shut your mouth.”

I spread my legs wider. He swallowed me to the base again, buried his face, and stayed there with my cock buried in his throat until I began to tremble. He pulled off abruptly with a wet sound and spat all over me, then used the same hand to smear it across my stomach and balls.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

I turned over on the bed, on all fours, with my ass at the edge and my face against the sheets. I felt his hands slowly spreading my cheeks with both thumbs, then his hot breath between them. When he ran his tongue over my asshole for the first time, a high, half-feminine moan escaped me, a sound I didn’t even recognize as my own. He licked me there for minutes, sucking me, coating me with saliva, pushing the tip of his tongue inside while jerking me off slowly in front.

“What an ass you have, for fuck’s sake,” he said, lifting his mouth for a second. “You’re going to make me come without even touching myself.”

“Fuck me,” I begged into the pillow. “Come on, fuck me now.”

He stood up and pulled off his pants and boxers in one motion. I turned just enough to look at him. The cock hanging between his legs was exactly what I’d imagined and then some: long, thick through the middle, veins standing out, with a purplish glans that nearly reached his navel when he held it. I shuddered just looking at it.

“It’s big,” I said, and it came out like a compliment, not a complaint.

“You can take it,” he replied, laughing softly. “You can take anything—I can see it on your face.”

He took a condom and a tube of lubricant from the bedside drawer. He put it on while looking at me. He spread cold gel over his cock and dripped some more onto my asshole, then worked it in slowly with two fingers, pushing them in and out, opening me up. I relaxed my hips as much as I could, clenching my fists against the sheet.

“Breathe,” he told me when he pressed his glans against my hole. “Let the air out, all of it.”

I let the air out. He pushed inside with one firm, continuous movement, without pausing or pulling back. The burning climbed up my back and turned into something else three seconds later. When he was all the way in, his balls smacking my ass, I lay still beneath him, moaning softly, feeling that huge foreign cock throbbing inside me.

“All the way in,” he whispered against the nape of my neck, leaning over me. “All of it for you, beautiful.”

He began to move slowly, long withdrawals and deep thrusts, his full weight on top of me. Each push tore a groan from me. He grabbed my hair from behind without hurting me and pulled my head up to whisper in my ear.

“Do you like it like this? Having me drive into you slowly and deep?”

“Faster,” I begged. “Fuck me faster, come on.”

He obeyed. He straightened up, gripped my hips with both hands, and began thrusting into me hard, with the rhythm of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The sound of his thighs against my ass filled the bedroom. The bed moved, the headboard struck the wall. My own cock was hard, swinging between my legs with every thrust, spattering pre-cum onto the sheets.

“Touch it,” he told me. “Masturbate while I fuck you.”

I grabbed it with my right hand and began stroking it in time with the rhythm he set with his hips. I used my other hand to hold myself up because my legs were giving way. I felt everything rising from deep inside me, a tremor that began in my prostate and climbed up my spine.

“I’m going to come,” I warned him.

“Come,” he replied, speeding up. “Come with my cock inside you, come on, slut, come.”

I came like that, with him buried all the way inside, pounding me. My orgasm burst out in thick white streams onto the gray sheet and over my own hand. My ass clenched suddenly around his cock, and he let out an animal growl.

“Fuck, you got so tight.”

He turned me over before I had recovered. He put me on my back, lifted my legs, and draped them over his shoulders. He entered me again in a single movement and started fucking me once more, now watching my face, watching my lip tremble with every thrust.

“Baby, look at you. Look how you let me fuck you. All wet, all mine.”

He bent down to kiss me without stopping, his tongue entering my mouth at the same rhythm as his cock entered my ass. I felt completely open, given, surrendered. I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck and dug my nails into his shoulder blades.

“Inside,” I whispered in his ear. “Come inside. Even with the condom on, I want to feel it.”

That was all it took. He sped up for three, four more thrusts, then stayed buried to the hilt, mouth open against my neck, pumping thick spurts into the condom, inside me. I felt every pulse of his cock and held him tighter, as if I never wanted him to pull out.

He stayed on top of me for a while, breathing against my shoulder. Then he withdrew slowly and carefully and removed the condom, tying it off with two precise movements. He looked at my face and ran his thumb over my cheek, smearing the mascara that had already run earlier.

“You’re gorgeous when you let yourself be broken,” he told me.

“Don’t say that, or I’ll get hard again.”

He laughed with his whole mouth. He lay down beside me and pulled me against his chest, running one hand through my hair. He whispered things in my ear that I’m not going to repeat here because they’re ours. He treated me with a patience that made it clear he hadn’t been with someone like me for the first time, and that the difference between a good night and a bad night is often precisely that patience.

After a while he sucked me again in bed, unhurriedly, until he made me come a second time in his mouth. He swallowed everything while looking into my eyes, then pulled me up to kiss me with my cum still filling his mouth and made me taste it on his tongue. I fell asleep like that, naked against him, his semen slowly leaking from my ass and staining the gray sheet.

***

That night isn’t the whole story. The whole story includes months, a move, a couple of fights, and a long friendship with Mateo that still lasts. That night was the beginning. The beginning of the day I understood that getting dressed wasn’t a costume, or a shameful secret, or a Friday-night game at Marisol’s house. It was a way of being myself that the world, if you gave it the chance, knew how to see.

When I got home at noon the next day, still wearing my smeared eyeliner and disastrously run mascara, I sat on the edge of my bed in the clothes from the night before. I took out my phone and sent Marisol a message.

“Thanks for everything.”

She replied immediately.

“Welcome, darling. You’re only just getting started.”